Archive of Our Own

Will’s headache fully sets in when no one’s around.

He’s too exhausted to be brave anymore. It’s a bittersweet feeling.

It’s a steady, suffocating pressure, like a heavy weight has been placed directly behind his eyes and left there on purpose. Will presses his shaky fingers to his temples and breathes through his nose—slow and careful—counting in his head like his mom always told him to when he was younger, when the world felt like it might split open without warning.

The radio station hums around him, indifferent to the throbbing chaos in his mind. The Squawk is quiet now in that post-confession way, the kind of quiet that isn’t peaceful but stunned. The air smells like dust and overheated electronics, faintly metallic, like the inside of an old TV. Somewhere beyond the wall, a light buzzes, steady and unbothered, as if nothing irreversible just happened.

Will sits on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled up, hood shadowing his face. The faded orange fabric feels thin today, less like comfort and more like a warning—you can still be seen. Underneath, the olive green shirt clings to him slightly with sweat. He feels too warm and too cold at the same time, like his body hasn’t decided what kind of emergency this is yet.

He keeps his eyes closed.

If he opens them, the room will be real again. The wires, the posters, the empty chair he passed on the way back here. And worse—if he opens them, his brain will keep doing what it’s been doing ever since he said it.

It starts with the memory of their faces.

Not even the whole thing at once. Just fragments, like pieces of a photograph torn too roughly to ever fit back together again. Will’s mind keeps circling the same moment, worrying it like a sore tooth, pulling at it until it hurts in a way that feels purposeful. He sits there in the back room of The Squawk, shoulders pressed into the wall, and sees them as they were when the words left his mouth. Or as he thinks they were. He can’t tell anymore.

Maybe they hated him all along, and that was the final straw.

Something subtle, something wrong. He’s breathed in this room, in this moment twice, spilled his guts out and had two results; One slowly killed him, and the other one was just about doing the same.

He replays it again and again like the records in the room. Lucas’s jaw setting, Max’s gaze flicking away like she doesn’t want to be associated with him anymore. Dustin’s tilt of his head, like he had no idea what it was like. He didn’t. Robin’s nod, once gentle, now warped into pity in Vecna’s twisted set, the kind that settles heavy on your shoulders and never leaves.

And Mike—

Mike is a blank space that terrifies him more than any imagined look of disgust ever could. 

Well—

Will hadn’t really looked. He couldn’t. He gave a few glances towards Mike, but he didn’t want to have to assemble the puzzle for him. He knows he denied himself the truth in favor of something worse.

But his mind–-or, Vecna’s-–fills the gap mercilessly, constructing a version of Mike’s face that feels inevitable. Surprise, yes, but edged with something colder. Distance. Reassessment.

The look people get when they realize you are not what they thought you were.

Your friendship is gone,  the voice tells him. You broke it.

His stomach twists, nausea creeping up his throat as the thought sinks its teeth in. Trust has always been the most fragile thing in his life. He learned that early. Learned it the hard way too. You could be known for years and still be discarded in seconds once people decided you were too strange, too broken, too inconvenient to keep around.

That feeling crawls over him now, crawling under his skin, making him want to claw his way out of his own body just to escape it.

It reminds him of Lenora.

Not all at once. Not like a memory you deliberately revisit. It comes the way it always does, sideways and uninvited, slipping in through the cracks while you’re already hurting.

Suddenly he is back in that classroom, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the air too bright and too thin.

He remembers the way the desks were arranged, how there was always a gap around his, like an invisible boundary no one wanted to cross. He remembers the whispers that weren’t even whispered, the way laughter followed him down the halls like a shadow he couldn’t outrun.

Girls liked him over there in the West—hell, they liked him here. He remembers the heat in his face, the way his ears rang, the way he learned very quickly not to react because reacting only made it worse. He felt…disgust.

But being outcasted wasn’t bad at all when you had a Dungeons and Dragons party with you through thick and thin.

