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The first thing Mike notices is how quiet it is. Not the creepy kind of quiet, like in the Upsidedown, or the woods at night. Just… normal quiet. No alarms. No screaming. No rushing footsteps in the hall. The kind of quiet that feels almost wrong after everything.
Sunlight is coming in through the window, pale and dusty, like it doesn’t know if it’s allowed back yet. Mike lies there for a second, staring at the ceiling, half-expecting it to crack open. His body feels heavy, sore in places he didn’t know could hurt, but he’s alive. The world is still here. Hawkins didn’t disappear overnight.
Then he remembers Will. He turns his head slowly, like he’s afraid the movement might undo something. Will is curled up a few feet away on his, facing the wall. His hair sticks up weirdly in the back, like he fell asleep without meaning to. Mike feels a strange, stupid rush of relief just at the sight of him breathing.
There are a handful of photos on the wall, pictures of a much younger Will next to a short-haired El. There are pictures of Hopper and Joyce, Mike, and a few that Will must have taken of Jonathan. There’s one where Hopper is building furniture, another of Joyce with a mug of coffee, looking fondly at something out of the frame.
A few of Will’s old drawings are still taped up, and he studies a crayon drawing of Mike the Brave and Will the Wise saving the day. There’s one of a dog, a sketch of the Wheelers’ basement, a doodle of a stack of Eggo waffles. Mike traces each one with the tip of his finger.
They didn’t really talk last night. Not about anything important. Everyone was exhausted, shell-shocked, pretending that sleep was a normal thing people could still do. Someone had said, “We’ll figure it out tomorrow,” and for once, tomorrow actually came.
Mike sits up, the couch creaking quietly under his weight. He rubs his face with both hands and lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding for months. Years, maybe. The world didn’t end, which should feel like a victory. Instead, it just feels scary. There’s nothing left to fight. No monsters to blame things on. No reason not to say the stuff he’s been avoiding. Mike looks back at Will again, at the steady rise and fall of his chest, and thinks about how different everything is when you’re not in survival mode.
Will shifts a little, mumbling something Mike can’t hear. He turns over, eyes still closed. Somewhere down the hall, a door opens. Life keeps happening, careless and normal. Mike keeps watching him longer than he probably should. It’s not like he’s doing anything else. There’s nowhere to go, nothing he’s supposed to be fixing right now. For once, no one needs him to come up with a plan. That almost feels worse.
Will’s eyelashes flutter a little, then his eyes open. He blinks like the light hurts, squinting toward the window before turning his head and realizing Mike is sitting up, already awake.
“Oh,” Will says. His voice is rough with sleep. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Mike says back, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and adds, quieter, “Morning.”
Will pushes himself up on one elbow, the blanket slipping down his arm. He looks around the room like he’s checking to make sure it’s real. Like he expects the walls to start bleeding or something. When they don’t, his shoulders drop a little.
“So.” Will says.
“Yeah,” Mike says. “Hi.” He tries not to punch himself.
They sit there in silence. It’s not awkward exactly, but it’s not comfortable either. It’s the kind of quiet where there’s a lot of stuff right under the surface, waiting to be said, and both of them are pretending they don’t see it.
Will rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I don’t think I slept. I think I just… closed my eyes for a while.”
Mike nods. “Same.” That’s a lie. Mike slept, but it wasn’t good sleep. It was heavy and strange, full of half-dreams where he kept thinking he heard screaming, only to wake up and realize it was just Hopper’s cabin settling or someone coughing down the hall.
Will swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits there, hunched forward, hands clasped together. He looks smaller in the morning light. Less like the guy who survived hell and more like the kid Mike used to share a basement with.
“Everyone’s probably already up,” Will says. “My mom’s gonna freak out if she doesn’t see me soon.”
“Yeah,” Mike says again. He doesn’t move.
Will glances at him, like he notices that. “You okay?”
Mike almost laughs. It comes out more like a breath. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Are you?”
Will thinks about it. Really thinks about it. “I think… I don’t feel like the world’s ending anymore,” he says. “But I don’t feel good either. It’s like… when a really loud noise stops and your ears are still ringing.”
Mike nods slowly. “That’s—yeah. That’s exactly it.” Another quiet moment. Sunlight crawls across the floor between their beds.
Will picks at a loose thread on the blanket. “It’s weird,” he says. “I kept waiting to feel… relieved. Like everything would just click back into place.” He shrugs. “It didn’t.”
Mike swallows. “Yeah.”
Will looks up at him then, really looks at him. His eyes are searching, careful. “Mike… can I ask you something?”
