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With the final battle against Vecna drawing near, the tension in the air was as thick as fog before a storm. The group—ragtag, battle-worn, and more connected than ever—had scattered across the empty field-turned-training-ground, each person focused on their own preparations. Some ran drills, others honed their powers or rehearsed strategy, but the core idea remained the same: everyone had to be ready to stand on their own if it came down to it. Even those who would be grouped together needed to be self-sufficient. There would be no guarantees in what lay ahead—not with someone like Vecna.
That was exactly what Nancy and Jonathan were reinforcing as they stood in front of the teens, who watched them with a mixture of anxious focus and hardened resolve. For once, even the younger ones seemed to grasp the weight of what was coming.
“Alright, Mike,” Nancy said firmly, directing a look toward him.
Mike, unlike the rest, was still kicking pebbles at his feet, seemingly more interested in the dirt than the battle plans being outlined. Will noticed it too—Mike’s eyes were distant, his usual sarcasm barely hiding his unease.
Nancy’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “What weapons can you use?” she asked bluntly, arms crossed.
Mike looked up, giving her the same irritated expression he always reserved for her—the kind that said *‘you’re not my mom’*, even though they all knew Nancy had taken on more than her share of responsibility for everyone. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Nothing, really.”
Nancy sighed and rolled her eyes, clearly trying to stay patient. “Okay, fine. You’re with my group. I’m gonna teach you how to use this,” she said, holding up a Mossberg 144 LS rifle.
Will’s breath caught in his chest at the sight of it. It was the same model that had gathered dust in his garage back home, a relic of quiet hunting trips and memories he’d rather keep locked away. His fingers twitched involuntarily.
Before Nancy could move on, Will stepped forward, voice soft but clear. “I can teach him instead,” he offered.
Mike froze mid-step, turning back toward him with visible surprise. “Wait—you know how to use that?”
Will nodded, a little shy, a little embarrassed. “Yeah,” he admitted, glancing toward the others, who had all turned to look at him now.
Jonathan’s eyes met his from beside Nancy, a flicker of concern passing between them—mutual understanding built from shared, difficult memories. “You sure, Will?” Jonathan asked, voice low and cautious.
Will gave another nod, this one more resolute. “I mean… Nancy’s already helping Max and Robin. It just makes sense.”
The attention made Will’s skin prickle. He had never liked being in the spotlight, not even during science fairs where his name had been called with praise. Still, this was different. This was necessary.
Nancy studied him for a long moment, then finally gave a small nod. “Alright,” she said, her tone softer now. “But if either of you need help—if it’s too much—say something, okay? Jonathan and I are right here.”
Will gave a faint smile and nodded. Mike, half-grumbling, trudged back to Will’s side.
The group soon broke apart again. Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve began organizing their own smaller groups for drills and target practice. Just before she left, Nancy came over to Mike and Will again. She handed the rifle gently into Will’s arms, her expression serious.
“Stay close. Practice near one of us. And if you need to back out, Will… say the word. We don’t need anyone hurt before this even begins,” she said firmly, her eyes locking on his.
Will nodded again, this time more confidently. Mike gave a flippant eye-roll, but Will caught the way he looked over at the weapon—nervous and unsure. He could relate.
As Nancy walked off, Will couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been told about the time with their dad—about the hunting trips, the forced lessons, the loaded silences afterward. Maybe Jonathan had said something. Either way, the understanding in her eyes said enough.
Will looked across the field and spotted El with Hopper. She was training hard, throwing herself into preparation with that same quiet ferocity she always had. He swallowed hard. He hoped she’d be okay. He hoped *they all* would be okay.
And this—teaching Mike—was his way of making sure they had a fighting chance.
Jonathan reappeared not long after, setting up makeshift targets using metal cans and worn-out signs. Three boxes of bullets sat beside them on the ground, dusty but full.
“You sure you’ve got this?” Jonathan asked, lingering a moment too long. “You sure you remember how?”
Will glanced over at him, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He almost rolled his eyes but didn’t. Instead, he simply said, “Yeah. I’ve got it.”
Jonathan studied him a moment longer, then finally nodded, stepping back. “Alright. We’ll be just over there if you need anything,” he said, pointing toward a nearby tree line, maybe twenty-five feet away.
Will gave him a grateful look, then turned to Mike. “Okay,” he said quietly, loading the first round with careful hands. “Let’s start slow.”
