Chapter Text
In the face of the world possibly ending, Will Byers struggling with a cough seems impossibly small.
He knows that. Knows it in the way he knows he shouldn’t complain when there are bigger things demanding attention. Worse things. Max still lying in a hospital bed, unmoving, the machines around her doing the work she can’t. The work she might never do again. Will doesn’t mean to lose hope, if anything he clings to it, but with every passing day it’s as if the light slowly bleeds out of her. Lucas is vehement in ignoring it—if he even notices it at all—speaking to her in soft words, both listening and ignoring the doctor's. She might never wake up again. We don’t know what it is that has her in a coma. Her mother doesn't have the funds to keep her here. It’s best to start preparing for the worst.
Lucas never says anything back to them. Will doesn’t understand why any of the nurses bother in telling him anything. Will would prefer it if they didn't; he looks worse with every passing day. He’s sat there with him for hours before, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the steady pulse of the EKG monitor because looking at Max for too long feels like tempting something. He doesn’t bother striking up conversation with Lucas. Sometimes he’ll play Running Up That Hill, sometimes he doesn’t.
Compared to that, a cough is nothing. It barely even counts.
Still, the Wheeler’s basement is cold in that damp, frigid way that seeps past the thin walls and into his bones. The flimsy blanket draped over his shoulder can only do so little, not enough to stop the tightness creeping in or the irritation scratching insistently at his chest.
So maybe it’s inevitable that he’d struggle with a cough. It makes sense. His mother used to tell him he was a sickly child; perhaps he never grew out of it. Except, he doesn’t feel sick, at least not in the way he typically does, with his nose blocked and his body heavy. He just…feels like coughing.
He presses his mouth into the crook of his arm when another cough rips out of him, wet against his throat, and disgustingly loud in the quiet. He imagines it threading through the floorboards and walls, carrying all the way upstairs. Mr and Mrs. Wheeler laying awake in their beds. Mike’s parents exchanging looks in the dark. He’s coughing again. Is he sick? Does he have to stay here?
Will can’t even blame them if they want to kick him out. He’s already been here for a year. He can’t even imagine how much money they’ve spent on food, and water, for him.
At the very least, his brother isn’t here to be disturbed by his coughing.
He’d long since slipped upstairs, presumably into Nancy’s room. Will tries not to linger on it, but it’s impossible not to. Sometimes, he can’t help it. Can’t help but wonder if his brother’s tired of him. Hell, he’s tired of himself. Or rather tired of inevitably waking up with his heart rattling in his chest, slamming into his rib cage, the ends of a warbled wail tearing from his open mouth. Jonathan’s eyebags have only gotten worse; it’s pathetically selfish of Will to want him to stay here.
Will clamps an arm over his face, another cough forcing its way out through his throat painfully, bringing tears to his eyes as he wheezes. The pain is almost unbearable, the itchiness snagging deep into his ribs and hanging on, and no matter how much Will coughs or clears his throat, it seems like it’s found itself comfortable inside.
Sometimes, when Will focuses on it, he can almost feel it there, sitting in his lungs, with every laboured breath he takes in, shifting.
Water. He just needs water.
He pushes himself up as quietly as he can, the springs of the couch protesting anyway, creaking gently with his movement, digging into his thighs. Jonathan had insisted Will take the mattress, and while he’d assumed it’d been out of selflessness, he’s come to realize that despite how worn out the couch was, it was infinitely more comfortable then the mattress.
He wonders briefly if his brother knew that, if he’d just wanted to be selfish, or if he’d really thought the mattress was the better option. He pushes the thought away. Whatever his reasons, it didn't matter. Jonathan hardly spent much time down here, anyway.
Will blinks around the darkness of the room, squinting as he makes his way towards the stairs, bare feet light on the concrete. He’s quiet as he climbs them, skipping the fourth step—it creaks egregiously loud—and eases the basement door open.
The clock in front of him, hung slightly askance, reads 2:13.
He exhales. He can already imagine how horrible it’s going to feel waking up for school later; there’s already a faint headache prodding at him. A dull pressure, settling behind his eyes.
Whatever. Headaches really are the least of his problems, right now. He stands on the balls of his feet, reaching for a glass from the cupboard, and places it beneath the sink. He can feel another cough against his throat. Drinking the water seems to do criminally little to soothe the ache, and Jesus, he really needs to cough. There’s tears brimming in the corner of his eyes. But he’s on the middle floor; if he coughs the whole Wheeler house is bound to hear it. But it burns. Sits so heavy in his chest, threatening to slip out—
Will coughs.
