Work Text:
1993
Will always knew why he woke up at 3am.
The air, cold. A silence slashed by a blood curdling scream. Panicked gasps that settled into a blanketed numb. Sweat that made his skin prickle. A stomach so sick, he could hardly eat his breakfast.
Joyce got him a therapist at a young age. Just when he'd entered highschool. Assumed it, those previous events. Vecna and the Upside Down. His vital years being drowned out by an abundance of trauma. They didn't help. That was sure.
But the night terrors started when he was four. He just knew how to be quieter back then.
When he and Mike started dating, he was acutely aware of sex. The impending doom. The inevitable. The shadows on his wall. The forever eclipse. The goosebumps on the back of his neck.
The romance was good. Wonderful. Kissing Mike was the best thing he's ever done. Loving him was even better. A windy afternoon in his backyard. Warm sand between his toes. The sun, hot against his face in the ripe stages of winter. Mike Wheeler was everything good in this world.
His wandering hands? They were not.
They were like icy stalactites. The bitter shock of vodka. The rancid sting of rotten milk.
“What’s wrong?”
He was out of breath the first time it happened.
Will. Frozen like a deer. A sex doll, limp in Mike's bed. Warm hands, still so cold on his skin. Under his shirt. Inside his pants. He couldn't say it.
“I’m fine.”
The tears welled in his eyes. The sickness was back. Stirring in his gut.
“Will, do you wanna stop?”
That's when he cried. Will didn't say why. And Mike never asked.
And then they moved in together. It'd been two years since they started dating. The night terrors stopped. And they were okay. He was okay. Until he wasn't. Mike, shocked awake, forced to cradle his boyfriend into the early morning. When the sun reached their window and formed little slits of light through their half opened blinds.
They ate breakfast in silence and Mike fell asleep on the sofa, drunk in insomnia.
It became routine. 3am. Screaming. Then panic. Then cradling until the tears stopped. Until Mike's hands went numb, running through Will’s hair. Caressing his scalp. Kissing the fat of his cheeks. Wet and cold. Like tire and mulch beneath the swing set, squishy from fresh rain.
“You’re alright.” His voice, just a whisper. And Will would crush his face into the hollow of Mike’s chest until he was sure there was no more space between them. “You’re alright.”
It went on through Autumn. Through Winter. Through quiet whispers, exchanged looks when they were out at the park with the rest of the party.
‘You okay?’, Mike would mouth.
Will would glance a smile. Small and tucked and almost dishonest in a way. Then he would nod and shoot a thumbs up for good measure.
When they were alone, Mike wouldn't push. There were moments his hands, wandering and terrifying, would tease at Will’s sweatpants. Hint at the collar of Will’s shirt. And Will would go cold. Retreat into himself. And Mike would never question why. A bridge too dangerous to venture.
It was mid December when he finally did.
“Is it me?”
Will doesn't look up from his sketchpad. Hums his response. A half-focused sound that has Mike muting whatever Hallmark Christmas movie was playing mindlessly in the background. Will peers up through his lashes.
“Is it me, Will?”
“Is what you?” Scrunches his brows in that confused way he does it.
Mike's leg is bouncing up and down. shifting the teal La-Z-Boy beneath him. “Am I the reason you won't have sex with me even after two years?”
Will’s face goes unreadable. Nearly pale. Mouth slightly ajar but with nothing to escape it. He doesn't respond, only the breath of what might be a ’No.’
And Mike's face contorts. All sad and weird and confusing. Will isn't sure how to fix it. It wouldn't matter, Mike goes on a walk anyhow.
It's two days later that Will initiates a kiss that's more than chaste for the first time since they started dating. It's shy and embarrassing and wet. Mike’s caught off guard. The heart of his palm pressing slightly to Will’s chest.
“Woah,” Mike laughs. Will visibly swallows. Eyes that flicker nervously. “Is it Christmas already? What's up with you?”
“I’m-” Will’s eyebrows are hairpin curves. His body is heavy. “I’m…ready.” He sighs. “I think.”
