Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler hates his goddamn life.
Well, not really. He loves college. Loves living with Will, loves the precarious thrill of senior year, loves the way the city feels like it has been carved just for him; for them.
However, at this moment, he hates it with a pointed, gnawing edge. He’s hunched over his desk, scribbling notes for his paper on Gothic literature; every muscle in his back aches from leaning too long over the ink-stained surface.
He could type instead- hear the twangy, satisfying click of his typewriter. There’s something incredibly satisfying about the rhythmic clack of the keys that soothes him; each keystroke a salve to his frazzled mind.
Unfortunately, it’s one in the morning and the thought of disturbing Will, sleeping quietly in his room down the hall, makes Mike’s chest constrict.
So he writes. Fountain pen pressed too hard, fingers stiff, knuckles whitening; his handwriting deteriorating into something barely legible. Small spurts of ink dribble out of the pen, leaving smudges of blue on his fingers; a stray speck lands on his wrist.
His bedroom is dark, suffused only by the yellow glow of his lamp. It throws looming shadows across the cramped space: towers of books teetering dangerously on the scuffed floor and bowing shelves, pen-streaked papers splayed across the desk, the bed half-erased by the gloom.
Mike is unbearably tired, but he’ll sleep soon- he’s nearly done. The bitter aftertaste of coffee lingers on his tongue, the one Will brought him hours ago, now cold and slightly acidic. His eyes sting, his mind is feathery at the edges, but he forces one last paragraph from himself. One more, just one more; then, he’ll allow himself to succumb to sleep.
That thought is shattered by a scream.
Sharp. Raw. Formidable.
It fractures the walls of the apartment, rattles his teeth, hammers into his skull. It’s a sound that carries weight- it vibrates through the floorboards, the walls, through the marrow of his bones, straightening his spine with violent urgency.
Mike freezes for half a second: pen hovering, chest tight, stomach churning, mind sharpening.
Then he moves.
Will is in danger.
The sound of his shrieks fills the apartment with alarming horror, flooding Mike with cold, all-encompassing dread.
Will being in danger isn’t new; it’s a phenomenon that has lingered with them since 1983. But it is still Mike’s worst nightmare.
Mike knows that Will being taken by the Upside Down all those years ago has left its mark- like a needle lodged between his ribs, permanent, stinging.
But really, Mike’s desire to protect Will, to respond when he’s in danger, has been entrenched within him for about seventeen years.
It first reared its head when Will came to elementary school most mornings shaken by his father’s yelling and stomping, the echo of slammed doors still ringing in his ears. Back then, Mike could wrap an arm around his best friend, tell him jokes until Will’s giggles filled the air. If Will scraped his knee or fell off his bike, Mike could gently wipe his tears and rush him to an adult, hold his hand while a bandage was pressed into place. Things were simpler then.
Of course, the instinct surged again when Will was possessed by the Mind Flayer- when Mike yearned to do something, anything, to take his best friend’s pain away. It couldn’t be solved with hugs or bandaids or funny words. Mike stayed anyway. Tried anyway. Because seeing Will Byers suffer and doing nothing is unthinkable.
That instinct is roaring now as the sickening cries of his best friend fill their tiny apartment.
Something is terribly wrong.
An intruder? A break-in? Or worse, something else. Something with too many teeth. Something that doesn’t belong in this world. Mike knows it’s impossible but the thought cuts through him anyway, rocking him to his core. Dread pools like lead in his stomach. He needs a weapon.
He throws the pen down, splattering ink across his pages in an ugly, spreading blot; he doesn’t even register it. He yanks the cord of his desk lamp from the wall and tests the dense metal weight of the appliance in his hand. The lamp is heavy, solid, the metal edge sharp- enough to do some damage if he needs it to.
Blackness engulfs him. The room vanishes.
In a split second, the night devours everything- the desk, the books, the familiar lines of the space disappearing all at once. Mike doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hesitate. His grip tightens on the lamp; it’s not the best weapon he’s ever wielded- but it will do.
He moves on instinct alone, launching himself into the unlit hallway, guided by memory and momentum. They haven’t lived here long but Mike knows this apartment by heart; it’s the first place he’s thought of as home in a while.
He traverses it with uneven haste- sliding over the chipped floorboard that dips and creaks near his doorframe, navigating the narrow stretch of wall before Will’s room, feeling for the way the space opens just before the handle. Mike doesn’t need light to find Will. He runs, socked feet slipping on the smooth wood, breath tearing from his lungs, heart slamming against his ribs.
One thought eclipses everything else: he has to save Will from whatever danger is plaguing him, whatever it is that’s causing him to scream. He must not let anything happen to him.
