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Mike knows that was his instant. The problem is accepting it.
The truth is, Mike has always been a kid who struggles to put his feelings into words. Maybe it’s partly his father’s fault; Ted Wheeler, with his quiet rules and unspoken expectations, always teaching him that boys like him don’t need to talk about what they feel. He doesn’t talk about fear. He doesn’t talk about dreams. He doesn’t let himself be seen when he’s weak or uncertain. He keeps it together. He swallows it down.
So when Mike actually does feel vulnerable, he has no idea what to do with it. There’s no manual for this, no strategy guide like the ones he grew up memorizing.
All he knows how to do is shut the world out, or maybe shut himself in. Build walls. Retreat inward. And that’s why, every time he lets something real slip through in his own awkward, roundabout way, regret hits almost immediately afterward. Even when he means every word.
By the time he finally climbs into the van, he can’t sit still. His legs bounce uncontrollably, nerves buzzing under his skin, and he has the irrational but very real urge to grab onto something because it feels like he might tip over otherwise.
He doesn’t look at Will. He can’t. And it’s not because Will has just come out, not really. It’s because Mike found just enough courage to give him hope before they got on the van. Enough to suggest something more. And now he’s terrified he’ll regret it.
Eleven sits beside him, her gaze distant and unreadable, fixed on nothing in particular. Lost in her own thoughts. When Mike lets his eyes drift over the rest of them, he realizes they all look the same, quiet and tense, like bracing themselves. Everyone is thinking about Vecna. About the plan. About what’s coming next. No one is thinking about Will’s words anymore.
No one except him.
No matter how many battles they’re about to fight tonight, no matter how much this is going to hurt, physically or mentally, Mike can’t stop thinking about the moment when all of this will be over. The moment when there will be no monsters to distract them, no emergencies to hide behind. When he’ll have to face Will Byers.
Whether he’s ready or not. For his own sake, but more than that, for Will’s.
God, Mike has been an asshole to him. More than once.
He swallows hard when his eyes inevitably drift to Will, who’s sitting with his head bowed, dark hair falling forward to hide his eyes. There’s an almost instinctive certainty in Mike’s chest, bone-deep, that whatever Vecna has shown Will, whatever nightmares he’s dragged back to the surface, he is part of it. That they are part of it.
Mike knows Vecna would have taken those memories and sharpened them. Turned them into weapons. He can picture it too clearly: the rain-soaked arguments, words thrown too carelessly, It’s not my fault you don’t like girls echoing back like a verdict. The dark woods at night. Castle Byers splintering under a careless swing.
Moments Mike has spent years trying not to think about, now dragged into the light and twisted into proof of something ugly and unresolved.
The thought makes him feel sick.
Because the last thing Mike has ever wanted is to be Will’s weak point. And yet the truth settles heavily in his chest, undeniable and terrifying all at once: Will Byers has always been his. In ways Mike never let himself name. In ways he refused to look at too closely, because accepting it would mean accepting everything else that comes with it.
When the van finally breaks through into the Upside Down, the reaction is almost paradoxical. A collective exhale ripples through the cramped space, tension releasing in quiet, shaky breaths.
Mike barely notices.
His gaze is still fixed on Will. Still searching for answers in the slope of his shoulders, the tightness in his posture, the way he seems folded inward on himself. Mike wonders what’s going through his head right now, whether he’s replaying old hurts, bracing for new ones, or trying not to hope for something he thinks he’s already lost.
Mike wishes he knew how to reach him. That he knew how to say the things that matter without turning them into weapons or regrets.
Instead, he stays where he is, heart pounding, watching Will in silence, knowing that whatever happens next, whatever Vecna throws at them, this is something he can’t keep running from anymore.
The van comes to a stop a few miles later, or at least Mike thinks it does. He isn’t entirely sure where they are anymore. His thoughts won’t line up properly, won’t stay still long enough for him to grab onto them.
Everything turns into a blur of movement and voices, boots hitting the ground, clipped instructions being passed back and forth, orders Mike barely registers, swallowed whole by the same knot of anxiety and fear tightening in his chest.
It’s Hopper who pulls him out of it.
