Chapter Text
The sky over Hawkins had split open, letting the rain pour. It was cold, almost too cold.
Will kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, boots squishing in puddles. His head was too full of the hours they had just spent at the Squawk, but he barely noticed the cold, or the rain. The maps, the red lines drawn over the Upside Down, the plan, it all felt miles away now. He was too busy trying to calm himself down after...
whatever that was.
It was already getting dark by the time the Wheeler house came into view.
Mike was walking ahead of him. Not far, just far enough.
Usually, after a planning session, Mike couldn’t shut up. He’d walk backward, rain or no rain, talking with his hands, voice tripping over itself as he replayed every detail.
Tonight, Mike didn’t say a word.
Will stayed a few feet behind Mike. Every time Will sped up, Mike did too. Not dramatically. Just a little. Enough to keep the distance the same.
Five feet.
Always five feet.
Mike’s hair was a mess, dripping water down his neck, but he didn't seem to notice. He just kept his head down.
Yesterday hadn’t started this.
Yesterday had just ripped the cover off.
"I don't like girls, Mom."
Will had said at the squawk. Robin had told him it would help to let it out. To pick one person. A start. His mom was supposed to be the safe person, the beginning.
He hadn’t seen Mike at first. Just the doorway. Just a flicker of movement. Mike’s face. wide-eyed, pale, before he bolted.
Since then, Mike hadn’t looked at him. Not once.
A car sped past them and tore through a puddle at the curb. Cold water splashed up Will’s legs, soaking his jeans to the knee.
Mike didn’t turn around.
Usually, he would’ve grabbed Will’s arm, yanked him back, complained about his terrible timing. Tonight, he just kept walking.
He’d tried saying Mike’s name all day. Every time, Mike found a reason to disappear. Checking on Holly. A headache. A dead battery. Anything that didn’t involve standing still and looking at him.
The silence between them wasn’t the good kind. It wasn’t the quiet they’d shared for years, shoulder to shoulder, no words needed.
This silence had edges.
Jonathan stood in the Wheeler doorway, towels slung over his arm. He waved when he saw them. Mike didn’t react. Will barely managed a nod.
Will noticed Mike's avoidance. of course he did. he didn't need to see Mike's face. He knew the specific way Mike’s left shoulder hiked up when he was lying, and the way his stride shortened when he was about to bolt. He’d known those patterns since they were five.
It wasn't just about yesterday. Things had been shifting for months, ever since they’d moved into the same house. The fun was gone. Mike had become polite in a stiff, fake way that made Will feel like a nuisance. But after yesterday, even the politeness was dead. Now, there was just... nothing.
They finally got to the Wheeler house. Mike didn't hold the door. He just pushed inside, leaving Will to catch it before it slammed.
"Move it! You're going to get sick!" Joyce was already there, looking stressed. She grabbed Mike and started scrubbing his head with a towel. Mike just stood there like a statue, staring at a spot on the wall.
"Will! Come on, get in here!"
A towel was pressed into Will’s hands. It was warm. Too warm. The cold in his bones suddenly felt deeper.
Jonathan was smirking as they stepped in. “You two look like you just fought a hurricane.”
Neither of them answered.
“Thanks, Mrs. Byers,” Mike muttered. He grabbed the towel and headed for the stairs without looking back.
“Mike?” Karen called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready. Aren’t you staying?”
“Not hungry, Mom.” Mike called back, already halfway up.
Will stood there with the towel clutched in his hands, throat tight, words piling up uselessly behind his teeth.
Jonathan stepped closer, eyes sharp in that way that meant he already knew the answer. “You okay?”
Will took the towel, "Yeah, I… I'm fine."
Jonathan studied him for a second longer. “You sure about that?”
Will forced his mouth into something that might pass for a smile as he headed toward the basement. “Yeah. I’m just… tired.”
Behind him, Jonathan glanced at the stairs. Then at Joyce.
“Something’s up with those two.”
Joyce didn’t answer. She was still staring at the spot where Mike had disappeared.
After the house finally went quiet, Will sat on his bed with his legs pulled up to his chest. He had the blankets twisted around him, but he still felt a chill he couldn't shake.
