Chapter Text
It started, he guessed, with that whole bathroom thing.
Look. The Wheeler household were bumping elbows even with its original five inhabitants. There were three bathrooms in the house: the main upstairs, the ensuite in their parents’ room, and the one in the basement.
And yeah, most would say that that was pretty generous – but most did not know that Holly had a habit of locking her family out of the main bathroom so that she could meticulously bathe, hairdress and (somehow) manicure all of her dolls, which usually resulted in a great bathroom migration for about a day. Nancy once chucked a hairbrush at Mike’s head when he tried to claim the basement’s. It was rough.
With the Byers crashing with them since getting back from Lenora, every day had felt like some variation of that. Mornings and nights especially. Nancy tried creating a roster once, but the whims of eight human beings’ bladders and hygiene practices were just too complicated. Mike was not ashamed to admit he just brushed his teeth over the kitchen sink these days.
The point was this: it was near impossible for this particular situation not to happen, eventually, to someone. Of course, that someone was going to be Mike.
It was late, he gave himself that. And, and: earlier that day, Joyce had finally been convinced to move into Hop’s cabin with him and El. (As sweet as it was that she was nervous about not living with her boys for the first time, and slightly embarrassed that it was now public knowledge that she and Hopper were at the bed-sharing stage, everyone coordinated to dismantle those arguments and lower their household population by one.)
It was late, and the illusion of an emptier house had surely caused Mike to let his guard down. Subconsciously or something. These had to be the reasons Mike somehow abandoned his hard-earned muscle memory of knocking before he grabbed the main-bathroom door handle and swung it open to reveal–
“No No–”
Mike froze.
The air was heavy and warm and smelled of shampoo. Will’s eyes were huge, skin raw and flushed. Water droplets clung to the tips of his hair, falling onto his raised shoulders, down his torso. He held a towel out in front of him, covering himself from the waist down, but obviously didn’t have enough time to wrap it around himself, and if the mirror behind him wasn’t totally fogged up right now Mike would be staring right at the reflection of his–
“Uh–”
“S–”
Then he saw it.
It was only small, maybe the size of a dime, but struck the smooth skin of Will’s flank starkly. A patch of discoloured scarring that Mike had never seen before, the kind that had clearly gone through all its phases long ago. Flaring, blistering, scabbing, flaking. Now it was just a webbed, uneven reminder of how much it must have hurt. How had Mike never seen it before now? It looked bad, when did that even–
“M-Mike, um…?”
His eyes shot back up to Will’s face. It was bright red and wordlessly begging.
What the hell am I doing?
Mike felt his own ears heat up. He slapped a hand over his eyes. “I’m literally so sorry.” He flailed his other hand out for a second, fumbling for the door handle before pulling it shut about ten seconds past justification.
On the walk of shame to the ensuite, he couldn’t get it out of his head. Not even just the whole embarrassing cliché, and his inexplicable decision to just stare so openly and stupidly, but…but mainly that unassuming little mark. The strange violence of it on Will’s skin.
The memory surfaced later that night, alongside the nausea.
Will hadn’t really been able to tell them how they’d gotten the mind flayer out of him. Hadn’t or wouldn’t, that was a question for another time. But it made its way back to Mike eventually, in the form of him eavesdropping on Nancy’s phone call with Jonathan one night. That was maybe a weird thing to do – but in his defence, he’d heard her crying. Nancy never cried.
“I didn’t want to hurt him, it was all I could think of–” A thirteen-year-old Mike watched Nancy through the crack in her door, whispering horror-drenched syllables into the receiver. Jonathan’s voice on the other end seemed to be soothing her, but still her face twisted to smother a sob. “I know he felt it, Jon, I burned him… this little kid I’ve known forever and I burned him, he’s just a kid…”
So are you, Mike thought, but stayed quiet. Nancy would have lost her shit if she knew Mike was listening. If he snuck an extra pancake onto her plate the next morning, sue him.
Mike never heard anything more about it, and not from Will. He was privately horrified. How, exactly, was he burned? Where? Did he feel it? Remember it?
But bringing up these things with Will was always a gamble. Some details about his past he was weirdly open about – once, when Lucas and Dustin were debating about whether or not you could drink your own blood if you were dying of thirst, Will admitted that he'd tried it in the upside down and it only made him more thirsty. Mike had snapped the pencil he was holding, and the conversation shifted.
Some things, though, you couldn't even dart around without watching Will’s eyes go distant. His arms crossing, eyebrows pulling together. A weight settling on his shoulders at having to reconstruct the past when it hurt enough the first time. Will had enough adults in his life pushing him for that, and Mike wouldn't add to it. If Will needed a distance from everything he'd lived through, Mike would give it to him. Always.
And anyway, maybe it was selfish, but Mike struggled just to think about those things himself, let alone talk about them. Somehow as he got older it got harder to handle. The tightening of his lungs, thrumming in his veins, that insatiable urge to fix it, do something. But there was nowhere to put that, nothing he could ever do. Mike was always too late.
He got good at shutting it down. Putting it off for now. Processing the full and terrible totality of it all – that was for some later date, some older, stronger Mike.
As usual, when his thoughts got too heavy, he just settled into bed, shut his eyes, and waited to fall asleep.
And this time he just. Didn’t.
The next morning was a blur. The day as a whole was as memorable as a photograph of something in motion.
“...sn’t working in my bathroom, so, um– but I don’t know how I forgot to lock the door… I’m, uh, really sorry I surprised you,” Will said to Mike over breakfast, or rather seemingly to the single cornflake floating around his bowl. He had that halting rhythm that tripped through all conversations he didn’t want to have.
Mike got out of bed that morning with a pressure behind his eyes that informed him he’d only briefly slipped into the first layer of sleep all night. For the past ten or so hours he’d been lost somewhere between sight and thought, a flooding inside of him like a broken dam of thick, black tar. He seriously could do nothing but think, about Will and his well-being and his scar and his relationship to it and to Mike and to Vecna and their childhood, and eventually language could not touch what needed to be thought about, it shifted into images and feelings and–
Will was tensing in the silence.
He rummaged through his sleep-deprived brain for an appropriate response. He found a lot along the lines of do you have other scars and would you tell me about them and did we fix things, really? What ended up coming out of his mouth was, “y- don’t- no, you have nothing to apol– what? I’m sorry, I just–” he gestured sharply to nothing, trying to reference a reaction he could not explain, “like an idiot, I don’t even know what’s wrong with me, I… just.”
Just…?
I’m worried about you, even though you’re fine.