It’s less of a simple cough and more of a drawn out wheeze that leaves him breathless. He can’t tell if it’s loud, or if he managed to get away with it quietly, with how it racks through him. It’s as if there’s something trying to climb out of his lungs, puncturing the walls of his throat, and into his mouth.
It’s then that Will notices something coppery against his tongue, flooding his mouth, and the thought makes him nauseous, dizzy even. He steps back, almost tripping over his feet, the cup placed hastily near the sink. He needs to get to the washroom, wash his face, go back to sleep, ignore whatever meaning this could possibly have, because he’s been coughing for a while but he’s never coughed out blood and that’s definitely a horrible, horrible sign of something—
“Will?”
Will freezes. His eyes snap towards the stairs. In all his glory, stands Mike, scrubbing at his eyes tiredly. It’s annoying that Will finds his heart stuttering even now.
He leans against the railing, yawning, “What’re you doing?”
Will swallows thickly. The blood goes down his throat horribly. Little of it as there was, he still grimaces. “Nothing, just…needed some water.”
Mike blinks, and for a second Will thinks that he’s seen through him, that there’s blood stained on his teeth, that he’d heard Will hacking, or something, but the moment passes. He shrugs, and skips the rest of the way down, picking up the cup Will had placed, and drinking from it.
Of all things to find himself stuck on, it’s the vision of Mike’s lips against where his had been.
“I’m going to go back to bed,” he murmurs. Mike smiles at him, lifting the cup in a wordless, goodnight.
Quietly, he spins on his heel, slipping down into the basement. The taste of copper haunts him for the rest of the night, but Will can’t help but feel like there’s something else lodged in his chest. No matter how much he coughs it never seems to unlodge itself.
He comforts himself with the knowledge that the next morning no one seems to notice he’d been coughing.
.
.
.
“Dude, you were coughing all night.”
Except Mike Wheeler that is. Will wobbles on his bike, swallowing thickly and keeping his eyes forward. If he makes eye contact with Mike, with his wide, questioning doe eyes, he’s sure to say something that will no doubt embarrass him.
He shrugs, but with how stiff his movements are it comes off as him jutting a shoulder in the air. “Dunno,” he mutters, “I think I caught something. Sorry.”
Mike raises an eyebrow. Or at least Will thinks he does. From the side of his vision he can’t see all that well; maybe he narrowed them instead. There’s a beat, where there’s nothing but the sound of their bikes clinging, tires skidding against the road, before Mike says, “Well whatever you caught it sounded horrible. My mom almost tried telling you to stay home.” He snorts, "Actually she tried to convince me to make you stay home.”
Will raises an eyebrow, and ignores the red dusting his cheek in embarrassment. He’d really hoped no one had heard him. He makes a note to apologise to Mrs. Wheeler. “Is this your way of trying to convince me?”
Mike chuckles. Will vehemently ignores the traitorous way his heart dips down into his stomach at the treacly sound, burning in stomach acid if the weak flutter it gives means anything. “Hell no man, I mean, who's going to keep me company during Mrs. Click’s class if you’re not there?”
Will rolls his eyes, giving Mike a soft shove, “Don’t say that; she’s really sweet.”
The sound Mike makes is halfway between a scoff and a laugh, “to you! Because she knew your mom in high school and they were friends; she hates me!”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Will insists.
Mike doesn’t answer. Will doesn’t need to look over to know what his face is doing—can picture it easily enough. His irises rolling upwards, his lips pulled into a halfhearted smile that means I hear you, but also I don’t believe you.
The expression pulls something loose in Will’s memory.
Mrs. Click’s classroom, stale and too warm. The sharp scrape of a chair leg against the floor as Mike’s been herded to the corner, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Will had been trying not to laugh then—had bitten down on the inside of his cheek as Mrs. Click’s scolding spiraled, thinning out into something meaner, sharper. He hadn’t even known why Mike had skipped her class, only that it had something to do with a movie that wouldn’t be showing again. Something R-rated. Something Mike hadn’t even gotten to see, apparently, which had only served to make Will laugh harder when they’d left her class.
She’d kept going, voice rising, folding into itself until it was barely about the rule at all, until Mike had finally muttered, just loud enough to be heard, just say no one takes you to movies.
The room had gone quiet after that. Or maybe not entirely quiet, since a small, mortified gasp had left Mrs. Click’s lips, her face turning an angry shade of red. Will remembers the way Mike’s mouth had set afterward, gulping. Had traced the movement with his eyes.
The memory fades as the road dips slightly beneath their tires, the hum of chains and spokes filling the space between them.