A large hand closes around his shoulder, firm and grounding, and Mike looks up to find something unfamiliar in Hopper’s expression. Not exactly anger, not impatience. Something closer to defeat. “You good, kid?” Hopper asks.
It’s strange, Hopper rarely checks in like that, especially with him.
Mike nods, small and automatic, then forces himself to look around, trying to piece together where they are and what he’s supposed to be doing. His gaze drifts, inevitably, to Eleven’s back as she speaks quietly with Kali, their heads bent together. He opens his mouth, not even sure what he’s about to say, but Hopper cuts in again before he can.
“I need you present,” Hopper says, tightening his grip just a little. “Focused.”
He’s noticed. Of course he has. Mike’s eyes keep sliding past Eleven, past Hopper’s shoulder, past the Wall, drawn unavoidably to Will, standing close to her, too still, too quiet. Like he’s bracing for something invisible.
And that’s when it really hits Mike.
They’re in the Upside Down. Not metaphorically or in preparation. They’re here. In the middle of it. At the start of a battle that could very well be their last.
The realization settles uncomfortably in his head. The two people his eyes keep returning to, Will and Eleven, are the ones in the most danger. Eleven, because she always is.
Will, because of something worse. Another thought slithers under Mike’s skin, sharp enough to steal the air from his lungs. Will is risking his life just by being here. His connection to Vecna, unpredictable, could cost him everything. Not hypothetically. Not someday. Tonight.
Mike has always known that was a possibility. But knowing it abstractly and standing here, watching Will breathe and exist beside him, are two very different things. The idea that Will Byers could die tonight digs into him, painful and real and impossible to ignore.
The need to be near him flares suddenly in Mike’s chest, urgent and almost instinctive. It reminds him, stupidly and vividly, of all the campaigns they played as kids, of dice rolling across tabletops, of imaginary worlds where Mike was always the paladin. The protector. The one who stood between danger and the people he cared about.
Right now, it feels less like a game and more like a calling. Before Hopper can finish speaking, before he can assign roles or pair them off, Mike interrupts him.
“I’ll go with Will.”
The words come out fast, firm, leaving no room for doubt. Mike looks at Will first, then back at Hopper. “He needs protection,” Mike adds. “Someone with him.”
Hopper studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he doesn’t argue. He just nods, like this was always how it was going to go, like Mike choosing to stay with Will was inevitable.
Mike’s shoulders loosen slightly at that. He doesn’t even know what they’re about to walk into, not really, and yet the thought of leaving Will alone feels impossible. Not now. Not when Will looks so exposed, so quietly fragile, like the Upside Down itself is pressing too close to his skin.
Mike draws in a steadying breath. He stares at Will from a distance for only a few more seconds before crossing the space between them in long, determined strides. If he can’t be close to him in the way he wants, if he can’t say the things burning in his chest, then he’ll do the next best thing.
He’ll stay. He’ll protect him.
“Will,” Mike says softly when he reaches him.
His hand comes up almost without thinking, settling on Will’s shoulder. The grip is firm, grounding. Intentional. Like he’s trying to communicate something without words: I’m here. I’ve got you.
Will turns toward him, startled for just a second. Then his expression softens, something easing behind his eyes, like the tension had been waiting for this exact reassurance. Before either of them can say more, Eleven steps closer.
“Time,” she says gently but firmly. “We need to split up.”
Everyone turns toward her. The air seems to tighten, anticipation and dread folding in on itself. “Jane,” Hopper starts, but she shakes her head, already thinking several steps ahead.
“Kali and I will go after Vecna,” Eleven says. “We’ll draw him out. Make him think we’re the only threat.”
Mike feels Will stiffen under his hand.
“He won’t… he won’t think we’ll still use Will,” El continues, glancing at him now. “Not if he believes Will is staying hidden, far away from the upside down.” Will’s jaw tightens. He knows exactly what she’s suggesting.
“You need to stay out of sight,” El says softly. “Like before, like four years ago.”
A beat.
“In the church,” she adds. “It’s shielded. Old. Quiet. He won’t look for you there.”
