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After the events at MAC-Z, Joyce, Will, Mike, Erica and Lucas returned to WSQK. Robin and Murray were already there, treating their wounds. The group gathered in the station basement and spent a good forty minutes discussing the fact that Will apparently could use Vecna's powers, and that he had saved three of his friends back there.
There were a lot of theories and attempts to plan their next actions, but — to be honest — everyone in the room was so tired and devastated by the loss of the kids that nothing clever came to mind at the moment; only some stupid fragments of ideas that would probably get them killed if they tried to put them into action. The conversation was heated, loud, messy and full of interruptions at first, but a little later it turned into a warmer and more hopeful one.
At some point, the bickering shifted to praising Will: Robin — in a good way — couldn't believe Will had taken out three Demogorgons at once; Murray was shocked by the fact itself; Lucas was happy and grateful for being alive; Joyce, worried but relieved that she had just in time given her son the independence he'd been asking for ever since he returned from the Upside Down after being taken at the age of twelve; Erica thinking about how it could be related to D&D and how it might benefit them in the future; and Mike throwing in the word ‘sorcerer’ every chance he got, geeking out over Will's abilities and saying how he had always believed in him.
After everyone calmed down a little, they collectively decided that they'd plan what to do next when their other friends returned from the Upside Down, and that for now it wouldn't hurt if someone gathered some spare clothes, medicine and, well, anything that might come in handy at the station — from the Wheelers' house; at least the important things that had survived the attack.
With Nancy and others still in the UD, Holly missing and his parents remaining at the hospital, Mike was clearly the one who had to go there. But doing it alone wouldn't be safe, so after discussing the possible risks they all agreed that Mike definitely needed company.
And considering that the Byers had stayed in their house for the last eighteen months and also had their stuff there — Will was the second obvious choice. At first, Joyce protested, but Robin politely pointed out that Mike and Will — out of all of them — were the best ones to do this quickly and get back to the station before anyone noticed their absence.
Meanwhile, Lucas decided to visit Max, offering Erica to come with him. She wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the idea, but after seeing the massacre at the base, she didn't say a word and followed her brother. He needed this, and she'd be there for him.
This left Robin, Joyce and Murray, who stayed at WSQK, trying to reach the rest of the group.
***
"I think it’ll be faster if we do it separately, okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Good, then I’ll start on the second floor and you’ll cover the basement. And then we’ll meet somewhere in the middle."
They hurriedly leave their bikes near the porch and rush into the Wheelers’ house, Mike leading and Will following him, both slightly out of breath from how fast they rode to get here.
Cautiously stepping over the debris left after the Demogorgon attack, they look over the open space of the first floor. The damage is horrendous: shattered glass lies almost everywhere, pieces of wood and even chunks of walls are scattered here and there, and broken furniture litters the place. Will and Mike have only heard about what happened from Nancy, so seeing it with their own eyes hits on a whole different level of shock, especially for Mike.
Will shifts his gaze to his feet as he takes a few steps forward and softly bumps into Mike, who stops dead in his tracks for some reason.
"What is it, Mike?"
Will gets no answer, so he quietly moves around Mike to stand beside him. He follows his friend’s hollow gaze and ends up staring at the floor near the kitchen counter.
Shit.
Dark dried blood covers the floor tiles, the counter, the wall; it’s all over the… it’s fucking everywhere. Will looks up at Mike’s face — still blank, but the dread in his eyes is unmistakable.
"Hey, Mike," Will calls for him softly and gently touches his shoulder. "Are you… okay?"
"Wh—? Oh yeah, no, I’m fine. Yeah-yeah-yeah, I’m fine. Fine."
"We’d better move on, come on," Will says, not wanting to let Mike dwell too much on this terrible scene spread out in front of them.
But Mike doesn’t budge; instead, he crouches down and slowly picks up the phone handset. It barely stays in his grip as he just stares at it, unblinking. His knuckles whiten for a moment, and the bloodstained — originally supposed to be ivory — plastic of the handset makes a few cracking sounds.
Will stays silent, because there isn’t much to say. He just gives Mike time, patiently waiting for his next move. After a few seconds, Mike carefully places the handset on the counter, opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again and says:
"Come on, we should stick to the plan," he mutters — more to himself than to Will — and claps his hands. "Chop-chop."
Suddenly, Mike acts as if whatever just happened never happened, and Will wants with his whole soul to believe that this trip won’t affect his friend in a lasting way, though it’s almost impossible to hope for that.
Now it’s time to split up. As they discussed earlier: Mike runs upstairs and Will heads down to the basement. Considering that he and Jonathan lived there — more like spent the nights there, and mostly it was Will at some point because his brother always sneaked into Nancy’s bedroom at night, but anyway — for the last eighteen months, the plan makes sense.
