Chapter Text
“He’s a sorcerer! A real life, honest-to-god sorcerer!”
Those are the words Will hears before he’s enveloped in the sweet smell of Mike Wheeler. He can feel Mike’s arms wrap around Will as he squeezes tight, as if he never wants to let go.
He still hasn’t processed it, really. Everything that had just happened— Will channeling his powers, killing the demogorgons, saving Mike. It felt somewhat like a dream. And yet, what felt the most dream-like was being embraced in Mike’s arms.
“Mike,” Will whispers. He buries his head in Mike’s curls, breathing in his scent, memorizing every little detail about this moment— a moment too brief for Will’s liking.
Alas, Mike pulls away.
“You did it! You really did it!” Mike sounds like he’s in awe. In awe of Will. His eyes are wide, the faintest trace of a smile lingers on his face as he looks at Will, seeming to take in every detail as well.
“He is a cleric,” comes a voice from behind Mike. “Not a sorcerer.”
Mike whirls around at the sound of the correction. His brow furrows, mouth opening slightly. “What the—”
“A sorcerer’s powers are innate,” the voice continues calmly. “William’s are not. His power is drawn from another source. Hence, a cleric.”
Will doesn’t believe his own eyes.
For one dizzying second, he thinks maybe the powers had broken something in his brain— because there, sprawled half on his side across the ground, is Mike. Another Mike.
Will’s gaze snaps to the boy standing beside him— his Mike, flushed and breathing hard, eyes bright with adrenaline—and then back to the one on the ground. Not your Mike, Will reminds himself.
The other Mike is…wrong. Different. He seems older, somehow, in a manner having nothing to do with age itself. He wears armor, real armor. Thick, dull steel plates strapped over leather, scratched and dented like they’ve seen more than a few battles. A broad shield lies near his hand, its surface marred with deep gouges, and a sword is clutched loosely in his other fist. There’s a long, angry scratch down the side of his face, blood seeping freely from it.
Other Mike groans, then pushes himself upright with a grunt, bracing on one knee. His head swivels slowly from left to right, sharp eyes taking in his surroundings, the dead soldiers, the fire, the faces.
Will can’t speak. He’s tall. Taller than Mike, although that might be because of the boots. Broader, too. Will’s eyes linger on Other Mike’s shoulder.
Joyce moves before Will even realizes it. She steps directly in front of him and Mike, arms spread wide, body rigid with a protectiveness that borders feral.
“Who are you?” she demands.
It’s a little funny, seeing his mom, shorter than both boys, standing her ground against someone twice as armored and far more imposing than her. But there’s nothing funny about her tone.
Mike peeks around her arm. “Yeah,” he adds, pointing a finger before immediately regretting it, “who the hell are you?”
Joyce doesn’t even look at him when she reaches back and smacks the back of his head.
“Ow!”
“Get back,” she mutters.
The armored Mike freezes. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his sword and lets it clatter harmlessly to the ground. Then, to Will’s complete shock, he bows his head.
“I intend no harm,” he says. His voice is deeper than Mike’s, steadier, like someone who’s earned everyone’s respect effortlessly. “Joyce the Sage.”
“Sage?” Will blurts out. Joyce’s arms waver just slightly.
Will reaches forward, gently pressing them down. “Mom, it’s okay. I just—” He swallows. “Who are you?”
The armored Mike lifts his head. His eyes land on Will, and something in his expression breaks open, raw and fragile.
“William,” he breathes delicately.
The way he says it soft and reverent, like a prayer, makes Will’s stomach twist. Other Mike takes a step forward. Joyce immediately steps back into his path, and Mike mirrors her movement without thinking, the both of them forming a human shield around Will.
Right. In all his awe and confusion, Will had momentarily forgotten the most important thing.
He does not know this man.
Other Mike stops himself, visibly forcing his feet to stay planted. His gaze flicks between the three of them, then settles on Will again, searching, like he’s looking for something specific.
“You do not remember me?” he asks quietly. His voice seems to hold worlds of pain, pain that Will cannot fathom.
Will shakes his head, cautious. However, the moment he does, the world tilts violently.
His vision swims. The world stretches and warps, colors bleeding at the edges. He takes an unsteady step back, his hand flying to his temple.
“I don’t feel very well,” he mumbles.
Immediately, Joyce and Mike are there. Joyce grips his arm, Mike takes most of his weight without hesitation.
“Whoa, Will,” Mike says, voice tight with panic. “Easy. I’ve got you.”
Other Mike rushes forward. “William!” he cries, tossing his shield aside as he runs.
Mike whirls, fury flashing hot and immediate. “Get away from him!”
Will barely registers the shouting.