“She really doesn’t,” he says again, “But it certainly doesn’t help how you treat her.”
Mike doesn’t bother with a response at all, except for a mumbled, yeah, yeah. Will snorts as he follows after him.
“You know,” Mike starts, slowing down on his bicycle, after a couple of minutes of cycling. There’s something about his voice that sends shivers down Will’s back. A sweetness that feels undeserved, with how selfish Will is in wanting the sound for his ears only. “It’s probably the cold making you sick, the basement is pretty cold during fall.”
Will swallows thickly. He’s aware of just how cold their basement is. He spends most of his nights shivering, curled tightly into thin blankets, goosebumps raised all over him, after all. “You get used to it, I guess,” he shrugs.
“You’re so cold you’re coughing every night, Will, that doesn’t sound like you’re used to it,” Mike counters, and, well, there’s nothing Will can really say back to that.
He looks away, chewing on his lip, “It’s not so bad?”
The lie is blatant enough that Will expects the disbelieving scoff that slips out of Mike.
Most nights, Will feels the cold deep in his bones, curling tightly until he’s sure the Mind Flayer has slipped in again. Most nights, Will can’t shake off the terror clinging to him harder than the frigid cold does.
The basement isn’t that cold; Will’s just sensitive to it, is all.
“Well,” Mike says, and his voice is ridiculously viscous, sticking to Will’s ear, slipping inside and filling him with their sweetness. He’s almost worried he won’t hear Mike’s next words, and when Mike turns to smile at him, Will’s not sure he can even find it in him to care what Mike has to say, too focused on his face, the sound of his voice, “If it does get so bad, you can always sleep in my room. You know, like we used too.”
That’s not at all what he expected Mike to say. He blinks, trying his hardest not to seem as if he’s been dreaming of that exact scenario since he temporarily moved in with his family.
Will’s honestly not really sure his heart is beating at all, or if it’s just beating too fast.
Quickly—because Will took too long to respond, staring dumbly back instead—Mike adds on, “If you, uh, want to, that is. Just keeping the offer there, yeah?”
(Except, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler had made it clear what their opinions were on Will sharing a room with Mike.)
Will nods his head anyway, the movement jerky and stilted. “Yeah.”
Mike’s soft smile in return, stays imprinted on the back of his eyelids for the rest of the day. He feels breathless at the thought of it.
.
.
.
“Is that blood?”
Will almost jumps out of his skin at the sudden voice. It’s embarrassing the terrified squeak that slips out of his mouth unbidden. He whirls around, finding himself staring down Holly Wheeler, poking her head through the crack he’d left in the washroom.
What rotten luck.
She pushes the door the rest of the way open, eyeing him. He smiles wobbly at her, making sure to wipe his mouth on his sleeve just in case. He hadn’t even coughed out a lot of blood, just a little bit of rust colored phlegm he’d spit out in the sink. How’d she even notice?
“Blood?” He repeats, shaking his head, “Pfft, of course not.”
She frowns, or tries too, at least, but her lips pull into something more akin to a pout. It’s a lot like Mike, he notices. “I’m not an idiot.”
Shit. “I know that,” he tries again, “the only idiot in this house is Mike, anyways.”
Holly giggles. “Mike’s not that much of an idiot.”
No, Will supposes he isn’t. If anything, the only idiot here is Will. For keeping the door open, among the other numerous, bigger things that classify him as one. “I guess so,” he shrugs, flicking the lights off and stepping out of the washroom. He ruffles her hair, much to her annoyance. “But no, Holly, there’s no blood. It’s just…mucus. Like, when you’ve got a cold. Normal stuff.”
She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Urgh, boogers. No wonder you spend so much time with Mike.”
He wasn’t sure if that was an insult. The way she seemed to phrase it, certainly made it sound that way. “Yeah. Um, anyway. Speaking of Mike, maybe don’t tell him about this?”
Holly tilts her head. “Why?”
“Because he’ll—he’ll totally make fun of me for it. For getting caught with boogers by his sister.”
Her eyes squint disbelievingly in his direction, eyeing him up and down. There’s a beat where Will just smiles awkwardly back at her, while she continues to examine him, before she finally huffs. “All right. I won’t tell him.”
She skips away without another word. Will can feel relief flood through him like a wave.
.
.
.
He makes extra care that no one catches him after that. There isn’t enough time to worry about his cough when the next crawl is soon. And even if it wasn’t, Will doesn’t want to waste their time with something so pointless.
.
.
.