Mike tilts his head. Eyes that look down, then up. Gauging whatever emotion Will is struggling to show. Failing to decipher. “Ready?” He asks.
“Ready for…” He isn't sure how to say it. “Ready for you. For us...to…”
Mike’s face hangs heavy. A sad glitter in his eyes. A pitying smile. “You sure don't seem ready, Will.”
“I am.” It's as unconvincing as Mike expects it to be.
He smiles softly. Pulls Will close to his chest, cheek pressed gently to his heart. Will listens to every thud. He counts twenty-two beats before Mike speaks again.
“You don't ever have to be ready. I'd wait an eternity.”
A sorry hangs there on the tip of his tongue.
He thinks they both might understand.
Christmas passes.
Will receives yet another crappy, old art set from his mom and a pack of Magic: The Gathering cards. A new game he'd yet to play. She's trying. He recognizes that.
They gathered. Everyone. Dustin, Lucas, Max, Jane. Together in the Byers-Wheeler apartment. Along with each party's families. Will and Mike's. A false fireplace on their CRT. Some tape Will came across at the local Shopko. A sugary sweet that wafted through the home. With thawed fingers, cured by mugs of hot chocolate and bowls of chicken noodle soup.
They exchange gifts.
Mike doesn't give him his gift until later that night. When the sky has dimmed and the moon is low. Where glittering eyes are caught on the colourful lights strung across their living room. Strung meticulously on evergreen.
The carpet is warm beneath them. And the smell of pine lingers as they sit near the tree. Mike’s hands shake as he passes Will a small box the size of his palm.
“I was going to buy you something but nothing felt right. So,” He watches Will’s fingers undo the makeshift bow. Watches them peel back the paper and lift the lid. “I made you something instead.”
He sees purple first. Then shades of silver and brown. He lifts the object up and holds it against the light. His eyes shine. A small figure, hand-painted. A man adorned in the deepest plum. A cape and a pointed hat, hands outstretched as if yielding spells from the tips of his fingers.
“Is this-” His lips part out a breath. Then a smile.
“It’s you.” Mike says. He blinks a shy gaze. Rubs his own arm. Bites the inside of his cheek. “Sorry if it's lame or…I don't know.” He huffs out a laugh.
Will is quick to shake his head. “No, Mike. I love it. So much.” He tucks it back in its box and curls into Mike's chest. Rests his head across his shoulder. Mike exhales his relief. “It’s perfect.”
The morning after, Will receives a letter.
“How was work?” Mike’s removing Will’s coat. There's a dust of snow left on his shoulders that melt into the fabric as little dollops of water.
Will is hardly through the door. He kisses Mike's cheek. “Fine. Tiring.” Slips off his shoes and replaces them with his house slippers.
The door shuts, Mike crosses the room. “You got a letter, by the way. On the counter.” Disappears into the hallway bathroom.
Will hums his curiosity.
The letter is small. A light blue envelope with no return address. His thumb hooks beneath the lip, an area where the glue didn't stick, and rips it open. It's a card. Rough with glittery snowflakes. An embossed, detailed town littered with wintery, white snow. A twenty dollar bill floats to the ground as he opens it. His eyes shift. He doesn't bother picking it up. The money. There's a smudge of ink at the corner of the card. Chicken scratch script. A name. His name. Lonnie.
…Not even Dad.
And suddenly it's 3am again. It's a blood curdling scream. It's yellow sheets and the popcorn ceiling and the grandfather clock ticking in the dead of night.
His fingers tremble. The card is no longer in his hand and suddenly the world is blurry. With walls that drift into the paintings that hang from it. With lights that shoot out beams of lasers, carve through his pupils in needlepoint stings. With a chest so tight. A heart that squelches like cellophane in the confinements of his ribcage. Squeezes a rippling pain. His fingers claw at his arms as he weeps. As he curls into himself. A body that threatens to give out. Such wobbly knees.