Everything is too loud. Too bright. His head pounds like it’s trying to split open. Through the haze, he sees two Mikes in front of him. One is familiar, one towering and blurred, reaching out like he’s afraid Will might disappear.
The last thing Will hears before his eyes slide shut is Mike’s voice, sharp and protective.
“I said get away from him!”
He hears whispers and hushed voices drifting closer. Will does not open his eyes. He doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to. His body feels heavy, as if he’s a doll stuffed with wet sand, as if his every limb is made of lead, pulled down by the magnetic force of the earth. The only thing that comes easy is breathing. So he lies there, listening to these hushed voices, as he breathes.
“I don’t know what happened,” his mother is saying. Her voice sounds tight, frayed at the edges. “He just collapsed. Well, after he took out a demogorgon—”
“Three!” Will recognizes Mike’s voice cut in sharply, but excited. His voice is close. Very close, Will notes distantly. “He killed three demogorgons, all by himself. He’s a literal sorcerer!”
“A cleric,” another voice corrects, clipped and unmistakably annoyed. Will feels his eyelids twitch. The voice sounds exactly like Mike.
Except it doesn’t. The words are too precise, too carefully articulated. Each syllable lands cleanly, like it has been weighed before being spoken.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Mike mutters.
“Sorry, who is this…New Mike, again?” Will hears Robin’s voice. “And what is he doing here?”
Will hears a dull clunk of metal as Other Mike seems to be moving. Then, he speaks again.
“Michael the Brave, dear lady,” he says calmly. “Though I would ask that you address me as Michael, so as to lessen the confusion. I know not why I am present here. The last I recall, I stood in battle against a mighty dragon, one that has long terrorized our kingdom, alongside my party. My true place is at the castle, hand in hand with my love.”
Will hears Mike scoff before Joyce exhales slowly. “Right. This is… Michael,” she says carefully. “We don’t know how he’s here. But we think Will brought him here. With his powers.”
“I still cannot believe Will has powers,” Lucas’ voice pipes up, incredulous.
“They are not his own,” Other Mike, or Michael, corrects immediately. There is no judgment in his tone. If anything, there is reverence.
“He draws these abilities from higher sources, from divinities beyond himself. That does not render him weak,” Michael continues. “It makes him formidable. William is not to be underestimated.”
“It’s Will,” Mike corrects sharply. “And if you know so much about him, then why isn’t he awake?”
“He has channeled divine power,” Michael replies, exasperated, as if this is common knowledge. “Such acts are taxing beyond measure. The body is not meant to serve as a conduit for forces so vast.”
A pause, then Joyce asks, “Is he going to be okay?”
Another brief pause. Will can’t find it in himself to speak up yet, so he lets it linger.
“Yes,” Michael says at last. “But rest is not a suggestion. It is a necessity.”
That’s when Will decides he has had enough of everyone talking about him. He cracks one eye open.
“I’m okay,” he croaks. He sees Mike’s head swivel to Will, right before Joyce breathes out, “Oh my God,” and rushes forward. Her hand cups his face, thumb brushing his cheek, as her eyes dart everywhere at once. “Sweetheart, how do you feel? Are you dizzy? Does—does anything hurt?”
Will pushes himself up slightly, wincing as his head throbs. “I’m fine,” he insists weakly. He looks around.
They’re in the WSQK basement. Someone has laid him out carefully on the couch. Mike is right there, practically pressed into his side, one hand hovering like he is not sure where he is allowed to touch. Across from them, Robin, Erica, and Lucas sit in a row, all three staring at him like he might disappear again if they blink. Lucas’ chest is bandaged, a deep red blooming from the white bandages.
And then, Will’s eyes fall on Michael.
He is on the other side of Will, kneeling, his shield and sword no longer in hand, but still resting nearby. Up close, the differences are even more obvious. He is broader. Older, somehow, not in age, but his soul seems more experienced. His dark curls fall past his shoulders, glossy and loose, framing a face that is unmistakably Mike’s and yet not anything like it.
Will’s head swivels slowly from one to the other.
Two Mikes. He swallows. Is this a dream? If so, Will does not want to wake up.
Joyce presses her palm to Will’s forehead. “You scared us half to death.”
“I’m sorry,” Will says automatically. “But I’m fine, really.”
She continues to pat his face, checking for something. Will doesn’t know what. He’s not even sure if she knows what.
Mike’s lips purse at Will’s statement, like he doesn’t believe him.
Michael speaks instead. “He will recover,” he says. “Clerics require rest and peace after such exertion. Both have been provided.”
“This is so freaky,” Erica mutters. “Like, seriously. I have seen a lot of weird stuff around you nerds, but this is ranking high.”