It’s a week of fitful coughing before someone other than Mike brings up his cough. Honestly, Will’s a little grateful his friends put up with it for so long. He supposes there can only be so long before their confusion turns into annoyed worry.
“Holy shit—can you stop that?” Dustin snaps, leaning away from the chemistry textbook he’d been flipping through. Or at least, Will thinks it’s chemistry. He hadn't opted to take any science courses save for biology this term. Mike had told him it’d be stupid to do that but, well, Will is still sure this is going to be another year fighting Vecna and he’d rather not have to redo a course because he failed it. He’s never been particularly good at any science, after all.
Although, Mike’s offer to tutor him was certainly hard to turn down.
Will clears his throat, keeping his eyes down on his math work. “Sorry,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Dustin to sigh. His apology comes out much less sincere when another cough squeezes out of him right after it.
He’d go grab a glass of water, except they’re not at the Wheeler’s house, they’re at the Sinclair’s—Mike had let them know that his father was going to lose his shit if they all studied at his place—and while Will’s comfortable enough around Mrs. Wheeler to slip into the kitchen and grab a glass, he’s a bit too scared of Mrs. Sinclair, in all honesty, to try. She was adamant that they strictly study and nothing else. Will has seen first hand the lectures Lucas gets; he doesn’t want to risk it.
So, instead, he tries to cough as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.
If the glare Dustin levels him with means anything, it’s that he was unsuccessful. He winces apologetically back.
“Seriously dude?”
“I’m sorry!”
From where he’d been leaning against Lucas’ bed, Mike clears his throat, “stop being an asshole, Dustin. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose.”
It’s ridiculous how his heart soars at Mike’s words. He shouldn’t be reacting this way.
Dustin lets out a sound of disbelief, “an asshole? How am I being an asshole?! Are you even able to study with all his coughing?”
Mike shrugs, “it’s not as bad as you’re making it sound.”
Dustin rolls his eyes. He mutters something beneath his breath that sounds like, yeah, it’s worse, but drops the topic all the same.
Will looks back down at his math work, putting his focus on solving instead. Despite it, he can feel his friends' gazes lingering on him every so often, clinging to him like the cold in the Wheeler’s basement. When he coughs it's as if he can feel their eyes, feel their path down his back, over his shoulders, down to where the crook of his elbow meets his mouth.
It’d be sweet if it weren’t so annoying.
“You can stop staring, now.” Will mutters.
There’s a collective variation of, we weren’t staring, that all of them immediately say. Will raises an eyebrow. At the very least, Mike looks sheepish about it.
Dustin squints at him, and there’s a flicker of worry that shines beneath. “Are you sick?”
Not as far as Will knows. He feels the same as usual. He shakes his head. “Don’t think so.”
Dustin continues his unabashed staring, for long enough that even Lucas looks weirded out, “What are you doing man?”
Dustin ignores him. “You’ve been this way since, what, last week?”
It’s been a bit longer than that. Will’s been coughing for two weeks; it’s only gotten worse since last week. He’d been hoping it’d get better, except that had clearly not happened. He nods anyway.
Lucas shuts his textbook, “Are you going to tell Joyce?”
Will scoffs. “You want me to tell my mom? So she can find another reason to keep me home?” Ever since she’d found Hopper in Russia, it was as if she’d become infinitely more protective. She’d check in on him every hour, even during the night, her voice coming out muffled through the walkie-talkie. How are you sweetie? Is everything okay? Are you sleeping?
It’s a shock she hasn’t tried home-schooling him yet.
At the very least, Lucas winces. “Yeah, forgot about that…”
“I still think you should tell her,” Mike speaks up. Will frowns, watching as he scoots away from the bed, until he’s sitting criss-cross in front of Will. “I mean, you look worse, way worse, you’re clearly not sleeping; whatever it is you’ve caught, it’s like…like it's killing you.”
Will swallows thickly. Mike’s gaze travels over his face, and the worry written on his features is crystal clear. He can’t stand to look at it.
He mutters a half-hearted agreement beneath his breath.
Mike shakes his head, and now there's anger in his voice, threaded in faintly, “No, no—Will you’re not going to—”
“Just drop it Mike. I’m fine.” he murmurs. Mike stares at him, his mouth stuttering around words before he sighs and settles back down.
The rest of the study session is silent. The thing in his ribs makes itself verily known by itching for the next hour, until he has to excuse himself to the washroom, coughing long enough that he almost falls to his knees.
It snags on tight to his lungs.
.
.
.
It’s a routine they’ve fallen into.