Mike’s stomach twists immediately. “Okay.”
“Did you mean it?” Will asks. The question lands heavy, even though Will doesn’t explain what he means. He doesn’t have to.
Mike opens his mouth. Closes it. He looks down at his hands, at the faint scratches and dirt still stuck under his nails. For once, he doesn’t try to rush an answer. “I meant… what I said,” he starts slowly. “About you. About how you—how much you matter to me.” He forces himself to look back up. “But I don’t think I understood it all the way at the time.” Will’s shoulders tense, just a little.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Mike continues. “Like… now that everything’s quiet, I can’t stop thinking. And I keep realizing how much stuff I pushed down. Or ignored. Because it was easier.” Will doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, eyes steady, like he’s afraid that if he moves, Mike will stop talking. “I don’t want to do that anymore,” Mike says. His voice shakes, but he doesn’t pull back. “I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel things just because it’s complicated.”
Will’s breath catches. “Mike…”
“I’m not saying I have everything figured out,” Mike rushes on. “I don’t. At all. But I know that when I thought I was gonna lose you—really lose you—it felt like the ground just disappeared. And that didn’t feel the same as anything else. It never has.” The room feels too small. Too bright.
Will presses his lips together, eyes shiny but not crying. “I spent a long time thinking I was just… convenient,” he admits. “Like, I was there. I was safe. But not really what you wanted.”
Mike stands up so fast that his walkie-talkie falls off the bed, clatters to the floor. “No,” he says immediately. “No, that’s not—Will, that’s not true.” Will flinches at the noise but doesn’t look away.
Mike takes a breath and forces himself to slow down. He sits back down, closer this time, knees almost touching Will’s. “I was scared,” he says quietly. “Of messing things up. Of wanting the wrong thing. Of… naming it.”
They look at each other, really look, like they’re seeing the same memory from different sides. The basement. The radio. The painting. The way it always felt easier when they were together, even when everything else was falling apart.
“I don’t want today to just be… pretending,” Mike says. “Like we survived and now we just act like none of this changed us.”
Will nods slowly. “I don’t think I can do that anymore,” he says. “Even if I wanted to.”
Mike hesitates for half a second, then reaches out. He doesn’t grab Will’s hand. He just rests his fingers next to it, giving Will time. Will takes it. It’s simple. Warm. Real.
“You aren’t my Tammy, Mike. I’m–god, I’m so stupid. I thought… I thought that if I told myself it was over, that there was no chance, that eventually it would be true. That I wouldn’t feel like this anymore.” Will brushes his bangs out of his eyes and sniffs. He’s crying, and Mike feels his heart squeeze.
“Who the fuck is Tammy?” Nice one, Michael. Way to ruin the moment.
Will lets out a sharp laugh, like a bark. “No one. It’s not– it doesn’t matter, not really. Just someone a good friend told me about.” He smiles fondly at Mike, and Mike’s stomach twists so tightly that he thinks he might throw up. Smooth.
Down the hall, someone laughs. A door closes. The house breathes around them, alive and normal and unbelievably still standing. Mike squeezes Will’s hand gently. “So,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess this is the part where we figure out what comes next.”
Will squeezes back. “Yeah,” he says. Then, softer, almost smiling, “But maybe not all at once.” Mike nods. For the first time since everything ended, that doesn’t feel like running away. They sit there like that for a while, hands still linked, neither of them rushing to let go.
Eventually, Will shifts, rubbing his thumb over Mike’s scraped knuckles like he’s grounding himself. “We should probably… actually get up,” he says. “My mom is definitely going to think I died. Again.”
Mike lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. She’d kill us both.” They stand at the same time, a little awkward, like they’re not used to sharing this much space without a crisis forcing it. Will straightens his hoodie. Mike shoves his hands into his pockets, then immediately takes one back out like that was a bad idea. They make it halfway to the door before Will stops.
“Hey, Mike?”
Mike turns. “Yeah?”
Will hesitates, eyes flicking to the floor, then back up. “Last night… when I was asleep. You said my name.”
Mike freezes for half a second. “I—yeah. Sorry. You looked like you were having a nightmare.”
Will shakes his head quickly. “No. It wasn’t bad. I just… I remember it. And it helped.”
Mike swallows. “Okay.”
Will gives a small, real smile. “I think it always does.”
They step into the hallway together. It smells like burnt coffee and dust and something vaguely chemical, probably from whatever repairs people are already trying to do. Joyce’s voice floats in from the kitchen, talking too fast, like she’s afraid if she stops, everything will collapse again.