D&D had been a haven. Dragons were dangerous, sure, but at least they didn’t judge your hair or call you names in the cafeteria. Dice, maps, miniatures, friends who let him exist even as the world bashed him, and called him Zombie Boy. He had been safe there.

It was quiet. It was subtle. He knew the rules of the world, knew how to shrink and disappear, and yet, in those small, secret spaces, he had been safe. Safe with dice, safe with maps, safe with the friends who knew him enough to let him exist, even if the rest of the world whispered “Zombie Boy” in every hallway.

Then came the changes in the rain, desperate, reaching for him across the storm, and Will frozen in the cold, drenched, aching. He remembered the way the drops clung to his skin, how every inch of him shivered, not just from water but from the fear of being seen.

...

“Yeah, Mike. That’s the problem, you guys are never in the mood anymore—”

...

“You’re destroying everything, and for what? So you can swap spit with a stupid gir—”

 “El’s not stupid. It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.”

...

The words hung between them, sharp and careless, and they pierced deeper than any monster ever could.

He knew Mike didn’t mean that at the time, even now. Did he…?

He had thought he was safe when Mike was there, that the warmth in his eyes and voice would shield him from the outside world but the rain hadn’t just soaked him. It had carved into him, leaving a mark he could never wash off. It had whispered that even love could not fully protect him, that even trust could fracture in the moment the world decided he wasn’t enough.

Being outcasted in Hawkins had never hurt like that did. He had survived playground whispers, hallway stares, and the cruel nicknames that stuck like grime, but this… this was different.

This cut through the armor he had spent years building. It wasn’t just the teasing, it wasn’t just the name-calling. It was the way their voices—friends he trusted—had carried the weight of disappointment and misunderstanding as if he were some alien creature, some broken piece of the world that could not fit.

Being abandoned, misunderstood, pushed to the edge that had left its mark, carved grooves into his chest and back where the world had pressed itself into him like a mold. He could feel it now, the old ache awakening, each pulse a reminder of the years he had spent learning how to survive the small cruelties, how to hide the parts of himself that were too sharp, too strange, too vulnerable.

Even now, even here, even with Mike closer, bridging the void they had built, he felt it. 

The memory layered itself over the present, making every glance a threat, every word a knife. Being misunderstood, being marked as different, being the one the world could never fully hold—those things pressed on him, and Will realized that maybe he had always known the truth. That love and safety were never guarantees.

And now, standing in the quiet hum of the radio station, the memory pressed against him like wet clothing clinging to his bones. 

Will was shivering, frozen still as his head pounded. He wanted to vanish, to curl into the quiet of his own custom maps, to retreat to the safety of dice and dragons, where nothing could hurt him except monsters he could see and understand.

But he couldn’t. Not now. Not with Vecna close, with that sick pressure in the air, with the past hitting him like a wall. Fear pooled in his stomach, thick and cold, making every movement feel heavier. Every memory, every stupid thing he’d survived in Hawkins, every time he’d been left out or made fun of, all of it came back at once, and it felt like it was pushing him to the edge.

He shivered, not a little, not just because of the chill. His whole body jerked with it. He pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, curling in on his knees against the wall, trying to make himself small, trying to disappear into something, anything.

Breathing was hard, shallow, uneven. The world seemed too loud and too close at the same time.

Vecna didn’t even have to do anything. That was the worst part. He was so paranoid. Will could feel the weight of the monster, like it was in his head, in his blood.

And on top of that, there was the past—every moment he’d been scared, every time he’d been punished for being different, every look of confusion or disappointment from people he cared about—it all landed in his chest at once.

He dared not move, dared not look at anyone. During that speech, he had looked around aimlessly. Not Mike. Not the party. Not even Robin, who he considered a close friend. Not anyone.

Because if he did, the careful mask he’d built would crack, and he would be just a small, shaking kid again, soaked in rain--or even the one in the Upside Down, scared and alone that his best friend who he wanted all to himself hated him and grew tired of him. That he wouldn't care to find him.