Murray clears his throat from the stool in the corner. “Okay. This is all very fascinating. Truly. Ten out of ten, no constructive notes on the doppelgänger situation.” He gestures vaguely between the two Mikes. “But we still have an interdimensional psychic overlord with twelve children under his control. What exactly is the plan here?”
Joyce straightens immediately. “The hive mind,” she says. “We get Will to the hive mind again. But this time, we have him target Vecna directly.”
The room goes quiet. Will turns his head toward Michael. “Can I do that?”
Michael considers him for a long moment.
“It depends,” he says finally. “Are you afraid?”
Will hesitates. “Afraid of… what?”
“Vecna,” Michael replies easily. “In my realm, he is a vastly different creature. But your Vecna, from what your party has described, is cruel and powerful in a separate manner. Yet, I assume the question remains the same regarding your use of his powers. So, I ask you plainly—are you afraid?”
Will opens his mouth. No words come out.
Mike answers for him.
“Of course he’s afraid,” Mike snaps. “We all are. What does that matter?”
Michael shakes his head slowly, his curls swaying with the motion. Will’s eyes track the movement. “It matters greatly.”
Erica leans forward. “Because clerics channel power through belief,” she says. “Fear messes with that. You cannot pull divine energy if you do not believe it will answer you. Right?”
Michael looks impressed at her abundance of knowledge on the matter.
“Precisely, Lady Applejack.”
Erica beams proudly.
Michael’s gaze shifts back to Will, intent but gentle. “Channeling a divinity’s power against a being of that magnitude,” he pauses, then continues, “and turning that power upon the source itself… it has never been done successfully before.”
Lucas presses. “Successfully? So, it’s been done before. What happened?”
Michael’s expression darkens—just slightly, like a shadow passing over his face. His gaze drops to the floor. “Once.”
Will notices his knuckles have turned white with how hard he grips his hands together. “My love attempted it in my world, to no avail, for my dear’s vision was taken by the great being.”
The room falls silent, the basement itself seeming to hold its breath. Will’s heart gives a painful lurch. So Mike is spoken for, even in another world. The thought stings him, but he doesn’t have time to unpack it.
He swallows. “Vecna has done that before,” Will says tentatively. “We could find a way around it. Her eyes were taken, right?”
Michael looks confused, and he opens his mouth to answer, but Joyce firmly says, “No.”
Will looks at her, startled. She’s already shaking her head. “That’s not happening, then. Not again. Not you, Will.”
“She’s right,” Mike comes to her aid immediately. He scoots closer to Will. “There has to be another way. One that doesn’t put you in danger like that.”
Michael glances at Mike. For a brief second, the faintest curve touches Michael’s mouth— not one of amusement, but recognition.
Will clenches his hands. “I’m not afraid of him. I can do it.”
Every head in the room turns toward him. No one speaks, and Will knows they’re all thinking of just before, when Will had reportedly collapsed after extreme usage of his newfound powers.
Irritation rises in Will. “I can!” He insists, voice rising.
It’s not a lie. Will isn’t afraid, at least not of Vecna. He has many, many fears, but surprisingly, the interdimensional being is not one of them.
Murray sighs loudly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Okay. This is getting way above my preferred stress level. I suggest we take five. Eat something. Regroup. Preferably before someone sacrifices themselves to a dark god.”
No one argues, and they scatter slowly through the basement. Robin and Erica head for the shelves for food. Lucas follows, casting worried glances back at Will. Joyce hesitates, then presses a kiss to Will’s hair.
“I’m proud of you,” she says softly. Will smiles weakly, the compliment settling uneasily beneath his skin.
Mike lingers. “Do you want anything?” he asks. “I can grab you something.”
Will gives him a grateful look. “Anything is fine.”
Mike squeezes his shoulder, before heading for the shelves.
Soon, the basement is quiet again, with the faint buzz of everyone’s voice as they mill about. Now, it’s just Will and Michael left on the couch.
Will shifts on the couch and finally lets himself really look at him.
The scratch along Michael’s face is no longer bleeding, but it still looks angry and raw. Dried blood clings faintly to the edges. Up close, the resemblance to Mike is almost painful—but the differences are just as stark. The set of his shoulders. The calm weight in his presence.
“Did that happen during your battle?” Will asks quietly, nodding toward the wound.
Michael inclines his head. “Yes.”
Will frowns, reaching for the disinfectant and bandages left on the table nearby.
“Worry not, William,” Michael says gently. “I shall be healed soon. Please do not exert yourself. You are meant to be resting.”
Will ignores him. He dabs disinfectant onto a cotton pad and reaches up.
Michael stills completely. Will cleans the wound carefully, his brow furrowing in concentration as he dabs away the remaining blood. He is acutely aware of Michael’s eyes on him—following every movement, every breath.
