Chapter Text
Will has started running in the mornings; he’s not exactly sure what from. Well, actually, he knows exactly. The suffocating feeling of dread he’s been experiencing in that house-The Wheeler house. He’s been living, no, surviving there since they got back from Lenora, and Hawkins was split in half. It’s been two weeks, two weeks that should have been fun, living with Mike and maybe getting a break from all the fighting, but it’s been the opposite. Everything is upside down.
His relationship with Mike has been on the rocks ever since they got stuck in that stupid pizza van together and he made an idiotic attempt to confess his feelings for him. But of course, Mike was oblivious; maybe it was for the best. What was he thinking anyway? That Mike would suddenly decide to leave El for him? Besides, he couldn’t do that to her. It was just another step towards what he really needed: to get over his love for Mike.
But getting over him wasn’t something he could just decide to do, like flipping off a light switch. Will wished it were that easy. Instead, every morning he slipped out of the house before anyone else woke up, lacing his shoes in the dark and jogging until the cold air scraped at his lungs. It was the only time he felt like he could breathe, the only thing that gave him the same rush.
Will pushed open the Wheelers’ front door as quietly as he could, hoping—praying that the house was still asleep. The floorboards creaked anyway. They always did, like they were determined to betray him.
He peeled off his damp sweatshirt, trying to slip past the living room without drawing attention. But the soft clink of a mug being set down stopped him in his tracks.
“You’re up early,” Jonathan said.
Will flinched before he could stop himself. Jonathan was sitting on the couch, hair sticking up in a million different directions. He looked tired, really tired, but not surprised.
“I, uh… couldn’t sleep,” Will muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. He knew Jonathan wasn’t going to buy it. Jonathan never bought it. Not when it came to him.
“Yeah,” Jonathan said, voice gentle. “I figured.”
Will mocked. “You certainly can’t relate. You get to sleep next to Nancy every night instead of that ruddy old basement.” He wasn’t in the mood to talk, not now. Not in the near future.
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if Will was joking or picking a fight. Maybe Will wasn’t sure either.
“You know,” Jonathan said quietly, “you don’t have to do this alone.”
Will clenched his jaw. “Do what?”
“This.” Jonathan gestured vaguely—at the hallway, at Will, at the space between them that felt too heavy. “Avoiding whatever it is that’s been bothering you so much.”
“I’m not avoiding anything,” Will snapped, louder than he meant to. Then, softer, “I’m just getting used to things."
Jonathan exhaled through his nose, “Will… you know you can talk to me about anything, you’ve always talked to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He said with his voice shaking, trying to sound convincing.
Jonathan nodded, understanding that the conversation isn’t getting them anywhere. “Okay.” He squeezed Will’s shoulder. “But don’t shut me out, okay? I’m here.”
Will hesitated, then nodded once, before turning around and heading downstairs to the basement.
The basement was colder than it had any right to be. Will stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, fingers curled tight around the railing, waiting for the familiar heaviness to sink back into his chest. It always did, down here. Too many memories. Too many versions of himself he’d rather not think about.
The memories of him, Lucas, Dustin, and Mike playing DnD right there in that basement. The laughs they shared when times were easier, until that night in November, which changed everything and ruined Will’s life, at least that’s the way he thought.
He crossed the room and dropped onto the old pull-out couch, the springs groaning under him. He rubbed his palms over his face, trying to ground himself, to shove the trembling back down where it belonged.
He felt like such a moron for pushing Jonathan away; he was the one person around he could always trust, well, him and Mike, but now he tried to avoid Mike as much as possible. He knew he should have told Jonathan what was really going on, but he was scared to say it out loud, afraid it would make it feel more real than it already felt.
He hated himself for pushing Jonathan away; it was so unlike him. It was stupid. And he knew he wasn’t stupid. He hated himself for acting the way he did. He hated himself. He hated hating himself.
Stop. He had to stop. He needed to cut through this self-destructing hate train of words.
The stairs creaked.
Will tensed. “Jonathan, I said I’m—”
“It’s me.”
It was Mike’s voice.
Will bolted upright. “Oh.”
Mike stood halfway down the stairs, wearing plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt that hung too loose on him. His hair was a mess, flattened on one side. He looked awkward. That was new. Mike Wheeler was never awkward. Not around Will, until now.
“I didn’t know you were back,” Mike said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I thought you were still out running.”
“I was.” Will swallowed. “I’m back now.”
Mike nodded like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his face, or his entire existence. “Right. Cool. Um.” He shifted his weight. “Just breakfast is ready soon, so come up when you’re ready.”
Mike lingered, as if he wanted to say more. Will wished he wouldn’t. Or maybe he hoped he would. He wasn’t sure which would hurt less.
“Okay,” Will said, aiming for neutral. It came out thin.