Why couldn’t he say it? That morning was a blur but Mike remembered this: Will, backlit by the curtain-framed window, the outer ring of his hair kissed golden by dusty rays. Will’s big eyes flicking up at the silence, and there they were again: static, staring, waiting for the other to speak or move or leave.
I didn’t sleep. Weren’t we close, once? Wasn’t it always us?
Why were there “appropriate responses” to Will now, anyway? Some things just didn’t even make sense to feel so heavy, to keep under such tight lock and key. But Mike did anyway.
He felt lost. Mainly he felt tired.
It was fine. Mike was a teenage boy. And a dungeon master. He was no stranger to all-nighters – even if this one was so strange and helpless. He just had to make it through the day, and wait until his body crashed at around six. He’d wake up at twelve the next day, and everything pouring out of his brain would be back inside its box, and he would feel normal again.
“...Mike?”
Right. He never finished his sentence. What was he talking about again?
“Are you feeling okay?”
Will’s hair really did look like a halo.
Post-earthquake Hawkins was in shambles, rotting, frantic, but somehow still the same.
The exodus had halved their population. Most of the remaining residents, including Mike’s father, seemed to have this vague, detached idea that everything was being taken care of. They somehow truly believed what the American government was telling them, about earthquakes and chemical spills.
It was familiar; that good old, home-grown ignorance. Sighing about the end of the world like it was a minor inconvenience that was someone else’s job to fix.
The military's band-aid solution meant sections of the town were often blocked off at a time, and those unlucky enough to have a fissure running through their street were essentially kicked out to the makeshift volunteer shelter at Hawkins High gymnasium until it could be patched up. They lived alongside those whose injuries were not grave enough for a hospital bed, and those awaiting government compensation for their entirely eradicated houses. There was always plenty of volunteering to be done at the shelter.
Granted, they worked fast. That should have been a testament to how at fault they were about the entire thing. Funding Brenner’s experiments, opening Pandora’s box. Keeping El away, trying to kill the one person in the world who could help. If they were urgent about one thing, it was scrambling to cover up past mistakes by making new ones.
Here’s the thing, though: it really wasn’t working.
Every few weeks a plate would crack under the pressure of interdimensional impossibility, sending a plume of ash and blood-lightning to frighten people inside again. So many shipments and installments of steel alloy had to be ridiculously expensive, and it was only ever stalling time. The earth was still dying and nothing would grow. Everyone could feel Hell bubbling up under their feet and there was no Eddie Munson to blame.
Nobody liked to talk about it, though, so Mike supposed that was the shred of Hawkin’s normalcy they’d managed to preserve.
Hawkins was different, but the same, and so were Mike and Will.
“Yeah, no I really like the travelling circus arc,” Will told him as he pulled a fleece jacket out of a donation box and folded it onto the table. Sound bounced around the gymnasium like hell, meaning Mike had to bend his ear down slightly towards Will’s mouth to hear him over the crowd of people.
“Uhm,” Will’s voice cracked, “the creepy acrobat twins, I came up with some designs? For them? I was sketching a bit last night–”
“Holy shit you have to show me.”
Will laughed. “Of course I'll show you.”
Will was the only party member allowed to see Mike's DM notes. He needed someone creative to bounce ideas off of, and Will was the most creative person in Hawkins. In the world, probably. He never used his knowledge of Mike’s worldbuilding to get any kind of leg up in the game – he didn’t have the moral capacity for that – but sometimes during a session Mike’d drop some hint as an NPC and Will would catch his eye. A shared look, a small knowing smile. It was fun. Mike didn’t really care if the others thought it was fair or not.
Will tossed aside his empty box, and leaned down to pick up a big one. The strong line of his back tensed slightly as he hauled it up onto the table with a thud.
Mike watched him intently.
Would that kind of stretch have hurt, two years ago? Would Will’s face have been twisting in pain, his trembling hands coming to hold his side at the effort? Will was much smaller back then, though, he definitely would have struggled to lift that kind of box anyway. Will was grown up now. He was fully healed, he wasn’t in pain anymore. But could Mike trust himself to have noticed if he was?
Shit, he was talking.
“...maybe it's a bit obsessive?"
“Wh- uh, sorry?”
“With the jewel? You mentioned that the ringmaster gloats about how the circus is built around it, but I wonder if she’d be more secretive about that. Especially if she knows the party are looking for it.”
Mike blinked. Right, the campaign.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's a good point. Like, she’s obsessed, but she’s not stupid.”
Mike himself noticed that he was a bit mumbly, distracted with trying to get himself to focus. Will stopped fiddling with the box’s tape for a second to glance over at him. “You really didn't have to come volunteer today if you're not feeling well,” he said softly, looking up at Mike earnestly through his lashes.
Mike imagined the alternative: staring up at his ceiling for another twelve hours, thinking of Will Byers’ pain with no work to distract him. He shuddered.
It was easier with Will himself besides him, somehow. Like his brain needed that physical reminder that Will was alive and breathing, even if he knew it logically. Mike was obsessed and stupid.
“Nah. I don't want to waste a day sleeping. Besides, aren't you happy to spend time with me?”
Will laughed again. Something was different about this one. It was tight. Anxious. “We live together now, we always spend time with each other.”
“Yeah, and you love it, right?”
…
Crickets.
The displaced people of Hawkins chattered around them. A woman approached the table to browse through the sock pile. Some little boy a few metres away was busy crashing two toy trucks into each other. But no response from Will.
Sometimes – a lot of the time – Mike’s jokes weren’t funny, but Will usually gave a courtesy smile or something. It was also… only half a joke? Mike was obviously teasing, but of course he wanted Will to like being around him. They were best friends, right? They were back to normal?
“...No?”
Will patted the side of his opened box. “Of course. You know, I might see if Marjorie needs me to bring in anything from the drop-off donation point, I’ll be right back.”
And he was gone.
“Awesome. Okay.”
The little boy seemed to be making dramatically pointed explosion noises with his truck scene, using wild hand gestures to signify fire and catastrophe everywhere. Mike shot him a pinched, insincere smile.
It was like that, sometimes.
Talking to Will was one of Mike’s favourite things in the world. Like, definitely top three. But as much as he loved talking to Will – now and always – sometimes it felt less like talking to Will and more like… tracing negative space. Navigating the perimeter of some weird cavity that neither of them could see. Well, Will would probably see it, cause he was smart like that. Mike was not. In the past, he’d relied on Max to spell out for him why exactly his big fucking mouth had gotten him into a mess. Now he had to figure it out on his own.