Will hurriedly searches the basement for stuff they might need: clothes, blankets, old cassettes, paper, school supplies, some personal belongings — anything that fits into his backpack.
Time passes while he folds the gathered clothes and other items so he can zip the backpack easily and leave room for more important things. It seems his work here is done; he has everything useful that could be found in the basement, so it’s time to go upstairs and look for medicine, band-aids, and medkits.
He climbs the stairs, not bothering to close the door behind him, but turns off the lights anyway. Mike is nowhere in sight yet, so Will doesn’t wait and heads straight to the bathroom on the first floor.
This one is almost untouched by the attack, which makes things easier. He opens the cabinet above the sink and starts reading the labels on pill bottles and everything else he finds: Ibuprofen — check, Aspirin — check, Tylenol — back into the cabinet, Temazepam — maybe (he’ll come back to that later), I-pill — definitely not gonna need that one. And so on.
In the drawers under the sink he finds an unopened package with two toothbrushes, unused dental floss, and a half-used bottle of hand sanitizer — all of it goes straight into his backpack.
Repeating the same actions, he spends another ten to fifteen minutes there before putting on his rucksack and leaving the bathroom. Just as he turns the corner toward the staircase, he sees Mike at the top of it.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"What took you so long?"
"Sorry, it’s just a mess up there," Mike answers, making Will wince inwardly. He silently curses himself — what a stupid question, given the situation.
But Mike seems okay with it. He starts descending the stairs, then stops and points back with his thumb. "I found some of Jonathan’s stuff in Nancy’s room. Want to come take it?"
"Um, no, leave it. I think I have all we need for now."
"Okay." Mike reaches Will’s level and turns his head to the left. "Oh, right, did you check the bathroom?"
"All in here," Will reassures him, half-turning and patting his backpack.
"Cool. We’re good to go, then."
"Yeah, let’s go. We’re running late already."
They head out through the front door, and Mike takes one last look at what’s left of his house, his emotions unreadable. They grab their bikes, and as Will swings his leg over the frame, Mike suddenly drops his bike back onto the grass and starts trotting toward the house.
"Um, Mike, what ar—"
His friend turns to him — still trotting, now backwards — and cuts him off, his voice shaky from the effort:
"Sorry, I just— I forgot something," Mike catches his breath and continues. "I’ll be back in a minute, just— just wait here."
O-okay. Mike probably has his reasons, so Will lets it be.
Will takes a moment to appreciate the clear night sky, gazing at the stars and absorbing their beauty. Fresh chilly air fills his lungs as he takes a deep breath, allowing himself to enjoy these small things. He closes his eyes, and his ears pick up the quiet chirping of crickets in the grass.
He feels peaceful.
Free.
Uninvited memories of watching through the Demogorgons’ eyes as they approach his friends to kill them flood his mind like a tornado. But they no longer scare him. They give him strength, which he has learned to accept. Yes, he may be standing in the eye of the storm for now, but when the time comes to step out and face whatever waits for them — he will be ready.
Will slowly opens his eyes and raises his left hand to his face, pressing a button to light up the watch screen. He looks down at the digits. It doesn’t make much sense since he didn’t note the time when Mike left, but it feels like an eternity has passed. What he does know for sure is that they’ll get scolded if they don’t return soon — at the very least.
He waits another minute or two, then worry begins to creep in, and he decides to go look for Mike. He carefully lays his bike down and heads back into the house.
"Mike? Mike, where are you? We need to go."
The house is eerily quiet.
Will runs to the second floor, peeking into rooms along the way.
"Mike, come on, this isn’t funny."
He goes back down and into the kitchen. Still no sign of his friend. Suddenly, he feels twelve again: chills run down his spine. Terrifying thoughts burst into his mind: what if his visions have returned and all this is some kind of illusion; or worse, what if something has happened to Mike?
As he passes the basement door, he notices the light switch is on. Okay, Mike must be down there, but it’s odd that he didn’t answer earlier.
Will goes through the door, closing it behind him this time, and descends the steps, slowing his pace.
"Mike?"
Muffled sounds of fabric reach his ears. He turns the corner to the right and sees his friend standing near the table by the far wall, staring at something and not moving.
"Is… everything okay?" he takes a few small steps toward Mike.
A small sob escapes from where Mike stands as he brings a hand to his face. Will can’t see exactly what’s happening, but his gut tells him it’s not good.
"Mike, talk to me, please."
"Ssstupid," Mike mutters under his breath.