Mike nodded again, too quickly this time, and turned to go back upstairs. But he hesitated on the last step, his hand gripping the railing. “Hey, um… if you ever want company on your runs or whatever, I could go with you.”
Will blinked. His stomach dropped in that pathetic, familiar way. “You hate running."
Mike shrugged without looking at him. “Yeah. But I could still… go. If you wanted.”
The words hit something inside Will that he wasn’t prepared for. Mike was trying, trying in that clumsy Mike Wheeler way, half-apology, half-invitation, all confusion. And it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Mike could throw out one stupid offer and make Will feel like he was coming undone again.
“It’s fine,” Will said quickly. Too quickly. “I like going alone.”
“Oh.” Mike’s face flickered, hurt crossing it before he pushed it down. “Yeah. Sure. Makes sense.”
Silence pressed in between them, thick and uncomfortable. Will stared at the carpet. Mike stared at him. Will wished he could disappear into the couch cushions.
“I’ll, um… let you get changed,” Mike said, already turning away.
But this time Will was the one who stopped him.
“Mike?”
Mike paused again, shoulders tightening like he expected Will to say something awful.
“Thanks,” Will said. “For… you know. Asking.”
Mike turned just enough for Will to see his expression soften. “Yeah. Of course.”
He disappeared up the stairs, and Will sank back onto the couch, heart thudding too fast and too loud.
He dragged his hands down his face. This was precisely why he ran. Because when Mike talked to him like that, gentle, sincere, like he actually cared. Will could almost convince himself that things were like they used to be. Before California. Before Vecna. Before Will ruined everything.
He wanted to go on runs with Mike; he wanted to spend every moment next to him, but he knew he shouldn’t. He was convinced that hanging out with Mike would only deepen his feelings for him. Feelings that he shouldn't be having for his best friend. He thought that if he distanced himself enough, maybe, just maybe, things would go back to the way they were.
Will stared at the basement ceiling. Dust clung to the exposed beams. The air felt heavy again. Too much like the past.
He needed to go upstairs eventually. Breakfast, normalcy, pretending.
But for now, he let himself exhale slowly. Just once. Just long enough for the ache in his chest to settle into something he could hide again.
Footsteps thudded faintly above him.
Voices.
Clatter of plates.
Life happening.
Will rubbed his eyes one last time before he stood up and went upstairs.
The smell of pancakes hit him first—warm, sweet, too homey. Will hovered at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing, forcing himself to step fully into the kitchen.
Karen was at the stove, humming as she flipped pancakes. Holly colored at the table, swinging her feet back and forth, while Nancy and Jonathan murmured to each other over steaming mugs. Mike sat at the far end of the table, elbows on the wood, fiddling with a fork like it was suddenly the most interesting object on Earth.
He looked up the second Will entered, but his gaze dropped just as quickly.
Will’s chest tightened, a knot forming beneath his ribs, breath catching as he hesitated.
“Oh, good morning, sweetie,” Karen called, turning around with a bright smile.
“Morning, Mrs. Wheeler,” Will nodded, and slid into the empty chair across from Mike.
He kept his eyes on the plate Karen set down in front of him; he could feel Mike’s gaze flicking toward him, then away, then back again, like he wanted to say something. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed.
Jonathan shot him a small, knowing look.
Will stared harder at his pancakes.
Nancy, thankfully, broke the silence first. “So, what are you guys doing today?”
Mike opened his mouth.
Will opened his at the same time.
Neither one of them said anything.
Nancy raised a brow. “Wow. Coordinated awkwardness. Impressive.”
Mike cleared his throat. “Uh, we don’t really have plans. I mean, we could-” He stopped, shot a quick look at Will, and seemed to rethink everything. “We could just hang out. Or whatever.”
Will’s fork scraped against his plate. “I should actually help Jonathan later. With the car. I promised.”
Jonathan looked surprised. “You did?”
Will kicked him under the table.
“Oh, right,” Jonathan hurried out, rubbing his shin. “Yeah. He did. Definitely. With the, uh… engine.”
Nancy narrowed her eyes, studying both of them. Mike's face closed off, his lips pulling into a thin line as he slouched in his seat.
“Right,” Mike said, voice dropping. “Yeah. Cool.”
Karen, blissfully unaware of the silent war playing out across the table, passed around syrup. “Well, whatever you boys end up doing, stay out of the construction zone downtown. They’re still covering up that hole.”
Will nodded. He barely tasted his breakfast.
Mike barely touched his, occasionally pushing the pancake pieces around the plate, jaw tight and gaze fixed downward.
A few minutes later, chairs scraped back, and everyone began drifting away, Nancy to her room, Karen to the laundry, Holly to the living room.
Jonathan squeezed Will’s shoulder on the way out and said, “Come on, now you gotta help me with that engine, as you said.”
Will nodded, almost expecting Jonathan to drop it. It was Jonathan, though; of course, he wouldn’t.