The bathroom door clicks open. Light bleeds through before it's gone again. Mike’s feet pad across the hallway carpet.
“So who was the letter from?” He’s hardly back in the living room when he sees him. “Will.” It's the softest whisper. Just a breath and Mike is at his side. Arms enveloping his small frame. As small as he was when he was twelve. As small as he was when he was four.
He can't stop trembling. They sink to the ground. Mike pulls Will’s face close to his chest. To his heart. Thrumming deep in Will’s ear. Drawing him like a lullaby.
Mike's eyes glance to the card. Opened perfectly on its thin spine. And he sees it. The name. A name he'd not heard for over ten years. A sigh bleeds into Will’s scalp
“Forget about him.” Mike mumbles. “He's a prick.” A voice nothing above a whisper.
Will’s sob is muffled through thick wool. “You don't understand.” He weeps into it. Tugs at its front with his fists. “You don't understand.”
And Mike, even through his permanent state of obliviousness, feels as though maybe he's just beginning to.
They don't mention it. It's routine for them.
Mike found the letter in torn, uneven pieces at the top of their kitchen garbage. The twenty dollar bill accompanying it. He plucks it, stuffs it into his palm. Crushed beneath the weight of his fingers.
“You should at least keep the money.”
He's walking toward the living room. Will’s feet are tucked against the backs of his thighs. A comic book rests against his knees. He doesn't look up.
“I don't want his money. It's dirty.”
“We could really use it for groceries.”
“I’m not eating groceries he bought.”
“It would be groceries we bought.”
“With his dirty money.”
The page turns. It's a sharp knife sliced through the heavy, quiet air. Will still doesn't look up. Mike squats in front of him. Pulls the comic down between two fingers and a thumb.
“What?” Will’s eyes flicker up. Mike offers a smile.
“What if I trade it for another twenty at Melvald’s? Then it'll technically not be from him anymore.”
Will fights back the urge to smile. Rolls his eyes. The comic book slaps shut and is thrown off to a cushion. Will pulls Mike in for a small kiss. Their noses brush as they pull away and Mike's chest flutters.
“Let’s please stop talking about him. It's making me nauseous.”
Mike nods. “Heard.
But Mike, in all honesty, can't stop thinking about it. About him.
It's Spring when Lonnie’s name is brought up again.
Mike is in the middle of setting up the banner. Happy 23rd Birthday. When he gets a knock at the door. The last pin sinks through the wall and he steps down from the sofa. His neighbour, Eileen. She’s holding a stack of mail.
“Sent to my place again.”
Mike smiles abashedly and retrieves the pile, is already sifting through it by the time his foot extends to close the door.
“Thanks, Eileen. Sorry again.” He manages to say before it clicks shut.
A letter catches his eye. Same blue envelope. Same chicken scratch with Will’s full name. No return address. He rips it open. Another twenty dollar bill. A single sentence. Happy Birthday. A single name. Lonnie.
He hums in thought. Furrowed brows as he rereads it over and over in his head.
Will would be devastated having to relive what he went through last December. And what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Quite literally.
Mike shoves it in the trash. The twenty, he decides, is going toward the cake he planned on fetching before Will gets home from work. It's stuffed into the front pocket of his slacks and he's out the door. The coat rack teeters back and forth as he pulls his jacket from one of the branches.
The night goes accordingly. Will’s favourite mixtape: The Cure, The Clash, New Order, Bowie, a sprinkle of The Smiths. Wine coolers. Lights still strung from Christmas. Frozen lasagna in the oven. Half eaten cake on the counter.
Mike was intending a surprise party. Will insisted he didn't want one. They came to a mutual agreement that today would just be for them.
Mike is holding himself up at his elbow, squished into the couch cushion. He'd drunk six wine coolers. All melon and orange. They're Will’s least favourite. An opportunity for Mike to get a little more than tipsy. Will, on the other hand, drank just about the rest of the box. Scoring him at about ten or eleven full bottles.