Mike’s fingers curl slightly into Will’s jacket, instinctive and protective. “I’ll stay with him,” Mike says immediately, not even looking at Hopper this time. “The whole time.”
El nods. She doesn’t question it, like she knows that’s where he’s always been meant to be. Will exhales slowly, then looks at Mike. “You don’t have to—” he starts.
“I know,” Mike says quietly. “But I want to.”
The words come out with a sharp sincerity, sharp enough to scare even himself.
Because he wasn’t there four years ago. Because he has never stopped feeling guilty about that. Because the idea of something happening to Will now and Mike not being at his side feels unbearable, like a regret he’d carry for the rest of his life.
So the fear loosens its grip. It doesn’t disappear, never that, but it shifts, makes room for something steadier. Mike knows Vecna will come for Will. Knows he isn’t stupid, that he’ll try to take Will out first, now that he’s stronger, crueler, more deliberate than ever.
That knowledge doesn’t make Mike step back. It anchors him.
Will’s cheeks warm faintly, color blooming there as he looks away for a second, lost in a thought Mike can’t reach. Something private. Something he’s holding back. It’s familiar, this way Will fights himself, tries to fold inward, to make himself smaller so others can step forward instead. Mike recognizes it instantly.
“The others can be on the front lines this time,” Mike whispers gently but firmly. Will looks back at him.
“I’m not staying behind because I’m afraid,” Mike continues. “I’m staying because I choose you. Because I want to keep you safe.”
It’s selfish, maybe. Mike knows that. But it’s honest. And this time, he doesn’t feel the need to apologize for what he’s feeling.
Will’s expression wavers for just a second. That small, almost imperceptible movement of his eyebrows, the one Mike has learned to read better than any spoken language, flickers across his face. Mike’s heart picks up its pace at the sight, because it means something has landed. Something has reached him.
Then the group starts to scatter, slowly but decisively, dissolving into the warped streets of the Upside Down’s Hawkins in clusters of three or four. No one lingers. No one wastes time on hugs or long goodbyes, not when time is the one thing they no longer have.
Hopper’s plan still feels fragile to Mike, like it’s being held together by instinct and hope more than certainty. He doesn’t even know exactly where Eleven and Kali are heading, whether it’s the ruins of the lab or the Creel house, or somewhere deeper still. All he knows is that they’re searching for a way in, a way into Dimension X.
The place Vecna truly belongs to. The place where this might finally end. Or where it might get so much worse.
Mike pushes the thought away as best he can.
He stares at Will stepping toward Joyce and Jonathan. Mike hangs back just enough to give them space, watching as Joyce cups Will’s face in her hands, murmuring something too quiet to hear. Jonathan pulls him into a brief, fierce hug, one hand pressing into Will’s back like he’s trying to memorize the feeling.
Will nods at something Joyce says, blinks a little too fast, then turns back. When his eyes meet Mike’s again, there’s resolve there.
They start walking once the others are gone, heading toward the distant silhouette of the church, its spire jagged against the bruised sky. Their pace is slow, cautious, not just because of the terrain, but because neither of them seems ready to break the fragile quiet between them.
Mike realizes this is the first time Will has set foot in the Upside Down in four years.
He sees it in the way Will’s shoulders draw inward, in how his arms occasionally fold around his own chest like he’s trying to shield himself from something invisible. From a memory, maybe.
Pale ash drifts down and clings to Will’s jacket, to his hair; Mike is sure it’s settling on him too, dusting them both in the same colorless weight. The ground beneath their feet is threaded with dark, pulsing veins, spreading across the cracked streets like something alive. Mike catches Will by the arm just in time, tugging him back before his foot can come down on one of them.
Will freezes for a second at the contact, then exhales shakily.
“It’s… weird being here,” he whispers when they’re halfway to the church. The silence between them had grown thick enough to feel dangerous, so his voice makes Mike almost flinch.
It trembles, not enough to break, but enough that Mike can’t tell if it’s fear or anxiety causing it. Maybe both. “I don’t like it. I really didn’t think I’d ever come back—Not by choice.”
Mike swallows. He doesn’t blame him. He’s scared too, even though this is only his first time being down here.
