Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Will should've known better. He should've known this crawl would go to shit. Truly, ever since the sky started spinning during lunch, the entire day had felt off-kilter. A pit had settled low in his stomach, heavy and stubborn, refusing to dissolve no matter how many times he swallowed against it or told himself to get a grip.

Still, he'd convinced himself he was overthinking it, still rattled from earlier, letting paranoia dress itself up as intuition. A crawl had never gone wrong before. They had a routine. They had backup plans. They had a system for keeping in touch. So why would this one be any different?

With Wills track record, though, he should've expected it. He should've expected the familiar "goosies" to prickle along the back of his neck like icy fingertips. He should've expected their communication with Hopper to deteriorate into static and broken syllables, especially when a certain sound, one that haunts his nightmares, shrieked sharply through the line, unmistakable and wrong. He should've anticipated his mom's panicked shouts as everything unraveled at once, her voice pitched high with fear in a way he knew all too well.

There was so much he'd learned to expect. Except for this.

Except for the frigid pinpricks crawling up his legs, burrowing into muscle and bone before seizing his arms and stealing the air from his lungs. It wasn't gradual. It was invasive. He felt his body go rigid, every limb locking into place. His jaw clenched. His fingers twitched. All he was left with were wide, terrified eyes and the echo of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

He blinked and the chaotic room was gone. Robin. Nancy. El. His mom. All of them crowded around the desk, wearing identical expressions of horror and confusion simply vanished.

In their place was a world drenched in deep reds and suffocating purples, the air itself seeming to pulse like a living artery. A world Will had survived for 6 days. It took Will a moment to comprehend that what he was seeing wasn't static. It was breathing. Moving. Alive in a way that made his skin crawl and his stomach churn. Shapes sharpened into trucks, trees strangled by thick, rotting vines, a road tearing beneath his—

No. Not his. A Demogorgon's feet.

His perspective tilted upward again as distant specks resolved into soldiers. Their guns were raised, safeties flicked off in futile defiance, arms trembling as the monstrosity barreled toward them with terrifying speed. Will felt a desperate urge to act, to reach out, to shove them aside, to halt the creature mid-stride. To do anything.

If he could see through it, surely he had some control, right? Apparently not. He couldn't feel his body anymore. His thoughts—stop, please stop, make it stop—were nothing but silent pleas swallowed by whatever force had dragged him here. Instead, he got a front row seat as the Demogorgon leapt from the ground and landed on a soldier with a sickening thud.

Will wanted to recoil, to shield himself from the spray of blood as the Demogorgon shoved its bony, sharp claws through human skin. He felt phantom warmth splatter across his vision, even though he knew it wasn't real. At least in his own dimension.

The next soldier met his end atop one of the trucks, gripping another useless weapon as though it might save him. The Demogorgon launched again, its claw slicing through the man's neck with horrifying ease. The motion was almost graceful.

And still, Will wanted to scream. He'd thought he'd already seen enough horror to last a lifetime. The Upside Down. The night terrors that plagued him long after he'd escaped it. Demodogs tearing into Bobs body. The Mind Flayer constructing a grotesque form out of human remains. A body bleeding out in the back of a van, turning cold before his eyes. Memories stacked on top of each other like scenes from a horror reel he could never turn off, no matter how hard he tried.

Yet the horror movie never stopped. Another soldier was slammed into the earth, claws puncturing deep before the creature lifted him effortlessly and hurled him against a tree. Will couldn't tell what cracked louder, the man's bones or the wood splintering on impact. The sound echoing amongst the shouts.

When the Demogorgon looked up this time, Will noticed two things; the first being that there were two soldiers left. Two humans he had to watch get mauled. The second being that in the truck that speeding away, Will could see Hopper, mouth parted, eyes wide, taking in the carnage.

Suddenly, watching strangers die wasn't the worst part. Instead, Will was plagued with the realization that he might have to watch the closest thing he had to a father face the wrath of the Demogorgon. The thought lodged in his chest like shrapnel. And there was nothing he could do but witness it unfold.

The last soldier was swiped at with brutal speed, the force sending him flying as blood rained over the creature. Will caught the slightest glimpse of the man's chest when he landed on his back. Even from that fleeting angle, he was certain the man was already dead.

But then the Demogorgon was racing again, dropping to all fours to chase down the truck. Will wished he had the ability to close his eyes, to spare himself of the image of Hoppers corpse burned into his corneas. But he was trapped in this borrowed perspective. Forced to see.

Except when the Demogorgon was within reach and finally leapt, it landed on the top of the truck, claws swiping through tarp as it moved toward the driver's side.

If Will could have sighed in relief, he would've. Even as the claws punched through the tarp above the driver, skewering the man beneath like a grotesque kebab before tossing him from the vehicle. It was better than Hopper. Still, dread lingered. If Will could see Hopper, then surely the Demogorgon could too. The connection felt too intimate, too exposed.

With what felt like bated breath, Will watched as the Demogorgon leapt off the truck and sprinted down the side of the road instead.

Suddenly, like strings cut, Will felt his own body again. Pins and needles faded into a dull, mushy heaviness. The tension drained from his muscles like a dam breaking under pressure. It almost felt like relief, like maybe he'd be ripped from this nightmare at last.

But as soon as the sensation came, it was gone. In its place was a deep burn in his skull, a pounding behind his eyes that made everything throb in rhythm with his pulse.

The true sight, if that was even was what this could be called, must have been draining him. That was the only explanation Will could cling to. He hoped that maybe if it taxed his body enough, it would eject him from this trance naturally. Maybe his body would give out before he had to see more.

And yet the bruised purples and bleeding reds remained. Claws pounded against concrete. Trees whipped past in a blur. Then the landscape shifted. And it became familiar.

A kind of familiar that brought an onslaught of dread, a pit in his stomach widening into something cavernous. Perched atop a broken fence slick with slime and wrapped in thick vines, Will saw the Wheeler house. It was overrun, consumed by decay, lightning flashing overhead and illuminating it in jagged bursts.

But it was the Wheelers house through and through.

Will prayed that the Demogorgon was merely passing by. That this was coincidence. That it was en route to wherever these creatures nested. But deep in his gut, he knew better. This wasn't just sightseeing. It felt intentional. Directed. Like the creature had been given a task, and Will, horrifyingly, could gain an idea of what that task was. The house seemed to call to it, beckoning it forward like prey foolish enough to stand still.

So Will watched, because it seemed to be all he could ever do, as the Demogorgon jumped from the fence and continued its charge toward the house. Will braced himself for more death. More terror inflicted on the innocent people in Hawkins.

Until his mother's face flashed into view. It was sudden, sharp and disorienting, accompanied by a stinging sensation along his cheek. Each time her face broke through his vision, the Wheelers loomed closer. Until finally, with one aggressive surge, her face filled his entire vision.

Her fear was laced over every ounce of her expression. Her mouth moved rapidly, words spilling out that he couldn't hear properly, but knew were laced with frantic concern.

Feeling flooded back into his body. His cheek burned hot, tender enough he was sure it had turned read. His head throbbed mercilessly, skull heavy and aching. The light overhead scorched his eyes, forcing them to squint against the brightness. It didn't help that the world tilted again, spinning just as it had earlier that day, colors bleeding into one another as shapes warped and bent unnaturally.

He felt his mother's cold hands cradle his cheeks. Saw her face draw closer to his own. Her voice filtered through like he was underwater, distorted and distant.

And then a flash of the Wheelers house replayed in his mind like a warning.

"Wheee...ler..."

His tongue felt thick. Uncooperative. His lips numb and sluggish. Blurred shapes crowded into his periphery. He needed them to know.

"Demogor'n."

The word scraped out of him, wrong and slurred, barely recognizable. His own voice sounded foreign in his ears. He blinked again, slower this time, reality slipping through his fingers like sand.

Darkness pressed in at the edges of his vision.

And then there was nothing.

————

El should've known. She should've known this crawl would go to shit. Truly, 18 months of pure, uninterrupted silence should have sounded every alarm in her head. Even more so when she learned that Will felt something earlier that day. They had been handed a warning sign, and yet they proceeded with the crawl as normal, convincing themselves it was nerves, coincidence, leftover trauma.

So with their luck, El should've expected a Demogorgon to finally resurface. She should've expected that their communication with Hopper would be compromised the second things started to go sideways. And she should've anticipated the usual chaos that seemed magnetized to their group, like a predator stalking wounded prey.

There was a long list of things El had trained herself to anticipate. But hearing her brother collapse behind her back was not one of them.

The lights had already begun to flicker overhead, a faint electrical buzz weaving through the air. Gurgling chirps crackled from Hopper's end of the comms, distorted, wet, and wrong. The sound alone made El's stomach drop. And then she heard a sharp gasp from behind her. She knew it was Will. She assumed he was reacting to the same dread curling through all of them.

Then came the thud.

El whipped around so fast her vision blurred, just in time to see Will seizing violently on the ground. The whites of his eyes were fully exposed as his pupils rolled back so far she wondered, irrationally, if he could see the inside of his own skull. His face jerked side to side in erratic snaps, teeth clenched tight, his breath hitching in ragged bursts like each inhale scraped against something raw and torn inside his lungs.

She heard Joyce's chair scrape violently against the floor. "Will!"

Then everything dissolved into motion.

El dropped to her knees, cradling Will's head into her lap before it could strike the floor again. Her hands framed his face, trying to steady him, trying to keep him from hurting himself. Joyce collapsed at his right side, landing in a graceless heap, hands pressing against his chest as she shook him desperately, as if physical force alone could yank him back from wherever he'd gone. Nancy and Robin crowded his left, their hands hovering uselessly in the air, frozen between action and fear, paralyzed by not knowing what the right move was.

Will had been through hell. They all had. And those closest to him had watched him endure it, had held him through nightmares and flashbacks and lingering chills that had no medical explanation. But this was different.

Will was once again subject to the unseen grip of Vecna and the Mind Flayer in a way none of them fully understood. An invasion of the mind that left no bruises to treat, no wounds to stitch, no clear enemy to strike. And that helplessness made El's chest tighten.

Joyce kept shaking him, her voice cracking as she repeated like a frantic mantra, "Will, honey, wake up! Wake up!"

The only response she received was the power box erupting in a violent crackle, sparks spitting from its seams before it gave up entirely, plunging the room into suffocating darkness.

"Shit."

El couldn't see Nancy, but she would recognize that voice anywhere, tight, controlled, and masking her fear. There was frantic shuffling, the rasp of herdenim jacket as Nancy searched blindly along the shelves. A muttered, triumphant, "Got it," and then a beam of light sliced through the darkness, illuminating them in a harsh white glow.

Will was still trapped.

El's grip tightened subconsciously as she pulled him closer to her, as if proximity alone might tether him here. Joyce, now able to see her son again, redoubled her efforts.

"Will, come back! Come on, honey, come back!"

His face continued its violent twitching, eyes straining, tears pooling at the corners from being forced open too long. Joyce huffed a broken curse under her breath before lifting her hand and bringing it down sharply across his cheek. And El's breath caught. She had never seen Joyce strike Will. Not once.

But Will's eyes cleared, just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to see recognition flicker there before it vanished again. And Joyce must've seen it too, because her hand rose once more, hesitation trembling in her fingers. The second slap landed harder. Desperation outweighing her restraint.

Will gasped as though breaking the surface after being held underwater too long. His eyes snapped back into place, pupils centering as he dragged in air in heaping, uneven gulps. His chest rose and fell violently, oxygen flooding him in waves. But something was still off. His pupils were blown wide, a hazy disorientation clouding them. He winced, brows knitting together, as though light itself hurt.

"Will?" El asked softly.

There was no acknowledgment. No flicker of recognition. And when El looked to Joyce, this hadn't gone unnoticed. Joyce's hands shifted immediately, cupping his cheeks with a tenderness that sharply contrasted the slaps moments earlier. "Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

Will stared straight ahead, unfocused. Then his lips began to move, slow and uncoordinated, like his mouth no longer remembered how to form words.

"Wheee...ler..."

El's head snapped toward Nancy, but the older teen just looked confused. She knew Mike and Will were best friends, but surely Mike wasn't Wills first thought in a moment like this. This didn't feel like a name spoken out of comfort.