"What?" Will can’t hear it. He steps closer and glances over Mike’s shoulder at what lies on the table: notes, pens, and a bunch of board games their party used to play together when they were kids — all covered in a thick layer of dust.
Will reaches out to touch Mike’s elbow, "Hey—"
All of a sudden, Mike angrily slams his clenched fist on the table, causing a loud thud, and Will jerks his hand back in surprise — not a pleasant one. His eyebrows shoot up, eyes wide from shock, as he watches Mike sweep everything off the table and kick the boxes lying underneath with his foot.
Will steps back. He has never seen Mike like this, and for the first time in their entire friendship, he has no idea what to do to make it stop.
"Sshit," growls Mike and shakes his hand to ease the throbbing caused by the punch.
A moment of silence follows, and then he starts smashing the boxes again, this time gripping the corners of the table with both hands. His movements are uncontrollable, and one of the kicks lands on the nearest table leg.
"Damn it!" Mike screams out in pain.
"Stop, Mike. Please. Mike, stop!" Will cries out and immediately closes the distance between them, hugging Mike tightly from behind, arms wrapped around his waist.
Mike freezes.
His shoulders start to shake with hysterical but silent sobs, and in a second he turns around, leaning deeper into Will’s embrace. Mike buries his face in the crook between his friend’s shoulder and neck, soaking the fabric of the red collar with tears, his fingers clenching the back of Will’s jacket.
Will holds Mike in a firm grip, afraid to let go, his whole body trembling in unison with every twitch from Mike.
"Shi—" comes with a sob. "I—" another one. "C-can’t..."
Will scans the basement frantically, as if searching for an answer on how to make Mike feel better. How to take his pain away.
"You don’t have to say anything. Just… let it all out."
"I w-want to. It-t’s just h-hard."
"I know. I know," whispers Will.
"S-sorry. I’m being… path-thetic," comes muffled from Will’s collar, soaked through with tears.
"What?! That’s bullshit, Mike, and you know it," Will protests and slightly loosens his grip. "Can you feel it?" he asks, confusing Mike with the lack of context.
"W-what?"
"My breath. Can you feel it?"
"Mhm."
"I want you to breathe with me, okay?" a simple nod in return, which Will feels against his neck. "Deep breath in… and out. Come on."
Will takes another deep breath, then exhales. At first, their chests don’t quite sync, but as time passes, Mike’s breathing evens out, his sobs become less intense, and they finally achieve a perfect rhythm — two bodies tangled together, still holding onto each other.
How long they stand like that, Will isn’t sure. It could be one minute or a few hours, he doesn’t care; as long as it keeps Mike safe from the pain he’s enduring, and as long as Will feels Mike’s chest pressed against his own.
A strange feeling sparks in Will’s stomach. The moment is so intimate that it might feel wrong later. But he refuses to spoil it with such thoughts for now. And if it does feel wrong — he’ll deal with that then.
"Better?"
Mike pulls back from the hug and looks anywhere but at Will. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his sweater and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, shifting nervously. He isn’t used to being an open book or baring emotions that have been buried deep for so long.
"Yeah," a shy smile touches one corner of Mike’s lips.
"Does your hand hurt? Foot?"
"Not anymore, no."
"And this?" Will asks, touching his own temple before pointing at Mike’s.
"Sometimes. It stings a bit, but it’s not that bad. I’m gonna be fine."
"Okay," Will nods. "So… wanna talk about it?"
"Nothing to talk about, actually. Got thrown by a Demo, that’s—"
"No, I mean…" Will gives Mike a moment to let that sink in.
"Oh, um, I—"
Will is still deeply concerned about what just happened, but he doesn’t want to push Mike too hard, "I’m not insisting. Just want you to know that I’m here. If… you need me."
Mike nods quietly and meets Will’s eyes with his own.
"I can’t lose my family," he blurts out, and the words start pouring out of his mouth like water through a damaged dam, while he paces from side to side, gesturing expressively with his hands. "I’m not ready. And— and I don’t want to lose anyone else. We don’t know what’s gonna happen in the next couple of freaking minutes, and I can’t do shit about it! I try, but… so far every plan backfires, and—" he takes a deep breath, stops in front of Will, and continues more slowly. "And your powers? That’s a whole new level of something to worry about. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s great that you can do such badass stuff, you know, but what if— what if something happens to you?"
All this time, so much has been swirling in Mike’s head that it’s hard to process it all at once. For both of them.
"Okay, how about we sit and talk about it?" Will suggests, pointing at the couch.
Instead of answering, Mike just stares at Will in disbelief, as if something has just clicked in his brain. Will gives him a light push to emphasize the point, but Mike doesn’t budge.