Will keeps walking, but his steps slow, cautious. “Last time—I couldn’t tell where I was half the time,” he continues, almost like he’s talking to himself.
“It was cold, and dark, and I could feel it watching me. Even when I was alone, I wasn’t really alone. I thought if I stopped moving, if I just stayed still for too long…” He trails off, jaw tightening.
“I didn’t think I was going to make it out.”
Mike’s chest tightens painfully.
“And after,” Will adds, quieter now, “it didn’t really stop. Not completely. Sometimes it still feels like I’m here, even when I’m not.”
Mike wants to say something reassuring. Something steady and right. But the words won’t line up the way he wants them to. He’s starting to realize he’s never been particularly good at this, at speaking comfort when it matters most.
So he does the thing he knows how to do.
Before he can overthink it, Mike reaches out and gently pulls one of Will’s hands away from where it’s wrapped around his own torso. He threads his fingers through Will’s, tentative at first, then firmer, a little clumsy. A silent promise more than a gesture.
You’re not alone this time.
Will startles, clearly not expecting it. Mike sees it in the brief flash of light in his eyes as he looks down at their joined hands, then back up at Mike. Something open flickers across his face: surprise, confusion, and something softer that makes Mike’s chest ache.
For a moment, the world seems to narrow to just that.
Then the thought hits him, sharp and unwelcome: only hours ago, Will confessed that he doesn’t feel the same way anymore for someone.
Mike still doesn’t have absolute certainty that he’s the person Will was talking about, but God, does he hope that’s not true. He doesn’t want their story to end up being about the right people at the wrong time.
Will doesn’t pull away.
Instead, his grip tightens just slightly around Mike’s hand. And they keep walking, ash falling around them, toward the church ahead, just hand in hand now.
The last stretch of road toward the church feels longer than it should.
The building rises slowly, its silhouette fractured against the bruised, reddish sky. What used to be white stone is now gray and decayed, veins of black growth crawling up the walls and wrapping around the bell tower like a tightening grip. The stained-glass windows are cracked, some entirely blown out, their colors dulled and wrong, bleeding into one another in ways that hurt to look at.
Neither of them speaks as they approach. Their hands are still loosely entwined, not out of necessity anymore. Every step echoes too loudly, every sound feels magnified in the heavy air.
Mike pushes the door open first.
It creaks in protest, the sound long and hollow, reverberating through the empty space beyond. Inside, the church smells of damp stone and rot, old wood and something metallic that Mike doesn’t want to identify. Ash drifts in through the broken windows, settling over the pews like a layer of gray snow.
Mike closes the door carefully behind them, the sound echoing like a finality he doesn’t want to name.
He doesn’t know how much time passes after that.
Minutes, maybe. Longer. Time feels unreliable here, stretching and compressing in ways that make his head swim.
He paces the length of the nave in long, restless strides, boots scraping softly against the stone floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. He can’t stop moving, stillness feels dangerous.
Every so often, he glances at Will.
Will sits down on the floor, near one of the pillars, shoulders tense, both hands wrapped tightly around the walkie-talkie. He keeps it close to his chest, like it’s the only thing tethering him to the rest of the world. His eyes flick constantly toward the doorway, toward the windows, toward shadows that shift even when nothing is there.
Waiting.
For a voice. A signal. Anything from the others.
“They’ll reach out,” Mike says, breaking the silence. His voice echoes more than he expects, and he lowers it instinctively. “They always do.”
Will swallows, fingers tightening around the walkie-talkie. “Yeah,” he answers, but it comes out thin, unconvincing. “I know. I just—” He cuts himself off, eyes flicking toward a darkened window.
“It’s been too quiet.”
Mike crosses the space between them before he fully realizes he’s moving. He crouches down in front of Will, close enough now that Will has to look at him.
“Hey,” Mike says softly. “We’re okay. You hear me? We’re still here.”
Will’s gaze finally steadies on him. “What if they can’t reach us?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “What if something’s wrong?”
Mike shakes his head, more stubborn than certain. “Then we wait,” he says. “Together. I’m not going anywhere.”