"Demogor'n."

The word slurred and broken sent a jolt through El like electricity. Puzzle pieces began snapping together with sickening clarity. They didn't know the details, but there were only so many conclusions to draw from Wheeler and Demogorgon in the same breath. El watched as Nancy started to move around with urgency, grabbing another flashlight, hands steady despite the fear written across her face, and checked her pistol with mechanical precision.

"What are you doing?" Robin demanded, looking entirely too confused for all the shit they've dealt with.

Nancy huffed, not even turning Robin's way. "Going to help my family."

El looked down at Will again. His eyes had drifted closed, his features finally relaxing into something resembling peace. Or maybe it was just exhaustion pulling him under. Either way, he looked less tormented than he had moments ago. Then she looked at Joyce, who seemed to be restraining herself from pulling her son into her own arms.

And that was enough.

"I'm coming with you."

Nancy turned, offering El a short nod. The bravado she wore like armor slipped for a second, and El saw the terror beneath it. The relief at not going alone softened her shoulders just slightly. El then carefully maneuvered Will into Joyce's waiting arms before rising to her feet and stepping beside Nancy.

"Be careful, both of you," Joyce said from the floor, her voice thin but steady.

The look in her eyes made it clear, she felt like she was sending her children into battle. And from Joyce's perspective, she was. Her grip tightened around Will as she watched El and Nancy disappear out the door, the radio station left humming with the aftershock of what had just happened.

————

Robin gently placed a hand on Joyce's shoulder, meaning the gesture to be grounding, reassuring, only to flinch when the woman nearly jumped out of her skin at the contact.

"Sorry," Robin said quickly, withdrawing her hand halfway before forcing herself not to retreat entirely. "I was just going to suggest we get him to the couch?"

Joyce stared up at her with a blank, almost glassy expression, like her brain was still somewhere else entirely. After a beat, she nodded. The movement was mechanical, distracted. She attempted to hoist Will upright and lean him against her as she stood, but with Will being fully unconscious, dead weight and unresponsive, her footing faltered.

Robin moved without thinking, sidling up to Will's other side and taking half his weight. She adjusted her grip carefully, one arm around his back and the other steadying his shoulder so his head wouldn't loll too violently. She'd seen enough movies, and enough concussions through Vickie's stories, to know you didn't let the head snap around if you could help it.

Joyce's expression flickered into something complicated. Relief at the help. Gratitude, even. But beneath it, sharp and instinctual, was something that read unmistakably as don't touch my son.

Which, honestly? Fair.

Robin had spent enough time around the Byers family to understand Joyce's brand of feral devotion. After everything her kids had endured, protectiveness wasn't just a personality trait, it was armor. So once they slowly managed to get Will up the stars and settled onto the couch, Robin stepped back immediately, hands raised in silent surrender.

She watched as Joyce gathered one of Will's limp hands between both of hers, lifting it to her cheek. "Please wake up, sweetheart," she murmured, voice breaking around the edges.

And while Robin was no medical professional, she was pretty sure it wouldn't be that easy to wake up Will. In fact, based on what she'd absorbed secondhand from Vickie, Robin had a creeping suspicion something else was at play here.

"Uh—hey," she ventured carefully, taking a few cautious steps closer. "Do you care if I check something real quick?"

She moved like someone approaching a skittish animal, fully aware that Joyce might snap if she overstepped. And in Robin's defense, she absolutely believed Joyce could bite if properly motivated.

Joyce looked up at her, suspicion still lingering in her eyes. It was the look of someone thinking, I don't entirely trust you with my child, but also knowing she didn't have many options. After a tense second, she gave a tight nod. Robin took that as permission and knelt at the end of the sofa near Will's head. With exaggerated gentleness, very aware of Joyce's watchful stare, she carefully peeled one of Will's eyelids open.

While Robin loves to be right, she's not so proud of it in this situation. Will's pupil was massively dilated, a blown-out abyss of black swallowing almost all of the hazel, leaving only thin rings of color around the edges. It didn't contract much in the light either. Robin inhaled to explain, but Joyce had already leaned closer. She saw it too.

"He's concussed."

Joyce's voice held a strange combination of relief and disbelief. Relief that there might be a medical explanation. Disbelief that she hadn't recognized it sooner. The dots were connecting rapidly now, and maybe, just maybe, this wasn't entirely Vecna's doing. Relief didn't swarm over her concern, but it was a new twinkle in her eyes.

"Is it safe for him to be... like this? With a concussion?" Joyce asked, brows furrowed, her voice tight.

Robin resisted the urge to grimace. She was, in absolutely no capacity, a doctor. But she had listened to Vickie vent enough about protocols and symptoms and "please don't let teenage boys nap immediately after head trauma" to hazard a guess.

"I mean," Robin began cautiously, "preferably he should be awake for the first couple hours so we can monitor his symptoms. Make sure he's responsive. No worsening confusion. No—"

Before the panic could fully bloom across Joyce's face, Will gasped. His body jolted upright with startling force, eyes snapping open wide in raw, animal fear. They were still dilated, pupils darting frantically around the room in erratic, unfocused movements. It was the look of someone still half-trapped somewhere else.

Until they landed on Joyce and something softened. A bare thread of clarity.

"M..." Will swallowed, blinking heavily as he tried again. "M-mom."

Joyce visibly melted, her shoulders dropping as her hands came up to cradle his face again. Her thumbs brushed gently along his cheeks, tapping lightly if his eyelids lingered closed too long. Robin felt incredibly out of place watching the two. Joyce could be intense and overbearing, but in this moment she was simply a mother. No monsters. No interdimensional threats. Just her and her son on a couch, trying to stabilize something fragile.

"How are you feeling sweetheart?" She asked softly.

Will answered with a low groan, squeezing his eyes shut as his head tipped back against the couch cushion. His skin looked paler now, almost gray beneath the overhead light. A faint sheen of sweat gathered along his hairline. And damnit, it was enough to barely remember Steve, sick from truth serum and a rough beating, hunched over a toilet in Starcourt mall as they sat on the floor of a grimy stall.

"Ms. Byers?" Robin said sharply. "Grab a bucket."

Joyce shot her a look so judgmental it briefly made Robin question every life choice that had led her here.

"What?"

And then Will's eyes flew open again. That unmistakable look of dread when you've realized your body has betrayed you. When your stomach ached, mouth started to salivate as you felt everything move back up from the way it came down. His hand clamped over his mouth as his throat convulsed with a gag.

That snapped Joyce back into motion, realization dawning on her as she scrambled toward the nearest trash can, snatching it up without inspecting its contents. Crumpled crawl plans, snack wrappers, and what looked suspiciously like a lone sock tumbled to the bottom. It didn't matter. Robin had quickly maneuvered Will into a seated position, one hand steadying his shoulder as Joyce shoved the bin into his arms.

The second it touched his hands, Will folded over it and expelled everything he'd had in his system. Each violent heave wracked his frame, making him wince and whimper between breaths. His eyes squeezed shut, likely trying to block out both the spinning room and what Robin assumed was a splitting, skull-crushing headache.

Joyce settled beside him, one hand moving rhythmically up and down his back in long, soothing passes. "Just let it out, honey," she murmured, voice steady despite the fear behind it. "You're okay."

It took a several long, uneasy minutes for Wills stomach to settle enough that he could set the trash can aside. Robin, for her part, declared that the entire trash can ought to be thrown out or burned. Maybe even tossed into another dimension, which could easily be arranged.

Joyce reached for a tissue from the cluttered table nearby and gently dabbed at the corners of Will's mouth. Only when she was satisfied did she glance toward Robin. "Could you grab him a bottle of water, please?"

Robin nodded with brisk certainty before hurrying toward the small kitchen. She flung open the refrigerator and selected the coldest bottle she could find, the chill biting pleasantly into her palm. The sensation sparked another thought—they should be icing Will's head. Concussions and all that. So she snagged a sandwich bag and shoveled it full of ice cubes. It certainly wouldn't be comfortable pressed against his scalp, but it was the best they could manage under the circumstances.

She had just stepped back into the main room when the doors of the Squawk were thrown open with dramatic force, slamming against the walls and rattling the glass. Standing in the doorway were none other than Michael Wheeler (Queeler, in Robin's deeply humble and entirely accurate opinion) and Lucas Sinclair. Both of them were drenched in sweat, chests heaving as they gulped in air like they'd just outrun a Demogorgon.

And maybe they had because didn't one attack the—

"Wheeler?!" Robin blurted, cutting off her own spiraling thought. "Shouldn't you be with your family?"

Mike tilted his head, brows knitting together in confusion. "What? Why?" His gaze drifted down to the water bottle and the makeshift ice pack in Robin's hands, and his expression only grew more bewildered.

And shit. Robin had completely forgotten about the power outage. In all the chaos, they hadn't told anyone what was happening, mainly because they didn't fully know themselves. For all they knew, the world outside the radio station was on fire, which wouldn't be a stretch. She hated being the one to break news like this.

"Mike..." she began, her voice losing some of its usual sharpness. "Will saw a Demogorgon heading toward your house. Nancy and El rushed over, but we don't know what's happened since."

She watched the color drain from Mike's face. His eyes widened, horror flashing across them as he stared down at the floor, clearly replaying every decision that had led them here. Then, slowly, he looked back up at her, his expression softened by something else entirely.

"Is... Is Will okay?"

And if the circumstances had been even remotely less dire, Robin would've called him gay without hesitation. Because honestly, who hears that his family might be dead and his first instinct is to ask if his best friend was okay? Oh, who was she kidding. This was all up Mikes alley.

"He's got a concussion that we're monitoring," Robin replied. "But otherwise he's as okay as he can be."

Mike exhaled shakily in obvious relief, shoulders dropping. Lucas, meanwhile, looked as stunned as Robin felt. "Dude, what about your family?" he pressed. "Shouldn't we go check on them?"

But Mike waved him off with more confidence than anyone had any right to possess tonight. "Nancy's there. El's there. Two of the most capable people I know. And if I really need to be there, Nancy will find me."

With that, he moved further into the room, eyes locked on the couch where the top of Joyce's head was visible over the cushions. Robin followed, handing Joyce the water and the ice pack.

Will was slumped heavily against his mother's side, eyelids drooping as exhaustion tugged at him. His gaze drifted lazily toward the new arrivals, unfocused at first, until it landed on Mike. The faintest smile curved his lips. It was fragile and fleeting, but it was there. Always trying to reassure others, even when he looked like he was teetering on death's doorstep.

Mike, on the other hand, took in Will's pale face and glassy eyes and immediately panicked. "Holy shit! What the hell happened?!" he squawked, dropping onto the couch at Will's other side. Their knees bumping against each other.

Joyce frowned, her hand instinctively smoothing through Will's hair. "We're not entirely sure. One moment we were trying to communicate with Hopper, and the next he was—" Her voice wavered. "He was seizing on the floor." The memory clearly haunted her; her jaw tightened as if she could still see it playing out.

"Was it... him?" Lucas asked quietly, tension lacing his posture. The thought of one of his best friends ending up in the same state as Max clearly terrified him.

"We don't know that either," Robin admitted. "All he said when he woke up was 'Wheeler' and 'Demogorgon.'"

As she spoke, Will shifted from his mother's shoulder to Mike's side, almost unconsciously. Joyce's eyes softened at the sight. When Will sagged against him, Mike didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around Will's shoulders and pull him closer, protective and steady. So, Robin handed him the ice pack, motioning toward the back of Will's head.

When the cold touched his scalp, Will hissed sharply, shoulders tensing at the sudden chill. For a moment, his fingers twitched as if to shove it away. But once the cold dulled into a manageable ache, he relaxed again, melting bonelessly into Mike's side. Mike angled his head toward him, concern etched into every line of his face.

"Will?"

Will hummed faintly in response, eyes slipping closed again. It might've looked peaceful if not for the slight scrunch of pain between his brows.

"What happened?" Mike asked softly. "What did you see?"

Silence stretched for a few seconds. Then Will's hand rose abruptly, rubbing hard at his forehead as if he could physically erase whatever was lodged inside his skull. Frustration flashed across his features. When Mike gently caught his wrist and guided his hand back into his lap to keep him from hurting himself, Will let out a weak groan.