Heat creeps up Will’s neck.
It’s strange, having someone’s full attention like this. Stranger still when that someone looks so much like Mike.
To break the tension, Will clears his throat.
“So,” he says, focusing intently on the bandage, “what happened after I… collapsed?”
Michael’s voice is soft when he answers.
“I carried you here,” he says. “We then sought your wounded friend, the one who bears a striking resemblance to Sir Lucas the Ranger. We arrived soon after.”
Will’s hand drops. “Lucas was hurt?” His stomach twists. “But I thought I saved him.”
Michael nods slowly. “You did,” he says. “From what I have gathered from Joyce the Sage and your friend Mike, he would have perished if not for your bravery.”
Will swallows hard, looking down at his hands, Michael’s words going through one ear and coming out the other.
Michael reaches out before Will can retreat. Two fingers gently lift Will’s chin, guiding his gaze upward.
Will’s breath catches.
Michael’s expression is open and earnest. Not a hint of teasing.
“Please,” Michael says softly, “you must not blame yourself. Nothing good will come of that.”
His thumb rests lightly beneath Will’s jaw, steady and warm. “You were amazing.”
The words land with weight. He sounds so honest, so sincere, that Will can barely breathe.
Will cannot breathe.
He is suddenly, painfully aware of how close they are. Of the way Michael’s eyes search his face like they are trying to memorize him. Of how similar he is to Mike—and how utterly different.
All he can do is stare, caught in the intensity of Michael’s gaze, heart pounding far too loudly in his chest.
“Will?”
Mike’s voice cuts through the moment like a sharp blade.
Will jolts, his body reacting before his mind does, jerking sharply away from Michael’s hand. His heart slams against his ribs as his head whips toward the sound. Mike stands a few feet away, a crinkled bag of potato chips in his hand, eyebrows drawn together in concern.
For a terrifying second, Will cannot breathe.
Can Mike tell?
Can he tell the way Will’s pulse is racing, sprinting marathons at the memory of the boy’s touch? Can he tell how warm Will’s face feels, how flushed his skin has gone? Can he tell that all of it—the tightness in his chest, the way his thoughts scatter senselessly—is because the boy beside him looks like Mike himself?
Will clears his throat hastily, throwing a furtive look at Michael. He looks hurt by Will’s quick withdrawal. The open warmth in his expression has dimmed, replaced by something quieter and more guarded. His hand lowers slowly back to his side, as if he has realized too late that he overstepped. The sight twists something unpleasant in Will’s chest.
Will’s voice comes out rough. “Hey.”
Mike steps closer, eyes flicking briefly between the two of them. He comes down onto the floor and sits at Will’s feet, leaning his back against the center table. Mike’s gaze lingers on Michael warily.
Will swallows and forces himself to speak, desperate to break the tension before it spirals into questions.
“You keep saying these names,” Will begins, directing his next question at Michael. “Joyce the Sage. Lucas the Ranger. Lady Applejack. Who are they?”
Michael straightens slightly as he answers. “They are members of my party,” he says. “More than that, they are my friends. All of them hail from my homeland.”
Will frowns faintly. “But my mom’s not a Sage.”
Michael lets out a quiet chuckle, warm and genuine. “Your mother is most certainly a Sage in my world,” he says. “One of the most renowned, in fact. She is who my party consults before any great battle.”
He glances at Will and Mike tentatively. “Forgive me for the confusion. Everyone here reminds me of my people. It is difficult to separate the two versions.”
Mike shifts slightly, the chip bag rustling in his hand. “Do you know how you ended up here?” he asks, holding out the chip bag to both Will and Michael. Will takes a chip, while Michael politely refuses.
Michael shakes his head. “I do not.”
He exhales slowly, as if the memory weighs on him. “I had been battling the beast that plagued the castle. Its neck had snapped suddenly, as though struck by an unseen force. When next I opened my eyes, I was upon the ground, bearing witness to William’s abilities.”
His voice grows quiet. “I do hope all are well back home without me to protect them,” he continues. “My dear love, most of all.”
His shoulders sag slightly as his hair slips forward, shadowing his eyes. In that moment, Michael looks significantly older than the Mike sitting at Will’s feet. More worn. More tired.
Will feels something ache inside him. He feels a rush of sharp and insistent protectiveness towards Michael. It must be terrifying—to be torn from everything familiar, to wake up in a world so alien compared to your own. It must be even lonelier to navigate that world without his love to bring him comfort.
Will glances down at Mike.
Mike’s lips are pressed into a thin line. His posture is stiff, but his expression has shifted. The edge of hostility is gone, replaced by something closer to sympathy.