He pulled his knees tighter, hiding his face in the crook of his arm. His fingers dug into his hoodie as if holding on to it could hold him together. He couldn’t fight Vecna, he couldn’t fight the past, and he couldn’t fight what he was feeling now.

'Will?' a voice called out. Was it his own? 

Will’s breaths came fast before he even realized it. His chest felt like it was tightening around him, squeezing so hard he thought he might crack in two.

The room spun a little, walls tilting, the hum of the equipment in the radio station becoming unbearably loud, like it was pressing into his skull. His hands shook as he pulled his knees closer, curling into himself, trying to disappear.

The fear hit in waves, like water dragging him under. His vision tunneled. This was torture, somehow worse than what Vecna showed him before.

The memories, the ridicule, the judgment—they all came crashing together and he couldn’t separate them from the present. He was suffocating under the weight of being seen, of being known, of being vulnerable in front of Mike, in front of anyone.

Panic surged through him like electricity, each heartbeat sending jolts up his arms and down his spine. His body refused to obey him. He tried to push himself up, to stand, to run but it was as if every muscle had frozen, refusing to listen.

The fear hit in waves, heavy and relentless, pulling him under until his thoughts blurred together. His vision tunneled, the room shrinking down to the space between his own shaking hands. This was worse than anything Vecna had shown him—because this wasn’t a nightmare. This was real.

The memories came fast and merciless. The way time stretched on without him, because he was different. He couldn’t tell where the past ended and the present began, couldn’t separate the boy he’d been from the one curled on the floor now, breaking apart under the weight of being seen like this.

Panic surged through him, electric and sharp. His body locked up, refusing to move no matter how badly he wanted to escape. His chest heaved, each breath shallow and ragged, like the air itself was running out.

His hands shook as he dug his fingers into the floor, searching for something—anything—that might keep him from drifting away. Tears spilled freely, hot and unstoppable, blurring his vision until everything smeared together.

The room spun. Shadows crept in at the edges of his sight. Every sound was too loud—the hum of the radio, the scrape of a shoe, Mike’s footsteps as he moved closer.

“Will,” this Mike said softly.

That was it. That was what broke him.

He shook his head, a broken sound tearing out of his chest as his shoulders caved in on themselves. “Mike—” His voice cracked, barely holding together. “Please… please don’t leave me—"

His chest heaved uncontrollably. Every inhale felt ragged, shallow, like the air itself was slipping away. His hands trembled as he curled them into fists, digging into the floor for some anchor, some stability that wasn’t there.

Tears streamed down his face without permission, hot and unrelenting, and he wiped at them with the back of his sleeve, desperate to keep control but there was none to grasp.

The room spun. His head really pounded this time. Shadows stretched and shifted at the edges of his vision.

Every sound, the scrape of a boot, the hum of the background radio, the soft thump of Mike’s approaching footsteps was deafening, echoing through him in waves of panic.

He tried to blink the tears back, to steady his shaking body, to remind himself that it was okay, that he could handle this but it was no use.

His mind was a storm, a raging one. Lighting of fear striking faster than he could think, faster than he could breathe.

No, no no…

“Oh— oh my god,” someone said, somewhere far away.

There were hurried footsteps, too many all at once, and then hands—warm, real—gripping Will’s shoulders. He lifted his head, and all he could see was Mike. Mike everywhere. The way his face had looked earlier replayed on a loop in Will’s mind, fear curling tighter in his chest with every second.

It didn’t make sense. Mike... Mike wasn’t supposed to be touching him.

Could your mind make something feel this real?

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not when Will couldn’t breathe.

His chest felt like it was folding in on itself. Every breath cut short, shallow and panicked, his vision blurring as thoughts crashed together, faster and faster, until he couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.

Someone dropped down beside him without hesitation. The movement was quick— like he knew Will was slipping and wasn’t about to let him fall alone. Gentle hands reached for him, hovering for a split second before settling against his arm, his shoulder.

“Will,” the voice said. Close, but muffled, like it was pushing through the vines of the Upside Down. Like a tune on the radio.. “Hey— ook at me. Breathe. Please. Will. Just breathe.”