She spots Will first and immediately crosses the room, pulling him into a tight hug. “You scared me,” she says, voice thick. “I turned around and you were just—gone.”
“I was just sleeping, Mom,” Will mumbles into her shoulder. “I’m okay.”
Joyce pulls back, hands still on his arms, checking him like she always does. Then her eyes flick to Mike, and she softens. “Morning, Mike.”
“Morning, Ms. Byers,” Mike says, suddenly very aware of himself. He feels like he’s ten again, standing in the Byers’ kitchen with a secret he doesn’t know how to hold yet.
There’s coffee on the counter, barely touched. Someone, probably Hop, left a stack of mismatched mugs out. Will pours himself a cup and grimaces. “This is awful.”
Mike takes a sip of his own. “Yeah. It’s terrible.” They drink it anyway. They sit at the dinner table, shoulders almost touching. Every now and then, Mike’s knee bumps Will’s under the table, and neither of them moves away. It feels strange and familiar at the same time, like they’re relearning something they always knew.
“So,” Will says after a minute, staring into his mug. “What happens now?”
Mike shrugs. “I think… people rebuild. Hawkins pretends it’s normal again. We probably get dragged into helping whether we want to or not.”
Will hums. “Figures.”
“And,” Mike adds, quieter, “I think we… don’t go back to the way things were.”
Will looks up at him. “You sure?”
Mike meets his eyes. “Yeah.”
Will’s throat bobs. “Okay.” That one word feels huge.
Later, when Nancy drives them into town, the sky is bright in a way that feels rude. The street is full of people carrying supplies, talking in low voices, pointing at broken things, and arguing about how to fix them. Life, somehow, is already moving forward.
Will squints up at the sun. “It feels wrong that it’s so nice out.”
Mike nods. “Yeah. Like it didn’t get the memo.”
Will lets out a breath. Then, slowly, like he’s giving Mike every chance to pull away, he reaches for his hand again. Mike takes it without thinking. They stand there for a second, hands joined, watching Hawkins try to put itself back together. It’s scary. It’s unfinished. It’s real.
They don’t talk about it right away. It kind of just… sits there between them as they walk, like a third person keeping pace. Mike can feel it every time someone goes quiet too suddenly, every time his brain starts to drift, and he pulls it back.
They end up sitting on the curb in front of the town hall, where the pavement is cracked but intact. Someone has left a box of bottled water nearby. Will grabs two and hands one to Mike without asking.
They drink in silence for a bit. Then Will says it. Not dramatically. Not like he’s ripping a bandage off. Just flat and careful. “You haven’t really talked about El.”
Mike’s fingers tighten around the bottle. He nods once. “Yeah.”
“I’m not trying to—” Will starts, then stops himself. “You don’t have to. I just… I wanted to check.”
Mike stares at the street. There’s a dark line in the asphalt where the ground split and sealed itself back up. Like it’s pretending nothing happened.
“She saved everyone,” he says finally. “I know that. Everyone keeps saying it. And they’re right.” His voice cracks anyway. “But I keep thinking about how tired she looked. Like she already knew.”
Will’s chest tightens. He remembers it too. El standing there, barely upright, bleeding, determined in that terrifying way that meant she wouldn’t stop no matter what it cost.
“She was scared,” Will says quietly. “But she didn’t hesitate.”
“She told me to… to make you guys understand.” Mike swallows hard. “I–fuck. You didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Will turns toward him fully now. “Mike… you loved her.”
Mike nods, eyes burning. “Yeah. I did. I still do, I think.” He presses his lips together. “Just not in the way I thought I was supposed to.” Will doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look hurt. He just listens.
“I keep feeling guilty,” Mike goes on. “Like… if I let myself think about anything else—about you, about us—it means I’m erasing her. Or replacing her.” He shakes his head. “And I don’t want to do that. She mattered. She still matters.”
Will reaches out slowly and rests his hand on Mike’s forearm. “I love her too, Mike. And… and it doesn’t mean you stop loving her,” he says. “And it doesn’t make what you had fake. It just means… it wasn’t the whole story.”
Mike’s eyes spill over before he can stop them. He scrubs at his face angrily. “I keep expecting her to walk back into the room. Like she’s just late.”
“Me too,” Will admits. “Even though I felt it when she died. Like something shut off.”
Mike looks at him sharply. “You felt it?”
Will nods. “The way I used to feel him. Vecna. It just… went quiet. And so did she.” They sit with that. With the truth of it. With the fact that the world is safer because a girl who never really got a childhood gave up the rest of her life.
“I don’t know how to move forward without feeling like I’m doing something wrong,” Mike says.