"Did I scare you?"
The sudden shift in conversation confuses Will. The look on Mike’s face doesn’t help.
"What do you mean scare me? Like, now?"
"No. No, back when, uh—"
"You didn’t."
"You know I can tell when you lie, right?" Mike challenges, crossing his arms over his chest.
"I don’t… lie," Will denies, the last word coming out quieter than intended. "And you take a lot of credit for that, you know, ’cause sometimes? You actually can’t."
Okay, that was a bit harsh, and Will instantly regrets it. Why? Why even bring that up if he isn’t ready to face the consequences? He isn’t sure, so he retreats into his thoughts for a moment, but Mike’s voice snaps him back:
"What’s that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, just… Let’s sit."
Mike makes a face at the little miscommunication but follows Will anyway. No way they’re not talking about it later, but for now Mike lets it go.
"So you weren’t scared?" Mike’s eyebrows rise, disappearing under his curly bangs as he speaks to Will’s back on their way to the couch.
"Well, you did scare me. But only when you hurt yourself."
Mike stops near the couch, and Will turns to face him.
"I didn’t mean to," says Mike sincerely, putting everything he can into his eyes to show he means it.
And Will can’t stay angry with him for long, he never could, "It’s fine. As long as you’re not gonna do it again," he says, gently pressing on Mike’s shoulders to make him sit. Mike relaxes a little as his best friend takes a seat beside him, not too close, giving him space.
Will turns slightly to his left to see Mike better and pulls his left leg onto the couch, bending the knee, sitting half cross-legged.
Mike stares blankly ahead, not quite ready to talk yet. Will gives him a moment — God, he can’t bear seeing Mike like this: broken, desperate, lonely.
As soon as Will opens his mouth to say something — though he isn’t sure what exactly, which is rare for him — Mike starts to open up:
"Sorry that I’m… acting like this. It’s just—" he takes a shaky breath and covers his eyes with his right hand, fingers pressing a bit too hard on his eyelids. "It’s all just too much, I guess. And I am grateful, so grateful for you saving me. You turned out to be everything I always believed you are," those words bring a tender smile to Will’s lips, but the possibility of a terrifying outcome to this conversation snaps him back to reality. So he stays silent, for now.
"And if it weren’t for you, I would probably be— well, I wouldn’t be at all. But coming back home, seeing it destroyed, I guess for a moment I thought—" he risks a quick glance at Will and looks away immediately, because the truth is too hard to bear, even in thought. "It would be easier if you didn't."
A flashback of stepping off that cliff rushes back like a tidal wave, a nervous laugh escaping Mike’s lips. That was so long ago, a memory buried deep, only resurfacing now that he’s been given a second chance at life.
Will is clearly taken aback by what he just heard. Yes, over the past couple of months he’s noticed small moments when Mike zoned out too often or reacted to things unlike himself. But to witness what he just did and hear it put into this context — it never occurred to him.
They all have their own traumas, shared and private, little — or not so little — secrets they don’t even tell each other, because (some would argue) it might ruin the special bond their party has always had. The one Will and Mike have had. But this. This hits different.
Deeper. Harder. Deadlier.
"Mike—" Will starts, his muscles tensing like strings. He thinks for a moment, choosing his words carefully, but decides to stick to the truth. "No. It wouldn’t be easier. Not for your family, not for your friends, not for everyone who cares about you and loves you," Mike stops staring at his trembling fingers and meets Will’s serious gaze, which is starting to fill with traitorous tears.
"You’d be— gone. But for everyone left here, a part of us would be gone with you. And I don’t think any of us could ever recover from that," selfish? Maybe. But also true.
"Please, don’t— Don’t ever think that way again. I know it’s easier said than done, but we have each other. We need to stick together, watch each other’s backs," he licks his suddenly dry lips. "And, y’know, no one can live without a heart."
For a second, a slight smile forms on Mike’s face — easy to miss if you aren’t paying attention. But Will always does, and he always will.
"Yeah. Yeah, sorry," Mike quietly agrees, almost whispering.
"For what?" a genuine question from his friend. "For giving yourself a break to embrace the reality we’re living in? Stop being sorry for who you are, for your emotions. You always take care of others, lead them, help them. So maybe it’s time to— let them take care of you?"
Mike shifts in his seat, then turns quickly to face Will, mirroring his pose and closing the distance between them. Their knees bump lightly, but they both consciously ignore it. This is no time or place to dwell on that.
"But I couldn’t even help my parents! I still can’t. And Holly, God knows where she is in that hell of a place. Shit," the last word hisses out, drenched in anger toward himself for being so helplessly unable to protect the ones he loves.