Will’s honestly not sure when it started, or why, but every once in a while, Mike will tap his shoulder as they’re biking home, look at Will with a soft smile, and without saying anything Will understands what he’s going to ask. He’s not sure why Mike bothers; he must already know Will’s going to say yes, anyway.
Maybe he’s still thinking of their interaction at Lucas’s house yesterday. Will’s not sure, and he’s happy they’d dropped it.
They slow as the gravel crunches beneath their tires the higher up they bike, Mike panting heavily with every strenuous push of his legs—it’d be funny how out of shape he was, if Will wasn’t in the same boat—the road curving as the quarry comes into view.
“Oh thank fuck,” Mike groans, falling off his bike and onto the dirt in a tangle of limbs. He swallows thickly, leaning back, as if he’ll somehow get more air in this position. Will’s eyes are stuck to the way sweat slips down his neck and clings to the hollow beneath his Adam’s apple. It’s mesmerising.
Will forces his gaze on the pile of rocks they usually lay on, and away from Mike. “C’mon, if you just sit there, you’re gonna get even more dirt on you. And then your mom’ll definitely yell at you.
Mike sighs, pushing himself up with a grunt. “Ugh, yeah yeah.” He dusts himself off, turning around to wordlessly ask Will if there’s still dirt on him.
There’s a dark smear of black on the back of Mike’s pants, streaking down to his thighs, from the mud he’d unluckily sat on. Will snickers, “Yeah…you’re not getting that off, Mike.”
“Well shit. My mom’s gonna kill me.”
Will wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Wheeler. He giggles softly as he settles on a rock, watching as Mike slips onto the one next to them.
Mike sighs, stretching his arms above him, “All that effort just to come up here and do nothing.”
“I wouldn’t say nothing.” It’s not as if they sit in tense silence, or stand pin straight for a couple of minutes. He shifts, placing his head on his hand to look at Mike better. “It’s like a break; especially after all the studying we did at Lucas’ house. Sometimes I even come up here and draw. The view’s really nice.”
Mike shrugs. Will can’t put his finger on it but there’s almost something off about him. “Well, sure, but we’re still just killing time. We’re not doing anything at all.”
Right. To Mike they're just killing time. To Mike this isn’t nearly as heart racing as it is to Will.
It’s a pretty night. The night sky is clear, save for a few drifting clouds, the lake from above a perfect reflection of the inkyness above it. It’s a very pretty night; if Will wanted too, he could almost call it romantic. Except that Mike is still dating his sister, and Mike doesn’t see this as anything more than as killing time with a friend.
Will pulls his legs close to his chest, burrowing his head on his knees. There’s an itchiness in his throat that doesn’t come from the need to cough. “Right.”
Mike clears his throat. He follows it up with an obnoxious kick to the ground, his heel skidding against the gravel. “Something's up with you.”
Will stiffens up despite himself. He shrugs. “You keep saying that.”
“Yeah, because I mean it, Will, I mean it.” Mike insists. Will doesn’t have it in him to tell Mike to just drop it. “You’re not…you’ve been so distant and quiet.”
“I’m usually quiet.”
“Yeah, but not like this,” Mike’s hand finds itself on Will’s shoulder. He’s not sure when he got up, how he did it so quietly, because Will notices too much about Mike to miss him getting up, even when he really wishes he wouldn’t. “You’re always tired, but you never sleep, you don’t talk in class, you don’t talk to me, or Lucas or Dustin, hell you don’t even talk to El and your mom, or even your brother, and you look—different, you look,” he pauses, looking over at Will, or the little of him he can see from where he’s tucked himself into his knees, “you look bad. Really bad.”
Will lets out a huff, a sneer curling on his lips, “Wow, thanks Mike.”
“That’s not—” Mike exhales sharply. “I—I didn't mean it like that. I just mean…you don’t look okay.”
Will’s fingers curl tightly over his knees. “I’m fine.”
Mike’s mouth twists in a frown, “You keep saying that.” He doesn’t miss Mike using his words from earlier against him.
“Well what do you want me to say?!” Will snaps, and it comes out infinitely harsher than he means. There’s hurt bleeding onto Mike’s face, a barley there recoil in his eyes. He regrets his words, but they hang heavy between them anyways. “That I’m tired? That I’m still not over everything that happened? That I don’t sleep well? Well congratulations Mike, welcome to my life!”
All the hurt bleeds off Mike and clots into rage. He pushes himself up, standing above Will, glaring down at him through his thick lashes. The night sky is still pretty above him; somehow it pales in regards to Mike. It’s almost exhilarating, it’s almost like normal—feeling breathless, and an itchiness in his chest, and Mike not wanting him—except that it feels awful instead.