Will squeezes his arm gently. “I think she’d want you to,” he says. “She didn’t fight that hard just so we’d stay stuck.”
Mike lets out a shaky breath. “She always wanted me to be brave.”
Will gives a small, sad smile. “Then maybe this is part of that.” Mike looks at him then, really looks at him. The boy who survived just as much. Who stayed. Who lived.
“I don’t want to forget her,” Mike says.
“You won’t,” Will says immediately. “But you’re allowed to keep going.”
Mike nods slowly. “Okay.” It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make the grief smaller. But it makes it feel… shared. And somehow, that helps. Mike leans his shoulder against Will’s. Will lets him. The sun keeps shining. Mike closes his eyes and thinks, not for the first time, that surviving is harder than dying. But when Will stays right there beside him, it feels possible.
They sit like that for a while, shoulders pressed together, until Mike’s breathing evens out again. Will is the one who breaks the silence. “She used to steal my waffles,” he says suddenly.
Mike blinks. “What?”
Will huffs out a tiny laugh. “Every morning. I’d make two Eggos because I was starving, and she’d say she wasn’t hungry, and then five minutes later one would be gone. And she’d just look at me like”—he widens his eyes innocently—“‘What?’”
Mike lets out a real laugh this time, short and surprised. “Yeah. That sounds right.”
“She was really bad at lying,” Will says. “Like, unbelievably bad.”
“Except when it mattered,” Mike adds quietly. They’re quiet again, but it’s softer now. Less sharp.
“She was my sister,” Will says after a moment. His voice doesn’t shake, but it’s close. “I never really had one, you know? And she didn’t really know how to be… normal. But with me, she didn’t have to be. She could just… be El.” He swallows. “Sometimes she’d sit with me while I painted. She wouldn’t say anything. She’d just watch like it was important.”
Mike smiles sadly. “She did that with me too. Just… stayed. Even when she didn’t know what to say.”
Will picks at a chip in the curb. “I think she understood things without having to name them. Like feelings. She didn’t need explanations.”
Mike’s chest tightens. “She always knew when I was lying to myself.”
Will glances at him. “About stuff?”
“About everything,” Mike says. Then he exhales slowly. “About her. About you.”
Will doesn’t look away.
“I did love her,” Mike says, carefully, like he’s placing something fragile on the ground between them. “I really did. She was… important to me. She still is.” His voice wobbles, but he keeps going. “But it wasn’t the same,” he says. The words come out quieter. Truer. “What I have with you—it’s different. It always has been.”
Will’s breath catches.
“With El, it was like… we were holding onto each other because everything else was chaos,” Mike continues. “And that mattered. A lot. But with you, it’s like—” He struggles, rubbing his thumb against his bottle. “You’re the person I come back to. Even when I don’t mean to. Even when I’m scared.”
Will’s eyes are glassy now. “You don’t have to say this if it’s too soon.”
“I do,” Mike says. He turns fully toward Will, knees brushing. “Because I don’t want you thinking you were second place. Or a substitute. You weren’t.” His voice breaks. “You never were.”
Will presses his lips together, trying to hold himself together. “I spent a long time feeling like I was,” he admits. “Like I was just… adjacent to your life. Important, but not chosen.”
Mike shakes his head. “I was an idiot,” he says softly. “I didn’t know how to choose something that scared me that much.”
Will laughs weakly. “Yeah. Me neither.” Mike hesitates, then reaches up and wipes at the tear that slips down Will’s cheek with his thumb. It feels natural. Like muscle memory.
“El used to tell me I worried too much about you,” Will says quietly. “She’d say, ‘Mike can take care of himself.’ And I’d say, ‘I know. I just… want to be there anyway.’”
Mike lets out a shaky breath. “She used to say the same thing about you. That I didn’t notice how much you were hurting because you didn’t make noise about it.”
Will smiles sadly. “She saw a lot.”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “She really did.” They sit there, sharing the weight of her absence without pushing it away. Without letting it swallow them either.
“I think she’d be okay with this,” Will says finally. “With us.”
Mike nods. “She knew, I think. We loved each other, but… it wasn’t deep. Not like this.” He takes Will’s hand again, threading their fingers together this time. Will squeezes back hard, like he’s making sure it’s real. They sit there like that, holding hands, remembering. And for the first time since the world ended, it doesn’t feel wrong.
They don’t move right away. Mike keeps his forehead against Will’s, eyes closed, like if he opens them too fast, the moment will disappear. Will’s breath is warm, steadying. Familiar in a way that makes Mike’s chest ache. They sit there a bit longer, until the sun shifts and someone down the street calls out for help moving debris. The day is pulling at them, whether they’re ready or not.