For the first time tonight, Mike looks sorry for Michael.
The silence between the three of them stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. Then—
“I got it! I got it!”
The sudden shouting breaks through the silence. Lucas and Erica come barreling into the common area, nearly tripping over each other as they rush toward the couch.
“I got it!” Lucas insists.
“No, I did!” Erica snaps back. “Let me say first!”
“I literally said I got it first!”
Michael lets out a soft laugh under his breath, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Always the same,” he murmurs. “It seems some things transcend worlds.”
The noise from the two bickering siblings draws everyone back in. Joyce, Robin, and Murray hurry over, curiosity written across their faces. Erica elbows Lucas sharply in the side.
“Ow!” Lucas yelps. Erica steps forward, chin lifted, wearing a triumphant smirk.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll go first.”
***
He grabs the drill tool from the open box, its weight settling in his hands despite the way his fingers still feel a little numb. Robin reaches in after him, snagging a coil of wire, while Michael selects the remaining wires with deliberate care—metal clinking softly as he lifts them, testing their balance as if instinctively judging their worth.
Lucas and Erica’s plans echo in Will’s mind as they work.
Erica’s plan seemed solid. Find them using the tracker. Will prays that the tracker will miraculously pick up El’s presence as well. She’s been on his mind for hours. Will hopes with all his heart that his sister is okay.
Lucas’ idea had been a long shot. Everyone knew that. But it was the only thing that resembled a plan instead of blind panic. His plan—using electricity to shock the demogorgon to activate the hive mind—had taken the longest to argue through. Joyce had gone pale the moment it was suggested, her arms folding tight around herself.
Especially after Michael told them about his world, and how his love’s vision was permanently relinquished.
Joyce had shut it down immediately. No discussion, no negotiation. Will had been the one to reopen it.
He’d spoken quietly, but firmly, explaining that Michael had been through this before. That he would know the signs. That he could stop Will before it went too far. That they would not let history repeat itself.
Joyce had looked at Michael for a long, searching moment before finally nodding. Everyone else had followed, seeing sense in Will’s reasoning.
Everyone, that is, except Mike.
“We barely know this guy,” Mike had said, sharp and defensive.
Ironic, Will thinks now, twisting wire around the stem of the pumpkin, not to trust someone who is a carbon copy of yourself.
Well. Not exactly a carbon copy.
Michael is different from Mike. The differences are subtle, but unmistakable—the way he carries himself, the certainty in his movements, the weight behind his words. Will can’t tell if the sheer differences are a good thing or not. What Will can tell is that Mike obviously feels threatened by this otherworldly version of himself.
The wind is sharp up on the roof, tugging at Will’s hair as he kneels beside the test pumpkin. Robin and Michael crouch across from him, helping feed the wires into place.
“Hey,” Robin says suddenly, breaking the quiet. “I just realized something.”
Will looks up. “What?”
She hesitates, fingers tightening around the wire. “I never thanked you.”
Robin keeps talking, a little rushed now, as she coils the wires. “I know it’s late for the gratitude parade, but it’s kind of a big deal. Especially to me.”
Will asks. “What’s a big deal?”
“Saving my life. You saved my life, Will,” she says, meeting his eyes.
Michael looks up at that, his expression shifting into something knowing. A small smile tugs at his lips. Will feels heat creep up his neck. He bites back a smile of his own.
“You’re welcome,” he says quietly. Then, before he can overthink it, he adds, “Really… I should be thanking you.”
Robin pauses. “Me?” She squints at him. “Why?”
Will hesitates, his eyes flicking to Michael. Michael does not look overly invested in the conversation—focused instead on threading the wires through the pumpkin with almost surgical precision. Still, Will has come to the conclusion that he is somewhat of an enigma.
But, Will trusts his instincts. If Michael is anything like Mike, he is either oblivious… or he understands completely and simply does not care.
Will takes a breath. “For talking to me,” he says. “About Tammy. And your experiences. It really… mattered to me, Robin.”
Robin’s eyebrows shoot up. “Me? Talking?” she scoffs. “Call my mother and tell her that. Please, I’m begging you.”
Will laughs softly as he finishes wrapping the wire. “So… after Tammy. And the whole tape epiphany. Is that when you and Vicky…?”
Robin glances at Michael.
He is intent on his work, twisting and anchoring the final wires, the pumpkin’s surface punctured with careful precision. Still, Robin tilts her head slightly toward Will, her expression clearly asking silently: Is it okay?
Will nods.
Robin exhales. “God, no,” she says. “I wouldn’t have been able to talk to her back then. I was fine with that part of myself. But letting other people see it? Terrifying.”
Michael looks up at that. His gaze shifts between them, neutral but attentive.