Mike stood beside him, a little stiff, a little unsure. But he was watching. Listening. Will could see that much.
The field was quiet except for the low murmur of others training in the distance. Will crouched beside the shooting bench, the Mossberg 144 LS laid gently across it like it was made of glass. His hands hovered over the rifle without touching it, like he was still gathering himself.
Mike stood a few feet away, arms awkwardly crossed, looking down at the gun like it was a dead animal.
“So, uh,” Mike started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where does the bullet go? Like… the whole front part or…”
Will blinked at him. “You’ve… never shot anything before?”
“No?” Mike said, like it was obvious. “Have you seen where I grew up? Closest thing to a weapon I’ve ever held was a slingshot I made in fifth grade. And it broke.”
Will nodded slowly, gaze lowering back to the rifle. “Okay,” he murmured. “That’s fine. Just… listen, and don’t do anything until I say, alright?”
Mike stiffened a little. “Yeah. Yeah, got it.”
Will took in a breath through his nose, then reached for a single .22 round. His fingers trembled slightly, but he kept them steady with effort. “This is the round,” he explained quietly, holding it up between his fingers. “It’s small. Doesn’t kick much. But it can still kill something. So treat it like it matters.”
Mike swallowed. “Right.”
Will moved with deliberate slowness. “This is the bolt. You lift it—like this—and pull it back. That opens the chamber. That’s where the round goes.” He paused, then nodded to Mike. “Here. Try.”
Mike stepped forward hesitantly and mimicked the motion. It was clunky, unsure. Will corrected him gently, reaching over and placing his hand on Mike’s to guide the bolt more smoothly.
The contact made Mike freeze. His ears went red almost instantly.
“Not so fast,” Will said softly, unaware—or choosing to ignore—the flinch. “You want it to be smooth.”
Mike nodded a bit too quickly, still stiff. “Right. Yeah. Smooth.”
Will reached out and touched the stock. “Sit. You need to rest the rifle into your shoulder, here—” he tapped the soft pocket between Mike’s chest and shoulder.
Mike flinched again—not dramatically, but enough. His breath hitched, and he adjusted his stance a little too fast, like he needed to move before he started glowing.
Will didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t comment. “Not too high or it’ll jump.”
Mike awkwardly slid into position, fumbling with how to hold the gun. Will leaned over slightly, adjusting his grip, angling his elbows.
“You’re holding it like it’s going to explode,” Will said softly.
Mike managed a nervous laugh. “Well… I mean, it *might*.”
Will didn’t laugh. “It won’t. Just stay relaxed. You want to *guide* it, not strangle it.”
Once Mike settled, Will pointed at the sights. “See this hole in the back? That’s your rear sight. The post at the front—that’s what you line up in the middle.”
Mike squinted, still clearly flustered. “This is what people used before scopes? I can barely see anything.”
“You get used to it,” Will said. Then, more softly, “You have to.”
There was a silence. Will hesitated, his hand hovering near the safety. His breathing had gone shallow, fingers pressing into his jeans to ground himself.
“Now,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You line up the sights. You breathe in—then out—and hold it. And when you’re ready, *gently* squeeze the trigger. Not a pull. A press. You don’t want to move the rifle when you fire.”
Mike nodded nervously. “Okay. Uh. I’m ready.”
Will stepped back a little, not far, but just enough to give him space. “Alright. Safety’s off. Fire when ready.”
Mike hesitated. A long pause.
Then—*crack*.
The sound rang out, sharp and small, echoing into the empty trees.
Mike blinked and looked up. “Was that it?”
Will checked the target. One of the cans had barely shifted, but it had been hit. Just barely.
“You nicked it,” Will said, voice quiet but not unkind. “Not bad.”
Mike turned to him, half-surprised. “I did?”
“Yeah.”
Mike gave a crooked smile, then quickly looked away like it embarrassed him. “Okay. That wasn’t terrible.”
Will didn’t smile back. He just nodded, already reloading. “Let’s go again.”
And they did. Again and again. With each shot, Mike grew steadier—but every time Will’s fingers brushed his arm to adjust his grip or lean the stock better into place, Mike’s heart kicked up like a drum. He didn’t say anything, though. Neither of them did.