For a second, Will just looks at him, searching his face like he’s trying to memorize it. Then he nods, small and shaky, and loosens his grip on the walkie-talkie just enough to breathe.
“Okay,” Will mumbles. But he looks vulnerable, and small. It makes Mike back away again, pacing around the church once again.
Truth is, Mike feels guilty every time he looks at Will now, in that awful way that only hits you when you finally stop running from it: he realizes he never really apologized to Will. Not properly. Not for the things he said. Not in all the years they’ve known each other.
Not for the fact that Vecna has so clearly taken his words and twisted them into weapons, using them to hurt Will where it counts the most.
And there it is again. The hesitation.
The fear of being vulnerable in front of Will, of all people, the one whose judgment he seems to fear the most, for reasons he can’t fully explain. Even though he knows, rationally, that Will would never judge him. Not even when he probably should have.
The truth is, Will has always been his anchor. His constant. A quiet kind of clarity in Mike’s otherwise chaotic world. Someone who grounded him, who nudged him, sometimes without even meaning to, in the right direction.
Mike isn’t sure where he’d be now if Will hadn’t been there, steady and unyielding, all those years.
There are so many things he wants to say. Things he’s carried around for far too long. He tells himself it’s not the right moment, but then something inside him shifts, sharp and sudden, and he realizes there will never be a right moment.
There’s only now. There’s only the choice to speak, or to keep letting fear win.
He draws in a breath, turns slightly toward Will—and then the world explodes.
The sound hits them seconds before the force does: a deep, thunderous boom that rattles the church walls, sending dust raining down from the ceiling. Mike whirls toward the windows, heart slamming violently against his ribs, and Will does the same, moving on instinct.
In the distance, beyond the warped outlines of Hawkins, flames bloom against the blue and red sky. Fire climbs upward, ugly and bright, smoke spiraling into the clouds like a signal flare. There’s no mistaking it.
An explosion. One of the others.
Mike’s blood runs cold. He spins back toward Will, already reaching for the walkie-talkie, his mouth opening to demand answers, to ask who it was, if they’re okay… and then time stops again.
Because Will stops.
Not freezes, exactly, he locks. His entire body goes rigid, spine straightening unnaturally, fingers tightening around the walkie until his knuckles turn white. His breathing stutters, once, twice and then goes eerily still.
“Will?” Mike whispers, dread creeping up his throat.
Will doesn’t answer.
His head tilts slightly, as if he’s listening to something Mike can’t hear. His shoulders tense, trembling now, subtle at first, then more violently, like his body is fighting a battle his mind is already losing. When his eyes lift, Mike feels his stomach drop.
They’re unfocused and distant. White, just like the night before, when Vecna took control of Will, and no matter how hard he tried to fight it, he slipped into a helpless trance.
A familiar, horrifying tension ripples through Will’s body, his jaw clenching hard enough that Mike can hear his teeth grind. His breath comes back in sharp, shallow gasps, chest rising and falling too fast, too erratic.
It’s wrong. All of it is wrong.
“No,” Mike breathes, stepping closer. “No, no—Will, look at me.”
But Will isn’t there anymore.
Something else is behind his eyes now, and it’s cold and invasive. His expression twists, caught somewhere between pain and vacancy, like he’s being pulled apart from the inside. His fingers twitch, spasming, the walkie slipping from his grip and falling onto the floor.
Mike knows this feeling, knows this look.
Vecna has him.
Panic floods Mike all at once, sharp and blinding, because he doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to stop this. He fumbles for the walkie-talkie with shaking hands, fingers slipping as he tries to call out to anyone, everyone.
Nothing.
When his hand finally closes around it, he realizes too late that it’s already cracked. His grip tightens in desperation, his hands trembling so badly that it slips from his fingers and hits the floor, plastic splitting open with a hollow snap. Dead. Completely useless.
Mike looks back up.
Will’s body is rigid now, unnaturally stiff, as if something invisible has wrapped a hand around his throat and is pulling him upward. His head is tipped back at an impossible angle, muscles straining, jaw clenched so tightly it looks painful.
Tears spill freely from the corners of his eyes, tracking down his temples, and then there’s blood too, thin at first, seeping from his nose, from his eyes, staining his lips. The sight of it sends Mike spiraling, his chest constricting so hard he can barely breathe.