Will’s heart starts pounding again, painfully aware of Michael’s focus on the two of them. He hopes, really hopes, that his instinct about Michael is right.
Robin continues, voice steadier now. “Eventually, though… I was brave enough to tell someone.”
Michael stabs the final wire into the pumpkin. He straightens slowly, a gentle smile resting on his face.
So, he was listening.
Robin stands and stretches. “Well,” she says, brushing off her hands. “That’s it.”
She grabs the ladder and starts climbing down. Will scoots closer to the edge, peering over, the question itching in his mind. “Robin!” he calls. “Who did you tell?”
She pauses halfway down, squinting up at him through the fading light. Then she grins.
“Oh,” she says. “The obvious choice. Steve, of course!”
“What?” he yells, utterly perplexed. “Steve, as in Steve Harrington?”
“Yeah! My once sworn enemy!” she grins up at him before heading inside.
Will is left there with his jaw hanging open. Steve Harrington. Wow. He really had not seen that one coming.
He likes Steve, sure. Steve is nice—shockingly nice, actually, for someone as popular and jock-y as him. But Steve Harrington being the person Robin trusted with something that big? Will hadn’t expected someone like him to be… well. That kind of trustworthy.
Behind him, the pumpkin gives a low, angry buzz as electricity courses through it. The sound snaps Will back to the present.
“Did it work?” Robin’s voice calls up from below.
“Yeah!” Will yells back. “It worked!”
Robin whoops, already climbing back up the ladder. She hooks one arm over the edge of the roof and continues like she never stopped talking. “But seriously. Once I told him, it was like—” she exhales dramatically, lifting her free hand, “—a burden was lifted. I felt lighter. And honestly? If it wasn’t for Steve, I don’t think I ever would’ve told Vickie.”
Will listens quietly.
“Or talked to you about it,” Robin adds, softer now.
Will huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
She reaches over and pats his arm, firm but kind. “You’ll find the courage someday,” she says. “I promise.”
Will smiles at her gratefully, and she returns it without hesitation.
“I’m gonna go check on your mom,” Robin says, nodding her head toward the ground. She climbs back down the ladder, disappearing from view.
The roof is quiet again. Then, Will hears the unmistakable sound of metal moving closer. He turns just in time to see Michael step up beside him, armor shifting and clunking with each movement.
“Who is Steve Harrington?” Michael asks.
Will blinks and glances at him. Michael is already looking at Will, head tilted slightly, dark curls catching the dim light.
“A friend,” Will replies after a beat. “You don’t have a Steve in your world?”
Michael inclines his head. “I do. Steve the Fighter.”
He hums thoughtfully, tilting his head side to side. “He is a member of the party, though I am not as well acquainted with him as I am with the others.”
Will nods absently, eyes drifting toward the edge of the roof. Below them, Mike and Lucas are busy tying wires around the demogorgon. Mike is gesturing wildly, clearly frustrated, while Lucas listens with crossed arms, occasionally poking the creature with a wire.
“Is Steve a good friend?”
Will looks back at him, puzzled. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Why?”
Michael watches him closely. “You seemed… surprised when Robin revealed him to be her secret-keeper.”
Will opens his mouth. Closes it. “Secret?” he repeats weakly. “There’s no secret. Robin was just…”
He trails off, words failing him. Michael raises his eyebrows, the faintest teasing smile playing at his lips. For a split second, he looks exactly like Mike when he’s figured something out and is enjoying watching Will squirm.
“You should not lie to me,” Michael says gently, a light tone to his voice. “Paladins and clerics share soul ties. I will know.”
Will scoffs quietly and turns back toward the horizon. Mike and Lucas are now about to tie the wires and ropes to the demogorgon. They’re both poking each other, arguing about who should touch it first.
“I’m not a cleric,” he says. “I’m just a boy with really, really unfortunate luck.”
His gaze lingers on Mike below, who is now laughing at Lucas’ disgusted face as he ties the creature, hand shoved into his hair.
“I’m not like the Will in your world,” Will continues. “If there even is one. I’m not special.”
The words feel heavy coming out. This whole night, he’s been showered with praise over this power he’s unlocked, except he can’t find it in himself to be proud of it. Not when he knows what it felt like.
He used Vecna’s power to kill.
Demogorgons, yes. Monsters. But the feeling still clings to him, sour and invasive. Like something else had reached inside his chest and pulled the strings.
It reminds him too much of being possessed..
It’s not a good feeling—to know something else has control over what should be entirely yours. But Will knows that feeling inside out, having experienced it before with the Mind Flayer, and now Vecna.
He doesn’t feel like a sorcerer, or a cleric. He feels like shit, honestly. But he’s willing to do whatever it takes to stop Vecna.