Will never let himself relax. His hands were always just close enough to intervene. His eyes never left the rifle. And even as the memory of his father’s voice crept into his thoughts, loud and uninvited, Will pushed it aside.
This wasn’t about the past. It was about keeping them alive.
It was about doing what needed to be done.
After nearly an hour of practice, the distant pop of gunfire had begun to blend into the background like a cruel, rhythmic heartbeat. The sound no longer made Mike jump, and he’d begun to settle into a steady rhythm. Three out of every five shots now struck the can or target they’d set up. Not perfect, but solid—and far better than where he’d started.
Will had praised him for it, even if his own voice sounded quieter and more withdrawn with each passing round.
Mike had noticed, too.
“Alright, breathe in… out… and squeeze,” Will coached softly again, his eyes fixed on the target even before Mike fired.
*Crack.*
The can tipped over with a sharp clink, rolling into the dirt.
“That’s three in a row,” Will said, voice calm but a little distant. “You're getting it. That was a good shot.”
Mike lowered the rifle carefully and looked over at him, noticing the way Will’s hands twitched ever so slightly at his sides, his gaze always scanning, never quite still. The kind of alertness that wasn’t about teaching—it was about surviving.
Mike hesitated, eyes flicking between the gun and Will. “Will?”
Will blinked, pulled from wherever his mind had started to drift. “Yeah?”
“Can you shoot it this time?” Mike asked, his voice unsure but genuine. “I want to see what it looks like. Y’know… so I know if I’m doing it wrong.”
Will stiffened slightly. “You’re not doing it wrong,” he replied, forcing an awkward smile. “Three out of five is… really good.”
Mike still looked unconvinced. He wasn’t pushing Will, not exactly—just asking. But there was something about the way he was looking at him. They'd always been like this, somehow—Mike softer around Will than around anyone else, especially when they were alone. There wasn’t any teasing in his tone, just concern mixed with curiosity. Will could see it in his eyes. He always could.
Will swallowed. His throat felt dry.
“…Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Yeah, I can try to.”
He looked down at the rifle like it was something ancient. Haunted. “I’ll even… I’ll repeat the steps while I go. If that helps.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, giving a small smile. “That’d help.”
Will picked up the Mossberg slowly, reverently, as if it might shatter in his hands. He sat the same way he’d instructed Mike to—rifle nestled against his shoulder, cheek pressed gently to the stock.
“Okay,” he began, voice quieter now. “You line up the rear sight with the front post. Keep your breathing steady…”
But as he looked down the sights, the breath caught in his throat. The field around him blurred at the edges. The weight of the gun against his body shifted into something else—something heavier.
–
*“Line it up, Will. You're holding it too loose. The rabbit’ll bolt before you even blink.”*
The sky had been overcast. Damp, cold. He couldn’t have been more than ten. His father’s hands had been rough on his shoulders, pushing him into position.
*“You want it to suffer? Huh? Pull the damn trigger, boy.”*
The rifle then had been almost as big as he was. His heart had pounded in his ears. His finger had trembled on the trigger, but it went off anyway. The rabbit’s body had jerked—twitched in the grass.
His dad had clapped him on the back like it was a good thing. Like it was a man’s thing.
Will had cried that night in his room, hands still smelling like gunpowder.
–
Will blinked hard, jaw tightening. His hands were suddenly damp with sweat. The air in his lungs felt thin.
He didn’t want to pull the trigger. Not again. Not ever. But Mike was watching. Trusting. Depending on him to do this.
He steadied the gun with both hands, pressing the stock tighter into his shoulder. “Inhale,” he murmured to himself, as much as to Mike. “Exhale… hold…”
The target blurred. Then sharpened.
*Crack.*
The shot rang out cleaner than Mike’s had. The can jumped, spinning twice before clattering off the edge of the wooden beam it sat on.
Will lowered the rifle with a shallow breath, hands trembling just a little. He quickly wiped them on his jeans.
Mike looked impressed. “Whoa. That was perfect.”
Will offered a tiny smile. “Yeah. I’ve… practiced before.”
There was a pause—one of those heavy, loaded silences where words weren’t really necessary. Mike didn’t ask where Will had learned to shoot, or how long it had been since he last held a gun. He didn’t need to. The look on Will’s face—quiet, distant, and just slightly cracked at the edges—almost answered the question before it was even asked.
But still, Mike couldn’t help but ask the one thing that mattered.