What if the scar was one of those things? What if Mike tried to open a conversation about it for his own peace of mind, only for Will to dismiss and withdraw, to quietly go missing for a little while? He wouldn’t risk it. Will going missing was always the worst thing in Mike’s life.
He wasn’t going to rock the boat. His apparently bottomless well of pointless concern would have to stay locked up in his head with him.
So that night, when the nightmares joined too, that's when he knew he was in really deep shit.
The first was something like this:
That night at the quarry. But there were no cars, no people, no lights flashing red and blue. No sound, no stars. Just still air and still water, like a photograph taken at the end of time.
Mike watched the water, stalling. He knew he was meant to go in, for some dream reason, but it didn’t seem fair. He was only twelve. He wanted more time.
But– there. A dip, in the water. Ripples running across the surface, before finally a contorting shape broke through, a birth near the edge.
Will came out quiet, crawling, but his limbs were all wrong. They moved like they were drawn from strings, reanimated, unnatural. He didn’t gasp for air coming up. He didn’t need it because he was dead.
He dragged himself up through mud and towards Mike. He smelled like wet earth and decay. Pale and bloated and bacteria-bitten, he was awful and still beautiful.
“I was leaving your house,” Will’s little voice said. Water slipped past his lips between syllables, like he was made of it. “And someone took me. They hurt me and threw me in.”
Mike shook his head. That’s not what happened. The tips of Will’s nails were blackened with clay, like he’d been clawing at the lake bed. Mike was always too late.
“I was leaving your house.”
“Don’t go,” said Mike.
But Will belonged to the basin now.
As he turned back, his arm shifted slightly, and Mike saw the big, gaping hole in his side. Instead of scarred, he’d been chewed down to his ribs. Somewhere in the water, a family of little fishes swam around with pieces of Will in their bellies, and he’d never get them back.
The black swallowed him again. And Will sank.
To be honest, he wished it were a bit more dramatic. He wished he had a reason to feel as harrowed as he did when he opened his eyes.
There was more to the dream, a before and after, but the quarry was what left its dent in him. His alarm clock blinked a stark 5:00. The room was stone blue with early morning light, and the wind hushed its way through trees outside. He normally liked this period of time, before sunrise – pretty, in a quiet, lonely kind of way.
He couldn’t stir up any appreciation for it right now. He was chilled. He thought of Will, pretty, quiet, alone. He thought of a Will that was never saved and he was chilled.
He had to pull himself together. It meant nothing. Dreams – especially this one, brief and vague – were just brain noise. Nothing.
But “nothing” lingered in the shadows of the corners of his room. Clung to the air, moving in and out of him as he tried to breathe himself back to sleep. A tattoo behind his eyelids, vivid. Sharp.
Eventually he dragged himself to the bathroom (which was now associated with Will, too, thank you, Michael) to brood in the shower. After some time Nancy drummed on the door to bark something about hot water.
Of course the sleep Mike had been waiting twenty-four hours for was nightmare-ridden, leaving him more tired when he woke up. Just his luck.
Whatever. At least tomorrow night he’d sleep like a baby.
“And a rainbow. Here. No Will, here!”
Tomorrow night he slept like the world's most insufferable baby. And the night after that. And the next, and the next.
Mike was a dark cloud looming over Thursday morning’s breakfast. Technically brunch. He came down late, because Mike was late normally, but also because time was swaying and flickering like candlelight and when hours weren’t made of stone, he was losing them like sand through fingers.
It was just Will and Holly at the table when he joined. He’d obviously graduated from feeling like death, to feeling and looking like death, and he could tell by the glances the two were sending him and each other. God, he hated when his sisters telepathically communicated with his best friend.
He didn’t linger on it. His brain still would not shut up about other stuff.
It was a feverish cycle of sleeping to avoid thinking, staying awake to avoid nightmares, thinking to avoid sleeping. Reality and thought were melting together. He swore to god he had an entire conversation with Lucas on the phone yesterday which, according to him last night, didn’t actually happen. His mom forced him to take flu medication at some point, since he lied to everyone about just being sick, which was probably fine but he was a little paranoid that he was drugging himself up on top of everything else, and Holly Wheeler, God bless her, had possibly the most grating voice on the planet.
“And sparkles on it.”
“I– I don’t think I can really draw sparkles, Holly, maybe if we had some kind of glitter, but–”
“Please!”
“Um, I’ll… try…”
Mike was there to eat, but he didn’t really. He watched Will. The slope of his nose, the way the morning light bent around his face. The way his chest expanded slowly as he breathed, he was breathing, as he should be, as he always was. The natural way his fingers cradled the blue pencil, the practiced movement of it across the page. The gentle voice he used with Holly, the voice that should have been used with Will when he was her age, but people treated Will horribly even though he was a fucking angel–
Staring too long. Getting creepy. Mike downed the rest of his milk like a shot.
But as he then stared down at his neglected toast, it all came creeping in again.
Will, hiding a hand-shaped bruise around his arm the day after Lonnie left town. Will, sobbing quietly through Mike’s supercom from the upside down. Will, frozen in horror as he was tormented by a place and shadow no one else could see. Will, seizing on rotten soil as he experienced what it was like to be burned alive. Will, writhing in agony as he was wheeled down the hallways of Hawkins lab, sobbing for Mike. Will, losing sense of himself, being put to sleep, being tied to a chair in his shed, screaming and begging to be let go. Will, biking away in the rain after Mike ran his mouth and hurt him, Mike who hurt him after everything that had already beaten him to it.
And that was only what he’d seen.
When he raised his eyes up again, Will was already looking at him. They both glanced away, caught.
Mike, however, who could not get more pathetic if he tried, actually physically flinched at the shock of eye-contact. His foot shot out to kick the dining table leg. The entire table shook violently. Clattering of cutlery chimed at the same frequency as Holly’s protest.
“Mike you big dummy, you made Will draw over the line!”
“Sorry, Holly,” Will smiled, “I can fix it.” He set the pencil down on the page. “I just need an eraser, do you think you can find one for me?”
Holly’s eyes shone with determination. “I'm gonna find you my eraser, Will,” she said solemnly, and her little feet pattered away and upstairs.
It was just Mike and Will, now.
In that moment, that odd stretch of silence, Mike felt he might crack. That everything building up in his brain might finally come spurting out of his mouth and onto the table, for Will to recoil away from. And as that bubbling feeling grew–
“Are you gonna be well enough to come to Hop’s with us tomorrow? You can say no.”
Mike blinked. Reorientated himself. “I thought that was on Saturday.”
“...Yes. Tomorrow is Saturday.”