Not again.
Mike often thinks there must be a string tying his soul to Will’s.
That moment of clarity came years ago, when Will was taken and Mike knew- he knew- that he wasn’t dead. He felt it in every nerve ending, every blood cell, every frantic beat of his heart. The certainty settled deep in his bones, undeniable and unshakeable.
Mike Wheeler has had several moments of clarity in his life. Some small- so small they arrive as whispers, delicate impressions. They pass through him like half-formed thoughts, leaving behind embossed truths that only become crisp upon later inspection. Others are seismic shifts, sudden and catastrophic, splitting him open and demanding his attention. Every one of them is significant. He just hasn’t always been very good at recognising them when they happen. He’s better now. At least, he’s getting there.
So, after years of seeing their connection as a fundamental, cherished truth, Mike now pictures it as a thread- something that proudly links him to Will- not a restraint, never a chain. Something fine and resilient, spun between them with quiet care.
It stretches for miles, gives them room to breathe, to grow, to live lives that are wholly their own. It never tightens painfully, never drags him backward. It simply exists, steady and sure. And when they move closer- when something pulls- it gathers, humming softly beneath his skin.
Right now, as he runs, he can feel it draw taut. Not snapping but calling him home.
The screams grow louder.
Mike holds the lamp aloft and wrenches Will’s bedroom door open, sliding into the room.
Adrenaline surges through him as he scans the space. For a heartbeat, he expects an attacker- a body lunging from the shadows, a monster crouched just out of sight, teeth bared, waiting. His grip tightens on the lamp as his gaze tears across the room: a pile of sketchbooks stacked unevenly on the shelf, a dusting of pencil shavings scattered under the desk, the edges of the quilt twisted in disarray, a cream, green-flecked blanket fallen to the hardwood floor.
Then his eyes land on the bed. On Will.
Alone. Unharmed. The only violence here is the sound of his own cries ricocheting off the walls of the snug room.
The lamp slips from Mike’s hand, forgotten. The bulb cracks, the metal clatters against the floor. His attention snaps to Will.
Moonlight bleeds through the thin curtains, casting Will in a pale, fractured glow that both stills and accelerates Mike’s already racing heart. He’s sat up, rigid and fraught. His lovely face is twisted with pain, lashes wet, beads of sweat clinging to his skin. His soft, gray T-shirt is plastered to his back, darkened with heat and strain. His hands fist the sheets so hard his knuckles have gone blotchy, the fabric twisted between his fingers like a lifeline.
His chest heaves, broad and frantic, each sob tearing itself free.
Mike’s throat tightens. He wants to cry.
The truth lands with a hollow thud: the only danger in the room is Will’s own mind- a nightmare ripping through him, merciless and unseen.
Mike has spent years witnessing the aftermath of Will’s nightmares. From childhood sleepovers to long days in the halls of their high school, he learned to notice the subtle signs- the purplish hue beneath his eyes, his downturned mouth, sorrowful gaze and tired skin. Even in college, before they decided to live together, those same quiet telltales revealed themselves in early morning library sessions and long walks across campus.
The screaming is unusual. Will’s nightmares don’t normally sound like this; he endures them silently, teeth clenched, folded inward. The screaming is new. Terrifying.
And, traitorously, Mike is almost grateful for it.
Grateful that it dragged him here. That it pulled him from his desk and into this room. That for once, Will doesn’t have to face the agony alone.
He moves toward the bed without thinking, knees sinking into the mattress, pressing into Will’s thigh- solid, real. Every instinct in him screams to gather Will up, to shield him, to wrap him around like armor, to chase the horrors away with pure grit and determination.
But he stops. A distant, rational voice cuts through the panic.
Years ago, Owens had sat them down in a sterile room and explained how to help someone trapped in panic- consent, grounding, choice. Mike had listened. Had taken notes. Detailed ones. He’d pored over them for days, months afterward, like they were scripture.
Now, Mike’s hands hover, trembling, the invisible string pulled tight but held in check. Will’s breathing is ragged, broken. Each breath stutters painfully in his chest, his voice scraping raw as he tries, and fails, to pull in air.
“Can I- can I touch you?” Mike breathes, forcing his voice low, steady, attempting control.
He waits a few agonising beats. Sees the anguish flicker across Will’s beautiful features. Another broken cry croaks out of him before he nods- small, jerky, barely there.
It’s all the permission Mike needs.
He wraps Will up immediately.
Normally, Mike tries to keep himself more restrained. Tries not to wear his heart so blatantly on his sleeve, tries to keep his affection, tenderness, love for Will carefully contained.