“Are you okay, Will?”
Will flinched just slightly at the question, as if the words themselves had weight. He looked away, his fingers brushing some dirt off the Mossberg's stock a little too precisely, like he needed something to do with his hands. “Y…yeah,” he said finally. “I’m just nervous about Vecna. That’s all.”
His smile was small and strained, like it took effort to lift the corners of his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Mike recognized that kind of lie. He’d told versions of it himself—many times, in fact.
But he didn’t push. Not now. He just gave a slight nod and let the moment pass, like something fragile they both agreed not to touch.
Still, something in him stirred. Maybe it was the quiet way Will was always holding things in, or maybe it was just the desire to feel useful again in a world where most things felt out of his control. Either way, Mike straightened his shoulders, refocusing on the target, or maybe—more honestly—on impressing Will.
Will spoke again, more gently this time. “If you want to get better… I can adjust your positioning a little.”
Mike glanced back at him and nodded. “Yeah, sure,” he said quickly, trying not to sound too eager.
He knelt down and brought the rifle into place, trying to remember everything Will had shown him. Elbows in. Grip steady. Shoulder pocketed. But almost instantly, he felt Will move closer behind him. His shadow cast over Mike’s back, and then—Will’s hands, quiet and careful, brushed against his arm, then along his side.
“Here,” Will murmured, concentrating. “Your right elbow should be in more. And the stock needs to sit a little higher—like that.”
Mike froze.
It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone watching, but his breath caught for the barest second. Will’s touch was light, professional, focused—but it still made heat crawl up the back of Mike’s neck. His brain, already jumbled from everything else, momentarily blanked.
He tried not to shift or tense too obviously, but he could *feel* the closeness—the way Will leaned in just slightly to guide his form, the way his breath ghosted near Mike’s ear when he spoke again.
“Now tighten your shoulder. You don’t want the rifle jumping too much when you fire.”
Mike swallowed, nodding. “Right. Yeah.”
Will’s hands hovered one more second before pulling back. “Better?” Mike asked, his voice quieter than before, a little hoarse.
Will didn’t hesitate. “Better,” he confirmed, stepping to the side.
Mike adjusted his grip and lined up the sights, trying to steady his breathing. He wasn’t sure what had him more flustered now—aiming, or the feeling that Will’s fingers had left behind like a lingering warmth on his skin.
He exhaled. Tried to focus. Tried to remember why they were even here.
But behind all the noise and pressure and looming battle ahead, that moment—small and silent—had carved its own space in his memory.
Will had shown him how to survive. And for just a second, even amid the fear, it had felt like something else, too. Even Mike couldn't make it out, but it was something about Will's presence that just made him feel less alone.
After a few more rounds, the air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and sun-warmed dirt. The steady rhythm of shooting had settled into something quieter now—less frantic, more focused. Mike was still hitting around three out of five, and though Will hadn't said much more about it, the small nods and faint smiles he gave after each hit said enough.
Then Jonathan jogged up, slightly out of breath but alert. “Hey, you guys should take a water break. Some of the others are too,” he said, gesturing with his thumb toward the shaded area under a nearby tree.
Will turned toward him, blinking like he hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. “Oh… yeah. Right.”
“You’ll be weaker if you're dehydrated,” came Nancy’s voice from nearby. She stepped into view with her arms crossed, always sharp and practical. Will hadn’t even noticed her there until she spoke.
He nodded quickly, embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it himself. “Okay.”
He turned the safety back on and gently laid the rifle on the folded cloth they'd brought over earlier, brushing some dirt from the stock with care. It felt strange to set it down. Like he was laying down something heavier than wood and metal—something ancient that had woken back up inside him.
Next to him, Mike reached for the water bottle they'd brought and took a drink before glancing at Will, his gaze softening.
“You know that’s… like, really cool, right?” he said casually, but his tone gave it away—like he’d been sitting on the thought for a while.
Will furrowed his brows slightly, caught off guard. “What is?”
Mike looked away for a second, a little shy, but then back at him with a flicker of something more earnest in his expression. “That you can do that. I mean—teach me. Handle that rifle like it’s second nature. I just think it’s… cool.”
Will’s cheeks flushed a little, and he gave a half-laugh, awkward as always. “Thanks,” he mumbled, looking down at his hands. His thumb rubbed absently at a bit of dirt on his jeans. “I don’t really think of it that way. Just… kinda doing what I remember.”
