Chapter Text
Listen while you read: Blood Like Lemonade — Morcheeba
November 5th, 1987 - Evening
Mike can't breathe.
Well — no, let's rephrase. In reality, it is the opposite. His chest is heaving as he stares in awe, air passing through his lungs just the way it had been moments before. But it feels like he can't breathe, like he won't ever breathe again, like maybe he hadn't ever taken a breath before.
It feels as if the world has come to a standstill, as if he is frozen in this moment. A thousand thoughts run through his head, such as how, just a minute ago, Mike was bracing himself to be ripped to shreds by a demogorgon. How he shielded his face with his arms, as if that would somehow prevent the force about to knock him off of his feet and likely into human mush. How the force never came. And in his confusion, he had hesitantly brought his arms down, and faced the demo — stuck. He could do naught but stare, wide-eyed, as it trembled in place, about five feet in the air, one arm poised to strike. Then, because his instinct told him it was right, he allowed his eyes to drift down, away from the demo, to the ground. That moment, exactly then, is where everything came to a halt.
The source of this inexplicable phenomenon stood before him, arms outstretched, palms to the sky, gritting its teeth. His teeth.
Will.
So, perhaps one can understand why Mike feels as though no air enters his lungs. His best friend, his day one, his first real friend… truly is a sorcerer.
He grins.
Before Mike is allowed too long to process this, Will lifts both arms higher, and the demo floats higher with them. Mike sees a glint in his eyes, and notices right then that his pupils and irises are both a stark white. He catches his breath — finally, it is there — and once more is left utterly gobsmacked.
Will clenches his fists, and in the same motion he bends his arms and yanks downward, falling to his knees. Cracking echoes through the smokey air, and Mike is sprayed with gooey demo-sludge as the one above him has its limbs snapped like baby carrots and it crumples to the ground.
For a moment, there is silence.
Will's head hangs, and Mike is still stuck to where he has stood this whole time. He knows Mrs. Byers is nearby, and sees her lift her head out of the corner of his eye.
Then, the sorcerer raises his head, and a trickle of blood leaks out of his left nostril. Mike's eyes widen, watching as Will's irises revert to their normal cocoa-brown and he swipes the blood away like he's been doing it his whole life.
He smiles, just barely, before slumping to the side.
This finally sets both Joyce and Mike into motion, rushing over to where he now lays on the metal ground.
"Will!" They cry out in unison, Mike reaching him first.
"Will," he repeats, a hand on his shoulder, "are you alright?"
Perhaps that's a stupid question. Mike doesn't care.
"Will, wake up," Joyce begs as she groans in pain and crouches down, her shaky hand reaching for his face. She grazes her son's skin with her fingers, not applying too much pressure, as if she is worried he'll crack. "Please…" she whispers. "It isn't safe here."
Mike gently squeezes his shoulder, silently willing him to open his eyes. Come on... He pleads. His eyebrows are knit together, tightly, and he's about to say something to Mrs. Byers, when —
"…Mom?"
Mrs. Byers lets out a strangled cry, leaning in closer to Will's face. "Yes, yes, I'm here. I'm right here."
Mike releases Will's shoulder and sits back, trying to slow his racing heart.
He's okay. He's okay.
He takes a few moments to himself as Will's eyes flutter open and he and his mother hug, and he asks where she's hurt, and she says it doesn't matter right now, and they begin to help each other up. Mike stands, and his vision blurs for a second, darkening, before it clears. Right. He had hit his head. In fact, now that there wasn't immediate danger in front of him, he notices that his right shoulder is throbbing painfully.
Still, he chooses to shake it off, and lends a hand to Will and his mom. Once they're both standing, he offers to walk in between and allow them to lean on him for support.
"Thank you," Will mutters, only a few inches from his ear.
"Of course." He lets out a long breath as they begin walking towards the exit of the MAC-Z compound. "You were amazing — by the way."
"Mike—"
"I mean, seriously," he rambles on obliviously, "I know that I said you're 'kinda like' Vecna, and that maybe it would be possible for you to tap into the hive mind and take over, but th—"
"Mike!"
He falls silent. For a couple seconds, no one speaks, as they step around seemingly endless bodies of soldiers.
"Thank you," Will finally manages. "But I'm so drained. And just— I don't know how I feel about— well. It's not—" He bites his lip, words jumbled and thoughts jumbled and everything jumbled.
Mike does as he does best, and untangles the web Will sent his way. "Hey— I get it. We'll… we'll talk about it later."
Will shoots him a grateful look, without the strength to reply. Mrs. Byers huffs quietly, in what sounds almost like a laugh.
They move silently then, crossing through the MAC-Z gate and onto the street. Mike stops at the intersection there, debating for a moment whether to return home, or to the Squawk. Then, of course, he remembers.
His home is a crime scene.
He feels a chill run over his shoulders, bringing to attention the pain once more. But, just like with the brutal attack on his parents, and with the snatching of his little sister, he pushes that pain away. Shrinks it, and shoves it in the furthest corner of his mind that he can reach. Another time. He'll address it all — another time. The same time he'll address what's been nagging at him incessantly, nagging since exactly one year ago. But not now. There are more important things to consider now, he determines. And with that, he begins the long trek back to the Squawk, the weights of Will and Mrs. Byers reminding him with every step of what he still has the potential to lose.