Look, Mike had little to no control over his face on a good day. The combination of realising he’d lost an entire day, and being reminded of Hop’s cabin which he’d visited enough in his head already, was definitely materialising as a scowl on his face.
Will’s head tilted slightly, worry warping his features. “Mike? What is it?”
It was Hop’s little cabin in the woods. It was a living room hotter than hell. It was his best friend, bound and screaming. His big sister, shaky hands clamped around hot iron. The smell of burnt flesh. An exorcism. Then, barely a year later, El and Mike in the next room sucking each other's faces off.
Mike sighed. He rested his jaw in his hand, drumming the wood with his other fingers. “It’s just… you want to go back there?”
“Um. yes? I’m asking you if you want to go there.”
“Why?”
Will hesitated. “Because I want- because, because you’re welcome to.”
“No, why would you want to go back there?” Mike pushed. He didn’t know why he was pushing. He was sleep deprived and hysterical and he still couldn’t say what he needed to say, but he would still push as if he could get Will to say it for him. Why was he like that?
“...What?” Will’s eyebrows furrowed, a small smile lifting at his lips in that way he did when he thought Mike was being silly. “My family is there, Mike. Of course I want to go.”
That left a sour taste in his mouth. Because shouldn’t they know? Even better than Mike? Joyce was there, Jonathan was there, they saw it happen. Why would they just assume Will was over it, that he was okay with going back to that place because some time had passed? They should be more considerate of Will’s mental health. In fact:
“Maybe if they wanted you to be more comfortable they should come here.”
Will looked genuinely confused, smile slipping. He shook his head lightly, “Mike, I’m sorry, I really don’t understand what you’re saying.”
God, he was going to have to address it. He crossed his arms over himself. “I just feel like... well, because of, you know…” he gestured to Will’s scarred side, eyeing it wearily, “they should know you’d be happier to meet here.”
The confusion slowly cleared out of Will’s face. He went blank. Stone. “Happier.”
Mike nodded.
“Here. With… you.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. And, like, that’s totally okay, you know.” Mike wanted Will to feel comfortable about his scar. It was okay if he was traumatised. Mike felt traumatised and he wasn’t even fucking there. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, however you still feel about…”
Being burned. Just say it. Why couldn’t he say it?
But he took too long and Will… looked angry? He honest to God scoffed, the shape of it so unnatural and wrong in Will’s soft voice. Mike felt his stomach sinking.
“What… sorry–” Will scoffed again, but it was more of a huff, latching a hand onto the side of the dining table like he needed to steady himself. His eyes were scanning left and right like he was looking for the words. “What exactly do you think of me? You think I’m, like, obsessed with you or something? I’m crazy, is that it?”
“...What?”
Where the hell did that come from? If anyone was crazy and obsessed with the other, it was clearly Mike.
What was Will so sensitive about, exactly? He was reminded of when he got weird over that dumb joke Mike had made at the volunteer shelter. Did he think Mike was saying that Will preferred living with him over living with his family? Because he wasn’t. And even if he was, it was an odd thing to get so upset over.
But Mike was ready to grovel if that was the problem. He would grovel over anything for Will, really.
“No, Will. That’s not what I meant. It’s not about me–”
“That’s right, Mike. It’s not. You and me are fine, we’re normal. We’re friends.” Will stood up slowly, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders. “We’re friends. I get it.”
“R-Right.” Mike said, breathless with confusion. “Good.” He had never been more lost in a conversation in his life. What the hell were they fighting about? Were they even fighting at all? They must have been because Will was–
Fuck. Will looked like he was going to cry.
Mike stood quickly, pushing the chair out from under him. Fuck, he fucked up. He fucked up so bad and he doesn’t even understand why. What was happening? How did they get here? He replayed the conversation in his mind, every word, every tone, but he couldn’t pinpoint where exactly he’d made the mistake.
It was that damn cavity again, but instead of toeing the line, Mike had fallen completely in. He was lost in the dark and he couldn’t find Will, again, and Will was in pain, again and Mike had put him there and he couldn’t fucking fix it.
Mike’s hand shot out to him, legs moving on their own to round the table, always trying to reach him even when it was the worst thing for Will. “Will, hey–”
“I’m sorry, I just… I need…” Will shrunk out of his grasp, turning his back to Mike. Just that act itself sent daggers through Mike’s entire nervous system.
He almost stopped Will from leaving, almost grabbed his hand before he could escape unsteadily through the kitchen– but another person entered the room, and he froze.
“Will?” Jonathan blinked as Will quickly moved past him. “Buddy?”
He shot a questioning look at Mike before he followed Will out, towards the basement. Jonathan would make sure he was okay. Mike had done enough damage as it was.
He stood beside the dining table, slack, startled, alone. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked. After a moment, Holly came skipping into the room with a unicorn eraser in hand to bring him out of his daze.
She looked around cluelessly. “Where’s Will?” she asked, approaching her half-finished drawing.
“He’s not feeling well,” Mike said faintly, monotone. He couldn’t get his eyes to focus on anything. His head felt like it was splitting apart. His heart felt worse.
Holly frowned. “We’re not even done yet!” she cried, holding up the page for Mike to see their work. He turned his head down at it slowly.
Of course Will had somehow managed to draw rainbow sparkles for Holly. And they were fucking beautiful.
We’re friends.
He remembered why it sounded so familiar, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom an hour later.
We’re. Friends.
He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to clarify it, that day at the skating rink. He knew that Will knew that. It’s what Will’s entire argument was about, that they were supposed to be friends and Mike was being a fucking distant asshole.
That’s because she’s my girlfriend, Will.
Was it? Was it because of that? The letters he sent her weren't even good. El mightn't have noticed, but he was a writer, he knew what good work was. Will loved Mike’s writing. He would have noticed.
El broke up with him not long after getting back to Hawkins. “Sometimes it feels like you are not even there,” she'd said, not unkindly, though it was hard to remember the full conversation. Maybe she noticed after all.
Maybe she noticed Mike could only love people properly in his head. In reality, he just hurt them–
“Mike. Come in. Over.”
Mike rolled over onto his side. You've got to be kidding.
“Michael Wheeler, do you copy?”
Mike considered pretending he wasn't there, but he knew Dustin would just keep talking whether he got a response or not. Already irritated, he didn't have it in him not to take the bait. He reached down under his bed – head spinning at the rush – and pushed aside empty chip packets to swipe the supercom.
“M–”
“Not in the mood, Dustin. Over,” he muttered.
Dustin’s reply was immediate. “Everyone has come over to try my NES except you. How is that possible? Over.”