"I c-can't... remember," he slurred. "All I 'member is bein' scared... an' not wantin' to see what I was... seein'."

"Sounds like Vecna," Lucas muttered grimly. Despite his blunt tone, his gaze never left Will, and it was thick with worry.

"Do you remember anything before that?" Robin asked, slipping into a clinical tone that made her feel like the doctor she absolutely was not. She watched closely as Will slowly shook his head, looking almost ashamed of the gap in his memory. But to Robin, it was yet another thing they could blame on the concussion.

"Concussion patients often experience temporary amnesia right after the injury," she explained gently. "It's actually pretty common. So that could be why you can't remember."

Will looked at her uncertainly. He'd struggled with memory lapses before, ones that had nothing to do with head injuries. And they all knew it.

"You're sure it's not the... the—" He squinted at her, struggling to articulate through the fog. "Y'know... the Mind Flayer?"

Robin couldn't help the fond chuckle that escaped her. "Baby Byers, I hate to inform you that your pupils are so dilated right now I'm experiencing genuine cuteness aggression."

At that, Mike leaned in, tilting his head to get a better look at Will's face. When he saw what she meant, Wills eyes wide and glassy, he nodded slowly, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. Robin had to physically restrain herself from calling him out.

"So no, kid," she finished lightly. "I don't think it's the Mind Flayer."

Something in that reassurance seemed to loosen the last of the tension in Will's body. He melted further into Mike and the couch cushions, utterly spent. Robin couldn't blame him. His body had clearly reached its limit.

"Alright," Lucas said after a beat, shifting on his feet. "Now that that's figured out, I'm gonna go check on Max." He looked restless, anxiety simmering just beneath the surface. No one could fault him for that. After everything Max had endured, of course he needed to see her, to make sure she was still here, still untouched by whatever was unfolding tonight.

Robin perked up immediately, a certain redheaded distraction flashing through her mind. "Oh—uh—I'll come with!"

Mike and Joyce both gave her curious looks, but Lucas simply shrugged. He'd noticed. She knew he had.

"Yeah, sure," Lucas agreed before turning to Mike. "You want me to swing by your place and check on Nancy and your parents?"

For all his composure, Mike nodded quickly. Unfortunately, the movement jostled Will's head, and the boy let out a pained groan. Mike winced, tightening his hold instinctively. "Sorry," he murmured under his breath before flashing Lucas a grateful smile. "Yeah. Please."

————

Now it was just Mike and Will.

Oh—and Joyce.

Mike felt a flicker of awkwardness settle under his skin, because from an outside perspective it absolutely looked like he and Will were full-on cuddling on the couch while Will's mother sat mere inches away. His arm was wrapped securely around Will's shoulders, their knees pressed together, Will practically folded into his side.

But now that she wasn't as worried about Will, Mike noticed something shift in Joyce. The frantic edge in her expression dulled. The rigid line of her shoulders softened, even if only slightly. Her worry, once solely centered on Will, seemed to redirect toward something else. Someone else.

She sighed quietly, pressing her fingers against her lips in thought before pushing herself up from the couch. "I'm going to see if I can contact Hopper. Will you—"

"Of course." Mike didn't even let her finish. To emphasize his seriousness, he instinctively tightened his hold on Will, adjusting the ice pack so it rested more securely against the back of his head. Joyce gave him a tight, grateful smile, one that carried both exhaustion and trust, before slipping out of the room.

The door had barely shut behind her when Mike felt a soft puff of air against his neck. "Y'r gonna give us away, i'd—idiot..."

Mike huffed a quiet laugh. There was an immediate, almost reflexive urge to shove Will lightly for that, just to get a rise out of him. But the way Will's words tangled together, thick and clumsy from the concussion, was a firm reminder that roughhousing was the last thing he needed right now.

"How exactly am I giving us away?" Mike murmured, feigning innocence. "I'm just taking care of my best friend."

He felt Will's lips curve faintly against the fabric of his shirt. "Y'r holdin' onto me like th' wind's gon' blow me away..."

Mike chuckled, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, to be fair, you do look like one strong gust could knock you flat."

"Shu' up."

The smile in Will's voice was unmistakable, even through the slur. And damnit, Robin had been right. The cuteness aggression was real and dangerously active. Before he could overthink it, Mike leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to the top of Will's messy waves.

When Will let out another low groan and burrowed his head deeper into Mike's shoulder, like he could hide from the ache pounding inside his skull, Mike's amusement faded into concern. "How do you really feel?" he asked quietly.

Will lifted a limp hand and pointed vaguely toward the table. "I'd feel better if th' flashlight wasn't omittin' a... solar beam."

Mike blinked. Only then did he truly register how harsh the flashlight must have been. The power outage had thrown the room into such heavy darkness that he hadn't considered how blinding that beam might feel to someone with a concussion.

He carefully shifted Will upright before standing, crossing the room in a few long strides. He grabbed the flashlight with unnecessary aggression, like it had personally offended him, which honestly, it had. Mike didn't like anything that caused Will pain.

He flicked it off and instantly, the room fell into darkness, save for faint slivers of moonlight filtering through the windows. The softer light wrapped around them instead of stabbing through the air. When Mike turned back, he found Will curled onto his side, one hand clamped over his mouth.

Even though Will couldn't see it, Mike's expression shifted immediately to alarm. "Will? What's wrong?"

Will only pointed weakly toward the trash can from earlier, a faint gagging sound following a moment later. And Mike moved without hesitation. He grabbed the trash can, turned his head slightly to avoid the lingering smell, and hurried back to Will's side. He slid an arm behind Will's back, helping him sit upright before pressing the trash can into his hands.

Unfortunately, Mike had seen the contents of said trash can. So it wasn't surprising when this time it was mostly bile. The harsh, empty retches that followed were worse, each dry heave making Will's entire body jolt forward. Mike kept a steadying hand between his shoulder blades, murmuring soft reassurances under his breath. "It's okay. I've got you. Just breathe."

When the spasms finally subsided and Will sagged back, trembling and spent, Mike gently swapped the trash can for the water bottle. Will took a small swig, swishing the water around in his mouth before spitting it into the can. His face twisted in discomfort.

Mike quickly carried the trash can farther away this time, setting it near the door to spare Will the smell, before returning to the couch. Will had slumped back into the cushions, eyes squeezed shut, one hand resting limply against his stomach.

"Ugh... this is awf'l," he muttered.

"I know," Mike said gently, sitting back down and guiding Will toward him. "Come here."

He shifted them both so they could lie down more comfortably. The couch was too small to accommodate them properly, so Will ended up half sprawled across Mike's torso, but neither of them seemed to mind. In fact, Will let out a faint sigh of relief the second his head settled against Mike's chest.

Mike fumbled for the ice pack now lodged somewhere in the cushions. Once he found it, he carefully repositioned it at the back of Will's head. Now that it was directly in his line of sight, he could see the swelling forming beneath Will's locks. A bump. Angry and tender.

"How does a nap sound?" Mike whispered, brushing his thumb lightly along Will's side as he felt how utterly lax he'd become.

"Like heav'n," Will breathed, tossing one arm loosely across Mike's chest.

Mike smiled softly. "Then close your eyes, love. I'll be here when you wake up." He wrapped his arm securely around Will's waist, tucking him closer, angling his chin so it rested atop Will's head.

Will's cheeks lifted into a drowsy smile. "I love it when y'call me tha'."

Instead of responding verbally, he pressed another lingering kiss to the crown of Will's head and threaded his fingers gently through his hair. Will hummed at the sensation, the sound low and content. So Mike stayed exactly where he was, content with being Wills body pillow. He focused on the rhythm of Will's breathing as it gradually evened out, deep and slow against his chest. The tension drained from Will's muscles, his weight going slack in sleep.

It was moments like this that made Mike unbelievably grateful he had finally opened his damn eyes and allowed himself to understand what he was feeling. Those 18 months after California had been life changing. Don't get him wrong. It had started out messy and uncomfortable, thick with awkward silences and half-finished conversations. But the moment he and El ended things properly, choosing friendship over something that no longer fit, a door quietly swung open.

There was no longer a need to suffocate feelings that had once terrified him. No more pretending. No more clinging desperately to a relationship just so he wouldn't have to confront the truth sitting heavy in his chest. Especially not after that night, after El had looked at him with something soft and knowing in her eyes, almost proud, and said, "Go to him."

And damn, he really should have known she'd figure it out.

For someone who had grown up so differently, who had endured horrors most people couldn't even imagine, she was brilliant. Observant in ways that felt almost supernatural. She noticed the things others overlooked. She picked up on what lingered between words. And for a life that had been relentlessly cruel to her, she remained impossibly kind.

She was amazing. And Mike didn't think that just because she let him go, or because she met his truth with acceptance instead of anger. If anything, he thought that because she had carried so much weight for so long and still chose to face everything head-on. She never ran from what scared her. She met it with steady eyes and clenched fists. She was still, undeniably, the bravest of them all. And Mike knew that he was lucky. Lucky to call her a friend. Lucky to have known her at all.

But when she let him go, the dam inside him finally broke. And when she told him to go to Will, he did.

It started slowly. He began spending time with Will again the way they used to, long afternoons that blurred into evenings, inside jokes resurrected like they'd never died. He told himself it was just to make sure, just to confirm that what he felt wasn't some fleeting confusion. But the more time they spent together, the more certain he became.

But when there became intimate moments that broke the barrier between best friends and something more, they both noticed.

When Will would wake Mike in the middle of the night, eyes plagued with terror after a bad nightmare, and Mike would fold the covers over, inviting him in. They'd fall asleep tangled together, limbs warm and heavy, breathing evening out in synchrony. And then it stopped being just about nightmares. Will was there even on quiet nights, when nothing was wrong at all.

When Mike would find Will sketching him, and the details were perfect. Not in the way someone studies a subject obsessively and memorizes it, but in the way someone simply knows. There were no frantic correction marks, no faint indentations where mistakes had been erased. No ghost lines betraying uncertainty. Each stroke was deliberate, confident, assured, as though Will had memorized him not with his eyes, but with his heart.

Every drawing of Mike was clean. Intentional. Certain. As if Will had never doubted the lines once he began. Every line was solid, like it was done on the first attempt.

Or when they'd sit in the basement watching a movie, and the distance that used to exist between them simply... didn't. No separate ends of the couch. No polite inches of space. They sat thigh to thigh, shoulders brushing. And as the movie droned on, they'd inch closer without noticing. A head on a shoulder. A head on a lap. Whatever it was, was nothing like how Mike would act with Dustin or Lucas.

It had been the day Mike dragged Will back to Castle Byers with a stubborn, almost reckless determination to rebuild it. Mike had gone the day before alone. He'd spent hours combing through the woods, searching for sticks that were the right size and strength, ones that could hold weight without snapping. He cleared away the debris inside the fort, the leaves that had gathered, the damp earth that had crept in. He brushed away the remnants of old memories that had wilted and rusted over time, trying not to dwell too long on what had once broken there.

But he didn't come empty-handed. He brought a bag stuffed with memories, old drawings, small trinkets, pictures of the party. Things he thought would make Will smile. That would make Will feel safe.

The two of them spent the evening putting back together the castle. And Mike couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that light. That unburdened. The air felt easier in his lungs. Like the version of himself he'd been trying to hide had finally stepped into the open. Will had always had that effect on him, like he could reach into Mike's chest and gently pull out everything Mike was too afraid to show the world.

By the time the moon hung high and silver in the sky, the fort stood finished. The inside was decorated again, a blanket spread across the forest floor to soften it. Familiar and nostalgic. They lay on their backs, shoulders pressed together, giggling like idiots as they replayed old memories.

And when Mike turned his head, still smiling, he found Will already looking at him.

It felt almost painfully cliché, like one of those overdramatic romance movies he used to watch with El. The kind where the music swells and everything else fades away. But in that moment, it didn't feel cheesy. It felt terrifyingly real. And the words slipped out before he could catch them.

"Will—I like you."