He doesn’t know why he’s telling Michael any of this. Maybe it’s the way Michael listens—fully, without interruption. But, Michael has a calming air about him. His eager eyes and earnest voice seems to be the key to Will’s chest of feelings, apparently. A key he hasn’t given to anyone in a long time.
Michael is quiet for a moment. Then he speaks.
“William the Wise is a cleric in my world, as well,” he says softly. “He is… so, so special.”
“Far beyond his powers,” Michael continues, voice almost reverent. “He is kind. He is selfless. He is brave. He is perfect—flaws and all.”
Michael’s voice sounds almost wistful. Will’s chest aches. It’s absolute torture, to have someone with Mike’s face talk about another Will with so much adoration.
Michael continues, “If my William is special, so are you. I believe in that with my entire heart and soul.”
Will can’t help it. He begins to laugh. It’s absurd, someone describing him like that. Michael looks puzzled, and he insists, pressing a hand to his heart, “On my honor, I do!”
Will laughs harder, bending forward slightly, one hand braced on his knee. He doesn’t know why it’s so funny to him.
Michael stares at him for a second, then shakes his head, utterly bewildered, before breaking into laughter himself, the sound rich and unguarded as it echoes across the roof.
Mike looks up from where he’s crouched on the ground with Lucas, squinting up at the roof as Will and Michael crack up together. “We’re almost done!” he yells up at the two boys.
Will lifts a hand in acknowledgment, still breathless from laughter. “We should head down,” he says to Michael, forcing the words out between breaths. “It’s almost time.”
Michael nods, the trace of a smile still lingering on his face.
They climb down together. Will settles on the ground near the building, legs pulled in close, while Michael lowers himself in front of him, armor clanking softly as he sits. Joyce steps outside a moment later and sits beside Will, close enough that their shoulders brush.
For a while, no one speaks.
They watch as Mike climbs back onto the roof with Robin, the two of them hauling the demogorgon upward with ropes while Lucas pokes at it from below, shouting at them to pull harder.
Joyce’s fingers tighten suddenly around Will’s arm. “If anything happens,” she says quietly, voice shaking despite her effort to steady it, “you just get out of there. Listen to whatever Michael tells you to do if things go south. You hear me?”
Will turns to her. Her eyes are bright with fear, the kind she tries so hard to hide. He nods. “I will,” he promises. “I swear.”
Then, he adds after a beat, “Thank you. For trusting me.”
Joyce cups his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. She smiles—a fierce, determined thing. “Kill the bastard.”
Will snorts, laughter bubbling out. Lucas jogs over, bent over with his hands on his knees. Will can hear the echoing sound of Mike and Robin hammering the wires into the demogorgon. “Ready?” Lucas pants.
Will nods again. Lucas presses his lips together, serious now. “If shit hits the fan, Robin cranks the voltage. The particles burn up, and you get detached from the hive mind. Right, Michael?”
Michael inclines his head. “Correct. Do not be afraid,” he adds, eyes locking onto Will’s. “You are special.”
Will swallows and nods. Lucas claps his shoulder once and jogs back toward the ladder. “I’ll be on the roof.”
Minutes later, everyone takes their places. Robin disappears into the voltage room. Lucas climbs back up to monitor the demogorgon. Mike is on one side of Will. Joyce stays close, her hand never leaving Will’s arm. Michael sits directly in front of Will to guide him.
Will inhales slowly.
Mike leans closer and whispers, “You’ve got this, Will. I believe in you.”
Will closes his eyes. The crackle of electricity fills the air.
“It’s working!” Lucas shouts.
“We’re at fifty percent!” Robin’s voice echoes faintly in the distance.
The sounds around Will grow distant. Muffled. Like he’s sinking underwater. He faintly hears Lucas rush to his side as well.
He feels it then—that familiar, chilling feeling on the back of his neck. His heart starts racing, pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of his chest.
A roar shakes his world.
Will’s eyes snap open. He is no longer outside WSQK, surrounded by his friends and family.
Darkness surrounds his vision, thick and oppressive. His body aches with a deeply primal urge—to tear free, to destroy, to kill. He strains against the wired restraints, muscles burning, teeth bared as another roar rips from his throat.
The space shifts. A cavern stretches around him, jagged spikes jutting from the walls. Children line the walls, small bodies trapped, vines forced into their mouths.
Derek. He sees Derek, eyes closed, a vine shoved between his lips.
Something about it feels horribly familiar, but Will pays no heed.
The world lurches again. A forest. A playground.
“Dipshit! Where is he?”
Will feels something brush against his hand.
“Will? Will? What do you see?”
The voice is achingly familiar. Warm fingers stroke his knuckles, and Will knows instantly.