Mike groaned dramatically, hand flying over to land on his forehead. If he had to hear one more goddamn thing about this damn NES… he forced down the talk button. “I’m sick,” he snapped. “Over.”
“No you’re not. Your nose isn’t even stuffy. Your nose always gets stuffy, you sound like Poindexter. Over.”
“What? I do not.”
“Exactly, that’s how I know you’re not sick.”
“Fucking– it’s not a stuffy sickness, Dustin, It’s like. Like.” He sucked in a breath. Tried to think of a time he was ever sick without a stuffy nose, what that felt like. He was sure it’d happened. At some point.
Fuck. It didn’t. Dustin knew him too well. Mike dragged a hand down his face. “I’m tired, okay? I’m tired.”
“Hang out with me. Over.”
“Fuck off.” Will was mad at him. What was the point of doing anything?
“Yesterday Will said he thinks you’re dying. You have to play The Legend of Zelda before you die. Over.”
“No. Over and out.”
But Mike didn’t close the antenna down.
“MikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeMikeM–”
Dustin’s house was grandma-esque as always. Mrs Henderson’s newest cat, perched on the arm-rest, peered down judgementally at Mike, who sat at the foot of its sofa. He twisted in his beanbag to watch it wearily.
A sudden intense tapping of Dustin’s controller called Mike’s attention back to the T.V screen. He suppressed a laugh at the chaos, at Dustin’s tongue poking out his mouth as he tried to concentrate.
“Dude, Zelda’s on half a heart. You’re really bad at this.”
“That’s not Zelda, it’s Link.”
“...So then why the fuck is it called The Legend of Zelda?”
“Because he needs to save Zelda, asshole, it’s really not that compli- fuck!”
“Hand it over.”
The sweaty controller was deposited into Mike’s lap. Mike thought if Nintendo were to ever make a fantasy game about his life, they’d probably call it The Legend of Will. The twist would be, you could never win the game, because Mike had never successfully saved Will from anything.
“...Sounds like a real hit.”
Did Mike just say that out loud. What the fuck.
What was he doing, sitting here playing video games at Dustin’s place? He needed to sleep. Even if it wasn’t working he had to try. He felt like he somehow still had adrenaline from that fight with Will and everything about his brain was fucked right now and… wait– “he shoots projectiles?”
“On full health, yeah.”
“Awesome.”
Mike got the hang of the controls relatively quickly. He felt a flash of pride at the fact that even in this state he still was an absolute beast at video games.
Dustin scoffed at Mike’s concentration. “Sick, my ass.”
“I don’t know,” Mike said, “I convinced Will.”
“You definitely didn’t.”
Mike frowned. “You said he thought I was dying?”
“Yeah, of sleep loss, not sickness.”
Oh. He pressed his lips together. So Will knew he wasn’t sleeping.
He supposed it wasn’t exactly easy to miss, since they lived together and hung out most of the time – Hell, with the way he’d been acting lately, his whole family probably knew. But he knew his family wouldn’t talk to him about it. They didn’t work that way.
His mom would insist that Mike could tell her anything, but he knew he couldn’t. She wouldn’t understand his care for Will, he’d probably just get in trouble for it. Like when Will first went missing all those years ago and all she could care about was setting dumb rules. His Dad on the other hand was an actual vegetable. It was like he had an on switch that got flipped when he went to work, where he pretended to be a normal human with cares and worries, and then lost power when he came home to fall asleep watching T.V. Mike would rather die of sleep loss than talk to him about his feelings.
Holly was six years old and clueless, sorry, and Nancy was like him. Or, rather, he was like her, since she was born first, but whatever. She didn’t really talk about stuff. She showed she cared through other ways.
But Will was nothing like Mike’s family, and that was part of why he loved him so much. Will was empathetic and articulate and open and kind. And he got… Dustin? To deal with Mike?
Maybe it was for the best. After their fight earlier today, Mike felt the cavity between them bigger than ever. Maybe Mike didn’t deserve Will reaching out, not after today, not after how he acted while Will was in Lenora.
He wasn’t sure what it was. The stab of guilt at that particular thought. The weight of all he’d been thinking and feeling for the last few days. The sleep loss, the dizziness. The fight with Will an hour ago, the fact that he had made him cry, the fact that he didn’t know why. The familiarity of Dustin’s lounge room, of playing video games on the floor together like when they were little. Being irritated by Dustin’s insistence that they waste time together, and so so grateful for it. Maybe a little bit of everything.
He wasn’t sure what it was, but he felt the urge to tell Dustin:
Will and I fought today and I don't know why.
What came out of his mouth was this:
“Did, um. Did you know about his scar?”
Dustin, oblivious to Mike’s internal suffering and apparent loss of vocal autonomy, had twisted around to scratch his preening cat under its chin. “Huh?” he said eloquently, “which one.”
“Which one?”
“Yeah, like, the one on his finger from when he fell off his bike, or–”
“On his side. The one on his side, it’s like a burn or something.”
“Oh, from when Nancy got him with the firepoker?”
His knuckles were white around the controller. “Firepoker.”
“What, you didn’t know?”
It was a genuine question, but an odd jolt of irritation still shot down his torso. There should not be things Dustin knew about Will that Mike didn’t. It was insane. “No.”
“Oh, see that clock thing? Grab that, it’ll freeze the enemies.”
Mike had bigger issues than Link’s enemies right now. He thumbed the movement pad a little harder than necessary. “When did he tell you about it.”
Dustin shrugged, attention divided between the conversation and the screen. “I don’t really remember. He must have mentioned it at some point.”
“Did he come to you, or did you find out?”
“I don’t remember the exact timeline of events, Mike, it was two years ago.”
Mike didn’t respond.
A firepoker. Awesome. Now that would be joining his returning cast of morbid mental imagery. He weaved Link through enemy projectiles, feeling a sour twist pulling at his face. Mike hurt Will’s feelings today and he didn’t even know why, of course Will felt more comfortable talking to Dustin about this stuff. It was totally reasonable. It didn’t make Mike feel less shitty about it.
Dustin rolled his eyes at the silence. “Oh come on, Mike, don’t sulk–”
“I am not sulking–”
“I’m sure he just didn’t want you feeling bad about it or something. She’s your sister.”
“Don’t I have more of a right to know about it, then? It was scary for Nancy too.”
Link had cleared all the enemies in the room. Mike now had him kind of running around aimlessly in a circle. Dustin sighed. “You know how he is. He probably thought getting fucking branded by her would be some kind of… inconvenience on your sibling relationship, I don’t know.”