Will stands first, stretching like his bones ache. “We should probably go back,” he says. “Before my mom comes looking for me with a shovel.”
Mike stands too, brushing dirt off his jeans. “Yeah. That’d be bad. I’ll call Hop, see if he can pick us up.”
They start walking to the payphone, but halfway there, Mike stops.
“Hey, Will?”
Will turns. “Yeah?”
Mike hesitates. “Nothing. Sorry.” He bumps his shoulder into Will’s, and they smile at each other.
They end up back outside again without really planning to. Someone needs water carried down to the trunk of Hopper’s car, someone else is arguing about where to stack the wood, and Mike and Will sort of drift away from the noise, standing near the side of the cabin, watching the trees sway gently overhead. Will sets the box of plastic bottles down and wipes his hands on his jeans. “I think that’s all of them.”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “I’ll go grab—” He stops, because Will is looking at him in his careful, quiet way again. Not sad. Just… open.
“Mike,” Will says, and his voice is steady but soft. “Can I… can I do something really stupid?”
Mike’s heart jumps. “Uh. Okay?”
Will steps closer. Not all the way. Just enough that Mike can feel his presence, feel the warmth of him in the space between them. Before Mike can overthink it, Will leans in and presses a quick kiss to his mouth. It lasts maybe half a second.
Will pulls back immediately, eyes wide. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” Mike blurts. His face feels like it’s on fire. “No, it’s—”
They both stop talking at the same time. Will stares at his shoes. Mike stares at Will’s mouth. Neither of them knows what to do with their hands.
“That was,” Will says, then groans softly. “Wow. That was really—”
“Bad?” Mike offers.
Will snorts. “I was gonna say fast. Just… not how I was imagining it.”
Mike laughs, sharp and nervous. “Yeah. Fast. Definitely fast.” Then, “You were imagining it?”
Will shoves him. “Shut up.”
They stand there, shoulders tense, like they’re waiting for lightning to strike or someone to walk around the corner and catch them. No one does.
Mike rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t hate it,” he says, way too quietly.
Will risks a glance up. “Me neither.” Mike shifts his weight.
They both laugh again, a little breathless. Will presses his lips together, trying and failing to hide a smile. “We’re really bad at this.” He smiles back at Mike, wide and stupid.
“Mike! Mom’s on the phone,” Nancy shouts from inside.
“Coming!” Mike calls back, voice cracking embarrassingly.
Will bites his lip to keep from smiling too hard. “We should probably.”
“Yeah,” Mike says, still grinning. “Definitely.”
They turn toward the house, still not touching, but walking way closer than necessary. Mike feels like his entire body is buzzing, like something small but important just clicked into place. He tries really hard to focus on the empty box in his hands. It doesn’t work.
His brain keeps replaying it—the way Will leaned in, the soft press of his mouth, the split second where everything went quiet and bright at the same time. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. It barely even counted as a kiss. But his chest still feels tight, like his heart doesn’t know what to do with itself. He sets the box down a little too hard on the porch.
“You okay?” Joyce asks, glancing at him, a cigarette between her fingers.
“Yeah—yeah,” Mike says quickly. “Just, uh. Slippery.” Will shoots him a look that’s half concern, half barely-contained laughter. Mike looks away before his face gets any hotter.
Mike talks to his mom briefly, but she tires easily these days, and talking is still a struggle for her. After they hang up, Mike and Nancy move through the motions for a while—lifting, stacking, passing things along—but everything feels slightly off, like the world tilted a few degrees and never tilted back. Mike keeps being painfully aware of where Will is. How close he stands. The sound of his voice when he talks to someone else. The fact that he keeps tucking his hands into his sleeves like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
At one point, Will hands Mike a bottle of water. Their fingers brush again, and this time it’s Mike who flinches. “Sorry,” he blurts.
Will blinks. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, I know, I just—” Mike exhales. “I’m being weird.” Will’s mouth twitches.
They end up on the back steps when things slow down, sitting side by side with nothing in their hands and no one immediately needing them. Mike stares out at the yard, at the uneven grass and the stretch of chickenwire fence that somehow didn’t fall over. He feels… full. Overwhelmed. Like too many emotions are trying to exist in his body at the same time.
“I keep thinking I imagined it,” he admits quietly.
Will turns toward him, blushing. “The… kiss?”
Mike nods. “Yeah. Like, it was so fast that my brain’s like, ‘That didn’t actually happen, you just wanted it to.’” He laughs weakly. “Which is a really unhelpful thought.”