“Mike,” he gasps. “I—I think I’m Derek. I see the other lost kids.”
“Holly?” Mike’s voice presses. “What about Holly?”
“Spit it out, dipshit!” the kid’s voice snarls. “Where’s Mr. Whatsit?”
“Searching for Holly!” Will hears himself say—but the voice isn’t his. It’s an octave higher. Younger, and much squeakier.
The children accuse him of lying. Panicked, he defends himself desperately.
“A monster—with red hair!” he hears himself cry. “She tricked her! She calls herself—”
“Max,” Will says aloud, his voice now his own.
“What about Max?” Lucas’s voice breaks through, desperate and strained.
“She’s with Holly,” Will answers. “But Vecna’s hunting them.”
Pain explodes behind his eyes. Not yet, he begs himself silently.
The world flickers. For a split second, he’s back outside WSQK. Michael is kneeling in front of him, worry etched deep into his face.
His neck jerks sharply. The world lurches again, and suddenly he is moving.
He is walking through a house. The Wheeler house.
The realization barely has time to register before his body surges forward, feet pounding against hardwood floors with frightening speed. A low, breathy sound tears from his throat—not quite a growl, not quite a scream. His arm is raised.
Will’s eyes widen, and he realizes that he finds himself looking through the lens of Vecna.
He is holding something. Someone.
Max.
Or, more accurately, her neck. Will is choking one of his best friends to death.
Horror crashes over him all at once, cold and suffocating. Max’s eyes are wide, unfocused, her hands scrabbling desperately at his wrist. Her face is losing its color, panic etched into every line of her expression.
Will feels like he is screaming, but no sound comes out.
Will is afraid. He isn’t afraid of the thing inside him. He is afraid of what it is making him do.
“William, I believe!”
The voice cuts through the chaos like a blade. Not Mike’s this time, but Michael’s.
Something in Will snaps.
He feels himself straighten, spine locking as a surge of power rushes through him—hot and electric and furious. His fear drains away, replaced by something sharper.
Will Byers is angry.
He feels a pure, burning rage, and his grip, or Vecna’s grip, falters.
Will forces his fingers to move, clenching his own hands as if he can physically pull himself apart from Max’s throat. Max’s eyes dart to his face, confused, terrified.
Will twists his arms into fists, and pain flares in his own leg.
It’s working, he encourages himself, willing the pain away. Keep going.
He jerks his fists. There is a sharp, sickening crack, and pain explodes through Will’s leg— blinding, white-hot pain. He gasps, nearly blacking out as his knees buckle.
Will screams. He cannot tell if the sound belongs to him or to Vecna—only that it echoes endlessly inside his skull. His entire body feels like it is being torn apart from the inside.
He forces his arms upward, shaking violently as he twists them like he’s trying to open a jar sealed shut. His vision swims.
Simultaneously, he feels his own head turn, and now he’s staring into Max’s terrified face as she clutches Holly’s equally scared frame to her chest.
“Max!” Will shouts, his own voice distorting, conforming to Vecna’s.
“If you… can hear me,” he forces out, each word scraping his throat raw, “you need to… run!”
Max freezes. For a terrifying second, she looks stuck, confused over the sudden switch.
Will feels desperation claw up his spine, overwhelming and frantic. He doesn’t know if it belongs to him or to Vecna—but he knows this has to end.
“RUN!” he screams.
The word burns through him.
That seems to do it. Max’s expression clears, survival instinct snapping into place. She grabs Holly’s hand and bolts, disappearing down the hall.
The pain in Will’s leg dulls, fading into a distant throb—but his head feels like it is being split open from the inside, as if the very atoms in his body are clashing, fighting each other for sweet release.
Another voice cuts in now. Vecna’s.
“Get out.”
Will’s head twists violently. Something warm trickles from his nose, vision blurring completely. He can’t see. Can’t hear.
He can only feel.
The sensation is unbearable—like being dissolved, stripped down to nothing. It consumes his very being, erasing everything that is Will, replaced by a torture vast and cruel and endless.
“Get out, get out, get out!”
The words repeat over and over. He doesn’t know if it’s him screaming or Vecna, but he doesn’t care.
He just wants it to stop. He wants it all to end.
Vecna’s arms rise, silhouetted in the dim, red illumination of this warped version of the Wheeler house.
“Get out!” he roars.
The force hits Will like a freight train. He is thrown backward, head slamming into the ground as the world fractures into light and sound and pain. Consciousness slips through his fingers, fading fast.
As everything goes dark, one thought cuts through the haze.
Relief. Pure, sweet relief that this finally ended.
He’s grateful he ended it as himself. Not as some vessel for yet another evil monster, but as Will.