Part of him wanted to march straight into Mike’s room and scream. Not yell, scream. Force something out of him. Force him to look, to say anything.
The other part of him was exhausted.
It wasn't always like this. His mind drifted back to the summer of '84.
They were sitting on the basement floor with a board game between them. Mike was winning, like he always did. Will was losing badly, and he knew it.
Then, without saying a word, Mike had moved a piece just a little bit. He’d cheated to let Will take the lead. When Will looked up, Mike was already watching him with that small, crooked smile.
"Gotcha," Mike had whispered.
Will had grinned like an idiot. His heart had felt so full back then, just because Mike wanted him to be happy.
That version of Mike felt like a different person. A different life.
Will’s throat tightened as he replayed it. Mike wasn’t looking at him now. Not like that. Not like he had on that summer day.
Everything that had been effortless between them before: laughter, small glances, the unspoken understanding, now felt distant, impossible, even.
Will closed his eyes, but he could still see Mike’s face. He could accept that they were friends, and he could say the words out loud, but it wasn't the same. He didn't just want to be "fine." He wanted to be seen. He wanted to be the person Mike looked at like he did that day in the basement.
And the part that hurt the most was knowing he might never get that back.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚
It was the next morning, and Will hadn’t slept much.
The rain has stopped, leaving Hawkins washed clean, like the night never happened. Like it can all be erased.
God, he wishes it could.
Sunlight spilled through the kitchen blinds. The smell of toast and eggs filled the kitchen space. At the table, Ted Wheeler sat behind a newspaper, completely oblivious to the tension, humming a tuneless song while he poked at a piece of bacon he barely grabbed on time. Nancy was arguing with Holly about a missing sweater, Jonathan and Joyce were talking.
It was loud. It was normal, because the 2 families were living together now. The noise is something Will had adjusted to, even if it wasn't always something pleasant.
Will sat at the table with his spoon hovering over his cereal, completely still as his eyes scanned the room and his gaze instinctively flicked to the empty seat.
It should have been filled.
Where was Mike?!
The others didn’t notice, didn’t care yet.
He didn’t even come down?
Will put his spoon down, hands tightening around the full bowl of cereal he couldn't eat.
Did he go back upstairs? Did he sleep through it? Is he mad? Is he avoiding me? Does he- Does he...
“Where’s Mike?” Nancy asked, finally noticing and breaking Will away from his thoughts.
“Probably already ate,” Karen said. “Or he’s sleeping. You know him, been staying up way too late lately”
“Nocturnal raccoon,” Holly added with a giggle.
Will’s stomach dropped. He knew Mike wasn't sleeping. He could feel Mike’s presence upstairs. His stomach grumbled, but he couldn't bring himself to eat at all. What if Mike didn't come down because of him?
He picked at his food, didn't even drink his favorite orange juice. His lack of appetite didn't go unnoticed, however.
Joyce shot him a concerned look. "Will, sweetheart, you're barely eating. Are you feeling okay?”
"Yeah, I’m fine" Will pushed his bowl away. "Just… not hungry, mom. I’ll go rest."
"Alright. But if you need anything-"
"I'll be fine mom," he interrupted, already heading towards the stairs. Joyce exchanged a concerned glance with Jonathan as Will disappeared upstairs.
Will glanced at Mike's door. There was no sign of him. He wanted to knock on his door, to make sure he was okay, to say I’m sorry, or to ask please don’t hate me.
He bit his lip as he went closer and closer to his room, his hand hovered over the doorknob now, fingers trembling as his thoughts raced.
Should I knock? Should I just… go back? But no, he had to know. He had to make sure Mike was okay.
Maybe he’s gone somewhere. Maybe he’s avoiding me. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here.
He counted in his head. one, two, three-but the count didn’t help. He imagined Mike turning, seeing him there, probably irritated, probably… disappointed.
Will pressed closer, his ear grazing the crack of the door, listening for any little sound, any tiny clue that Mike was there and hadn’t already decided he’d ruined everything.
Nothing.
He leaned forward, pressing his eye to the crack of the door and froze.
Mike was standing near the window, his back to him, shoulders tense. He had Will's painting in his hands, the one Will poured his whole heart into.