He was planning to spend the day in the basement, thinking. Like he usually does.
But doing something with Jonathan could help. He has already thought every thought that there is, and he still couldn’t fix the mess he’s made. He had done enough thinking.
The Byers’ old car sat in the Wheelers’ driveway, hood propped open like a patient awaiting surgery. It hadn’t been driven in ages. After the chase with the demogorgon, more than just the engine was wrong with the car.
Jonathan stood beside him, hands in his pockets, pretending to study the engine. They both knew neither of them had any idea what they were looking at.
Will fiddled with a loose bolt anyway, just for the illusion of purpose.
“So,” Jonathan said after a long, deliberate moment, “remind me again what’s wrong with the engine?”
Will’s grip tightened around the bolt. “Uh… the… thingy is loose.”
Jonathan nodded slowly. “The thingy.”
“Yep.”
“Mhm.” Jonathan leaned back against the car, crossing his arms. “You know what’s fun about car engines?”
Will didn’t answer.
“They don’t fix themselves,” Jonathan said lightly. “You’ve gotta actually open them up. Look at what’s going on inside.”
Will stabbed the bolt back into its place and stepped away. “Jonathan…”
Will stared at him.
“No, it’s just a metaphor,” Jonathan insisted, raising his palms. “A general, broad, totally non-specific metaphor about someone I’m related to.”
Will huffed.. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
Jonathan sighed, pushing off the car. “Yeah, I know. You didn’t want to talk about it this morning either. Or yesterday. Or the day before that.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Jonathan..”
“You’re not,” Jonathan repeated, softer this time.
Will’s breath caught in his throat.
He turned away and stared at the trees lining the yard. Their leaves rustled in the breeze.
“I’m handling it,” Will whispered.
“No, you’re hiding from it.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
Will pressed his palms against his eyes. He wished Jonathan would drop it. Stop prying. Stop trying to fix things that couldn’t be fixed.
But Jonathan didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Didn’t pull away.He just stood there, quiet and patient in the way he always was when it came to Will.
“Wanna tell me what happened at breakfast?” he asked gently. “Because Mike looked hurt. And you looked like you were about to pass out.”
Will’s throat tightened. “I-he wants to help. And I can’t let him.”
“Why not?”
Will shook his head. “Because I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
Jonathan stepped closer, voice low. “Feel like what?”
He wanted to say it.
He didn't want to say it.
He wanted everything to stop at once.
But he knew that if he were ever going to address it, it would be now.
“Will,” Jonathan said softly, “I already know.”
Will froze.
Jonathan continued, careful and quiet, “I know what you’re feeling. And I’m not asking you to say it out loud if you’re not ready. But you don’t have to pretend with me.”
A sharp, painful breath left Will’s lungs.
“You don’t know,” he whispered.
“I do,” Jonathan said. “I’ve known for a while.”
Will shook his head again, more desperately this time. “Well, you shouldn’t because it’s stupid. It’s wrong. And it’s ruining everything.”
Jonathan’s expression crumpled, just a little. “Hey. No. Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into something ugly. It’s not wrong.”
“It feels wrong,” Will said, voice cracking. “Every time I look at him, I-” He broke off, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep wanting something I’ll never have.”
Jonathan didn’t argue. He didn’t try to force reassurance or give false promises.
“You’re not alone,” Jonathan murmured. “You’re never alone. And for the record? Wanting someone isn’t wrong. Loving someone isn’t wrong.”
“Mike cares about you,” Jonathan added. “Too much, maybe.”
That made Will flinch. “Don’t.”
“It’s true.”
“He doesn’t. He can't.” Will stated firmly.
“I didn’t say he feels the same way,” Jonathan said gently. “But he cares. A lot. And he’s confused. And he’s trying. And you shutting him out is hurting both of you.”
Will swallowed hard. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Then don’t run from him,” Jonathan said simply. “Let him in. You don’t have to tell him everything. Just don’t close the door before he even knocks.”
Jonathan squeezed his shoulder before stepping back. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.”
Will wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, embarrassed to find them wet. “You’re not supposed to be proud of a disaster.”
Jonathan smiled. “Lucky for you, I’m not great at following the rules.”
Will huffed a weak laugh.
The tension in his chest hadn’t vanished, but it was easing up.
Jonathan clapped his hands once. “Alright. Should we keep pretending to fix this car?”
Will sniffed. “I think we should at least make it look like we tried.”
“Perfect,” Jonathan said, grabbing a wrench. “Let’s wrench this bitch.”
Will rolled his eyes. “What does that even mean?”
“It means I’m your big brother,” Jonathan said confidently, reaching into the engine bay, “and I can do whatever I want.”
For the first time in days, Will felt something close to a smile tug at his mouth.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something. It was enough to give him a glimmer of hope.