Will’s eyes find Mike’s. They share a long look that says everything and nothing at once. Will reaches out and carefully places his hand on Mike’s right knee. A small touch, a bold move — at least for the old Will, who sometimes feared even thinking about reaching out first like this.
But Mike doesn’t mind, it seems. His gaze doesn’t drop to where Will’s fingers gently touch the fabric of his pants, but his lips twitch, and his brows rise — classic puppy-eyed Mike Wheeler. He just keeps staring into those hazel-green eyes in front of him, trying to see right through, seeking reassurance, wanting to be seen. Right now he needs someone to ground him, to show him he’s not alone, to tell him everything will be okay — even if they can’t know it for sure.
Someone who will just listen. Who is willing to listen.
Everyone has a lot on their plate right now, and Mike feels stupid for adding to it, complaining about his own problems and fears. But somehow, with Will, it never feels like he's weighing his problems down on someone else's shoulders. With Will, sharing these vulnerable moments always feels right. Normal.
Mike already lost this once, when Will moved to Lenora and they barely spoke, having no idea what was going on in each other’s minds and lives during that time. And even for a while after, as they had to learn to understand each other all over again. He isn’t ready to lose it now. Or ever. So he lets himself talk. At least for this moment.
"I just… feel hopeless. I mean helpless. Well, both, actually. It’s like— like I know there was at least something I could’ve done to prevent things, but I just failed. Like there was a solution I couldn’t come up with. Didn’t think of it, didn’t try hard enough, kept focusing on the wrong things, the wrong—" Mike trails off, catching his breath and deciding whether to finish the sentence. "Wrong people."
He looks down, aware of how wrong it might sound, but it doesn’t make any of it less true.
Will squeezes Mike’s knee gently, tilting his head down a little to catch Mike's attention again.
"Hey. We all make mistakes, don’t beat yourself up. The past is the past, and we can’t change it. What we need to do is learn from it, try to let go, and focus on the future, okay?" Will smiles reassuringly, and Mike’s shoulders relax a fraction. A small nod comes from beneath his curly hair as agreement, though it's still a bit unsure.
Mike’s eyes start to tear up again, so he lowers his head to hide it and blinks rapidly to stop them. He fails; one tear eventually trails down his cheek, burning his skin as it pauses on his chin before falling nowhere else but onto Will's hand.
Panicking — not sure why exactly — Mike hurriedly wipes it away with his fingertips, muttering apologies under his breath. Will’s skin feels warm against his cold fingers, and it tingles a little. He hears Will catch his breath and jerks his hand away, dropping another ‘sorry’.
Will quietly clears his throat and removes his own hand from Mike’s knee. It lingered there way too long anyway.
The spot warmed by Will’s touch suddenly feels too cold, and a small wrinkle forms between Mike’s eyebrows. He focuses on the sensation long enough to almost miss Will starting to speak again:
"You don’t have to bottle everything up, you know? You can always talk to me. That’s what— friends are for, right?"
Friends.
The word cuts through the air too painfully. Will catches himself thinking how desperately he wanted — and still wants — to be more than friends. To hug Mike right now, or every time he feels like it. To kiss him. To be kissed. To say how he really feels.
But now is not the time. And he isn’t sure if the time will ever come. He wants to believe there’s at least a tiny chance Mike feels the same, but that side of his best friend remains a mystery. They’ve always had a special bond, and Will isn’t ready to risk ruining it.
He can’t help thinking about Robin’s words on signals. He believes they’re there, but they’re too subtle. And in this case, he needs to be sure. Because if not, he’d rather keep everything as it is.
And if there is something in Mike that could point to more than friendship, he’ll wait. For Mike, he has waited almost his whole life. He can wait longer. As long as it takes.
"It’s not like I’m gonna melt from a single tear, Mike," Will says and immediately regrets it because of how it might sound.
But Mike laughs. For the first time since Will found him earlier in this very basement. Or maybe even since they set foot in the house. And, well, maybe he is going to melt after all. From a single tear, a genuine laugh, a simple look. It’s crazy what love does to people, right?
He finds himself laughing along. After a moment, Will continues:
"Look, I can’t tell you that everything will be okay. I mean, it will, eventually. But for now, I think your parents will push through. They’re tough."
"Well, they did somehow cope with each other all those years, so, yeah, I guess," Mike adds jokingly, and Will can’t help but feel happy that his best friend is feeling better.
"Yeah, your mom basically fought a Demo bare-handed. Well, almost," Will says, casting a quick glance at Mike’s face to check if he hasn’t crossed a line.
"Mhm. Guess it runs in the family: the strange choice of unsuitable weapons. Only Nancy fights back with real ones. You know, at this point, maybe she’s adopted."