Branded. Inconvenience. What, you didn’t know? He shouldn't have brought it up. How many more awful things could Mike fit into his head before it short-circuited? Endless, bitter monologues between his ears, rumination like a feedback loop. He was reinventing ways to feel worse.
“Mike. He’s okay.”
Was he? Was that possible? If this was how Mike was coping after everything, how was Will just going about his days normally? Happy as could be to visit the cabin where he’d been tortured? Mike just didn't know him well enough anymore to understand that. And whose fault is that?
“Mike.”
But just because Will didn't talk to him about these things anymore, didn't mean he never talked about them at all. He had so many people aside from Mike who loved him, and would listen to and soothe him as best they could. Mike was being selfish, wanting any kind of monopoly on that. But even Will had to agree, It just used to feel… different, with the two of them. Mike was always someone for him to turn to when no one else understood. Crazy together, right?
Maybe if Mike hadn't driven him away, he'd know if Will was okay, rather than having to hear it from Dustin. The same way he used to know everything about Will, including any prominent scarring and how Will personally felt about it–
The controller was yanked out of Mike’s hand. “Wh–”
“Hello! Mike! Talking! Please!”
Mike stared. He didn’t even remember what he was meant to be replying to – which, instead of admitting, he opted to scowl at Dustin like he was the mental case.
“Seriously. You look like shit, you’re obviously not sleeping and you can’t even admit it. What is going on with you?”
“Okay, fuck you?”
“Answer. The question. We’re not fucking around with this mental health shit after Max, remember?”
Oh. Mike swallowed down a pang of guilt. Dustin often hid it behind a smart-mouthed comment, but he cared. And he was smart. For him to see Mike as reminiscent of Max right now, he must be worse than he thought. It was only natural that Dustin would assume the worst. Mike was being a little selfish. And potentially sulking.
Besides, he didn’t really have any right to moan about Will withdrawing, if Mike did it himself.
He sighed.
“I haven’t. Been sleeping, I mean.”
Dustin nodded, pleased as always at someone admitting he was right. He passed the controller back over, like he was trying to instil in Mike some Pavlovian response to talking about his feelings. Mike accepted, if only to have something to do with his hands.
Link finally continued through the dungeon. “Um. I don’t know, I think just. A lot of feelings have been catching up to me. Feelings that I’ve… put off? For a long time? And now it’s like my brain is punishing me for, like. Procrastinating them.”
Dustin looked understanding. Really understanding, actually. Like Mike had finally learned something Dustin already knew. Mike hunched his shoulders.
“Right. And when you say your brain is punishing you…”
Inexplicably, Mike’s face started heating. Something about admitting it was so childish and embarrassing, like he’d wet the bed or something. “Nightmares,” he mumbled. “I’ve started just keeping myself awake to avoid them. It fucking sucks.”
Dustin nodded, eyebrows furrowed thoughtfully. “And you’re absolutely sure this isn’t a code red?”
“Yes. Not Vecna related. Definitely no– mental psionics, just…”
“...Nightmares.”
“Just nightmares.”
Dustin shook his head lightly, made a gesturing notion with his hand. “Well? About…?”
No-go. His heart began quickening, brain screaming at him to drop it, keep it close, no one can see, shut up. He ran a tense hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Just. Different things.”
Dustin didn’t respond. Mike’s eyes flitted over to him, only to jump away at the uncharacteristically soft and knowing look projected back. His ears burned.
“About… Will, maybe? You had a nightmare about his scar?”
Not right on the money, but close enough for a jolt of discomfort to travel down Mike’s chest. Dustin was smart. There was no going back now. He shrugged noncommittally, eyes glued to the screen. He felt Dustin’s gaze on the side of his head like a beam of sun through a magnifying glass.
“It’s okay, Mike,” he said after a moment. He sounded so careful.
“I know. He’s fine.”
“No, I mean…”
Glancing over, Dustin looked strikingly uneasy. Mike's concern eclipsed his embarrassment. While his attention wavered, Link took one shot too many and the screen went black with death. Continue? Blinked out at them. Dustin finally sighed, muttering something sullen to the ceiling before turning back to Mike.
“It’s okay to feel… what you’re feeling.”
Mike blinked.
Right. Of course. Will hated people worrying over him, making him feel like a problem that could never be fully solved. Which made total sense, and Mike took care to show that he respected that. But that didn’t make it any easier to carry – that weight of concern. Dustin was probably right. Acknowledging that it existed was probably the first step in letting it go.
Acknowledging. Talking. Communicating. Ugh.
Fuck it, fuck everything. He took the plunge.
“I know, I just… I hate having to keep my distance, you know? I’ve always hated it. And it felt more – necessary, I guess? As we got older? But still, it’s like my brain won’t turn off this stupid fucking instinct to, I don’t know. Jump on him. Make sure no one can ever touch him.”
Dustin choked on his own spit.
Mike was well aware that his saviour complex was on full display right now. He pretended his cheeks weren’t burning, waiting for Dustin’s coughing fit to subside. “I’m crazy, I get it, whatever.”
Dustin’s eyes were huge, cheeks a little red himself. “Uh. Not crazy. Perfectly natural. Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting…” Mike’s eyebrows furrowed, shaking his head slightly in question. Dustin shook his own, readjusting. “Don’t– you don’t have to keep your distance, Mike. It’s okay.”
“I don’t?”
“I mean, not when you’re with us, obviously. Everyone… kind of already knows.”
…Right. Mike took a second to piece this conversation together in his brain, eyes shifting to the side. Everyone knew how weirdly protective Mike got with Will – they’d made fun of him for it since forever. Frankly, Mike didn’t really care what they thought. But either way… “It’s not about everyone,” he said slowly. “It’s about Will. How he feels about it.”
Dustin pressed his lips together, face lit gently by the question projected on the screen before them. Mike watched some internal struggle wage behind his eyes, before he seemed to relent: “you don’t have to worry about that. He’s waited a long time for you.”
Oh. Will was… waiting for him.
Mike’s stomach was sinking.
Was this weird distance between them all in his head? Was Will actually trying to reach out over the wall of Mike’s assumptions and insecurities? Did Will actually think Mike didn't care?
He thought of Lenora. He could tell himself he was only trying to give Will space from Hawkins, so he could finally move on from everything that hurt him, even if that included Mike himself. But that wasn’t entirely true. The truth was this: something about writing or calling Will just seemed so, so fucking daunting to Mike. It was like Will was just so good, that without his physical body visible to Mike – to remind him that he was just a person, just Will, Mike’s best friend – the sheer abstract concept of him made him… nervous. Like an angel or some shit; way too perfect to just interact with.