“No, no, no—” he whispers, voice breaking.
Then it happens.
Will’s feet lift off the ground.
Not slowly. Not gently. He jerks upward like a puppet yanked by unseen strings, rising until there’s empty air beneath him and the distance between his shoes and the church floor keeps growing.
His body trembles violently, a broken sound tearing from his throat, half sob and half gasp, followed by words that don’t make sense, syllables warped and overlapping, like something speaking through him rather than from him.
Mike is frozen, rooted to the spot, fear locking his muscles in place. His vision blurs with tears.
“Will, fight him!” he screams, the sound ripped raw from his chest. “Please—please, you’re stronger than him. You are. You can do this. You’ve done it before.”
The words feel small. Useless. But he keeps going anyway.
“Look at me, Will. Don’t listen to him. Don’t let him take you. You’re not alone—I won’t leave you, I swear. Just—just hold on.”
And then Will’s head snaps toward him.
The sound is horrible. Bone cracking, tendons straining, wrong in a way that makes Mike flinch violently. Will’s white, lifeless eyes lock onto his, unblinking, empty. For a single suspended second, time seems to stop.
He’s still hovering there, suspended in the center of the nave, framed by broken pews and drifting ash. And he’s staring at Mike.
Mike knows that this isn’t Will. Not really. But his heart doesn’t listen to logic. The cold, distant way Will looks at him still feels like a knife twisting under his ribs. Then Will starts to descend.
Slowly.
Mike stumbles back on instinct. One step. Then another. His heel catches on the uneven stone floor, but he barely notices. Will’s feet touch the ground with a dull thud, knees locking as he straightens. His movements are jerky, unnatural, like his body doesn’t quite belong to him anymore.
When he speaks, it isn’t Will’s voice, not entirely.
“You always leave,” Will says, lips curling into something cruel. “You make promises and then you disappear. Just like four years ago.”
Mike shakes his head desperately. “That’s not you,” he says through sobs. “I know that’s not you. He’s lying.”
“You think you protect me?” Will continues, stepping closer. “You’re the reason I’m weak. You’re the reason he can hurt me.”
“That’s Vecna,” Mike pleads. “You know it is. Will, please—”
Will lunges.
He grabs Mike by the collar with inhuman strength, slamming him back against a cracked pillar. The impact knocks the air from Mike’s lungs, pain exploding across his shoulders. Will’s grip tightens around his neck now, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
Mike cries out, hands coming up instinctively, but he doesn’t strike back. He can’t. Won’t.
Blood smears across his knuckles where they scrape against Will’s jaw as he struggles, but it’s accidental, clumsy. Will shoves him again, and Mike lets himself fall, the stone floor biting into his back.
“This is what you want,” Will hisses. “To watch me break.”
“No,” Mike sobs. “Never that. Please—please don’t listen to him.”
Tears stream down his face as Mike forces himself to keep looking at Will, even when every instinct tells him to shut his eyes, to turn away from the horror of it.
Will is on top of him again, fingers locked around Mike’s throat with brutal strength, like he’s trying to crush the life out of him and end this once and for all.
The pressure is immediate and terrifying, Mike can’t breathe, can’t think, his vision blurring at the edges as panic roars in his ears. His hands come up instinctively, clutching at Will’s wrists, but he doesn’t push. He can’t.
The idea of hurting him, even now, even like this, feels impossible.
Will’s face is twisted with something that isn’t his; too cold, too cruel. His jaw is clenched so tightly it looks like it might shatter, tears spilling from the corners of his eyes even as his grip tightens, as if his body is betraying him while something else pulls the strings.
“Will—William,” Mike manages, the words tearing out of him, raw and broken. His voice shakes violently, barely forcing its way past the pressure on his throat.
“It’s me… It’s Mike.”
For a split second, so short Mike almost misses it, Will’s hands falter. Not enough to let go. Not enough to save him. But enough.
Mike clings to that crack like it’s oxygen.
“Your Mike,” he whispers, the words almost soundless, his voice splintering apart as tears slide down into his hair, onto Will’s hands.