He exhaled, trying to shake off the tension building in his chest. The break was meant to help with that, but being next to Mike—*talking* like this—made it both easier and harder to breathe at the same time.
“I’m really glad you’re the one teaching me instead of Nancy,” Mike added suddenly.
That made Will freeze.
When he looked back at him, Mike was already watching him with the same open, honest eyes that always made Will feel like the wind had been knocked out of him—like back in the van, or when they used to lay on the floor with comic books spread around them, sunlight catching dust in the air.
“…Really?” Will asked, his voice quieter now.
Mike smiled. “Yeah. You’re more patient. You don’t make me feel like an idiot if I miss. And honestly…” He hesitated just a second, then pushed forward. “I feel safer with you.”
Will’s chest tightened.
He looked away, unable to hold Mike’s gaze for too long without giving himself away. “Thanks,” he said again, voice low and sincere. “I… I don’t think I’m that great. This is the first time I’ve really done this for someone else.”
Mike nudged his arm lightly with his elbow, just enough to feel it. “Well, I think you’re kind of a natural.”
Will smiled again—real this time, even if it was still shy. “Honestly… I think *you’re* cooler than you think. And you’re really good at this already. I mean it.”
Their eyes met for a second longer than they usually did. Something hung there in the space between them—unsaid, unspoken, but impossible not to feel.
Will broke eye contact first, a nervous laugh slipping out as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, I don’t mean to get weird. I’m just… tired.”
Mike shook his head, the soft grin still on his face. “It’s not weird.”
Will didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, almost without thinking, he added quietly, “I'm glad it's me too. Teaching you.”
Mike looked at him again, that same unreadable expression from earlier back on his face—like he was trying to solve something, or maybe just hold onto it a little longer.
Their shoulders brushed as they started walking back toward the others, and neither of them moved away.
The tension of the looming battle still pressed down on all of them like a stormcloud, but for a moment—just one—Will allowed himself to feel something else. Something warmer. Something a little terrifying.
But something real.
The sun hung low now, casting long shadows over the dusty ground. The break was over.
Will picked up the rifle with a steady hand, the weight of it familiar yet somehow heavier today. He felt Mike’s eyes on him—not just watching the way he moved, but watching *him*. The quiet intensity in Mike’s gaze made Will’s chest tighten.
Mike stepped a little closer, voice low but steady. “We're gonna be okay, right?”
Will paused, the rifle resting lightly against his hip. The question felt like more than just the battle ahead. It was hope, fear, and something deeper wrapped into those words.
He took a breath, trying to shake the knot in his stomach. “We have to.”
Mike nodded, eyes never leaving Will’s. “Then… I’m glad I’m with you.”
The simple honesty hung between them like a fragile promise.
Will didn’t say it out loud—couldn’t just yet—but inside, his heart echoed the same truth.
*Me too.*
The weight of the coming fight pressed down on them both, but in that moment, something stronger held them steady. The type of feeling Will always seemed to feel around Mike, the kind that made his heart flutter.
The last light of day dipped beneath the trees as Will carefully handed the rifle back to Mike. Sweat beaded at his forehead, and his fingers trembled ever so slightly—not from fear of the weapon, but from the storm of memories it stirred deep inside him.
Mike caught the rifle with steady hands, eyes bright but thoughtful. “You really are good at this,” he said softly, the vulnerability in his voice making Will’s heart ache. “More than you let on.”
Will looked away for a moment, blinking against the rising lump in his throat. The weight of his father’s voice echoed faintly in his mind—lessons taught in quiet woods, shots fired under watchful skies. The past wasn’t easy to outrun, but here, now, he felt something different. A chance to be more than those shadows.
Mike’s hand brushed his arm lightly, and Will swallowed hard, the nervous energy inside him tightening and loosening all at once.
“We’re gonna make it through this,” Mike said quietly, his gaze steady and sure.
Will met it with his own, nodding. “We have to.”
A breeze stirred the leaves above, carrying the scent of earth and distant rain. The battle with Vecna loomed close, dangerous and uncertain. But in that small clearing, beneath fading light and heavy sky, two friends—maybe something more—stood ready.
Not just with weapons in their hands, but with something stronger in their hearts.
Together.