If Mike wasn't so inebriated, he might have told him to slow down.
Instead, they're lip-locked on their living room sofa and Mike is finding it very hard to keep himself steady, hovering over Will as he tongues inside his mouth.
The insides of his cheeks are cold. Will. And his tongue tastes of bitter strawberry. Sweet and tangy with alcohol. Mike noses at Will’s cheek. Kisses down his jaw. Sucks a bruise into his neck. Will tilts his head and breathes a small noise from the back of his throat.
“Oh…” It's small and shy. It's all breath. It's Will’s hand curling in through the back of Mike's hair and tugging. Pushing. Anything.
Mike licks across his jugular. Pulls back the collar of his shirt to suck at the prominent bone underneath. “Pretty.” He whispers against it. Will whimpers.
This, in all honesty, is the furthest they'd ever gone. Unmarked territory now on the brink of being…well…marked. And even through Mike’s thorough insobriety, he's a bit frightened. Feels as though it was only just yesterday he was trying to get into Will’s pants, the whole ordeal inevitably ending in tears. And he has his suspicions, though things he'd taken with a grain of salt. Things he had no proof to back it up with. Things he'd only concluded with the trust of his handy gut.
But when Will is grinding up into him. When Will is whimpering. Withering beneath him. When Will is doing things he'd never seen Will do before. It takes every ounce of strength not to give in. To grind, to meet Will’s steady rhythm. Which he does. Only a few times before he's knocking their foreheads together and breathing through what can only be seen as a struggled self control. A struggled composure.
“What’s wrong?” Will’s eyes are studying Mike’s face.
Mike’s eyes are squeezed shut. Locked tight.
Will leans back only slightly. “Mike?”
“You’re drunk.” He says.
“So are you.”
“This doesn't feel right, Will.”
Will knows he means it. He's got that voice. He recoils in response. A nasty warmth spreads through his gut.
“I love you and it doesn't feel right.” Mike fixes his tone. Opens his eyes. Presses a palm to Will’s cheek. Runs his thumb along the fat of it.
“You don't want it?” Will exhales. His eyes shine in the light. Wet and sad.
Mike sighs. His lips still on his forehead. Pulls away only the slightest to rest his nose against it. Inhales Will’s natural musk. It's tainted with the thick stench of alcohol. “I do. So bad it hurts, Will.” He goes silent. Only for a moment. Morissey complains through the stereo. “Just not like this.”
He thinks of Lonnie Byers and he wants to cry.
Will, to say the least, is embarrassed by morning. And hungover. And throwing up whatever sick is left in his mostly empty stomach.
He calls out of work and in turn, so does Mike. There's vegetable broth on the stove and ginger ale in the fridge. And Will had woken up to two ibuprofens and a glass of water on his nightstand.
He feels only slightly better by the afternoon. Pale and disheveled as he slumps his way into the living room.
“Hey, party boy.” Mike says softly. Will grunts his response and curls himself next to Mike on their sofa. The other wraps his arm around and squeezes at his shoulder. Presses a kiss to the top of his head. “How’d you sleep?”
Will yawns. “Fine.” He mumbles.
“Broth on the stove for your tummy. Don't worry. Nothin’ chunky.”
Will groans. His lips pull a grimace. “Please don't say the word chunky.” Nearly gags saying the word himself.
Mike chuckles. “Sorry,” he whispers. Noses at Will’s hair. Greasy and unkempt. It's quiet for a while. The sun shines through their patio window and the air is warm with the scent of boiled vegetables. String lights dim, yet still there. Glowing and hot. Will’s gifts lay spread along the carpet, tucked in the corner of the room next to their entertainment center.
Mike runs a hand through Will’s hair, pulls him close against his chest. “Are we going to talk about last night?” Mike asks quietly and he can feel Will deflate.
A sigh. A shift of his body as he pulls back to look at Mike. “I’m…really sorry. Honestly, I'm embarrassed.”