His vision swims, black creeping in at the edges, but he keeps talking, because it’s the only weapon he has.
Will’s grip tightens again, just for a heartbeat, like something inside him is screaming in protest. His whole body trembles, violent and uneven, as if two forces are tearing him in opposite directions.
His breath comes out in broken, strangled sounds, eyes flickering wildly, white and glassy one second, green trying desperately to surface the next.
Mike’s chest burns. His lungs scream. But he doesn’t stop looking at him.
Will’s hands shake.
His fingers twitch against Mike’s skin, the pressure uneven now, uncertain. A strangled sound tears from Will’s throat and his face crumples, anguish breaking through the cold mask Vecna has wrapped around him.
For a heartbeat, it’s just them.
Will and Mike.
And then Will gasps, a sharp, panicked inhale, and his hands finally loosen.
Their tears mix, Mike’s falling freely, Will’s dripping down onto his face, warm and real and devastating. Mike sucks in a sharp, desperate breath, heart hammering wildly. Hope sparks in his chest, fragile and trembling.
But then Will’s head snaps violently upward, his body arching as if yanked by a sudden force. He cries out, mouth opening wide in a silent scream, and then he collapses.
His body hits the floor hard.
Will lies there, eyes wide open, still white, still wrong. His chest heaves, fingers twitching uselessly against the stone, mouth stretched open in agony, but no sound comes out.
“Will!” Mike screams.
He scrambles across the floor on his knees, hands slipping in dust and blood as he reaches him, fear eclipsing everything else.
He gathers Will into his arms without thinking, pressing his forehead to his, shaking as he whispers his name over and over again, like if he says it enough times, it’ll be enough to bring him back.
But Will seems lost, gone somewhere Mike can’t reach. He doesn’t respond to his voice, to his touch, to anything. For a single, horrifying instant, Mike’s heart simply stops.
Will is in his arms, limp and unresponsive, and the realization crashes into him with brutal clarity: he’s not protecting him. He promised himself he would, and he’s failing. Again.
The pain is immediate and unbearable, ripping through Mike’s chest so violently it almost feels physical, like something is tearing him open from the inside. He knows that if he loses Will tonight he will never recover from it.
Something essential will die with him. Maybe it’s a piece of his soul. Maybe it’s all of it. “Will, you have to come back,” Mike begs, his voice breaking completely. “Please.”
Bitter tears spill from his eyes, falling onto Will’s cheeks, his eyelashes, his bloodstained skin. Mike clutches Will’s hand tightly between both of his, squeezing as if that alone might anchor him to this world, might remind him that he isn’t alone, that Mike is here. That he never left.
“I’m so sorry,” Mike chokes out. “I’m sorry for everything, Will. I—I don’t—”
He sucks in a sharp, uneven breath as Will’s body convulses weakly in his arms, a reflexive twitch that makes Mike cling to him even harder.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, words spilling out raw and unfiltered now. “You’ve always been the best part of me, my compass, my home. I don’t know who I am without you.”
He keeps talking, even as his voice breaks apart. He tells him everything he never had the courage to say. He tells him he matters. That he always has. That he changed him, saved him, made him better just by existing.
That loving him, however quietly and fearfully, has been the truest thing Mike has ever known.
“You have to come back to me. I can’t live without you.”
Slowly, painfully, Will’s body stops fighting. The tension drains from his limbs, his muscles going slack in Mike’s arms. Too slack.
He’s soft now, heavy and still. Like the life has been pulled clean out of him.
“No—no, no, no,” Mike sobs, folding over him protectively, forehead still pressed against Will’s forehead. His hands shake as he clutches him closer, rocking slightly, desperate, refusing to let go.
“Please. Please come back to me, I need you.”
He cries openly now, helpless, breath hitching as he pleads into Will’s shoulder, into his hair, into the silence.
“I love y—“ Mike whispers, and Will inhales.
It’s shallow and ragged, but it’s real. Mike freezes, heart pounding so hard it hurts, afraid to even breathe himself.
Will’s eyes flutter.
They open slowly, unfocused at first, still rimmed red, still glassy with pain, cheeks still stained with blood, but his eyes are clear.