Laughter slips from Will’s lips. Good — they’re still on the joking side.
"About Holly—" He checks Mike’s reaction again. His expression drops instantly, but his eyes still shine with… hope? "You’re right. We don’t know exactly where she is. But we will find her, I promise. You won’t go through this alone. We’ll do anything for her. Anything for you," Will chokes on the next words he’s about to say, then decides to hell with it. "I— I’ll do anything for you."
The look on Mike’s face softens.
"I know, Will. I know," he says gently. A shy smile appears on his face, and an unreadable gaze drills right through Will — as if, in this moment, Mike finally sees him for who he really is, no matter how hard Will has tried to bury that part deep down where no one would ever find it. Or maybe Will’s made a mistake, let his guard down, and put himself on the line by saying he’d do anything for Mike. Did it sound like a confession? Or is he overthinking?
The intensity makes Will break eye contact, though he still isn’t sure which part of his words exactly made Mike look at him like that. Because he can't raise his hopes over such a slight possibility. Maybe he needs reassurance too. Just a different kind.
"Oh, what time is it?" Mike asks rhetorically, glancing at his watch. "Well, we were supposed to be back at WSQK almost two hours ago. Bet everyone’s losing their shit right now."
"We should probably get going, then," Will says, standing up from the couch and slinging on his backpack. "But I thought you warned them. I mean, I would’ve, but I don’t have a spare walkie, and I didn’t know where yours was. Didn’t see it anywhere upstairs."
"Yeah, I left mine at the station to make room in the backpack, and the old one probably went down with my closet altogether. Jesus, that bedroom is a complete mess right now. Half the house, actually," Mike says, standing up too but not following Will right away.
"Good thing not everything in there was destroyed," as Will watches Mike’s movements, the latter leans down behind the far side of the couch and pulls up his backpack — along with a roll of parchment.
Will’s heart skips a beat. A painting. The painting.
Pushing aside the deafening drumming in his chest, he finds the strength to speak again, "So, um… ready to go?"
"Yeah, come on."
Will steps onto the staircase first, Mike right behind him. And Will could swear he feels a burning gaze on the back of his head. Or maybe he’s just terrified of being cornered by his own feelings.
"Hey, Will," but Will doesn’t stop. There are only five steps left to the door. Last chance to retreat, to avoid any uncomfortable questions. "Will," Mike doesn’t raise his voice; instead, he lowers it.
Will still doesn’t stop.
Two steps.
Two steps — and then the gentle grasp of Mike’s hand on his elbow.
Well, he can’t ignore that. So he slows and turns left to face Mike, who catches up and stops on the same step. It’s hardly fair — Mike is taller, and right now, looking down at him while probably forming a question in his head, he makes Will feel even smaller.
Will leans back against the wall with his backpack (God, he should consider wearing it on one shoulder, because the distance between them is too small — not quite close enough to feel each other’s breaths, but too close for the tension rising in the air). He hides his trembling hands behind him, gripping the railing like it’s his lifeline.
Mike removes his hand from Will’s elbow, tracing it lightly down his forearm for a moment, almost not touching.
"There’s, um—" Mike starts, not looking at Will. Ironically, Will can’t tear his eyes away from Mike. "There’s one thing I also wanted to talk to you about. Ask, actually."
Suddenly, the walls feel like a trap. Will could swear they’re closing in around him. The ceiling feels too low; the light too dim; the steps under his feet unsteady. Only the door to his right screams at him, begging to be opened — maybe it could offer shelter. Just maybe.
Why on earth did he even close it?
"Sometimes I wondered about… this," Mike says, raising his right hand — the one holding the rolled parchment — and placing it between them.
Will raises his eyebrows in a silent question.
"I thought about the, um… purpose of it? And it somehow didn’t make sense to me. I mean, it’s amazing, you know. And I understand what it’s supposed to tell me. Like, it gave me a sense of who I am," Mike rambles, his words tumbling out too fast to follow easily. "I guess every time I looked at it, it reminded me of who I really am. And yet—" he swallows; Will mimics the motion unconsciously. "Something didn’t feel right."
He glances at Will to check if he’s making any sense, but his friend remains silent.
"Me and El… we, um, never actually talked about this after returning to Hawkins. But considering how it all went downhill at some point, I didn’t think there was really a point? It’s just— we tried, for a while. I tried to teach her about D&D and stuff, but it didn’t feel like she was that into it. Like… into it at all? She just didn’t— couldn’t understand why it means so much. All the games and stuff. No matter how hard I tried. And—"
"Mike?" Will interrupts, not even sure why, but he does it anyway.