Not now.
Mike presses his forehead to Will’s temple, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his skin, needing the reminder that he’s alive- in pain, shaken, torn up by his own mind but alive. One of Mike’s hands finds his back, rubbing slow, grounding circles in the hope of anchoring Will and, selfishly, himself. His other arm wraps firmly around Will’s front, pulling him close.
He wants to envelop him completely. Wants to draw the terror out of him, leave nothing behind but safety.
“Breathe with me,” Mike murmurs. “In for five. Hold it. Out for five.” Mike tries to take his own advice; breathe, “I’ve got you, Will. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just follow me.”
His voice wobbles despite his efforts. He swallows hard around the thick knot in his throat, repeating the words again and again, letting them wash over Will, hoping they might drown out the menacing images still clawing at him.
Time blurs.
Mike takes stock of the precious man in his arms.
Will’s shivering begins to ease. His smooth, honeyed skin gradually loses its chill beneath Mike’s touch, goosebumps chased away inch by inch. Color seeps back into his pale cheeks. His deft, artist’s fingers loosen their death grip on the sheets. A sob escapes him- then a breath, then a small, broken whimper; his voice is less frantic now. The voice that Mike has always thought of as home returns slowly. Hoarse. Raw. Scratched thin by fear but steadier.
After a while, Will presses his face into Mike’s shoulder. He looks so young like this. So small; curled into Mike’s arms as if that’s where he belongs. He does.
Mike vaguely registers the light shifting, the sky paling as the sun considers rising.
They’ve been here a long time. Breathing together. Somewhere along the way, Mike’s body has moulded itself to Will’s- fitting without effort, like it has always known how.
He would stay like this forever if it meant Will felt safe. Protected.
“I- ” Mike starts, then stops. The words won’t come. He tries again. “You okay?”
It sounds lame even to his own ears. Not good enough. Of course Will isn’t okay. The question feels useless the moment it leaves his mouth.
Will shudders in his arms.
Fear. Still there. Still lingering.
Mike tightens his hold just a fraction, heart aching, searching desperately for something better, something that might actually help. “Do you want me to stay?” he asks softly.
Suddenly, Will is looking at him and it robs the air from Mike’s lungs.
His hazel eyes shine, red-rimmed and glassy. Unshed tears cling to his lashes, quivering. His mouth is soft and bruised, his lower lip caught between his teeth like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
Will doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts, settling his ear over Mike’s heart.
The moment hits Mike with brutal clarity: he would die for the man in his arms. Without hesitation. Without question.
“Do you want me to stay?” Mike repeats quietly, the desperation threading his voice despite his best effort to keep it steady.
He rests his cheek against the crown of Will’s head. His hand settles in Will’s hair, fingertips tracing small, careful patterns.
Mike waits with bated breath.
Please say yes, he thinks- because all he wants is to stay. To hold him until the vile images recede, until unease loosens its grip.
Will keeps his eyes down. His cheeks flush suddenly, a rush of color blooming there. Embarrassment? Shame?
Mike feels sick.
“No,” Will says finally. “I’m so sorry, Mike.” The words squeeze out of him, fractured. “You should- you should get some sleep.”
No, Mike wants to say. Please don’t push me away. Please let me stay.
Will’s doe eyes lift; the swirl of emotion in them is deafening. Hurt. Guilt. Dismay. Want. A quiet plea for space maybe.
Mike has to respect that. He exhales slowly, fraught emotion spilling into the air between them. “Okay.”
It hurts to say.
His arms loosen reluctantly, inch by inch, as if hoping Will will change his mind. He has to untangle himself from him, their bodies have melded together without either of them noticing.
Just as Mike begins to pull away, Will whispers into the fragile quiet, “I’m sorry.”
Mike’s heart twists painfully. He wants to protest. To insist on staying. To tell Will he doesn’t owe him anything- least of all an apology.
Instead, he leans in and brushes his lips against Will’s hair, a soft, instinctive gesture. A token of comfort. A message that he’s still here.
Then he leaves.
Hesitant. Quiet. Hoping, foolishly, that Will might call him back. The frigid, early-morning air settles on his skin, any source of warmth evaporating as he exists.
The string between them pulls taut as Mike walks back to his room, an uncomfortable tension settling deep in his chest- not broken, just stretched. Even under his own sheets, he feels the pull from Will’s room, the thread tugging softly at him. His heart still resides there, among the soft sheets, nestled in the curve of Will’s shoulder.
Mike lies unmoored in the quiet light of dawn, a moment of clarity sweeping over him: William Byers deserves nothing but safety. Nothing but love.