He supposes that is his normal, nowadays.
“I don't know Will,” he snaps, “I don’t know—seriously, I don’t know—maybe start with the part where you’re literally coughing up blood? Like, actual blood. Don’t you think that’s kind of important?!”
Will’s heart stutters briefly in his chest. He swallows thickly, “I—how—?”
“She’s my sister Will, and you were coughing out blood, and tried to convince her not to tell anyone!” Mike brushes a hand through his hair, a crazed laugh slipping from his lips. It’s oddly beautiful. “No, no, you tried to convince her not to tell me specifically!” There’s enough hurt resurfacing in Mike’s tone to drown him. “Me!”
The itchiness in his throat burns. Will’s not sure he can speak around it. He looks away. Mike’s gaze is heavy on him. The night is quiet, save for the rustling of trees behind him.
“You’re not gonna say anything? You’re just gonna sit there?”
Will’s silence is answer enough. Mike scoffs, slumping down on the rock, his arms sprawled on his knees, dangling in between. He’s pointedly turned away from Will, so that his back is all that's facing him. He can’t see Mike’s face, but he can imagine it, his eyes hard with rage, his fists clenched. Can imagine it slipping out of him as the night presses around them.
Will’s throat burns, a cough pressing at it, except he can’t, because this might be the worst possible moment too. He presses his lips together.
“You didn’t even tell me,” Mike says finally. His voice is quiet, but not quiet enough that Will can pretend he never heard it at all. “You—we used to tell each other everything.”
Will’s fingers play with his sleeve. He feels small again, like he’s 10 and curled into Mike’s bed, with his fingers close enough to brush Mike’s again. He feels so small and useless. “I…I didn't think it was a big thing. Really."
“Coughing out blood isn’t a big thing to you?”
“It’s just a bit of blood,” Will insists.
There’s a crazed sound that resounds around them, a cracked thing Will barely registers as Mike laughing. It comes out strangled, like it hurts his throat, which makes it cruel that Will likes the sound. He pushes himself up from the rock abruptly, boots skidding against the gravel as he takes a few sharp steps forward.
Mike’s name lives and dies on Wil’s tongue as he watches Mike get dangerously close to the edge of the quarry.
His stomach drops.
“Mike.” He can feel his heart falter, his breath catching in his throat, “Mike,” he repeats, and he can almost feel the tremble in his voice.
Mike doesn’t turn around. “Do you hear yourself?” He says instead. His voice carries strangely in the open air, thinner than before. “Coughing out blood is nothing to you.”
Will scrambles to his feet, panic flaring hot in his chest. “I didn’t say it was nothing.”
“You basically did.” Mike kicks at the gravel. A few pebbles tumble down the slope, disappearing into the dark. “You always do this, you know. You decide something’s not bad enough to matter and then you just—what—wait it out? Hope it goes away?”
“That’s not—” Will coughs, the sound tearing out of him before he can swallow it down. He clamps his arm over his mouth, chest aching. It burns, but not as steadily or painfully as the panic does. “That’s not fair, Mike.”
Mike spins around.
His face is pale in the moonlight, lashes close enough to each other to be tangled with his narrowed eyes. He looks scared. He looks furious. He looks beautiful.
“What’s not fair,” Mike says, stepping closer to the edge again; a plucky, reckless backwards step. The rock beneath him groans in worry. “Is you acting like it wouldn’t matter if something happened to you.”
Will’s heart slams against his ribs. “Mike, get away from there.”
Mike ignores him. “What if you’re wrong?” He continues, voice cracking. “What if you wake up one morning and it’s worse? What if you pass out somewhere and no one finds you? What if—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “What if you die because you didn’t want to be inconvenient? Because you just wanted to be normal?”
“That’s not going to happen,” Will says quickly, desperately. “Mike, please—”
“How do you know?” Mike snaps. “You’re not a doctor. Jesus, you didn’t even tell one.”
He turns back toward the quarry, toes dangerously close to the drop. The water below is black and still, swallowing the starlight.
Something cold crawls up Will’s spine. It sinks into his lung and hangs on tight enough that he can’t breathe. “Mike,” he repeats, “Stop. Please. Please.”
Mike exhales shakily. “If something happens to you,” he says, very quietly, but it’s still not quiet enough and Will wants nothing more than to run away and ignore it, “I swear to God, Will—” He gestures vaguely at the edge. “I will, I will jump off of here. So you better tell someone—Ms. Byers, a doctor, anyone."