God, this basement really is small. It used to feel huge when they were kids, and now it seems no bigger than an ordinary closet. Funny enough.
"What?"
"Are you gonna ask your question or what?"
Mike pauses, already regretting starting this conversation, unsure what he even wanted to ask in the first place. He looks anywhere but at Will. But in the end, it doesn’t matter how he phrases it — Will will understand, right? He sure hopes so.
"Did Eleven really ask you to paint this?" here you go, Mike, like ripping off a band-aid.
Will stares back into Mike’s eyes, challenging. The tension is almost palpable.
He’ll do anything for Mike — that wasn’t a lie. Because friends don’t lie. But at this point, are they really? Where exactly do they stand? Somewhere in between, probably, because otherwise Will can’t explain why Mike needs to know the truth so badly.
But he can’t answer the way he wants to. Not without stepping into the unknown all by himself, with no clue where it would lead him. Where it would lead them.
"I think you already have your answer."
Suddenly, Will is impossible to read. His expression gives nothing away. Mike grows frustrated — that doesn’t sound like an answer at all.
"What— I don’t—"
"You’re smart. You always figure crazy stuff out. And this… it’s not harder than that," on the outside, Will may look calm, but inside… inside it’s a hurricane of emotions: fear, love, more fear, hope.
He feels bad for acting like this, dancing around without a straight answer. Mike doesn't deserve it. On the other hand, it’s either this or throwing himself under the train with no way back.
Mike’s gaze traces every inch of Will’s face, and it’s becoming almost unbearable. Will wants to ask what Mike is thinking — because when it comes to them, Mike Wheeler is a walking enigma. But he can’t find the courage; he’s terrified his mouth will betray him and the truth will slip out.
How long do they stand there in silence? Will isn’t sure. What he is sure of is that they need to get back to the station. It doesn't seem like this conversation is going anywhere anyway. At this point, it feels more like a competition — who's going to break first? Mike is stubborn, and Will decides that this time he isn't afraid to lose.
He turns and takes a step toward the door but bumps into something solid. He looks down to find Mike’s hand resting on the railing beside him. Will’s heart drops. He feels trapped again, but this time it’s mixed with something unfamiliar. Something he’s never felt before.
While trying to process it, he sees Mike take another step forward. Now they can feel each other’s breaths. Their eyes lock. Will inhales shakily. Or is it Mike? He isn’t sure.
Maybe it’s time to say something. Anything. Or maybe it’s time to take a chance — not just tell Mike how he feels, but show him. Show how desperately in love he is. Just let it happen, come what may.
"Mike—"
"I have one more question. Since you didn’t answer."
"I answered," Will’s voice cracks.
"Not the way I… wanted you to," the last part barely a whisper.
The words ‘wanted’ and ‘you’ in one sentence from Mike’s mouth are mind-blowing. And the way he says it — music to Will’s ears.
"We didn’t agree on this," Will’s heart pounds against his ribs. Can Mike hear it? Because if he steps closer, he’ll definitely feel it. Is Mike’s heart racing too right now? Or is it just him, his body failing to keep him from a panic attack?
"True. But I don’t recall agreeing to any conditions."
"You said there was one thing you wanted to talk about. To me, that sounds like one question."
A small grin touches Mike’s lips — an admission of defeat in his own game. He carefully lets the painting slip from his right hand and leans it against the wall.
Will feels that same hand grip the railing on his other side, barely brushing his hip. Breathing becomes difficult, yet something inside screams that this is okay. That everything will be okay.
"The last one. Promise," Mike says quietly, in a more serious tone.
Every Mike’s move feels like sweet torture, and Will wants to retreat… or run… or at least say something. When he finally gathers his thoughts to tell Mike they need to get back, Mike speaks first:
"May I kiss you?"
Will’s heart — which never really stopped pounding — slams even harder. He can practically hear it drumming, mingling with the ringing in his ears. He isn’t sure he heard right.
What? echoes in his mind.
"Wh—?"
"May I… kiss you?"
If Will could speak, he’d point out that Mike broke his promise, again — it’s definitely more than one question, though technically the same, but let’s drop formalities — only softer, more intimate.
The silence is deafening, painful. Their closeness feels suffocating; they both breathe deeply, heavily, sharing the scant air between them. Brown eyes lock with hazel-green — waiting, studying, drowning.
Mike starts to panic a little, so many questions racing through his head: Did he misread Will’s answer? Did he misinterpret all the small moments they’ve had throughout their lives? Did he make a fool of himself and ruin everything they’ve built — everything they’ve been building up to this day?
And what exactly did Will mean when he pointed out that Mike isn’t always able to tell when he’s lying?