Will hugs his knees to his chest. “I didn’t imagine it,” he says. “I’ve replayed it about… a hundred times already.” Mike risks a glance at him. Will’s ears are bright red. That does something dangerous to Mike’s heart.
“I didn’t expect it to feel like that,” Mike says. “I thought it would be—bigger. Or scarier. Or… I don’t know. Like fireworks.”
“And it wasn’t,” Will says softly.
“No,” Mike agrees. “It was just… warm.” They sit with that word. Warm. It fits too well.
Mike swallows. “I think that’s what freaked me out the most,” he says. “It felt easy. Like my body already knew what was happening before my brain caught up.”
Will’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Me too.” There’s a long pause.
“I was scared you’d regret it,” Will says finally. “Or that you’d pull away.”
Mike’s stomach drops. “Why would you think that?”
Will shrugs, but his shoulders tense. “Because I’ve kind of been… waiting for that my whole life.”
Mike turns fully toward him without thinking. “Your whole life?”
“N–no, I… I mean, since, like, middle school at least. I…” Will’s eyes shine, but he doesn’t cry. “I don’t want to rush you,” Will says. “Or make this into something it’s not.”
“I know,” Mike says. “But I also don’t want to pretend it didn’t matter. Because it did. It really did.” Will’s hand inches closer to his on the step. Not touching. Just close enough to be felt. Mike takes it. Will lets out a breath like he’s been holding it all day.
They don’t kiss again. They don’t need to. The contact is enough, the steady pressure of Will’s hand, the shared warmth, the quiet understanding that something has shifted and neither of them is alone in it. Mike leans back slightly, shoulder brushing Will’s. “I’m really bad at knowing what I feel,” he says. “But this?” He squeezes Will’s hand. “This feels right.”
Will rests his head against Mike’s shoulder, tentative at first, then settles when Mike doesn’t move away. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It does.”
They stay like that until the light shifts again, the sun dipping just enough to throw long shadows across the yard. Someone turns on the radio inside, low, tinny music crackling through bad reception, and the sound drifts out through the open window. It’s ordinary. Comfortingly so.
Will shifts first, not pulling away, just adjusting so his head rests more comfortably against Mike’s shoulder. Mike feels it everywhere, the simple weight of him there. He lets his head tip slightly toward Will’s, their temples almost touching.
“You know,” Will says quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the moment, “we don’t have to tell anyone anything yet.”
Mike nods. “Yeah. I was thinking that.” He pauses. “Not because I’m embarrassed. Just because… I want this to be ours for a minute.”
Will smiles against his shoulder. “I’d like that.”
They sit a while longer, listening to the radio fade in and out, to the distant sound of voices and footsteps. Eventually, Joyce steps out onto the porch with a laundry basket balanced on her hip. She stops when she sees them, really looks at them—how close they’re sitting, the way Will doesn’t move away, the way Mike’s hand is still loosely holding his.
There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Surprise, maybe. Recognition. Then she smiles. Soft. Tired. Real.
“I’m making soup,” she says. “It’s… kind of whatever I could find, but it’s hot.”
“That sounds perfect,” Will says, sitting up but not letting go of Mike’s hand right away. Mike feels a brief, irrational fear that this is the moment it all snaps back, that the world will notice and say no.
Joyce doesn’t say anything else. She just nods and goes back inside.
Mike exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says, half-laughing. “That could’ve gone worse.”
Will bumps his knee lightly against Mike’s. “My mom has been through interdimensional hell monsters,” he says. “I don’t think two boys holding hands is gonna be the thing that breaks her.” Mike smiles at that. He stands, offering a hand up without thinking. Will takes it, and for a split second, it feels exactly like the old days—except better. Like the same foundation, but stronger.
They follow the smell of soup into the kitchen. The room is warm, crowded, a little chaotic. Nancy is arguing with Jonathan about how much salt is too much. Hopper is sitting at the table, nursing a coffee and pretending not to watch Joyce move around the stove like she’s afraid to stop.
Will grabs two bowls when Joyce tells him to, handing one to Mike. Their fingers brush again, and this time neither of them flinches. They sit across from each other at the table, knees knocking under it. Mike catches Will looking at him over the rim of his bowl, eyes soft and steady.
Later, when the dishes are done and the house starts to wind down again, Mike ends up back in the hallway with Will. The door to Will room is open, sunlight gone now, the walls glowing faintly orange from the lamps. He’s tired in a way that goes deeper than just not sleeping, a bone-deep tired, the kind that comes from holding too much for too long. Will is sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, hands clasped together.