Green.
Beautiful, unmistakably his.
Mike lets out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob as relief crashes over him, so overwhelming it almost knocks him apart. He clutches Will tighter, trembling, tears still streaming down his face.
Mike holds him so tightly that Will lets out a small, startled cough. It’s weak, but it’s real, and that alone nearly breaks him.
Will looks utterly exhausted, skin smeared with dust and dried blood, sweat clinging to him, curls plastered to his forehead. His eyes are still red-rimmed, glassy with pain and fatigue, and yet Mike has never seen him look more alive and beautiful.
“I thought I was going to lose you—God,” Mike whispers, his voice finally catching up with the fear his body has been carrying. Only now does he realize he’s shaking, every muscle trembling with the aftermath.
Their foreheads are still pressed together, their bodies tangled on the cold stone floor, like neither of them quite trusts the other to stay if they let go.
Will lets out a soft, breathless laugh, so faint it barely registers as sound. He turns his face briefly into Mike’s shoulder, hiding there as if it’s the safest place left in the world.
“You brought me back,” he murmurs, voice rough, fragile. He inhales shallowly, grounding himself against Mike’s chest.
Mike shakes his head immediately, almost fiercely. Beyond the church walls, he can still hear distant gunfire, the dull thud of explosions, proof that the battle isn’t over, only moved elsewhere. But for now, Vecna is gone. For now, Will is here.
“No,” Mike says, because he needs Will to understand this. “That was you. You fought him. I didn’t do anything.”
Will lifts his head, green eyes finding Mike’s at last, tired and painfully open. His brows draw together in that familiar way, that small, vulnerable crease that makes it look like he’s holding something back, something he’s afraid to name out loud, like he’s yearning.
Mike reaches up, hands gentle as they frame Will’s face. He wants Will to hear this clearly. He wants him to see it on his face, to never doubt it again. Nights ago he couldn’t stop telling everyone how brave Will was, how strong.
He wants to shout it to the world, that Will is alive, that he’s here, that Mike is holding him. That he cares in a way that goes deeper than fear, deeper than friendship, deeper than anything he’s ever dared to admit.
And suddenly, the fear of admitting too much feels smaller than the fear of losing him.
So Mike leans in.
Slowly, so slowly that their lips brush for longer than a heartbeat, barely touching, lingering in a way that feels deliberate. Mike moves like this because he needs to be sure, because he needs to know that Will wants it too.
Will looks startled, eyes wide, breath hitching, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans forward the slightest bit, almost unconsciously.
His fingers clutch the front of Mike’s military jacket, tight, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
Mike closes the distance inch by inch, until their mouths finally meet, tentative and unsure. Will exhales against his lips, uncertain, trembling, not quite knowing how to respond, until Mike’s mouth tilts and gently closes around Will’s bottom lip.
The sound Will makes is broken, breathy, something halfway between a gasp and a soft moan.
Mike tugs lightly, just enough to draw it out, just enough to make it hurt in the sweetest way, before biting down on it gently and then pressing their mouths together fully.
They fit… perfectly.
Will sags into him as the kiss deepens, like he’s been waiting to fall apart in Mike’s arms. His hands slide into Mike’s sweat-damp hair, fingers curling, tugging softly, grounding himself there.
The kiss isn’t careful. It’s messy and aching and desperate, tasting of blood and salt and everything they’ve survived that hasn’t quite dried yet.
When Will’s tongue brushes against his lips, Mike gives in completely. One hand slides up Will’s neck, thumb pressing under his jaw, holding him there as if he’s afraid he might disappear.
The kiss turns rougher, teeth knocking, breaths torn and uneven, desperation bleeding into every movement, like they’re trying to pour everything they haven’t said into each other’s mouths.
They break apart only when the need for air becomes unbearable.
Mike chases him without thinking, a thin strand of saliva stretching between them before it snaps, proof that this just happened.
In a church. Minutes after Will almost died.
“Please,” Mike whispers, forehead pressed to Will’s, voice shaking.
“Don’t die tonight. I need to do this another couple of times.”
♢ ♢ ♢