Wills eyebrows had furrowed in confusion as he let out a soft laugh, the sound light and almost teasing. "I mean, best friends are supposed to like each other, Mike."

For a split second, Mike considered retreating. He could laugh it off. He could nod and pretend that was exactly what he meant. He could let the moment slip past them and tuck his confession back into the tight space in his chest. But the words were already there, swelling in his throat, his heart pounding so violently it felt like it was physically shoving them out.

He couldn't stop now.

"No, Will," he said, voice steadier than he felt. " I like like you." Will's laughter cut off abruptly, his smile faltering as the weight of the words settled between them.

Still, Mike pressed on, afraid that if he paused even for a second he'd lose his nerve. "I like you the way Jonathan likes Nancy, or how Max likes Lucas, or even how Hopper likes your mo—"

He didn't get to finish. Because just when Mike was bracing himself for rejection, for awkwardness, for the fragile fracture of something he treasured, a laugh burst through the air. Not mocking. Not uncomfortable.

But bright. It was brighter than Mike had ever heard from Will, warm and unrestrained and so unmistakably him that it made Mike's thoughts short-circuit. When he looked back at him, Will was grinning so wide his eyes crinkled at the corners, his cheeks lifting until they flushed pink. He lifted a hand to his mouth, attempting and failing to muffle his giggles.

"I'm sorry—that was so cute. I really didn't mean to cut you off."

Mikes heart pounded, Will said he was sorry, meaning he didn't feel the same way. And then he said Mike was cute and—

Wait.

"What?" Mike blinked, completely thrown.

Will gave him one of those sly, knowing smiles. The kind that carried a hint of sass, like he found it amusing that Mike needed everything spelled out for him. "I like like you too."

Before he could think better of it, Mike grabbed Will's hands in his own, squeezing them tightly as if he were terrified Will might just be a figment of his imagination. "Are you serious?!"

A deeper blush spread across Will's cheeks, and he ducked his head slightly, that familiar shyness creeping back in to soften the boldness of his confession. "Y-Yeah," he admitted quietly. "I've liked you for a while, actually."

Mike felt ridiculous. Oblivious. So much so that he released one of Will's hands just to smack his palm lightly against his own forehead. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

Will shrugged, still smiling in that gentle, reassuring way of his. "It's fine."

And immediately, Mike straightened, pointing a dramatic finger at him. "No! It is not fine! I was hurting you and didn't even realize it. And for that, I shall not rest until I have successfully earned an accepted apology—"

"Mike, it's really—"

"With kisses!"

"What—"

Will barely had time to process the declaration before Mike leaned in, cupping his face and peppering quick, exaggerated kisses across his skin. His temples. The faint moles scattered along his cheeks. The bridge of his nose. His eyebrows. The soft, rose-dusted curve of his cheeks. Each press of lips was warm and deliberate, accompanied by breathless laughter.

Every inch of his face was claimed, except his lips. And somehow, that made Will's chest ache in the best way.

Because in a moment where Mike easily could have closed that final distance, could have done exactly what he wanted, he didn't. He stopped short. He hovered at the invisible line between affection and something deeper, uncertain but respectful. Waiting.

And who was Will to deny something he'd dreamed about.

With a boldness he didn't quite recognize in himself, Will tilted his head slightly and met Mike's gaze, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You missed a spot."

Concern flickered instantly through Mikes eyes, screaming are you sure? Will's answering smile only widened. No hesitation. No fear. Just certainty.

So Mike gently cradled Will's cheeks in his hands, thumbs brushing softly against warm skin. He leaned in slowly, deliberately, at a pace that gave Will every opportunity to pull away if he wanted to.

He didn't, and their lips met.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't desperate or fiery like the scenes in those over-the-top romance movies. There was no crashing intensity. Instead, it was soft. Careful. Almost reverent. Reality settled over them like a warm blanket, grounding and surreal all at once. They could both feel the faint curve of smiles against each other's mouths.

When they pulled apart a few seconds later, they sprang back slightly, as if startled, like they'd touched something hot. Like they'd crossed a line that felt both new and inevitable. But when their eyes met again, there was no regret.

Just flushed cheeks. Shy, giddy smiles. And hands that instinctively found each other once more, fingers lacing together as if they had always belonged that way.

————

When Mike woke, there was a split second where he didn't remember falling asleep, only that something warm and solid was pressed against him. Then awareness settled in. The sun was pouring through the station windows in bold golden beams, lighting up the radio station as if the power had never flickered out, as if the world beyond the glass weren't unraveling. Dust motes drifted lazily in the light, the air deceptively peaceful.

His chest, however, was very much aware of the weight resting on it, his own personal space heater. Who, speaking of, was still completely conked out. The faintest line of drool had soaked into the fabric of Mike's shirt, and under any other circumstance he would've teased Will mercilessly about it. Right now, though, he just stared down at him, memorizing the way his lashes fanned over his cheeks and how the morning light softened the angles of his face.

So Mike felt stuck.

Half of him was tempted to sink back into sleep, to shut his eyes and pretend the world outside the couch didn't exist. If he didn't wake Will, then they could stay like this a little longer, safe, quiet, untouched. The other half of him, the rational and far more anxious half, reminded him that the end of the world might be inching closer by the minute.

Careful, so careful it bordered on ridiculous, he shifted. Like he was afraid of waking an infant, he slowly slid himself out from beneath Will, easing him down onto the cushions. He guided his head to the armrest, adjusting the pillow so it wouldn't jostle him. Will stirred only slightly, burrowing his face deeper into the pillow to escape the light, one hand coming up instinctively to shield his eyes. But he stayed asleep. Mercy.

Mike straightened, stretching out the stiffness in his back before crossing to the window. Outside, Joyce's car was still parked in the lot among the others. So she hadn't left. She had to be somewhere inside. Mike figured she was probably downstairs, stubbornly determined to reestablish their line of communication with Hopper. Hopper, who Mike honestly wasn't even sure had made it out of the Upside Down yet.

He drifted down the stairs slowly, the creak of each step sounding louder than usual in the morning quiet. But before he even reached the bottom, he realized it wasn't quiet at all. There were more voices than he'd expected. When he reached the doorway, he saw them all gathered in the main room: Joyce, Lucas, Robin, Steve, and Jonathan.

Joyce noticed him first. "Oh, Mike! Good morning, sweetie!"

He gave a small, almost awkward wave and stepped further into the room. Lucas's eyes immediately snapped to him, and the worry written across his face made Mike's stomach drop before a word was even spoken.

"Your parents have both been hospitalized," Lucas said carefully. "And... Holly was taken."

The words didn't register at first. They hovered in the air, detached from meaning. Mike just stood there, blinking. It was too early for that kind of sentence. Too early for devastation. "And Nancy?" he managed to choke out, the question scraping past the lump in his throat.

"Still at the hospital," Jonathan answered gently, stepping forward to rest a steadying hand on Mike's shoulder. "But she's okay. She's waiting to hear more about your parents' condition."

Mike nodded stiffly. His brain felt overloaded, like someone had shoved too many thoughts into it at once. Hospitalized. Taken. Condition. Upside Down. He was painfully aware of the concerned looks aimed his way. Then another absence hit him.

"Wait—where's El?" he asked, scanning the room again just to be sure he hadn't somehow missed her.

Robin shifted slightly. "Nancy said there was a gate in your kitchen. From where the Demogorgon took Holly. And El—" she hesitated just a fraction, "—she jumped through it right before it closed."

And truly, it felt like the morning had found yet another way to get worse. Why had he even left the couch? He could've stayed there. Warm. Safe. Curled around Will.

"Mike? You down there?"

The quiet call floated down from the top of the stairs causing heads to whip in that direction. Mike didn't even offer an explanation to the group before he was bounding up several steps at a time.

Will was leaning against the wall, having only made it down about five steps on his own. One hand braced himself against the banister while the other hovered above his eyebrow, shielding his sensitive eyes from the glare below. His pupils were still blown wide, swallowing the color of his irises. When he saw Mike, he smiled softly.

Mike, however, looked panicked. "Will! Stay there—I'll help you down."

Up close, Will looked better than he had the night before. The gray pallor had faded, replaced with the remnants of his California tan. He didn't look like he was on the verge of vomiting anymore. But he still looked fragile. Off-balance.

Mike slipped an arm around Will's waist, feeling how unsteady he was the second he shifted his weight. Will's legs wobbled in a way that reminded Mike uncomfortably of a newborn deer trying to stand for the first time. So, carefully, step by step, Mike guided him down.

The moment they reached the bottom, Joyce rushed forward, cupping Will's face in her hands and scanning him like he might crack apart if she looked away for too long. Mike couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips when a blush crept across Will's cheeks. "Mommm," Will groaned, mortified at being inspected in front of everyone.

"How are you feeling, bud?" Jonathan called from across the room.

Will glanced around, clearly registering the audience now. Joyce reluctantly stepped back, and Will instinctively edged closer to Mike, shoulders brushing. "Better," Will admitted. "Still kinda dizzy. The light really hurts my eyes, and I've got a killer headache. But it beats throwing up."

Several heads nodded in immediate agreement.

"Well," Joyce began carefully, "we were just discussing our next move. But Will, honey, I think you should sit this one out."

Will's head snapped toward her, offense flashing across his face. "What?"

"Will, come on," Jonathan added gently. "You've barely been concussed for twelve hours."

But Will just shook his head. "I'm fine," Will insisted, frustration sharpening his voice. "I can help!"

"It's not safe, Baby Byers," Robin said, attempting a softer approach. "I mean... look at you. You're using Mike as a crutch."

And unfortunately, she wasn't wrong. Will's fingers were fisted tightly in the side of Mike's shirt, knuckles pale from the pressure. Even then, he was leaning heavily into him. Mike's loyalty tugged painfully in two directions. He wanted to defend Will. To insist he was capable. But he also desperately wanted him safe.

"I just want you to be safe, honey," Joyce said, her voice thick with emotion.

Will understood. Mike could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders slumped slightly. Understanding didn't mean accepting it gracefully. So after a long moment, Will nodded, accepting the sidelines, once again. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked dangerously close to crying right there in front of everyone.

Mike's heart sank.

"I can stay with him," he offered quickly.

Jonathan's brows lifted in mild surprise, but Joyce's face immediately softened with relief. "That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mike."

When Mike looked at Will, the gratitude in his eyes was unmistakable. The gloom had lessened, replaced with something steadier. He wouldn't be alone.

They lingered downstairs a while longer, listening as the others hastily pieced together a plan, routes, supplies, and worst-case scenarios. Mike and Will offered input when they could, though Will's voice grew quieter as the minutes ticked by. By the time his head drooped against Mike's shoulder, it was obvious he could use another nap.

Jonathan approached them. "How 'bout I give y'all a ride to Hopper's cabin?" he suggested. "Since, y'know... Mike's house is kinda under lock and key right now."

Neither of them argued.

Will hugged Joyce tightly before they headed upstairs with Jonathan. They packed what little they had, extra clothes, a blanket, the small essentials that had become their norm. Mike grabbed a couple snacks from the kitchen, stuffing them into his bag without much thought.

Just as they were about to head out, Robin hurried into the room. She pressed a small bottle into Will's palm. "Just some Tylenol I snagged from the hospital," she said. "Figured it might help with the headache."

Will offered her a small, grateful smile. "Thanks."

She ruffled his hair lightly, a fond gesture, before jogging back toward the stairs. And then, finally, they left the Squawk behind, stepping out into the uncertain daylight once more.

————

"The phone in there finally works," Jonathan said, nodding toward the cabin. "So if you guys need anything, use it. Or this." He pulled a Supercom from his backpack and handed it to Mike before he slid out of the car.

Mike took it carefully, gripping it like it was something far more fragile than plastic and wiring. "Thanks. Keep us in touch, yeah?" He pointed an accusing finger at Jonathan, narrowing his eyes in mock warning as if daring him to say no.

"Of course." Jonathan huffed a small laugh. Then his expression shifted into something more serious, more knowing. "And hey. Keep him safe, you hear me?" He mirrored Mike's earlier gesture, pointing back at him.