Shit.
Maybe it’s time to pull back. But then what? Would they be able to go back to where they were at least five, ten minutes ago? Mike highly doubts it.
Shit.
He releases the railing and steps back slightly, brows furrowing, lips twitching.
"Sorry, I’m being an idiot."
"Yes," comes almost immediately.
"Oh—"
"No, I mean— It’s—" Will swallows hard. "It’s an answer."
"Oh," Mike’s lips part as his eyes study Will’s face — taking in the gorgeous moles, long trembling lashes, smooth jawline, and finally resting on his full lips. In this moment, Mike wishes he could draw like Will, just to show him how adored, how beautiful he is. Especially now, in the dim basement light, cheeks flushed, that shy, almost imperceptible smile reserved only for Mike.
But there are other ways to show it. And he is ready to go for it.
Mike places his hands back on the railing — careful not to push too far — and slowly closes the distance between their faces.
At some point, he feels Will’s hot, shaky breath on his lips and releases his own, only now realizing he’s been holding it. The sensation is electrifying, but he doesn’t rush; he savors every second of what's happening and is about to happen. And he’s grateful Will gives him the time — now, and for all the time before, because it probably took him forever to get here.
Their noses brush lightly, and Mike feels Will’s cold fingertips at the back of his neck. The spot burns under the touch; goosebumps race down his spine. So this is how it’s supposed to feel, Mike wonders.
Thrilling. Nervous. Freaking amazing.
So what will happen when he actually kisses Will? Maybe it’s time to find out. The last inches feel like miles, and Mike surges forward to close them.
In an instant, his mind goes blank — a white canvas with only Will’s name scrawled across it, over and over, and over again.
Because it’s always been him.
Mike gently presses his lips to Will’s — more a peck than a full kiss, testing the new feeling, easing into it. And damn, it feels so good. So good he wants more. More of Will.
He slides one hand off the railing and rests it on Will’s waist, squeezing with affectionate greed. He parts his lips slightly and deepens the kiss as Will’s hand buries in his curls, tugging softly. He captures Will’s lower lip, sucking it in slightly, feeling hot breath against his mouth.
Mike’s face burns, eyes closed, hands trembling — all because of the person giving him everything he’s ever wanted and more. Because of how Will kisses back — with affection and care — how he touches him, understands him, sees him.
Because of how perfectly they move together. How they just… are.
Mike pauses briefly to let them breathe, kissing the corner of Will’s mouth in the meantime — feeling his smile, which makes him smile too, uncontrollably. Then the other corner, another small kiss. He opens his eyes to find Will already looking at him, eyes brimming with happiness, passion… love. He hopes Will sees the same in his, because from now on he won’t hide it.
Will cups Mike’s face and pecks his nose. Such a small gesture, but it lights Mike up even more. Will’s hands are sweaty — but so are Mike’s; a sign of nerves, but also devotion, appreciation of this shared moment.
"I can’t believe it," Mike says before thinking.
Will smiles, brows furrowing slightly, "What?"
"This. You."
Another kiss — this time on Mike’s right cheek. It makes him want to say more: "Thank you."
"For what?"
"Saving me."
Will’s eyes bore into Mike’s, seeing straight through him, "Always," a kiss on the left cheek.
"That was badass. And a bit scary, but… you were so beautiful."
Now Will’s lips brush his forehead.
"And you are now," the words feel like a confession, but Mike doesn’t care anymore. He takes Will’s hand, lacing their fingers together. "Just… please be careful with that power. I can’t lose you again. Not now, when I finally… found you."
"You won’t, Mike. But you have to promise me something too."
"Mhm?"
"That thing you said. About… not being saved. Don’t— Promise me you’ll never even think about it again," Will pleads, desperation in his eyes.
"I promise," Mike reassures, lifting Will’s chin gently with his fingers to meet his gaze and drive the point home. "I promise, Will."
Then he leans in for another kiss — softer, more affectionate than before. He memorizes every curve of Will’s lips, every response, every tremble, every eager return when he pauses for breath. He kisses Will in a way that proves he means it — apologizing for past hurts, declaring that he’s finally found himself, and that all of him belongs right here.
Mike wants more, and as if Will reads his mind, he feels Will’s tongue trace his upper lip — careful, like asking for permission. And Mike is all ready to dive into it, so he opens his mouth a bit wider, meeting Will halfway, letting their tongues tangle in a slow, tender dance.
It feels wet. It sounds wet. And altogether — it is perfect.
The small staircase fills with the heavy breaths of two people who’ve been side by side nearly their whole lives, but only now truly belong to each other.
For now, the world can wait.