“Mike…” Will says, his voice small.
“Yeah,” Mike answers. He doesn’t know what else to say yet.
Will swallows, blinking fast. “I don’t… I don’t know how to feel sometimes. Even now, I feel… everything all at once. Relief, guilt, scared… and I keep thinking about her. About El. About all of it.”
Mike exhales slowly, resting his hand on the wall near Will’s. “I know. Me too.” His voice shakes slightly. “I keep thinking… I should be able to handle this by now. That surviving should feel like victory. But it doesn’t always. Sometimes it just feels… heavy.”
Will’s lip trembles. He doesn’t hide it. Mike takes a careful step closer. “It’s okay to feel it. It doesn’t make you weak.”
Will shakes his head, tears spilling over. “I just… I didn’t want to lose you, Mike. Not you too. Not after everyone else, everything else.” His voice breaks. “I—”
Mike can’t stop himself. He crouches slightly, moving to sit on the floor next to Will. “You didn’t,” he says softly, tears welling in his own eyes. Will sobs quietly into his hands, shaking. Mike reaches out, brushing a hand across Will’s back. He feels the tension there, all the fear, all the grief. “I’m here,” Mike says again. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m scared,” Will admits between breaths. “I’m scared it’ll happen again. That I’ll lose everyone I care about.”
Mike shakes his head, his own tears slipping free now. “ I won’t let you face it alone.”
Will leans into Mike’s shoulder, quiet for a moment before crying softly again, the tears just releasing everything he’s been holding inside. Mike wraps an arm around him, holding him tight. They sit like that for a long time, letting the grief and the relief and the love mix together. “I didn’t think it could ever feel… okay,” Will whispers after a while, voice muffled against Mike’s chest. Mike strokes his hair gently.
They stay like that, sitting on the floor, holding onto each other. The house is calm around them, but inside, something heavier has lifted just a little. The weight hasn’t gone, not completely—but they’re sharing it now. And somehow, that makes it a little easier to breathe.
Eventually, they crawl into bed. Mike on the couch he usually claims, Will in his own bed a few feet away. It feels… comfortable. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything, just lets them exist. They fall asleep after a long time of talking, holding hands across the gap between them at one point, then letting go when their eyelids win the fight.
Hours pass. Mike stirs in the middle of the night. The room is dark, but he hears it almost immediately; soft, uneven breathing, a hiccup of a sob. His heart jumps. He sits up, rubbing his eyes. Will. He’s sitting halfway up in bed, knees pulled to his chest, hands trembling slightly. His face is buried in his arms.
“Will?” Mike whispers.
Will jerks slightly, startled, then swallows. “M-Mike…” His voice is tight, broken.
Mike gets up and sits next to Will, careful not to crowd him. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just a nightmare, that’s all.”
Will shakes his head, letting out a shaky breath. “I… I dreamed… it was him. Vecna. And everything was… everything was my fault.” His voice cracks, small and frightened. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t fix it. I tried, Mike, I tried, and I—”
Mike brushes a hand through his hair, gentle, careful. “I know. I know it felt real. But you’re not there. Not anymore. You’re here. And I’m right here. You’re not alone, okay?”
Will nods slowly, letting the tears fall freely now. “I don’t want to feel that again.”
“You won’t,” Mike says softly. “Not if I can help it. Wake me up, okay? If you need me?”
Will finally lifts his head slightly, eyes red and glistening. “Thanks, Mike,” he whispers.
Mike gives him a small, reassuring smile. “Always.” He presses a firm kiss on the top of Will’s head. It’s amazing to him, how he’s allowed to do that now. To hold Will, to touch him without being afraid. He shifts his weight, ready to get up, when Will grabs his hand.
“Mike, wait.” Will scrubs at his eyes. “Can you just… please just stay here. Please.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” Mike shifts, and he’s lying down, Will’s head still tucked against his chest. He inhales deeply. The sheets smell faintly like floral detergent, mixed with something uniquely Will. Will’s hitched breathing slows as the tears finally ebb. Mike stays awake a few moments longer, just watching him, feeling the quiet pulse of his chest, the steady rise and fall.
Mike stays like that, barely breathing, afraid that even the smallest movement might break the fragile calm. His arm aches a little where it’s curled around Will, but he doesn’t shift. He doesn’t want to risk it. Will’s forehead is pressed into the space just under his collarbone, warm and damp from tears, and every so often he lets out a shaky breath like his body is still catching up.
“You’re okay,” Mike murmurs quietly, more for reassurance than instruction. “I’ve got you.”