There was something in the way he said it. Something deliberate. Jonathan might've been one of the only people perceptive enough to piece together what was really going on between Mike and Will. The glances. The way Mike hovered. The way Will gravitated.

So Mike straightened dramatically and gave a crisp salute. "Yes, sir."

As if the entire reason he'd volunteered to stay behind wasn't already to watch over Will. As if every instinct in him didn't revolve around that single purpose. And maybe enjoying a little time alone with him. Without the constant, possibly judgmental eyes tracking their every movement. Without having to pretend their hands brushing together was accidental.

They stood in the dirt driveway and watched Jonathan's car disappear down the road, dust kicking up in its wake as he swerved around trees. Only when the sound of the engine faded completely did Mike bend down to retrieve the spare key from beneath the doormat.

He unlocked the cabin door and stepped inside. And the interior was a lot nicer than Mike remembered.

But then again, the last time he'd been here, there'd been a gaping hole in the ceiling and debris scattered across every available surface. It had looked like a war zone. Like something had clawed its way through the roof and left chaos in its wake. But unfortunately something had done just exactly that.

Now, the ceiling had been repaired. The shelves stood neatly against the walls, their contents organized instead of strewn across the floor. The windows were whole. The table wasn't splintered in half. The place looked lived-in again. Not like it had been mauled by an interdimensional predator.

A gentle squeeze of his hand tugged him from his thoughts. Mike glanced down at Will and immediately frowned. Will looked exhausted, like he was balancing on the thin edge between awake and unconscious. His eyelids drooped heavily, pupils still blown wide. He stumbled slightly with each step, barely keeping himself upright.

Without a word, Mike slipped the backpack off Will's shoulders and slung it onto his own. Then he wrapped an arm securely around Will's waist, steadying him. "Come on," Mike murmured softly. "Let's get you lying down."

Will didn't protest. He just nodded faintly and let himself be guided. So Mike led him down the short hallway and into El's room.

The space was expectedly vibrant. Arts and crafts supplies were scattered across the desk, colored paper, markers, half-finished projects. A small stack of books leaned precariously in the corner. The comforter on the bed was a soft lilac, and stuffed animals were lined carefully along the wall like silent guardians.

The closet door hung open, revealing two very different sections of clothing. On one side, bright patterns and bold colors, the kind El had once worn proudly. On the other, muted tones and dull fabrics. The camouflage of hiding.

The brightness of the room made sense, suddenly. It wasn't just decoration. It was reclamation. A safe place. A space where El could be a teenage girl instead of a weapon. Where she could exist without constantly bracing for disaster.

Mike guided Will to the bed and gently released him. And then the boy practically face-planted into the soft comforter with a muffled groan.

Mike smiled faintly before setting their backpacks on the desk chair. When he turned back around, Will had rolled onto his back and was staring blankly at the ceiling. His brows were furrowed tightly, like his mind was running a mile a minute.

Mike climbed onto the bed beside him and lay flat on his back, their shoulders touching. After a moment, he turned his head. "I can hear you thinking," Mike said quietly. "What's wrong?"

Will swallowed. "I remember."

Mike's stomach tightened. "Remember what?"

"What I saw in my trance."

Mike nodded, releasing a soft "Oh."

Silence stretched between them for a few seconds. Mike knew Will well enough to understand that if he'd brought this up, it meant he wanted to talk about it. He just needed space to figure out how.

"Tell me about it?" Mike asked gently.

Will inhaled deeply, chest rising and falling unevenly. Mike waited, giving him the time he needed to organize the chaos into sentences. "I remember feeling weird after lunch," Will began slowly. "After... what happened. I thought maybe I was just paranoid. Like maybe I felt Vecna do something, but that didn't mean something would actually happen during the crawl."

His fingers started picking at his nails, a nervous habit Mike had seen a thousand times before. So, he reached over and caught his hand mid-motion, threading their fingers together to still him. He rubbed his thumb over Will's knuckles in slow, grounding strokes.

"But then during the crawl," Will continued, voice quieter now, "I started feeling... staticky. Like there was electricity under my skin. My neck prickled. And then I blinked—and I wasn't there anymore."

Mike turned slightly toward him. "Like when you were possessed by the Mind Flayer?" he asked carefully. "When you could walk around in the Upside Down?"

Will shook his head immediately. "No. This was different." His breathing hitched. "I was in the Upside Down, but I wasn't me. I wasn't in control. I wasn't in my body. I wasn't seeing through my own eyes, Mike I—"

He cut himself off abruptly, jaw tightening like he was afraid to say the rest. Mike squeezed his hand a little firmer, silently urging him on. "Mike," Will whispered, "I was seeing through the eyes of a Demogorgon."

The confession hung heavy in the air. Will paused again, clearly bracing for a reaction. But Mike didn't interrupt. He didn't pull away. He just listened.

"Those soldiers Hopper went in with?" Will's voice trembled. "I watched the Demogorgon slaughter all of them. I saw it tear through them like they were nothing. I even saw Hopper and I thought I was going to have to watch him die too."

Finally, Will turned his head to look at him. The horror he described was reflected clearly in his wide, glassy eyes.

"But the worst part," Will continued, voice breaking, "was that from my perspective... it felt like I was doing it. I watched claws rip through human skin. I was watching it happen in first person, Mike. Like I was the one killing them."

His words dissolved into shaky breaths. Tears pooled in his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them. And Mike didn't hesitate. He rolled onto his side and pulled Will into him, wrapping both arms around him tightly, like he could physically shield him from the Upside Down itself. He pressed Will's head against his chest, one hand cradling the back of his neck.

"And I couldn't make it stop." Will had sobbed into his chest, his voice splintered and raw.

Mike only shushed him softly in response, keeping his tone low and steady, the way you might soothe someone back from the edge of a nightmare. His fingers idly twined through the hair at the nape of Will's neck, gently combing through the strands and tracing slow, grounding circles against his skin.

"It wasn't you," he murmured, pressing the reassurance into the space between them as firmly as he held him. "You were here—with your mom and El. You said it yourself. You couldn't make it stop. And if you couldn't make it stop, then you couldn't have made it begin."

Will's sobs didn't disappear, but they shifted, deepening, turning heavier, as though something inside him had cracked open. Mike hoped, desperately, that maybe his words had slipped past the wall of guilt Will kept so carefully built. That maybe they had reached the fragile place underneath. That maybe, just maybe, Will could cry from relief instead of grief. Because no one else saw him the way he seemed to see himself, twisted into something blameworthy, something at fault. And Mike wished more than anything that he could rip that false image out of his mind and replace it with the truth.

Mike didn't press him for details. Didn't ask what else he remembered, what images had clawed their way back to the surface. Mike figured he had already heard the most important part, the piece that had left Will shaking in his arms. And even if there was more, even if there were darker fragments lingering in the corners of his mind, he refused to force Will to relive anything he wasn't ready to face.

So instead, they stayed like that, wrapped together in a quiet that felt less empty and more protective. Mike continued threading his fingers through Will's hair, smoothing it back from his tear-streaked face, tracing small, absent patterns against his scalp. Gradually, the sharp edges of Will's crying dulled. His breathing evened out, hiccupping sobs dissolving into soft, shaky exhales. Between the exhaustion that had already weighed him down and the emotional toll of crying so fiercely, sleep crept in without resistance. Will drifted off mid-breath, his body going slack and heavy in Mike's arms.

And even if Mike hadn't already been tired, holding Will like that, curled together, warm and impossibly close, would have made anyone drowsy. The steady rhythm of Will's breathing against his chest was hypnotic, a quiet reassurance that he was still here. Still safe.

Careful not to jostle him, Mike reached over with slow, deliberate movements and grabbed the blanket folded neatly at the corner of El's bed. He shook it out as quietly as he could before draping it over both of them, smoothing it down and tucking it gently beneath Will's chin.

Then he paused, allowing himself one more thorough check. He brushed his thumb lightly beneath Will's eye, watching for any flicker of wakefulness. He listened closely to the slow, even cadence of his breathing. When all signs pointed to the same conclusion, that his boyfriend was once again completely dead to the world, Mike finally relaxed.

Only then did he let his own head sink into the pillow, exhaustion catching up with him at last. He shifted just enough to fit more comfortably around Will, tightening his hold in a quiet promise before closing his eyes and letting sleep claim him too.

————

When Mike woke again, the room was steeped in darkness, the kind that felt thicker for the way shadows layered over one another, swallowing the familiar shapes of furniture and walls. For a brief, hazy second, he assumed he'd woken naturally. At this point, he had no idea how long he'd been asleep, minutes, hours, the entire night. Time felt slippery lately, bending around Will's episodes and the exhaustion that followed them.

But then he felt it. A steady twitch. A sharp, involuntary jerk of the head against his chest. The last threads of sleep evaporated instantly.

Mike pushed himself upright in a rush, heart already hammering, and leaned over to flick on the lamp at the bedside table. Warm yellow light flooded the room, harsh after the dark. He didn't want to jump to conclusions, but based on the stories he'd heard from Joyce and Robin, he had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what was happening. And when the light fully illuminated Will's face, it confirmed every fear.

Will's eyes were rolled far back beneath his eyelids, only the whites visible. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked painful, muscles in his neck straining. His limbs were locked rigid before jerking in uneven, violent motions. His head twitched sharply to the right, then snapped left, as if he were trying to wrench himself away from something only he could see.

The sight made Mike's stomach drop. Especially after seeing Will completely unravel earlier because of what he'd witnessed. If that memory alone had shattered him like that, what horrors was he trapped in now?

"Will—" Mike's voice broke before he could stop it.

He grabbed Will's shoulders and shook him firmly, enough to wake someone, not enough to frighten them. At least, that was what he hoped. The problem was, Mike didn't actually know what the right move was. Was this like a seizure? Could moving Will make it worse? Was he supposed to time it? Was there some invisible line where it shifted from terrifying to life-threatening?

Or was it something else entirely, some part of Will's mind slipping somewhere beyond reach, leaving his body behind to misfire and malfunction until he found his way back?

Mike didn't know. And not knowing terrified him more than anything.

A couple of agonizing, dragged-out minutes later, Will suddenly wailed in pain. His arms wrapped tightly around his stomach as though he'd been stabbed, curling inward on himself. And Mike's hands froze midair. He was suddenly afraid to touch him at all. Afraid that any contact might worsen whatever invisible injury was ripping through him.

For the longest three minutes of his life, Mike sat there feeling utterly helpless. Useless. All he could think to do was reach for Will's hand and clasp it tightly in his own, squeezing as if the pressure alone could anchor him. As if Will might feel it, might follow the sensation back.

"Come on," he whispered under his breath. "Come back. Please."

And then, finally, Will's trembling slowed. His eyes snapped open. The tears were immediate and heavy, spilling over before he could even blink them away. He gasped for air like a fish out of water. Then he lunged forward without hesitation, practically throwing himself into Mike's arms and clinging to him with desperate force, like if he loosened his grip even slightly, he'd be dragged back into whatever had just released him.

Mike's arms wrapped around him instantly, instinctively, pulling him close and holding him there. He didn't ask questions. Didn't demand explanations. He simply stayed. Let Will cry. Let him shake. Let him breathe and reorient and remember where he was. Let him come back at his own pace.

Selfishly, Mike was just relieved that Will hadn't fainted like he apparently had the last time. Though part of him suspected that had been a delayed reaction to the concussion. If Will's mind had truly gone somewhere else for a moment, while his physical head slammed violently, maybe his body hadn't known how to process it.

That is until his mind was thrown back into his skull, sending his system into overdrive.

Thankfully, it didn't take Will as long to steady himself this time. His breathing evened out sooner. His sobs softened quicker. Mike allowed himself to hope that whatever he'd seen hadn't been as brutal as before. He had no doubt it was terrifying. But maybe it hadn't been someone being torn apart. Maybe it hadn't been that kind of horror.

Still, he didn't ask. Will would tell him if he wanted to. If he was ready.

Eventually, Will pulled back slightly, tear tracks glistening down his cheeks. Mike gently brushed them away with his thumb, careful and tender. Now that Will wasn't buried against his chest, fully exposed to the lamplight, he winced sharply and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Ugh, this sucks," he muttered, raising a hand to shield his eyes. Mike let out a soft, fond chuckle and immediately reached over to switch the lamp off, plunging the room back into a gentler darkness.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, this time meaning the concussion more than anything else.