Will wanted to. He really did. But every time he tried, his lungs locked up, refusing to cooperate.

The hands on his shoulders tightened, steady and grounding.

The hands gripping his shoulders firmed, anchoring him to the moment.

“Hey. Talk to me. What’s happening?”

There was an edge to the voice he couldn’t tune out—fear braided with concern, with something achingly gentle. It scorched his throat.

“I—” He dragged the sound out by force. “I—he’s gone—he’s gone and I—”

The sentence shattered. The cry tore free, raw and uncontained, flung into the dark with the desperate hope that this voice might catch it, hold it.

Panic crested again, sudden and vicious, ripping the air from his lungs. His hands trembled as the weight of it crushed down on his ribs.

“He’s gone. I lost him, and I never said it. I never told him about the painting. I thought I could—I thought I could save him.” His breathing broke into jagged pieces. “He’s gone, he’s gone, and it’s my fault. He was the only one who ever understood me, and I led the monster straight to him and I—I loved him and I still—”

The hands on his shoulders hesitated—just a heartbeat, just long enough for surprise to flicker—and his stomach dropped in response.

Then—

A kiss, gentle and certain, pressed against his lips. Not a question. An answer.

Fingers slid through his hair, light and careful, one hand settling at the back of his neck and drawing him closer, until there was no space left to fall through. His body gave in all at once, tension dissolving as he sank into the softness of it. The kiss tasted familiar—warm, grounding, like something he’d been missing without realizing it—and he never wanted it to end.

Time stretched, elastic and unreal. Seconds felt like years. When the other person finally pulled back, he realized he was breathing again.

A quiet sigh followed, arms wrapping fully around him, hands moving in slow, reassuring circles across his back as his breath steadied.

“I’m here,” Mike murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The words landed late—too late—and recognition crashed over him all at once. That voice. Those arms. That warmth, solid and alive.

It was him.

And that realization sent him reeling.

He shoved at Mike’s chest, weak and shaking, but desperate all the same. “No! Don’t! I don’t—” His voice splintered apart, the words tearing loose between sobs he couldn’t stop. “I… I can’t…”

The pressure in his chest only grew, tight and suffocating, like someone had wrapped a hand around his lungs and refused to let go. He gasped for air, each breath sharp and shallow, his head spinning.

His hands flew up, tangled in the fabric of his hoodie, clutching at it like it might keep him together if he held on hard enough.

Mike didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, closing the space between them, and wrapped his arms around Will anyway. Careful, firm, unshakable. He set Will up in a seat even as Will twisted, squirmed, tried to push him away.

But it was impossible. Mike’s hold was steady, patient, and slowly the tension in Will’s body began to ease, like water settling after a storm.

The sobs tore through him, sharp and unrelenting, but gradually, the fight drained out. Will let himself be held. Let Mike anchor him. Let someone else carry some of the weight he had burdened alone for far too long.

“I got you. I got you,” Mike murmured, pressing his forehead to the crown of Will’s damp hair. “You’re safe. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Will’s chest heaved, words failing him. He just let the tears fall, shaking against Mike’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

And then, faintly at first, a voice from the past crept into his mind—Robin’s voice, teasing but sharp:

“Tammy was just a phase, Will.”

Will froze, the memory echoing louder now, clashing with the reality pressed against him. 

“How did you know Tammy wanted to—”

“To make out?”

Robin jumps in before Will can finish, like the words were already lined up and waiting. She sounds way too confident about it.

Will blinks. “I—” He swallows. “…to date.”

He remembered last word came out smaller, like he’s reclaiming it after she twisted it into something louder. Something less…temporary.

But Mike… Mike was different. Mike wasn’t a phase, wasn’t a fleeting crush or a distraction. He was constant. He was the pulse beneath his own chest. And from the looks of it...

He was the warmth that lingered even in his darkest moments. And suddenly, painfully, undeniably, he realized that he had never truly gotten over Mike Wheeler. Not in a million lifetimes.