Will feels like the ground has disappeared beneath his feet.
“You’re not—” His voice breaks. “You’re not serious.”
Mike looks over his shoulder then, and there are tears streaking down his cheeks. All the same his voice is devoid of anything that would be a giveaway. “I jumped off this thing once because Dustin was being threatened," he says. “Don’t tell me I wouldn’t do it again.”
Will’s vision blurs. “That’s—that’s not the same,” he says, voice trembling. He takes a step forward without thinking. Horrifyingly, Mike follows, and Will really, really can’t breathe anymore. “Mike—Mike, that’s not the same at all.”
“It is to me,” Mike says. “It’s always the same. You’re going to die if I don’t do this.”
Will’s chest tightens painfully; he can’t breathe around it. He hasn’t been breathing. If anything, it’s Mike killing him right now.
“Don’t say that,” Will whispers. “Don’t—don’t do this.”
Mike’s shoulders sag. For a second, he looks small again. Like he’s also just 10, watching Will through half-lidded eyes, sleeping on the same bed, their problems as big as they are. He stares out over the water, jaw clenched. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers. It’s the first time Will can audibly tell he’s crying. “I can’t. I won’t.”
Will moves closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a frightened animal. His heart is pounding so hard he’s sure Mike can hear it.
“You won’t,” Will says, desperately. “I promise. I—I’ll tell my mom. I’ll go to the doctor. I won’t hide it anymore, okay? Just—just get away from the edge.”
Mike hesitates.
Will’s eyes stay locked onto Mike’s searching ones, offering a shaking hand for Mike to grab. Please, his eyes say, please move from the ledge Mike. Mike’s dark eyes don’t say anything in return, and for a moment Will thinks it's over, that Mike’s made his choice, that he’s going to fall backwards and let the inky darkness behind him swallow him whole.
But then Mike takes a step forward and lets his hand fall into Will’s.
The relief hits Will so hard his knees almost give out. Both his hands grab Mike’s sleeves, fingers digging in, holding him by the arms. His heart is rattling.
“Don’t ever do that again,” Will hiccups, and his voice is shaking, so are his hands where they’re gripping so tightly into Mike he’s sure to have bruises. “Don’t ever say something like that.”
Mike lets out a long, broken breath. Alive. He’s alive. “Then don’t scare me like this.”
Will nods, and he keeps nodding, until tears slip free before he can stop them. He sniffles, scrubbing angrily at his face, humiliated. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and his voice is thick with tears that it comes out too warbled for it to have had any meaning. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”
Mike’s face twists, and Will thinks it might just be guilt. He looks wrecked. Somehow he still also looks beautiful. Gently, Mike moves his hands forward, slow enough to let Will’s tight grip on his forearms to loosen. He reaches out, hesitant, before he pulls Will close enough to wrap him in a tight desperate hug.
Will buries his face into the crook where his neck and shoulder meet, clutching at the back of Mike’s jacket.
His heart doesn’t slow down for the rest of the night.
.
.
.
The bike ride back to the Wheeler’s is silent. Mike is a little ahead of Will, probably purposeful if the way he bikes harder whenever Will catches up to him means much.
He tries to ignore it, but there isn’t much to distract himself with. Usually their bike rides back are filled with conversation, inside jokes that make Mike’s face split in a laugh, both of them close enough that Will can reach across and put his hand over where Mike’s is on his bike. Not that he does, or ever would for that matter.
The space between them feels impossible, and the ride home feels longer than it ever has. Will knows he doesn’t have the best stamina, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so breathless before.
By the time the Wheeler’s house comes into view, Will’s beyond breathless. Following after Mike, he rests his bike against the wall, stepping into the quiet house. With a soft thud, the front door shuts behind Will.
He slips his shoes off, placing them next to Mike’s. He clears his throat. “Good night, Mike.” He wonders if it’d have been better or worse to have gone off to the basement without any words.
Mike doesn’t say a good night in response. In fact, he just stares blankly at the clock. Will takes it for the get lost that it is. It’s been a long day, or rather a long night, after all.
He sighs, turning on his heel, reaching for the basement door—
Except that he’s stopped by Mike’s hand wrapping around his wrist. “I’m not letting you sleep in the basement.”
Will blinks. And then he blinks again, turning around to look directly at Mike, who’s still not looking at him, still gripping his wrist with gentle hands. “What?”
“You heard me.”
And he did. But sometimes Will likes to imagine Mike offering for them to sleep next to each other again and he’s still not sure that he hasn’t imagined this either.
“I—why?”