"My head is killing me," Will groaned, flopping back against the pillows. "It literally hurts to move my eyes—and it feels like my skull's too heavy for my neck."

Mike frowned, worry flaring again. "Maybe some Tylenol would help?" he suggested, already shifting toward the end of the bed to grab it from Will's backpack.

"Please?" Will mumbled.

Mike nodded and patted his leg reassuringly before standing. He had to detour to the kitchen when he realized there was no water in the room. When he returned, he presented the pills and glass with exaggerated formality, holding them out like a servant would for a prince.

Will's lips curved into a small, genuine smile at that. He took the pills, swallowed them with a long drink of water, and sighed. "Are you hungry?" Mike asked. "We've kind of slept all day."

Will considered it for a moment before shaking his head. "Honestly? I feel kind of nauseous. Food doesn't sound great right now."

Mike's frown deepened. "Do you think it's still the concussion?"

"It might be both," Will said quietly. "The concussion and... the trance." He hesitated slightly over the last word. Mike tilted his head, silently prompting him to explain.

"I was still tired when I woke up," Will continued, "but now I feel like I haven't slept at all. So maybe the trance affects me more than we thought."

That made Mike remember something else, the way Will had cried out, clutching his stomach. "That reminds me," Mike said slowly, "you looked like you were in pain during that one."

Will winced faintly. "I don't really understand how it works. But sometimes I can feel what the demogorgon feels. And sometimes I feel nothing at all."

Mike's stomach dropped.

"And in that moment, Steve hit the Demogorgon with his car..." Will trailed off.

Mike moved instantly. His hand fisted into Will's shirt, lifting it high enough to inspect his torso. His pulse roared in his ears. He didn't know the rules of this connection, didn't know what translated physically and what didn't. The idea that Will might have essentially been hit by a car while sitting right here made him feel sick.

He scanned every inch of visible skin. Nothing. No blossoming bruises in deep purples or sickly blues. No swelling. No signs of internal damage written across his ribs. Mike even ran his hands carefully along Will's sides, pressing gently, checking for fractures or misplaced bones. Will shivered at the touch but didn't flinch away in pain. If anything, he watched Mike with a soft, almost affectionate expression, as if the frantic concern was something precious.

Eventually, Mike let out a shaky breath and allowed himself to settle. When he was satisfied there was no physical injury, he leaned back against the headboard. Hunger had finally caught up to him, so he dug into his backpack and pulled out a bag of chips, offering some to Will who still declined with a small shake of his head.

Soon they were both propped against the headboard. Mike idly crunching on chips, Will leaning into him while resting his head against Mike's shoulder.

It felt like all they'd done in the past twenty-four hours was sleep. Find a bed. Find a couch. Let Will rest. Repeat. Mike knew the concussion wouldn't magically disappear by morning, maybe not even in the next few days. But it still felt strange to be sidelined.

Strange to sit here, wrapped in blankets in a quiet cabin, knowing that somewhere out there their friends were risking their lives. If Will had seen Steve when the Demogorgon was hit, then things were escalating. People were in danger.

And yet here they were, tucked away in a log cabin, warm and safe. It made sense. Of course it did. Will needed rest. But the stillness felt foreign. Almost wrong. Selfishly, though?

It felt good.

Good not to be sprinting through Hawkins with half-baked plans and adrenaline pumping. Good not to be scrambling to explain monsters no one else believed existed. For once, they felt almost like normal residents of Hawkins, people who chalked disasters up to natural causes or whispered rumors about Hellfire instead of alternate dimensions.

It was nice to just sit here with Will. To worry about him the familiar way. Not the catastrophic way. Not the possessed, missing, or furious-at-him way. Just the quiet, careful kind of worry that came with headaches and nausea and totally normal, unexplainable trances.

It felt wrong, but so right.

"I saw my mom too," Will said suddenly, his voice soft and careful, like even speaking above a murmur might split his head open. "She was swinging an axe at the Demogorgon. Fighting it off all by herself until Steve showed up."

There was something almost awed in his tone. Proud. Like he'd witnessed something heroic instead of horrifying. Mike blinked. "She didn't get hurt, did she?" he asked quickly, dread curling in his stomach at the thought of Will having to watch that.

"Nope," Will replied, the p popping faintly at the end. "No one did, actually."

Mike felt the small smile that curved against his shoulder before he even saw it. Relief loosened something tight in his chest. "Good," he exhaled, meaning it more than he could properly express.

"Who all was there?" he asked, crumpling up his empty chip bag and tossing it into the small trash can in the corner of the room.

Will hummed thoughtfully, his fingers absentmindedly tracing over Mike's knuckles. "My mom, Robin, Erica, Derek—I think that's his name—Steve, Dustin, Nancy, and Jonathan."

Mike's eyebrows shot up. "Derek?" He only knew one Derek in Hawkins, and that was purely because Holly had once gone on an extremely animated rant about him. "Dipshit Derek?"

Will shrugged slightly, his expression clearly reading I dunno.

Mike huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, though it faded quickly into something more contemplative. "I wonder what they're doing..."

"I'm not exactly sure," Will admitted. Then his tone shifted, grew more serious. "But I can say the Demogorgon was there for Derek."

Mike stilled. "And one had taken Holly too." Mike anxiously bit the inside of his cheek. "What does Vecna want with kids?"

The question hung heavy between them. But Mike felt Will tense beside him, the subtle tightening of his muscles, the way his fingers stopped moving altogether.

"Whatever he got from me?" Will murmured, the pride from earlier completely gone. Now he sounded small. Defeated.

Mike swallowed. "And what was that?"

"That's the scary part," Will said quietly. "I don't know."

And suddenly Mike felt crazy for never questioning that before. Sure Will had been taken, and possessed by the Mind Flayer shortly after he was saved, but what made Will the target in the first place? What set him apart? What did Vecna gain from children that he couldn't from anyone else?

"I hate that we can't help," Will mumbled, his body going slack again, like the weight of it all had settled on his shoulders. "That there are kids going through the same thing I did—and I can't stop it."

Mike tightened his arm around him instinctively, pulling him closer. "You can't expect that from yourself," he said firmly, though his voice remained gentle.

Will let out a quiet huff. "Maybe. But I know what it's like. Enough to know I'd never wish it on anyone."

Mike didn't have a perfect response to that. He understood too well where Will was coming from. If he'd been dragged into something that traumatic, something that left scars no one else could understand, of course he'd imagine what those other kids might be facing. And yes, Will had survived. But survival wasn't guaranteed.

For a fleeting moment, Holly's bright grin flashed across Mike's mind. The way she talked too loud, laughed too big. He found himself silently praying she'd be found. That all of them would be. He wanted them safe.

And maybe, if he were being honest, there was a small, reckless part of him that wanted to be out there too. Wanted to do something instead of sitting in the quiet. But then he'd glance at Will, pale and recovering from a concussion, barely able to sit upright without wincing. And he knew.

If they went out there like this, Mike would be too busy worrying about Will to think straight. They'd be a liability. They might make things worse.

So he stayed quiet, unsure what words could possibly soothe something that big. Instead, he remained exactly where he was. Solid. Unmoving. A steady presence. He hoped that alone said enough, that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Wanna watch a movie?" Mike asked softly after a moment, aiming to redirect their thoughts somewhere lighter.

Will hummed in consideration. "Sure. Although I don't know how much longer I'll be awake."

Mike chuckled quietly. Will was already naturally soft-spoken and gentle when he needed to be. But sleepy Will? Sleepy Will became clingy, all loose limbs and heavy weight. He'd drape himself over Mike like a blanket, finding every possible dip and hollow to burrow into.

Anticipating that, Mike carefully slid out from under him and stood up before Will could fully collapse. He crouched in front of the small cabinet beneath the TV and pulled out a random VHS tape. After the unfortunate incident involving Hopper's first television, a replacement had been bought specifically for El's room, so no one had to argue over screen time or break it in a fit of supernatural-induced frustration.

Mike didn't even bother reading the label before sliding the tape into the player and turning the TV on. The screen flickered to life, casting the room in a soft, bluish glow. He then grabbed the remote and slipped back into bed beside Will.

He barely had time to settle before Will's head found its familiar place against his chest, his leg thrown lazily over Mike's thighs. It was automatic and comfortable. Mike pressed play.

Within minutes, it became clear the movie was some kind of romance, dramatic music swelling between longing looks and slow confessions. Mike found himself only half invested in the plot. The other half of his attention was entirely consumed by the way his fingers drifted into Will's hair. It was unfairly soft.

His hands combed through it slowly, carefully, as if afraid to tangle it. He made a mental note to figure out what shampoo Will used. Maybe he'd buy him more. Stock up. Ensure that Will's hair stayed exactly this soft forever.

About twenty minutes into the film, Will's breathing deepened. And then he was out.

Another ten minutes passed before Mike found himself blinking more frequently, the dialogue from the television blending into a gentle haze. The room felt warmer now, quieter, the movie's low volume turning into something almost dreamlike. He fought it for a little while. Tried to stay awake.

But fifteen minutes later, the television continued to glow dimly in the corner, scenes shifting across the screen unnoticed. The dialogue murmured like distant voices underwater. And beneath a shared blanket, two tangled bodies lay wrapped together, chests rising and falling in slow rhythm, soft snores blending with the quiet hum of the TV.

————

The next day felt lighter.

Mike woke first, feeling stiff and warm in that slow, disoriented way he imagined a bear must feel crawling out of hibernation. His limbs were heavy, his brain still fogged with sleep. But he couldn't deny it had been some of the best sleep he'd gotten in a while.

Carefully, gently, he untangled himself from Will's arms and eased out of bed. He made sure the mattress barely shifted, pausing once to ensure Will didn't stir. He then padded down the hallway and into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes as he opened cabinets and the fridge, curious to see what the Hopper household considered breakfast essentials.

It didn't surprise him in the slightest when he opened the freezer and found at least three boxes of Eggo waffles staring back at him. Two were the classic original, the kind El had once clutched like treasure, and one was chocolate chip. Mike stared at the chocolate chip box for a moment, debating. Then he snorted softly to himself. He was not about to poke the bear. He grabbed one of the original boxes instead.

The toaster already sat on the counter, clearly in what had to be its permanent home. Given how often waffles were consumed in this house, it probably never saw the inside of a cabinet. Mike popped two waffles in and leaned against the counter, waiting for the satisfying click that would send them springing back up.

By the time he'd made six waffles—he was hungry, sue him—he heard soft shuffling from down the hall. And then Will emerged slowly from El's room.

Now, Will could absolutely pull himself together when he wanted to. He could smooth his hair, straighten his posture, look composed and quietly confident. But this version? This version was Mike's favorite.

Will's hair was a disaster in the most endearing way. Every curl and lock pointing in its own direction, while the back was flattened completely from sleeping. His cheeks were flushed pink, still puffy with sleep, his face soft and unguarded. One eye was half-squinted shut while the other blinked cautiously at the light, like he didn't quite trust the morning yet.

He was walking steadier than yesterday, though he still held one hand slightly out in front of him, like he was prepared to catch himself if the world tilted. Then his eyes landed on Mike. And his whole face brightened.

"Good mornin'," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Mike's heart did something embarrassing in his chest. "Good morning!" he replied warmly. "You hungry?"

Will glanced at the waffles and shuffled toward the table, easing himself into a chair. "Yeah. I could eat."

That alone made Mike grin. Yesterday, Will had barely tolerated the idea of food. If he was willing to eat now, that had to mean something. It had been over forty-eight hours since the concussion. Maybe the worst of it was finally fading.

"Perfect," Mike said, plating three waffles and setting them in front of Will. "Because these waffles have your name written all over them."

He left the syrup off on purpose, sliding the bottle across the table so Will could decide for himself. Will murmured a soft thanks and proceeded to pour syrup carefully into each tiny square, filling them with meticulous focus.

Mike sat across from him with his own plate. "How'd you sleep?"

Will chewed thoughtfully before answering. "Really good, actually." He glanced up with a small, teasing smile. "You make an excellent pillow."