“I… I thought… I could do this alone,” he whispered, voice raw. “I thought I could move on…”

“You never had to,” Mike said softly, his forehead brushing Will’s temple. “You don’t have to. Ever.”

Will blinked through his tears, trying to steady himself, but the tension in his chest still made him shake. Then, unexpectedly, Mike’s voice shifted, playful now, teasing—but with that familiar warmth that made Will’s heart thrum.

“Hey, whoever this guy is,” Mike said, smirking against Will’s damp hair, “he’s a real loser for not realizing how much of an amazing sorcerer he has.”

Will choked out a laugh, the sound broken by sobs, and it tumbled from him almost involuntarily. “What… what?” he managed between shakes.

Mike raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Did I say something?”

“Are...are you serious?” Will said, still laughing as his tears fell. “You know what, you’re right. He is a dumb loser.”

Mike chuckled, the sound low and soft, brushing a hand along Will’s back. “He’s gotta be. So… are you over him now, or…?”

The question lingered between them.

“So… are you over him now, or…?”

Will went very still.

For a second, all he could do was stare at Mike, chest still rising unevenly, eyes red and glassy. The warmth of Mike’s arms was still wrapped around him. His mouth still felt like Mike; soft, familiar, unmistakable.

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh that cracked halfway through.

“…Are you—” He stopped, shaking his head, breath hitching again. He scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, then looked back at Mike, eyes wide and a little wild. “You—you just—”

He gestured vaguely between them, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to point at the obvious.

His heart was pounding too loud in his ears. Confusion buzzed under his skin, sharp and electric, tangling with something fragile and terrified.

“I mean—” His voice came out hoarse. “I’m still—I’m here. You’re—” Another helpless gesture, fingers curling into the fabric of Mike’s shirt this time. “This is—this is happening.”

The words trailed off, but the meaning didn’t.

His gaze flicked down to Mike’s lips and then back up again, brow furrowed like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that suddenly had too many answers.

“I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel right now,” Will admitted quietly. “Everything’s all mixed up and you’re asking me that like—like nothing just—”

He shook his head again, a small, breathless huff escaping him. Not angry. Just overwhelmed. Disoriented.

“…I don’t think that’s how it works,” Will finished softly.

He sighed before looking down.

"But I guess," the words hitting him in a place he hadn’t expected. His laughter faltered, his chest tightening. “What? I…” He stumbled over the words, his heart racing, his face hot. He couldn’t meet Mike’s eyes, not yet. “…I don’t know,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “…I don’t think I ever really could be.”

Mike's shoulders slumped and his expression grew sad, but softer now, more serious. “Figures,” he said. “Some things… some people… you just don’t get over. Not ever.”

Will froze, his chest tight. He let out a small 'mhm'.

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?” Mike asked after a beat.

“Avoiding you?” Will tried to sound casual, but it came out shaky.

“Yeah,” Mike said. “We haven’t… I mean, we have, but not like we used to. You’ve been disappearing. I thought maybe…” He shrugged, uncertain. “Maybe I imagined it.”

Will shook his head quickly. “No… I wasn’t avoiding you on purpose. Um…You said it yourself—people change.”

Mike’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Yeah, I did.” Then he paused. “Well… maybe I don’t want a change.”

Will blinked. He stared at Mike, trying to read him, trying to gauge if this was some stupid joke. 

It wasn’t.

“I didn’t avoid you because I wanted to,” Will said softly. “I just… didn’t know how to be around you like that anymore.”

“Why?” Mike asked, genuinely curious.

Will swallowed hard, then tried to joke to cover his nerves. “Because being around you… I…I didn’t trust myself not to screw it up.”

Mike shook his head slightly, half-smile, half-exasperation. “Really? You’re terrible at hiding stuff, you know that?”

Will laughed, almost breaking. “Yeah, you’re terrible at noticing.”

Mike reached up, brushing a thumb under Will’s eye to wipe away a tear. Will didn’t pull away.