Which was… weird, right? El was probably more comparable to an angel, what with her powers and all, but she somehow felt infinitely more approachable to Mike. There was no reasonable way to explain that, especially to Will. So when confronted about it, his defences flared, and he shifted blame to him. It felt fair in the moment – it was true that Will hadn’t reached out, Mike spent everyday thinking about it – but deep down he knew it really, really wasn’t.
Mike was the one who drove Will away first. He consistently chose El over him, because it was easier. Will had tried to talk to Mike about it, twice, resulting in the only two fights he could ever remember them having, of course he withdrew.
And here was Dustin, telling him that Will was waiting for him. Will must have spoken to Dustin about how Mike didn't check up on him anymore, probably thinking he was tired of him or some other ridiculous Will-reasoning. That must have been why Dustin was now urging Mike not to keep his distance anymore.
Fuck. Will was still waiting for him. Will needed support, needed Mike, and he wasn’t there, too caught up in his own head about giving him space, or making him cry, or being nervous around him like some fucking schoolgirl. What the fuck was Mike even good for if he couldn’t be there for Will? Will had been through hell and back, all of it beginning because he was leaving Mike’s house late, the least he could do was fucking be there for him–
Dustin leaned over to grab Mike’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, hey! Relax already. Jesus, you look fucking catatonic.”
Mike dragged a hand down his face. He was the worst person in the world. He didn’t deserve to relax.
“Mike, come on. It’s okay.”
Mike heard a hint of humour in his voice. He peeked through the cracks between his fingers to catch the asshole holding back a laugh. “What the– this isn’t funny, Dustin!”
“It’s not, it’s not!” Dustin surrendered, showing his open palms. “It’s just, holy shit Lucas owes me so much money–”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Forget it. Here’s what you’re gonna do.” Dustin jumped off of his beanbag to kneel in front of Mike’s, somehow reinvigorated by the sight of his friend's despair. “Will’s miserable because he thinks you don’t even care about him. And you’re miserable because you do care about him, a lot, but you don’t know how to show it because of the weird distance between you too, and it’s all culminating in your subconscious torturing you. Right?”
“Um. Right.”
“So, you kill two birds with one stone.” Dustin had that crazed look in his eye he got when he was absolutely certain something would work. “Acts of service. Lucas told me it's like some cheat-code he does with Max all the time. Will is going to feel cared about, your weird guilt-hero complex will feel satisfied, and then… boom. Nightmares gone. Closeness restored.”
“Acts, okay what… acts, exactly?”
“Could be anything. Whatever he needs.”
“So… what, I just hover around him until he needs something done? He’d hate that.”
Dustin tilted his head. “Yeah, if you do it wrong. You gotta… slip in. Casually. Just like, say you pass and see him… I don’t know. What even happens at your house? Say he’s washing dishes. Whatever. You gotta jump in with the old, here, let me get that for you, and like, reach up to put a mug away on the top shelf for him. Something smooth like that.”
This sounded absurdly like dating advice. From Dustin of all people would be humiliating.
Mike pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess, bro.”
Dustin’s beamed his stupid, endearing smile. “Good man,” he nodded as he clasped his shoulder.
Again, Dustin probably had a point. He had to ditch this weird nervousness he had when it came to Will, some way or another. Will knowing he cared was infinitely more important. And, if he was being honest, it would be fucking nice to convince his brain to sleeping eight hours without subjecting him to any Vecna-level psychological torture.
“Acts of service,” which apparently worked for… Lucas and Max. Okay. Um. Sure. It was a start. Hopefully in re-establishing normalcy and familiarity, rather than just making things weirder. Mike was still worried about bothering Will with any hovering, especially after today, but Dustin seemed confident in this “smooth” way of doing it. Whatever. Maybe once Will and him were close again, it could be something silly that they laugh about together.
What had they even laughed together about, recently?
Fix it.
Alright. Tomorrow. He’d wait for the right moment, and ask Will: “Do you need anything?” He’d smile at him, look genuine, maybe even cool, if, like, the lighting was right. Maybe he should do it in front of a window or something. And Will would blink, surprised, in that way he did when he’d gotten kindness he hadn’t expected. Like a little baby deer. He’d smile softly up at Mike, maybe even blushing a little, and…
What? Anyway. Dustin was settling back into his bean bag, holding out an open palm for the controller.
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Mike regarded Dustin for a moment, before turning back to the T.V and hitting select on the Continue option.
“Wh- Hey, my turn!”
“No fuck off I need to save Zelda.”
He didn’t make it to tomorrow.
He wasn’t dead or anything, Jesus, he meant this: he didn’t make it to tomorrow without everything about that stupid plan getting fucked over.
Look. He couldn’t risk another sleepless night. If he was going to win Will back over, he needed to be at the top of his game. Seriously. What if he went to put that mug away on the top shelf for Will, but because of his inhibited fine-motor skills, it slipped out of his hand and shattered? And Will tried to clean up the mess for him, because of course he would, but cut himself while picking up the shards?
Or this one: Mike is helping Will tidy the basement, but he stands too quickly after changing Will’s sheets on the mattress. The drop in blood pressure is too much for Mike’s fragile head, and he fully passes out, splitting his skull open on the table. Will would be horrified, scrambling to put pressure on the wound while Mike bled out all over him. He’d have to haul Mike’s slack body up the basement stairs to get help. Will wouldn’t feel very serviced in that moment.
It was two out of a million things that could go wrong if Mike didn’t do something about this issue. But what could he do? He’d counted sheep. He’d focused on his breathing, he tried to think of nice things, he’d relaxed each body part one-by-one. He’d tried his mom’s gross herbal tea, he’d read comic books until his eyes were throbbing. And even the handful of times he had passed out due to pure exhaustion, he was subjected to awful nightmares that woke him up anyway. He was well and truly fucked. The only time his brain ever relaxed was when Will was right in front of him, physically, so that he could make sure that he was–
Hm.
It was then, staring up at the same ceiling he now knew intimately, that the horrible idea entered Mike’s restless mind.
He would be fast. Quiet. He had lived in this house his entire life, he knew every creaky floorboard to avoid. He’d just peek his head in from the top of the staircase and catch a glimpse of Will, sleeping, safe, peaceful. Then he’d duck back into his room like nothing had happened. His mind would be soothed for the next couple of hours at least, giving him ample time to fall asleep. He might not even have any nightmares. Even if he did, however long he spent asleep would hopefully rejuvenate him enough to carry out this plan, and they’d stop anyway soon.
He jumped out of bed before he’d even fully decided.