Mike huffed out a laugh. "Good, I'm glad."

Will smiled faintly and took another bite. "So," he said after swallowing, sounding more awake than he had in days, "what's on the agenda today?"

Mike hesitated. He knew Will wasn't going to like the answer. "Resting."

Right on cue, Will groaned dramatically and let his forehead drop onto his forearm on the table. "That's all I've been doing for the last two days, Mike."

"You're concussed, Will."

Will rolled his eyes, then immediately winced and squeezed them shut. "Noted," he muttered.

Mike tried not to laugh. "Resting doesn't have to mean lying in bed. We can draw—"

"You mean I can draw. Because, I love you, but you can't." That was unfortunately true. Even Mike's stick figures looked structurally unstable.

"Fine. You can draw" Mike shot back lightly. "Or there are board games. And movies. El has, like, a whole stash in her room." Will lifted his head slightly, looking more open to that suggestion and less like he was about to make a dramatic escape attempt.

But there was still something in his expression, something restless. A quiet frustration at being sidelined. Mike saw it. And even if all they were technically allowed to do was rest inside the cabin, he was going to do everything he could to make it feel less like being trapped.

After breakfast, Will took his sketchbook and settled onto the porch. It was the closest thing to leaving the cabin without actually leaving. The air was cool and clean, the trees stretching endlessly around them. He'd hoped it would be enough to break through the artist block her was facing.

While Will sketched, Mike busied himself inside.

He combed through the cabinets under the TV and made a small stack of movies he thought they'd both enjoy. He pulled a couple board games from El's closet. Even found some arts and crafts supplies that looked suspiciously like they belonged in Holly's bedroom—construction paper, glitter glue, friendship bracelet thread.

He carried everything into the living room in an awkward stack, determined to create options. That was when the phone rang. The sharp, sudden sound cut through the quiet of the cabin. At first, Mike didn't react. The normalcy of the morning had lulled him into something dangerously close to forgetting.

Then the ringing came again. And the reality of everything outside their calm little bubble came crashing back in. His stomach tightened. Slowly, he shifted the stack of games onto the coffee table and turned toward the sound.

Mike answered the phone and immediately heard Lucas's voice on the other end. The boy started with the basics—How are you? How's Will? Is he feeling better? Has he had any more episodes? The standard questions. The careful check-ins. The kind that sounded like they'd been prompted by Joyce hovering nearby, insisting Lucas get every detail.

Mike gave him a simple rundown. Yes, Will was better than yesterday. Yes, he'd had another trance the night before but had come out of it faster. No fainting this time. That alone felt like progress.

Then Lucas shifted into what they were dealing with on their end. Vecna's targeting kids, and no we don't know why. Apparently he's been showing himself to them in a form they call Mr. Whatsit. It made Mike's stomach twist to think that his little sister had been in communication with Vecna himself, right under all their noses.

Lucas kept going. For some reason the military is interested in the kids too now. So we're making a plan to get them out of the Mac Z. And dude I feel like I'm losing my mind. Half of our planning consisted of Robin talking about Dick?

And before Mike could ask, And no, she didn't mean... y'know. Apparently it's a name of a tunnel? But it was hilarious, you should've seen Ms. Byers face!

Despite everything, Mike found himself chuckling quietly into the phone, easily picturing the confusion on Mrs. Byers' face. Oh and half of our crew is in the upside down. So y'know, what else is new.

For a solid twenty minutes, Mike listened as Lucas filled him in on every detail, the theories, the scrambling, the frantic attempts to stay one step ahead. By the end of it, Mike's head was spinning. But somewhere beneath the concern, beneath the dread, was something else. Relief.

Relief that, for once, he wasn't in the center of it. Even if it was temporary. Even if it made him feel guilty to admit it.

The entire time Lucas talked, Mike stared out the window, eyes drifting again and again to the porch. Will sat hunched over his sketchbook, shoulders tight. At one point he aggressively erased whatever he'd drawn, the sharp movements visible even from inside. Then he leaned closer to the page, squinting.

If Mike had to guess, it wasn't the drawing frustrating him. It was his vision. Even though Will's pupils weren't as blown as they had been before, they still weren't back to normal. His eyes were likely still sensitive, still struggling to focus, struggling to give him accurate perception.

By the time Lucas hung up with a promise to call later, Will had snapped his sketchbook shut and set it beside him. He sat there with his elbows propped on his knees, head cradled in his hands.

And suddenly, Mike felt useless. Blind. How had he missed just how much Will hated being sidelined?

He'd started to notice it recently, in the way Will bristled at his mother's overprotectiveness. In the way Jonathan would be sent out to help while Will stayed behind. In how every kid seemed to have a designated role, while Will was often told to remain at the radio tower, removed from the action.

At first, Mike had assumed Will wanted distance from anything connected to the Upside Down. After everything he'd endured, that seemed reasonable. But he'd been wrong. Will didn't want to hide from it.

His experience, his knowledge, it didn't make him retreat. It made him want to participate. To protect. To prevent others from enduring what he had. His trauma wasn't something he wanted to run from; it was something he wanted to use. A shield for everyone else.

Somewhere along the line, his fear for himself had transformed into fear for others. Not that Will had ever been selfish, he'd always cared deeply. But this was sharper. Rooted in the specific horror he'd survived. A horror he refused to let anyone else carry if he could help it.

Mike sighed and crossed to the screen door, opening it loudly so Will would know he was there. "Wanna play a game?" He asked, still searching for ways to to chip away at the frustration settling over Will's posture.

Will glanced up, nodded, and gathered his sketchbook before heading inside. As soon as he stepped into the living room, his eyes landed on the Monopoly board already laid out on the table. And something shifted. The heaviness didn't disappear, but it loosened.

Will was good at Monopoly, and Mike knew it.

He cast Mike a sideways look, a competitive spark flickering back to life. "Your going down Michael."

And boy did Mike know it.

————

The day stretched on in a way that felt both peaceful and endless.

After Will did, in fact, absolutely destroy Mike in Monopoly, owning half the board before Mike even managed to establish a decent foothold, Mike had narrowed his eyes and wordlessly pulled Battleship from the pile with a competitive grin.

That had been a mistake after Will sank his ships with terrifying accuracy.

Undeterred, Mike moved on to Mancala. He managed to scrape by with a narrow victory that he celebrated far more dramatically than necessary. Will accused him of acting like he'd just won a championship, in which Mike argued that Will was just a sore loser.

On a high from his win, Mike then pulled out chess. But by the end of it, Mike had lost far more than he'd won, his small winning streak crumbling.

Thankfully, Mike's over-the-top dramatics, groaning, accusing Will of cheating with absolutely no evidence, threatening to retire from board games forever, had Will laughing. Really laughing. Shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling.

And honestly? That was all that mattered.

Eventually, though, the energy drained from Will again. The laughter softened into a tired sigh. His posture slumped, and he pressed a hand to his temple, admitting that his headache had crept back and that his eyes were starting to ache in that dull, frustrating way that made everything feel slightly out of focus.

Instead of retreating to El's bed, though, they settled onto the couch. Mike wasn't tired, so when Will curled into him and quickly drifted off, snoring softly against his chest, Mike reached over to the table and grabbed the nearest book.

He assumed it was something Hopper had started reading, but judging by the bookmark placement, Hopper clearly hadn't gotten far. Mike smirked faintly and decided he could do better.

The book was titled It, by Stephen King, and the summary detailed a shapeshifting creature that preyed on children, taking the form of their worst nightmares. It sounded a lot like a certain enemy they were currently facing.

Two hours later, he'd been far more engrossed in the book than he thought he'd be. Landing on page 107 by the time Will stirred. So he dog-eared the page, leaving Hoppers bookmark on its measly page 19. A silent victory.

Even though Will was awake now, he didn't move. He stayed exactly where he was, breathing slow and steady, clearly content with his head resting over Mike's heart. Mike's hand moved absentmindedly up and down Will's back. "Movie?" he asked softly.

Will hummed in response, the sound low and agreeable. Mike apologized quietly when he had to shift out from beneath him, promising he'd be right back. He gathered the small stack of tapes he'd already pulled from the shelf.

"Okay," he said, flipping through them. "We've got Ghostbusters, E.T., The Goonies, Day of the Dead, and Poltergeist."

Will didn't hesitate. "Ghostbusters."

Mike slid the tape into the VCR and returned to the couch. This time, he sat upright, patting his lap in silent invitation. Will shifted easily, laying his head across Mike's thighs.

By the time Ghostbusters ended, the sun had dipped fully below the trees. The cabin was illuminated by the flickering glow of the television and the warm kitchen light, where Mike was now attempting to make mac and cheese. It was, theoretically, the easiest thing he could find to cook. After all, the box had promised it required little more than boiling water.

As Mike became a five star michelin, stirring with exaggerated seriousness, Will had picked up his sketchbook again. His eyes were clearly still bothering him; he blinked more often, squinting slightly. But he seemed determined not to let it stop him. So he started sketching Mike in the kitchen.

Mike noticed almost immediately. And that was his downfall.

Distracted by Will watching him, he let the pot boil over. Foam spilled dramatically onto the stovetop with a violent hiss. Will snorted, quickly adding what was likely a very unflattering detail to his drawing. Then he burned his mouth testing a noodle, jerking back with a strangled noise. And Will laughed harder.

After finally draining the pasta and mixing in the cheese powder, Mike poured the macaroni into bowls with an exaggerated flourish. In his triumph, however, he forgot to turn off the stove. Will spotted it instantly.

He practically shouted when Mike leaned a little too close to the still-lit burner, his shirt perilously near the flame. After flinching, Mike turned to burner off, offering Will a nervous smile.

And now, after successfully not setting Hopper's kitchen on fire, they were back in front of the TV, bowls in hand as the The Goonies played.

An hour later, their bowls had long since been emptied by the time the kids on screen finally found the treasure. And that was when everything fell apart.

Will's head was resting comfortably in Mike's lap again, his breathing slow and content. Then he gasped. Mike felt it immediately, the tension flooding through Will's shoulders, his body going rigid like a plank. Every muscle locked at once.

And when he looked down, Will's eyes had rolled back beneath his eyelids, only the whites of his eyes visible. His body began jerking in small, sharp movements, hands twitching against Mike's jeans.

"Fuck."

Mike tapped his cheeks rapidly. "Will. Hey—hey, come on. Wake up."

No response. Panic rose fast and ugly in his chest. He shook Will's shoulders, a little harder this time. "Will!" And still, nothing.

Minutes ticked by. Longer than the last trance. Too long. Mike's breathing turned shallow. He considered calling the others. Considered sprinting for the phone. Then, ten minutes in, the lights began to flicker. Mike's heart dropped into his stomach as he thought a Demogorgon was finally coming back for Will. He braced himself for a gate to tear open, for grandfather clocks to chime, for a signal that something was coming.

But nothing did.

Instead, their empty bowls began to tremble and then they lifted. Mike stared in disbelief as the ceramic slowly rose into the air, hovering a few inches above the coffee table. But it didn't stop there.

The Stephen King novel slid off the table and lifted, pillows drifted upward. Their shoes at the foot of the couch trembled before rising, even stray Monopoly pieces left forgotten on the floor began to float. Almost every loose object in the room defied gravity.

All while Will continued seizing in Mike's lap.

Five more agonizing minutes passed. The floating items began to jerk sporadically, twitching in sharp, unstable movements. Like they wanted to fly around, and the control behind making sure they didn't do that was slipping.

Mike pulled Will closer, cradling him almost entirely against his chest now, one arm wrapped tight around his back while the other steadied his head against his shoulder. That was when he noticed it—a deep crimson line slipping slowly from Will's nose and trailing over his lip.

And suddenly the floating objects made sense. Vecnas obsession made sense. Wills ability to sense the upside down made sense. The tether that never truly seemed severed made sense. Every strange moment, every near miss, every time Will had known something he shouldn't have. It all made such horrible sense.

A sharp gasp beneath Mike's chin snapped him back. Every object in the room dropped at once, crashing violently to the ground. Ceramic shattered, wood clattered, metal clanged in chaotic disarray, the sudden noise so loud it made Mike flinch.