Mike’s throat bobs. His lips move, but Will doesn’t hear the words that come out of his mouth.
He squints, “What?”
“To make sure you don’t die.”
Oh. “Oh.” It’s awfully ominous. Will’s not sure how Mike got it into his head that Will’s a dead man soon, and for whatever twisted reason Will’s chest can’t help but tighten at the worry.
Mike awkwardly reaches for the back of his head, “yeah.”
“But…won’t I disturb your family with all my…”
Mike rolls his eyes, “As if they can’t hear you coughing from upstairs.” Will had been hoping they hadn’t; he'd even tried quieting down. “Go change and come up.” Will considers telling Mike no, that he’ll be fine, but there’s enough conviction in Mike’s voice for Will to know he’s not changing his mind.
He nods his head, slipping down to the basement, changing into sleepwear, and climbing back up the stairs, down the hallway, face to face with Mike’s door. His lungs dwindle down until there’s no air left in them. He pushes the door open before he can overthink it any longer.
Sitting on the bed is Mike Wheeler. He doesn’t look different from when Will last saw him, five minutes ago. All the same he looks beautiful.
He gestures for Will to slip into the bed next to him, patting the empty space next to him.
“Your—I—” Will prays his cheeks aren’t as flushed in embarrassment as he feels. “I thought I was going to sleep on the floor?”
Mike shrugs, pulling the covers up to slip under them. “There’s enough space on my bed; it’s fine.”
It is fine. Will’s just making a big deal out of nothing. His footsteps are light as he pads across the room, swallowing thickly before he lets himself slip next to Mike on the bed.
Mike shuts off the lamp next to him. After that, the quiet that follows is so thick Will can’t breathe around it. It’s beyond awkward, and Will doesn’t know what to say to make it better.
What is there to say after your best friend, maybe, tries to kill himself because of you?
“I’m…sorry Mike,” he murmurs. It’s pathetic. It’s all he has.
Mike shifts. The mattress dips as he does, until he stops. If Will thinks about it, he can feel Mike’s breath against his neck, the feeling sends shivers down his back. It makes goosebumps rise on his skin.
“I thought you were dead.” Mike starts. Will blinks. Before he can even think to ask when, Mike continues, “That week. When you were missing and you were stuck in the Upside Down. When they pulled that body out of the quarry. I stood there and I—I really thought that was it. I thought you were gone.”
His throat tightens. The words I’m sorry feel heavy in Will’s mouth. They feel useless.
“And then again when the mind flayer possessed you, and you—Will, you didn't hear yourself; I thought you were going to die, I really thought that if I hadn’t lost you when I saw your body floating in the quarry, then I was gonna lose you there.”
Will tries not to think about that time, if he can. It’s impossible not to, when he’s in the basement, with goosebumps all over him, shivering in the frigid cold.
Mike’s voice hitches, and Will wants nothing more than to turn around and reach for Mike’s face, tell him he’s not dying. “And then you moved. And you stopped talking to me. And I thought maybe this time I’d really lost you. Like…like the universe finally got what it wanted, but I hadn’t, not yet, so I—I can’t lose you, not again, not again Will. So yeah. When I find out you’re coughing up blood and hiding it? It’s like—” He cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s like the universe is trying again.”
“Trying…?”
“To take you.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not going to take me Mike.”
“You don’t know that.”
“It hasn’t taken me before.”
Mike is silent for a moment. “I guess it hasn’t.” He doesn’t sound sure of himself. He sounds ridiculously unsure. Will doesn’t have any words of comfort to offer, so instead he pulls the covers tighter over himself and prays Mike won’t ask any more questions.
The rest of the night is silent. Will finds himself focused on Mike’s breathing as it steadies, tries not to think about how he seems to be trying to stay awake for Will, and doesn’t sleep the entire night. He tries too, but sleep evades him and he eventually gives up.
He slips back into the basement before Mike wakes up, before anyone wakes up really, and hacks in the washroom sink all that he’d been holding upstairs.
Ironically, it feels like a confession, like all he wants to tell Mike coming out of him.
.
.
.
Will finds himself not sleeping for the next week; there’s no telling himself the Wheeler family doesn’t notice, or that his own family doesn’t, because his eyebags are a dull gray that grow down his face like mold, and by this point whatever snagged on his ribs has made itself comfortable inside of him, using his lungs as velvety blankets.
.
.
.
He doesn’t have time to tell his mother about the cough. Although, he tells Mike he does.
He seems so relieved that Will feels guilt slip into him and threatens to close his lungs for good. He wonders if it's guilt that makes his chest ache.