He slipped out of his room, treaded down the stairs, rounded the kitchen. He felt like a burglar in his own home, the way the darkness and guilt pressed in on him. What was the problem? What, he couldn’t check in on his best friend? He’d make sure he didn’t wake up Will or– fuck, that’s right, Jonathan was sleeping down there too.
Fine, it’d be fine. In and out. Easy. An innocent and very stealthy walk in the park.
Once he reached the lounge-room, he headed to the corner opposite the basement door to turn on the lamp. It needed to be bright enough that the light softly touched downstairs, but dim enough that neither brother would stir from it spilling into their space. The lamp, old and warm, would do well enough.
He touched the basement handle gingerly, almost backing out, but he’d come too far. It opened slowly.
A blade of warm light beckoned Mike down the stairs. He made his way: skipped the second step, which always groaned, pressed each socked foot gently on the boards, slid a guilty hand down the railing. Just a little further, a little further and he’d be able to make out–
One? Person?
He ducked his head a little lower, squinting his eyes to adjust. It was true; the couch was empty, save for a haphazardly discarded blanket. Mike’s heart turned to ice. Did Will leave? Where could he have possibly gone at half-past midnight? Was he taken?
But– no. The figure on the mattress on the floor, bunching their blanket down at their feet, they were too small to be Jonathan.
The dark yielded enough for Mike to make out the brown mop of a fluffy, overgrown bowl cut. As always, the sight of Will was a relief like no other. Spring's first breath, morning's first rays: they were half as beautiful as Will in this moment. Mike was entranced at how he still somehow managed to glow amongst all the darkness surrounding him. Like magic, Mike was already feeling way better. Will was the best.
Wait. What the– he knew Jonathan was sneaking into his sisters room at night! What the hell!
He suppressed a huff. He could interrogate Jonathan tomorrow (which would look less like an interrogation and more like wordless, dirty looks from behind a mug), but now was time to go upstairs again and sleep. He’d gotten his Will-fix, no excuse to be creepy now.
He took one last eye-full. Dawdled his gaze down Will’s form, sprawled on his stomach as he clung to a pillow, leg lifted lightly, shirt ridden up his slow-moving chest to reveal–
His scar. Fuck.
This next bit was possibly not a great decision on Mike’s part, but he wasn’t actually known for those.
This was the only chance he’d have to get a closer look. Will wasn’t Lucas, he never walked around without a shirt off. The only reason Mike knew about the scar in the first place was because he perved on him getting out of the shower. Immediately in that instant, everything came flooding back like a tidal wave. Scar. Firepoker. Cabin. Will crying.
He didn’t even register he had descended the rest of the staircase until his feet hit carpet and Will was three metres away. Will would never show him, he’d never talk about it. Mike would never talk about it. He needed to see it, before it disappeared behind cloth forever again. Then he’d be done and he’d leave.
His heart was racing. He inched forward, bit by bit. Crouched down onto his knees.
It was exactly how he remembered it, just closer. It almost looked like a star. It climbed outwards on Will’s skin, like a snapshot of momentum. Its birth was hideous and frightening and painful, but because the scar belonged to Will, it was inherently beautiful. Mike’s shaky hand lifted. Absurdly, he wanted to feel it. He wanted for Will to know, to really understand what he was trying to say earlier that day. That it mattered. Mike wanted to touch him there, more than anything.
And… and Will’s hair. He wanted to ghost his fingertips over his scalp, if it would make Will feel nice. He wanted to gently touch his ears, his jaw, the back of his neck, even if he was sensitive there, especially if he was sensitive there. And he wanted Will to be awake, and smiling. To feel good under Mike’s attention and not angry.
But he was.
Mike dropped his hand back down into his lap. What was he doing? What exactly was he ever trying to accomplish, scrutinizing Will’s side while he slept? Fantasising about touching him in ways he never fantasised with his own fucking girlfriend. Seriously, he was being so creepy and stupid. He had crossed so many lines tonight. Humiliated and hating himself at lengths he never had before, he got to his feet.
And his knee cracked.
No. No.
The sound of it bounced around the room dramatically. Mike’s jaw dropped at the absolute treachery of his bones right now to do this to him. That was when the tide of Will’s breathing fell out of its rhythm, and he sucked in an unusually quiet, short breath.
Will’s head twitched. His shoulders scrunched, hand dragged upward to curl under his chin. The way someone might do when they were putting off waking up.
Shit.
Of course Will was a light sleeper – how could he not be, after everything? Mike was suddenly very aware of the length of his own body, towering over his best friend’s sleeping form, looking like the antagonist in a teen-slasher film. He swore he wasn't trying to be menacing, it just really, really looked that way. He couldn't let Will think that about him, even for a moment. He had to do something.
The darkness was decidedly not the most incriminating part of this, but Mike’s instinct in the next split-second was to somehow reason that his best shot at redeeming the situation would be to turn on the floor lamp, behind the mattress. That way at least when Will opened his eyes, he wouldn’t be flinching at the sight of two meters of indistinct shadow hovering over him, but rather two meters of very embarrassed Mike Wheeler. Then hopefully Mike could open his mouth and something clever would fall out to explain himself.
His hand shot out to click the light on. He considered, then, that maybe he should have made sure Will was actually waking up before sealing his fate. He heard another hitch in Will’s breathing, sharper.
Shit.
Will didn’t really flinch, so much as instinctively push his face further into his pillow. Then, after a second, he slowly twisted his head and torso toward Mike, hair mussed wildly. His face pinched in a baffled squint, recoiling slightly from the lamplight. “Mike?” he croaked, voice dark and thick with sleep. He wasn’t scared. Thank God.
His mouth was dry. “Will,” he breathed.
Nothing. Will was waiting for him to say something.
Shit.
“Will. Um. Do you… need anything?”
Why the hell did he land on that. His eyes fell shut in quiet grief. Fuck you, Dustin. Actually fuck you.
Will didn’t move. “...what?” he whispered after a few seconds, almost to himself.
“Are you– can I help you?”
“Mike, you came to me.”
He was sweating. Will was right. What was happening? How was this the second time in a week he’d been caught staring Will down in a vulnerable position?
“Are you… sleepwalking?” Will began to sit up then, trying to study Mike’s face as his pupils adjusted to the light. Mike took that blessing of an out and ran with it.
“Yes.”
Literally.
He fumbled with the lamp for a moment before he clicked it off, turned tail and booked it. “I’m sorry,” rasped out of him as he stumbled up the stairs, throwing himself toward the rectangular light of the doorframe. He closed the door behind him with his back, heart pounding.
Shit. Shit. Shit.