Mike sits up. Shakes his head, tucks Will’s hand softly into his. It's cold. “No, Will. That-that's not what I meant. I just-” He huffs. Flickers his eyes down in thought. Purses his lips. A thumb glides over the back of Will’s hand in some subconscious gesture to comfort. “I just mean you're not…really like that. Ever. And-and I'm realizing that it scares me. Because what if…what if you really are ready or you think you are and I traumatize you or something?”
Will’s face falls into something sad. His eyebrows curl in that way that makes Mike's stomach turn. “Traumatize?” He asks.
“Or,” Mike pauses. Another sigh. “Or if I bring up things…from your past that you haven't confronted yet. I'm just…” A tongue darts out to wet his lips. Suddenly he has cotton mouth. Suddenly his tongue is as dry as the Sahara Desert. “I’m just scared of hurting you. Of you getting hurt again.”
“I don't understand.” Will’s voice is quieter than it's ever been. Mike can feel his pulse, thick and pumping through the veins on his hand.
“What happened, Will?” He asks. Swallows down the lump in his throat. Flickers his eyes between Will’s who can't seem to maintain the contact anymore. “What happened when you were a kid?”
And Will opens his mouth.
“I don't mean the Upside Down.”
Mike beats him to it.
Will’s mouth is quickly shut.
It's quiet.
Will is frozen. A deer lost in the blinding lights of an empty highway. A far away gaze. A thoughtless glazed over stare that has Mike intertwining their fingers.
“I’m here, Will. I've always been here.” His voice is soft and tender. A passerby alone in the woods with a wounded rabbit. “You can open up to me.”
Will’s eyes shift just that much. Enough for Mike to understand he's aware again. That his brain hasn't completely shut down. Mike squeezes his hand. Once. Twice. Runs his thumb along the back and feels the ridges between his skin where muscle and vein meet like mountains.
“Did Lon-” A sigh. A cluster of razors down his throat as he swallows. God, he needs a glass of water. “Did he do something to you?”
Will stands this time and they're no longer touching. Mike's hand feels as cold as ice. “I’m taking a nap.” Will’s already headed toward the hall. “I feel nauseous.” Mike hardly hears him say it as he shuts himself away behind their bedroom door.
But Will doesn't sleep. Will is far too awake. Far too aware.
Will thinks. He thinks. And thinks. And thinks. Until his brain is a gooey mess. Until it's leaking from his ears.
He thinks about last night. About his past. His childhood. The Upside Down. A blossoming of all the memories he was so sure he suppressed. Scents he'd not even been aware of since he was a kid. Something salty and sweaty and damp. A trigger. An avalanche.
He shakes and he bites down on his sheets, piled in a lump against his lips. Against his chin.
A part of him wants to be alone. To die here. To stay inside until his guts feed off one another. To weep until his eyes pop from their sockets. Become bottomless caves. A space made for the waterfalls Mike is always so fond of imagining.
The other part craves Mike’s touch. Mike’s comfort. Mike’s hands. His callouses caressing all the smooth parts of his body, a reminder that he's real. Mike's soft kisses. Mike's gentle words. Gentle lips showing him what it's all supposed to feel like.
He hates Lonnie. So much it hurts. So much, his body is a furnace. A home where the fires of his self loathing are fanned to perfection. Fanned to the exact measure Lonnie handcrafted Will to be. And the flames lick at his flesh until he's nothing but ash.
It doesn't take long for Will to be back in the hall. It's quiet for a moment. For a few moments. Minutes that feel like hours as he stands there. Stupidly. He knows Mike is on the couch still. Can smell him. Can feel his presence.
“Will?” It's so quiet. Almost quiet enough for Will to not catch it, had he not been so acutely aware of the way the air itself sounds.
Will emerges from the shadows. He feels dumb. Like a kid that's caught stealing. His arms wrapped around himself. His fingers clawing at his skin. Mike sits up. Just a little. In between wanting to stand to comfort him…or staying where he is in fear of scaring him away. He chooses the latter.