“Hey,” Mike said quietly. “I’m still me. I didn’t go anywhere.”

Will nodded, leaning a little closer without thinking. “I know,” he said. “…That’s the problem.”

Mike didn’t move, didn’t joke. He just rested his forehead against Will’s. “I’m not going anywhere either,” he said. “Change or no change.”

Will let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his own heart. His hands trembled slightly as they lingered near Mike’s chest, unsure whether to touch, to pull back, or to just stay frozen in the moment.

Mike tilted his head, gaze dropping slowly to Will’s lips. The air between them seemed to thicken, every small sound—their breaths, the quiet rustle of clothing—magnified in the sudden stillness. His eyes searched Will’s face, soft, steady, waiting, patient.

Will’s throat went dry. His heart slammed against his ribs, his chest aching with a mix of fear, longing, and something he couldn’t name out loud. He wanted to speak, to stop this, he managed to choke out:

“Mike, don’t—“

Don’t what?” Mike asked softly, his brown puppy eyes meeting Will’s. There was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, a quiet, aching honesty. 

“I… I don’t want you to regret anything or think I’m not for you,” Will murmured softly, voice low, vulnerable. “I don’t deser—”

He didn’t finish. Instead, he leaned in, capturing Will’s lips in a soft, careful kiss that immediately drew a shudder from Will. It wasn’t frantic or hurried. It was slow, deliberate, testing, almost hesitant—but full of all the things neither of them had said out loud. Whatever that was.

Will’s hands moved on their own, sliding to Mike’s shoulders, gripping lightly as though holding him could make the moment last forever. Mike responded instantly, one hand at the small of Will’s back, the other cupping his face, tilting him just enough.

The kiss deepened slowly, building heat without breaking the careful pace. Will’s laughter mingled with quiet sobs, shaking out of him as he finally let himself feel everything he’d been bottling up. 

And through it all, one thought hit him with perfect clarity:

 Mike was not his Tammy. 

Not a phase. Not someone he could ever forget. He could never get over Mike because he never wanted to.

It was the thought that had carried him through the Upside Down. It was the thought that had kept him steady when Vecna clawed at his mind, when the darkness pressed in from every side. Mike was his anchor, his constant, his heart.

Mike was his game master. He orchestrated the story, set the rules, guided him when he was lost. He was the answer to every question Will had ever had, every problem he had ever faced. Without Mike there was no magic, no safety, no light. He was nothing without him.

And in that moment, pressed against Mike, feeling the warmth, the heartbeat beneath his own, the soft brush of lips, Will realized he had finally come home.

They broke apart just slightly, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. It was a long kiss, but light and fulfilling. 

Mike’s voice was soft, teasing in that ever-so-familiar way, but gentle now. “Finally,” he murmured.

Will laughed shakily, heart still pounding. “Shut up,” he whispered, but didn’t pull away.

Mike pressed closer again, brushing a thumb along Will’s jawline. “So does this mean I was—” 

Will pushed his hand over the boy’s mouth, letting out a laugh. He leaned in and their lips met again, slower this time, more deliberate, exploring, tentative, as though savoring the intimacy that had been denied for so long.

When they finally pulled back, just enough to see each other’s faces, Will’s breath was still uneven. His hands stayed on Mike, like letting go wasn’t an option.

“I… I don’t want anyone else,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I was wrong earlier, when I said I was over it.”

Mike’s smile was small and quiet, but there was something solid behind it now. Certain. He didn’t look surprised. “I know,” he said simply. Then, because he was still Mike, his mouth tilted just slightly. “You scrunch your nose when you lie. You also squint your ey—”

“Shut up. Seriously,” Will said, but he was already laughing, the sound breaking out of him before he could stop it.

Mike laughed too, low and warm, and pulled Will back in without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Will’s heart was still pounding, but the panic was gone. The doubt was gone.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt safe. Not braced. Not waiting for the ground to give out. Just safe.

This was the answer he needed. It wasn’t a confession, not in words, not yet. It was recognition. 

Entirely, completely himself.