"Will—"

Mike shifted him quickly so they were face-to-face, hands gripping his shoulders a little too tightly. Blood streaked against Will's suddenly pale skin. But unlike the previous trances, where he'd woken wide-eyed and shaking, breath coming in panicked bursts, Will looked... calm. 

Calm, and completely exhausted. And after the last twenty minutes, Mike understood why.

"Mike..." Will murmured faintly, voice barely more than a breath. Then his eyes rolled back again, his body going slack as he collapsed forward into Mike's chest, completely still.

Mike froze, heart jumping straight into his throat, and he probably would've freaked out a lot more if he couldn't feel Will's slow, steady breathing against his neck. Still, panic buzzed under his skin as he pushed Will away just enough to look at him properly, the boy's head lolling to the side in the process.

It looked like all that had happened was Will passing out. His face was relaxed, almost peaceful, and his breathing stayed even, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that Mike forced himself to match.

So Mike carefully slipped out from under him, moving slowly so he wouldn't jostle him too much. He adjusted Will until he was laid out along the couch, then grabbed pillows from the other end and propped both his head and his feet up. He remembered hearing somewhere that elevating someone's feet when they passed out helped wake them up faster. Then he grabbed a tissue from the box that had landed on its side, and gently dabbed at the blood under Will's nose, careful not to press too hard. 

While he waited, Mike paced back and forth in front of the TV, running a hand through his hair every few seconds like that might somehow help him think faster. He was overwhelmed, concerned, his mind racing a hundred thoughts a minute—but also, holy shit, that was so cool.

He acted like he'd never seen the supernatural before. Like he hadn't fought monsters, or watched his friends throw vans with their minds, or seen another dimension filled with crawling, flower-faced creatures that wanted to eat him.

But this came from Will. And with Mike being so unbelievably, hopelessly down bad for the guy, that made it at least ten times cooler.

Unfortunately... it also made a lot more dots connect.

Either Will always had powers, or he somehow gained them through his upside down trauma. Or, a third option that Mike is concerned is the answer with recent events, that Will is still plugged in to the Hivemind. Suddenly, Will having powers was a lot less cool. Not because Will had them, but because the idea that Will having them might've been part of some bigger scheme made Mike's chest feel tight. A scheme that would hurt Will. Again. Like it always did.

Mike was honestly shocked he hadn't worn grooves into the floorboards by the time Will finally woke up. The boy blinked slowly, pushing himself into a sitting position with obvious effort, like even holding himself upright took more energy than he had. His eyes moved around the room, unfocused at first, like he wasn't entirely convinced he was really here.

Then he saw Mike, and the relief on his face was instant. Mike rushed over and dropped onto the couch beside him before Will could even say anything.

"I thought I was gonna lose you," Will whispered, staring down at his hands like they belonged to someone else, flexing his fingers with a strange, almost awed expression.

Mike set a hand on Will's knee, squeezing lightly. "Me? You're the one that passed out!"

But Will shook his head slowly, then lifted his hand and pointed toward the cabin door. "Look outside."

Mike frowned, concern creeping back in immediately. He glanced at Will, then back at the door, before pushing himself to his feet. With his hand on the handle, he looked back again. "Hopper's not back, is he? Because I really don't want to deal with his open-door policy right now."

"Just open it Mike." Will didn't smirk. Didn't even twitch like he wanted to laugh. And that made Mike even more nervous to open the door.

But he did, slowly with a new found caution. The moment the door swung wide enough, Mike's jaw dropped. There, crumpled on the porch steps, was a dead Demogorgon. Or at least... Mike really hoped it was dead. 

Its neck was bent at a ninety-degree angle that definitely wasn't natural, and its limbs were twisted in directions no limb should ever go. One clawed hand lay outreached towards the door.

Mike stared at it for a long second before slowly turning back toward Will. "...Did you..."

Will nodded, his expression shifting into something small and guilty, like he wasn't sure whether he should feel proud or ashamed. "I don't know how I did it," he admitted quietly. "But I saw it. I saw a Demogorgon coming for you, Lucas, and Robin, and I just... I couldn't let that happen."

Mike's jaw was still somewhere near the floor as he reached out and shut the door, partly because he was about two seconds away from full-on fangirling over Will, but also to keep the Demogorgon from getting in. I mean, it was dead, but it coming back to life wouldn't be the strangest thing Mike had seen.

"Holy shit, you're like a sorcerer!" In two quick strides, Mike had Will pulled into his arms, hugging him tight enough to make the couch creak. "A real life, honest to god sorcerer!!" He pulled back just enough to look at him, grinning like an idiot.

"You're amazing!" he gushed, eyes bright, voice full of pure excitement.

Will's cheeks darkened immediately, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous habit. "It's really nothing..."

Mike leaned back, staring at Will with an offended glare. "Are you kidding? I can't do that! Almost no one on the planet can do that! Give yourself some credit!"

Will's blush deepened as he tried to hide behind his hands, shoulders hunching in an embarrassed attempt to escape the praise. When Mike didn't keep talking, he peeked back out through his fingers. Mike's expression had changed.

Torn. Worried. Thinking too hard again. And Will had a pretty good guess why.

"Mike... We can't stay out of this any longer."

Mike blinked, the words clearly not surprising him even if he wished they had. A long breath left his nose as he looked down at the floor, then back at Will. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."

Will really expected more of a fight, just because Mike can be a stubborn asshole, even if at the root of it he means well. Part of Will had been bracing for the argument, for the insistence that he stay behind, stay safe, stay out of it. And there was a tiny, selfish part of him that almost wanted that. Wanted Mike to refuse. Wanted him to try to shelter him, just so he could feel like someone thought he was worth protecting.

But that feeling was easily overshadowed by something else. Mike trusted him. Trusted him enough to let him make the choice, even if he didn't like it. Trusted him enough to stand beside him instead of in front of him.

And underneath all of that was the thing they both knew, even if neither of them liked saying it out loud. Will's connection... mattered. It was a tool the rest of the party didn't have. A step ahead they couldn't afford to ignore. As much as Mike would love to keep Will as far away from anything Upside-Down-related as possible, the truth was simple. They needed him.

"So what do we do?" Will asked softly, his voice quieter now, uncertainty slipping back in.

Mike sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at him properly. Color was slowly coming back into Will's face, but his eyes were heavy with exhaustion, his head leaning against the couch cushion like it weighed too much to hold up on his own. Yeah. Back to their regularly scheduled program for the night.

"For now?" Mike said. "We sleep. You will always be pretty in my eyes, but right now there's a touch of death warmed over going on."

Will deadpanned. "Michael."

"And you get grumpy when you're tired."

"Michael."

"And I'm signing my own death certificate, I know. But come on, let's get you in bed." When Mike tried to pull him up, Will immediately went limp like he weighed a thousand pounds, glaring at him with the most dramatic, grumpy pout he could manage.

"And then what?" Will asked, like he already knew the answer and just wanted to hear Mike say it.

Mike sighed again. Seriously, he had been doing that a lot lately.

"Then we call the squawk," he admitted. "Have someone come pick us up."

Suddenly Will wasn't deadweight anymore. He stood easily when Mike tugged his arm again, a faint, victorious smirk on his face like he'd just won the lottery. Mike narrowed his eyes at him, but the smile still made his chest feel warm anyway. It should honestly be illegal, the things Will did to his heart.

Will let himself be guided back toward El's room, stumbling once or twice as the exhaustion finally caught up with him. Mike had no idea what time it was, but the sooner they went to sleep, the sooner he could make the call.

And the sooner he made the call, the sooner they regrouped. And the sooner they regrouped, the sooner this whole shit show could end. The sooner Mike could stop checking for grey hairs with the amount of concern he has for Will.

They practically flopped onto the bed, both of them too tired to bother with anything graceful. Mike landed flat on his back with a heavy exhale, one arm thrown out to the side without thinking. Will immediately claimed it as his pillow, curling into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world, tucking himself against Mike's shoulder with a quiet sigh as his eyes slid shut.

As the room settled into a calm, heavy silence, the distant noises of the forest slipped through the open window. Mike listened as Will's breathing slowly evened out against his arm, each breath warm through the thin fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he found himself almost surprised that Will could still be tired after everything. But then Mike remembered the very literal dead Demogorgon on the front porch and it made more sense.

And oh. There is still a supposedly dead Demogorgon right outside the house.

Mike's eyes opened again, staring up at the ceiling for a long second before he swallowed. "Hey, Will?" he whispered into the dark, his voice quiet enough that it barely carried past the bed. Will responded with a lazy hum, face still buried against Mike's bicep.

"The demogorgon is dead right?"

Will shifted slightly, tilting his head up so he could look at Mike, hair falling into his eyes as he blinked sleepily. "Yup."

Mike didn't look convinced. His expression stayed tense, eyes flicking toward the door like he expected the thing to come crashing through it at any second. Will noticed immediately, his deadpan expression softening just a little as he let out a quiet sigh.

"I can't feel it," he murmured. "I've started to notice I only get those episodes when a Demo crosses over or when i’m close enough to the hive mind." Mike's gaze snapped back to him, worry still there but clearly trying to follow the logic. "And there is one," Will continued, voice still low, "right outside the front door. And I don't feel anything."

It was Mike's turn to hum quietly, his brow furrowing as he thought it through. "And if you feel something, it means something," he muttered. "So if you feel nothing..."

Will nodded, offering a small, tight smile as Mike caught on. He hesitated for a second, then added, a little more quietly, "Plus... Vecna has all the kids. So I don't think any more Demos are gonna surface right now."

Mike blinked. Once. Twice. "I'm sorry, what?"

His eyebrows shot up, eyes going wide as he looked down at Will like he'd just casually announced the sky was falling. Will immediately looked sheepish, his mouth pressing into a thin line like he regretted opening it the second the words left his mouth.

But it was already too late. Mike's brain was moving, putting together every piece of information he had, every weird detail from the last few hours, every bad feeling he'd been trying to ignore. And then his face went pale, the moonlight from the window making him look almost ghost-white.

"Will..." he said slowly, voice tight. "If the Demogorgons were after the kids... then why did one come here?"

Will didn't answer. Mike sat up straighter, heart starting to pound.

"...Why did one come after Robin? After Lucas?"

The realization hit him before Will could even open his mouth.

Mike was out of bed in an instant, the mattress bouncing as he scrambled to his feet and rushed out of El's room, bare feet hitting the floor hard as he headed straight for the phone mounted on the wall. It wasn't that late int the night. And even if it was, there was no way anyone in their group was actually sleeping. So he grabbed the receiver and called the squawk.

"Mike, what are you—" Will started as he came around the corner, slower this time, one hand braced against the wall as he caught up, still clearly worn out.

"We can't wait until tomorrow," Mike said quickly, already dialing. "We regroup tonight."

He waited as the phone rang. Then Joyce's frazzled voice came through the line, tight with exhaustion and worry. 

Hello?

"Ms. Byers? It's Mike. I need you to come get me and Will." There was a pause, and when she spoke again her voice softened, but the concern was obvious.

But honey... Will still has a concussion. And it's not—it's not very safe over here right now.

Mike huffed, running a hand through his hair as he paced in front of the counter. "I know. I know, but it's even less safe if we stay here on our own. Especially since I think Vecna is trying to use Will again."

Behind him, Will went still. Mike didn't even have to turn around to know the look on his face, but when he did, his chest tightened anyway. Will was staring at the floor, arms crossed over his chest like he was trying to hold himself together. Shame sat heavy on his expression, mixed with something worse—fear.

And that's how Mike knew. Will had already come to the same conclusion. He'd just been too scared to say it out loud.

The line stayed silent for a moment, and Mike knows he's activated a sleeper agent on the other end. He knew that silence. So Mike just sent Will a small, reassuring look, trying to tell him without words that this wasn't his fault, that none of this was his fault, even as his stomach twisted with dread. Finally, Joyce spoke again, her voice sharp with sudden urgency.

I'll be there in five.

And then the line went dead. Mike slowly lowered the receiver, exchanging a worried glance with Will across the room. Because that definitely wasn't supposed to be a five-minute drive.