Will nods against his chest. His fingers curl into the fabric of Mike’s shirt, gripping it like an anchor. “I hate that it still happens,” he whispers. “I think I’m past it and then—” His voice cracks again, softer this time. “It feels like I’m twelve all over again.”
Mike’s throat tightens. He presses his chin lightly into Will’s hair. “You don’t have to be past it,” he says. “Not yet. Not ever, if you don’t want to be.” He swallows. “You went through hell. It doesn’t just… disappear.”
Will lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, short and sad. “You always say the right thing.”
Mike huffs quietly. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” Will insists, faint but sure. His grip loosens just a little, his body relaxing in small increments, like he’s convincing himself it’s safe to let go. “You always show up.”
Mike feels something in his chest give at that. He shifts just enough to pull the blanket up around Will’s shoulders, careful not to wake him fully. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says again, steady this time. Like a promise he knows he can keep.
The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the house and Will’s breathing evening out. It takes a while, but eventually the tension drains out of Will’s body. His fingers unclench. His breathing slows, deep and regular. Mike watches his long eyelashes rest against his cheeks, still damp, and feels that same quiet certainty settle back into place.
It’s awkward, sure. Mike’s arm is going to fall asleep, and the bed is a little too small, and this isn’t how they’ve ever slept before. But Will is warm, solid, real. Alive. And that matters more than anything. Mike lets his eyes close. Just for a second, he tells himself. Just until he knows Will’s really asleep.
He wakes briefly sometime later, disoriented, the room still dark. Will hasn’t moved. His head is still tucked against Mike’s chest, his breathing slow and even. No crying. No shaking. Just sleep. Mike relaxes fully then, the last of the tension leaving his body. He adjusts his arm the tiniest bit, careful and instinctive, and lets himself drift off too—holding on, being held, knowing that if the night comes for Will again, he’ll be right here.
***
Mike is still asleep, sprawled awkwardly on the bed, one arm flung out, hair a mess. He looks younger like this. Peaceful. Will lies there for a minute just watching him breathe, listening to the low murmur of the radio on the dresser as he clicks it on. It’s mostly static and commercials, voices fading in and out. Then a familiar opening comes through the noise. Will’s heart gives a small, stupid leap.
“No way,” he whispers. The static clears just enough, and suddenly it’s unmistakable—David Bowie, that slow build, that aching hope threaded through the sound. Heroes. Will sits up a little, grinning to himself. He reaches over and nudges Mike’s shoulder. Gently at first.
“Mike,” he murmurs. “Mike, wake up.”
Mike groans and rolls onto his side. “What—what’s wrong?”
Will nudges him again, more insistently. “Listen.”
Mike squints at him, annoyed and half-asleep, then the song cuts through whatever fog he’s in. His eyes widen just a little. “Is that—”
“Yeah,” Will says, already smiling. “It is.”
Mike pushes himself up on one elbow, listening. Then he laughs softly, rubbing his face. “I can’t believe they’re playing this.”
Will swings his legs off the bed and stands, suddenly energized. He holds a hand out. “Come on.”
Mike blinks. “Come on where?”
Will shrugs. “It’s on. We’re not just gonna sit there.”
Mike stares at the offered hand for half a second, then takes it. “You’re such a nerd.”
“You love it,” Will says.
“Yeah.”
They end up standing in the middle of the room, neither of them really sure what they’re doing. Will sways a little, exaggerated and goofy. Mike snorts, then mirrors him, awkward at first, then looser. They’re laughing quietly, trying not to be too loud, bumping into each other, stepping on feet.
“This is not dancing,” Mike mutters.
Will grins. “It is if you don’t think about it too hard.”
The song swells, Bowie’s voice filling the room, and something about it cracks them open just a little. Will spins once, almost trips, and Mike catches him by the wrists without thinking. They end up close, closer than they were a second ago, breathing the same air.
They stop moving. For a moment, neither of them says anything. The music keeps playing, hopeful and aching and familiar. Mike’s hands are warm around Will’s wrists. Will’s heart is beating so hard he’s pretty sure Mike can feel it.
Mike swallows. “We’re really bad at this,” he says quietly.
Will smiles. “Yeah. But we’re getting better.”
Mike lets go of his wrists but doesn’t step back. Instead, he lifts one hand, hesitates, then cups Will’s jaw gently, like he’s checking to see if this is still allowed. Will leans into it immediately.
The kiss this time isn’t rushed. It’s still a little awkward—noses bump, they adjust—but it’s real. Soft. Careful in the way that means they care. When they pull back, both of them are smiling, a little breathless.
“I love this song,” Will says quietly.
Mike nods. “Me too.”