Chapter Text
The Wheeler house smelled like lemon cleaner, and something faintly burned.
Will noticed it the moment he stepped inside, the door closing behind them with a hollow thud that echoed too loudly in the entryway. The sound made his shoulders tense on instinct, like he was bracing for something else to follow, another crack in the ground, another scream, another reminder that Hawkins was still breaking open at the seams.
But nothing happened.
The house stayed standing. The walls stayed whole. Somewhere deeper inside, a television murmured, canned laughter drifting down the hall as if it belonged to another world entirely.
Joyce dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and let out a breath she’d clearly been holding since the car ride ended. “Okay,” she said, voice bright but tight. “We’re here.”
Here.
Not home. Not back. Just here.
Will shifted the strap of his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and glanced around. The Wheeler house hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been here - not really. The wallpaper was still the same shade of beige that somehow made the rooms feel smaller. The framed family photos were still lined neatly along the staircase, with frozen smiles from birthdays and holidays that seemed to belong to someone else’s life.
Nancy smiled at them from one frame, younger and gap-toothed. Mike stood beside her in another, hair wild, arm slung awkwardly around Karen’s waist.
Will looked away.
“Jonathan!” Joyce called. “You can grab the rest in a minute, let Will get settled first.”
Jonathan nodded from where he hovered awkwardly near the living room, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He gave Will a look, soft and apologetic, with the worried expression of an older brother, that made Will want to disappear into the floor.
“I’m good,” Will said quickly. “Really.”
Joyce gave him that look she always did now. The one that said I know you’re lying, but I’ll let you. She reached out, squeezed his shoulder once, grounding and warm.
“Mike said you could have his room,” she said. “He’s already moved his things.”
Will froze.
He kept his face neutral, nodded like this was normal, expected, no big deal. Like the words Mike’s room hadn’t just lodged themselves somewhere painful behind his ribs.
“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”
“Basement for the boys,” Joyce added, glancing toward the stairs. “Jonathan’s already claimed the couch.”
Jonathan made a face. “It’s more of a mattress situation.”
Joyce smiled, tired and fond. “I’ll check on you both in a bit.”
She disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen, already mentally reorganising the space to fit a family that no longer quite fit anywhere.
Will stood there for a second too long, duffel bag digging into his shoulder.
“Come on,” Jonathan said gently. “I’ll show you.”
They climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking under their weight. Will counted them without meaning to. He always did in unfamiliar places. One, two, three - safe, safe, safe - until they reached the landing.
The hallway stretched out in front of them, doors lining either side. Nancy’s room. The bathroom. Mike’s.
Jonathan stopped outside the familiar door, hesitating. “You okay?”
Will nodded. “Yeah.”
Jonathan didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. He squeezed Will’s arm once and headed back toward the stairs, leaving Will alone with the door.
Will took a breath.
Then he opened it.
Mike Wheeler’s room was exactly the same.
That was the worst part.
The posters still clung to the walls, edges curling slightly with age. A faded Hellfire flyer was taped crookedly above the desk. The shelves were cluttered with old D&D books, some stacked neatly, others shoved carelessly on their sides like Mike had abandoned them mid-thought.
The bed sat against the far wall, neatly made. Too neatly. The navy comforter was pulled tight, pillows arranged with military precision, like someone had been trying very hard to make it look untouched.
Like it had been preserved.
Will stepped inside slowly, setting his duffel bag down at the foot of the bed. The room smelled faintly of dust and detergent and something else, something undeniably Mike, and his chest tightened before he could stop it.
He’d slept here before. Summers, sleepovers, movie nights that ran too late. He’d sprawled on this bed with a comic book while Mike talked too much about whatever campaign he was planning. He’d fallen asleep to the sound of Mike breathing beside him, warm and solid and safe.
That had been before.
Before California. Before Vecna. Before Will had words for the feeling he’d been carrying since he was thirteen years old.
Before it had started to hurt like this.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor, hands clenched in his lap. The quiet pressed in around him, thick and heavy, and for a moment, he wished desperately that the house were louder. That someone would shout. That something would break. That he wouldn’t be left alone with his thoughts.
A knock sounded softly at the door.
Will’s heart jumped anyway.
“Hey,” Mike said.
Will looked up.
Mike stood in the doorway, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact. His hair was messier than usual, curls escaping in every direction, and there were dark circles under his eyes that Will didn’t remember from California. Or maybe he’d just been trying not to look too closely then.
“Hey,” Will said.
They stared at each other.
Mike looked away first.
“So, uh,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “You can move stuff if you want. I already took out… you know. Most of it.”
Will swallowed. “Right.”
“I mean,” Mike added quickly, “not everything. Just- the important stuff. But if you want more space, I can-”
“It’s fine,” Will said, too fast. “Really. It’s just a room.”
Mike flinched.
It was small, barely noticeable, a tightening around his mouth, a flicker of something hurt in his eyes, but Will saw it. He always did.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Right. Just a room.”
Silence stretched between them, brittle and sharp. The kind that cut if you moved wrong.
Will stood, smoothing his hands over his jeans. “Thanks. For letting me stay here.”
Mike frowned. “You didn’t- I mean. Of course. You’re my-”
He stopped.
Will held his breath.
“My friend,” Mike finished.
The word hit harder than Will expected. It always did. He nodded anyway, because that was what he was good at now, nodding, swallowing, pretending.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
He turned away before Mike could see his face. Before the ache in his chest could show. Before three years of unspoken longing could spill out onto the carpet.
Behind him, Mike lingered.
“If you need anything,” he said quietly, softer now. “I’m right down the hall.”
Will nodded. “Okay.”
The door closed.
The click echoed through the room like a finality.
Will sank back onto the bed, heart racing, and stared up at the ceiling. There was a faint crack near the corner, thin and spiderwebbed, a reminder that even safe places could fracture under pressure.
Somewhere below, Jonathan laughed softly at something on the TV. Somewhere outside, Hawkins groaned, unsettled and restless.
Will lay there in Mike’s bed, surrounded by borrowed space and borrowed air and borrowed time, and wondered how long he could keep pretending this didn’t hurt.
And how much worse it was going to get when Mike was only a few doors away.