Will stands there in the living room, feeling stupid.
“Will, I am so sor-”
“No.” It's so quiet. Mike shuts up just as quickly as he begins talking. His lips press. Will swallows and stares at the wall behind him. Behind Mike. “I’m-” He pauses. Eyes that scan the air in some deep thought. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of saying the right thing and it still making things worse. “I should be the sorry one.” He swallows. Looks down at his feet. “I haven't been honest with you and that isn't- God. It isn't fair. You're so…Good to me, Mike. And I'm trash. I'm filthy and tainted.”
Mike releases a breath. His chest deflates. “Will don't- you aren't-”
“It’s my own fault, Mike. I can't ever open up and- and I let it all happen. I'm just as bad as him. As Lonnie.” He feels physically ill saying his name out loud. “He’s the worst person alive and I'm just as bad as him.”
Mike stands and the couch shifts behind his calves. He's already enveloping Will’s body like a blanket. Tucking Will’s head against his shoulder.
“Will, you are everything good in this world.” He whispers it, not like a secret. But a promise.
Will is already crying. His eyes wet Mike’s shirt. Staining it with all the memories that brought them there. “Then why do I feel so horrible all the time?”
“Because,” Mike is quiet for a moment. Tears welling in his own eyes as he curls his fingers against Will’s scalp. “Because people like Lonnie take advantage of good things.”
Will sobs. Grabs at Mike’s shirt like a lifeline. “I hate him.” It's barely audible through the breaks in his voice. But Mike knows. He knows and he nods with him.
“Me, too.” He says. A tear falls, cascades down his cheek in a single stripe. “Me, too.”
And so they talk.
It's hard. Opening up. Knowing what to say. Knowing what not to say. Which words to choose without it feeling like you're really admitting something. Without admitting it to yourself.
And Will can't look at him. Can't watch Mike. Bitter responses. Pitying eyes.
And Mike’s okay with that. So they lie on the sofa with Will’s head on Mike’s chest. With bodies tangled like rope. With Mike's fingers carding through Will’s hair.
And Will just…speaks.
He says everything. Every detail. Every crevice of his childhood. Every nook and cranny of his wicked mind. Releases it all like floating down a river, leaving his worries on all the passing leaves. On all the little spiders and plants and bubbles that wash up along the edges of the water.
And Mike listens. He doesn't interrupt. He doesn't get angry. Sad, maybe. But he's come to realize…this was never about Lonnie. It was never about the Christmas card or the money or his own internalized issues. The problems he projected onto his son.
It was always about Will. About his pain. His suffering. His healing. It was about patience. It was about love. It was about coffee and pancakes at midnight. Opening gifts a week too early for Christmas. It was about sweet kisses and Mike's eyes wandering Will’s face as he slept. Running his fingers along every curve of his cheeks. His nose. His eyes. Memorizing their shape. Engraining them into his fingertips and pressing his lips there one by one.
It was about this. It was always about this. How could he ever forget?
Will’s crying by the time he goes quiet. And maybe Mike is crying, too.
“None of this is your fault.” Mike whispers. And Will stays silent. He's a wounded rabbit. A dear in the headlights. A turtle stuck on its back.
A beacon of light through a dark tunnel.
Mike tucks a strand of hair behind Will’s ear. Kisses his temple, all warm and soft. Gentle. Kind. “None of it.” He whispers. “None.”
It gives Will shivers. Goosebumps on the back of his neck. On the curve of his spine. He peers up for the first time in what feels like forever. Wet eyes. Cheeks, hot and red with tears. A nose so raw. A face so sad.
Mike thinks he looks beautiful. So terribly beautiful.
His palm cups Will’s cheek. His thumb collects the wet and he dries it away with a single swipe. Will leans in. Suddenly, so. Catches Mike off guard as they're met with a kiss. Tender and gentle and on the cusp of being hungry.
They melt together like wet clay.
’I'm ready’, Will thinks.
He hopes that Mike can read his thoughts.