Will blinked. Relief slammed into him first. Mike’s okay. He’s fine. He’s here. But that relief switched to panic instantly as he realized what was happening.
Mike muttered something under his breath. Too quiet. Probably a curse. Probably about the painting he was holding roughly. Then, Mike’s fingers began to twitch. He was clutching the painting as if he were trying to squeeze the life out of the paper.
Crrr-ack.
The sound was small, but in the quiet room, it sounded like a bone snapping.
Mike’s fingers had dug too deep into the corner of the painting. The thick paper buckled, the tension of Mike’s shaking hands finally causing it to split.
Will flinched, his own hand flying to his mouth. He had poured every secret, every ounce of love into that painting, and now he was watching Mike literally tear it apart with his own hands.
Mike muttered again. Something… frustrated? Disgusted? Will couldn’t tell, but he knew, that this was the beginning of something even worse for them.
Will saw Mike looking at the tear he’d made, and for a second, he looked horrified. Mike didn't try to fix it, he just let his grip go slack, the paper was crumbling in his hands.
Then...thud.
Mike let go, and the painting dropped to the floor. It didn't look like a gift anymore. It looked like something discarded. He stepped back, running a hand through his damp, messy hair, his jaw so tight his whole face looked distorted.
“Ugh… damn it…”
Will couldn't watch it anymore. He couldn't watch his best friend destroying them. He backed away from the door, his mind racing.
He hates it. He hates me, doesn't he?
As he decided to walk away, his foot caught on the carpet, making a soft scuff.
Mike’s head snapped toward the sound.
For a split second, their eyes met through the crack of the door.
Mike saw a flash of Will’s face, wide-eyed and full of hurt, before Will turned and vanished down the stairs.
"Will—?"
Will reached the bottom of the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. He ran into the living room, pressing his back against the wall, breathing hard. He felt like he'd just run a marathon, or maybe like he'd been punched in the gut.
Mike didn't chase after him.
Fuck.
The front door was still open downstairs, morning light filled the empty space where two boys should be sitting together having breakfast but weren't anymore because one idiot couldn’t stop himself from ruining things between them once again.
Will leaned against the wall, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as he kept replaying that moment on the stairs, the way Mike had held the crushed painting in his hand, the look on his face...
Will walked into the kitchen again, his heart feeling like it was about to jump out. He felt hot, flushed, his head was spinning. Joyce glanced up at the confused face of Will as he walked in.
"Hey, Will, you alright baby? You sure you feeling okay?"
"I...you're right mom, I don't feel too good. Can I stay home today?"
"Oh, honey." Joyce placed a hand on his forehead. "You're burning up, do you have a fever? you can stay home today. Take it easy."
Will forced a nod, but even that small movement made the room spin. He wasn't lying about feeling unwell, but it wasn't a virus or a fever.
Joyce moved close to Will and whispered. "Is this about... Vecna? Is that why you're feeling unwell? Did something hap-"
"No, no, it's...It's not that mom, it's...."
"You know you can tell me anything, right? Even if it's not about... him." Joyce grabbed his hands, sweaty from adrenaline.
"It's just a fever, I think," he mumbled unconvincingly.
Joyce nodded slowly before turning back to Jonathan as if she believed him.
The rest of the day dragged on, each second feeling like an hour.
Will tried to read, but he kept staring at the same page for twenty minutes. He tried to draw, but he just ended up staring at the blank paper until his eyes hurt. He even turned on the TV and sat there with the remote in his hand, but he wasn't actually watching.
Everything he did felt fake. No matter what he looked at, all he could see was Mike’s face and that ruined painting on the floor.
He went into the kitchen just to have something to do. He looked at the clock on the wall.
12:47 PM.
The red numbers just kept blinking. Blink. Blink. It felt like he’d been awake for days.
The house was too quiet. Usually, Mike had music playing, or you could hear him pacing around and talking to himself. But today, there was nothing.
Mike is at school, Will told himself. He’s with Dustin and Lucas. He’s thousands of miles away from this room.
He sat on the couch and tried to disappear into the cushions. It was so quiet he could hear the clock ticking in the other room.
Then, he heard a loud thump from upstairs.
Wait. Mom is in the living room. Jonathan is with Nancy.
Then came the footsteps.
They were slow and heavy, like whoever was walking was dragging their feet. They moved across the floorboards above his head, heading toward the stairs.
His skin went cold. He didn't have to look up to know who it was. He knew that walk.
Mike.
He hadn't gone to school. He had been up there the whole time, sitting in the dark, while Will was down here doing the exact same thing.
Will stayed exactly where he was, his fingers tight around his pencil. His heart was hitting his ribs so hard he was sure Mike could hear it across the room.
"Oh."
Mike stopped right in the doorway. He looked like he’d just walked into a wall. His hair was messy, eyebags visible, and he looked like he hadn't slept at all.
Will didn't look up, but he could feel Mike’s eyes on him for a second before they snapped away.
"You're... you're home," Mike said. He sounded like he was struggling to find the words. He started looking at everything else in the kitchen—the toaster, the crumbs on the counter, the tiles on the floor. He looked at everything except Will.
"Um. Yeah," Will managed to say. "I, uh... I wasn't feeling well."
Mike just stood there. He nodded slowly, but he still wouldn't make eye contact. "Yeah. Me neither."
For a moment, they both lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. It was like they were both caught off guard by the other's presence.
It was clear Mike had come downstairs thinking the house was empty, and now he was stuck.
"Also… uh… sorry for… you know… lurking," Will muttered, his voice trailing off. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," Mike said. He cut him off so fast it made Will flinch.
Will felt his face get hot. He just nodded, staring down at his notebook until the lines on the paper started to blur. Neither of them moved. They were just two people in a kitchen, acting like they hadn't known each other their entire lives.
"I... I guess we both decided to play hooky today," he said lamely, a small attempt to lighten the mood.
Mike didn’t smile. He didn’t even look up. "Yeah... I guess."
They lapsed again into that awkward silence again.
They fell back into that silence. It was worse this time. Will kept his eyes glued to the table, but he wasn’t seeing it. His brain was stuck in a loop: the sound of the painting tearing, the look on Mike’s face, the way Mike’s hands had crushed the paper. Mike, Mike, Mike. It was all he could think about.
Mike exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed himself off the wall.
"I, uh... I gotta go to the Squawk," he muttered. He was talking too fast, like he was in a race to get out of the room. "To help everyone with the plan."
Will’s head snapped up. For a second, he looked hopeful. He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"I'm coming with you," he said. His voice was too loud, too desperate, and he knew it the moment the words left his mouth.
Mike turned around. He looked surprised, but then his face shifted into something else. It looked like panic.
"Absolutely not, William Byers."
Joyce rushed into the room, cutting them both off. She’d clearly been listening from the next room. "You're flushed and you're sweating right through your shirt."
Oh No.
Will froze. He’d finally found an excuse to be near Mike, to maybe fix things, and it was gone just like that. He was sweating, and his face was hot, but it wasn't because of a fever.
He shot Joyce a panicked look, the kind of look he usually reserved for when she threatened to ground him. "Mom, I'm fine I just needed some air." His voice cracked on the last word like an idiot.
Mike’s eyes kept darting back and forth between Will and Joyce, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else on earth.
"No. You’re staying home." Joyce didn't budge.
Of course she wanted him to stay here while everyone else was off making decisions and planning without him.
Every part of him wanted to bolt out the door after Mike. He wanted to catch him, to fix whatever was broken, and to stop the wall between them from getting any higher. But the look on Joyce’s face stopped him.
He knew that look. It meant "no arguing."
Slowly, Will slumped back into his chair. He watched Mike turn away and walk out the door.
"Baby, you're burning up," Joyce said, her hand pressed against his forehead. "I'm serious. You’re staying right here."
"Mom, I’m fine, it’s just the heat in here—"
"It’s not the heat," she cut him off, already looking around for a blanket. "I don't care if the world is ending, I am not letting you collapse because you're too stubborn to admit you have a fever."
Will didn't have the energy to fight her anymore. He just nodded and sank deeper into the chair. He watched his mom hurry away into the other room, leaving him alone in the quiet kitchen.