Archive of Our Own

The crawl ends badly.

Not the worst they have ever had, not technically. They make it out. They get back to the car in one piece, filthy and shaking and alive, and for a little while that seems like enough.

Steve is driving. Nancy is in the passenger seat, half-turned around, checking on everyone with that sharp, wired look she gets after a fight. Lucas and Dustin are still bickering beside the window like they have not just spent the last hour running for their lives. The radio is playing low beneath a layer of static. Tires hum against the road.

Normal. Weirdly, horribly normal.

Mike is still breathing too hard. His lungs burn. His hands hurt from gripping the bat, and there is dried blood on the sleeve of his jacket that he does not think is his. Adrenaline is wearing off in ugly little waves, leaving him shaky and cold and exhausted all at once.

Will climbs in last.

Mike notices that. Only because he always notices that.

He drops into the seat beside him and shuts the door, and for a second Mike does not think anything of it. Will is breathing hard too, shoulders rising and falling, face pale beneath the dirt smeared across it. He looks wiped out. They all do.

So Mike looks away.

Nancy asks if everyone is okay. Lucas says yes. Dustin says, “Define okay,” and Steve tells him to shut up. Somebody laughs, weak and breathless.

Will says nothing.

Mike does not catch that at first. It should register, maybe. Usually it would. But his brain feels stuffed with cotton, thoughts moving slow and heavy, like they are dragging through mud. Everything in him is still halfway back there, in the dark, in the noise, in the sound those things made right before they lunged.

So for a while, Will’s silence just folds into the rest of it.

The car keeps moving.

The argument picks back up in fragments beside them. Dustin says something about how Lucas almost got them killed. Lucas tells him to screw himself. Steve snaps at both of them. Nancy reaches for the volume knob on the radio when the static gets too loud.

Mike stares ahead, blinking at the road lights streaking past the glass.

Then he glances at Will.

Just because.

Will is sitting a little hunched over, closer to the door than before, head tipped toward the window. His arms are folded across himself, tucked in tight. Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.

He looks small.

That is the first thought Mike has. Not wrong. Not sick. Just small.

“You okay?” he asks.

Will nods.

It is barely a movement.

He does not look at him.

Something in Mike’s chest gives one hard, unpleasant twist.

He keeps looking.

Will’s face is turned partly away, but Mike can still see enough. The line of his mouth. The too-still set of his shoulders. The damp hair stuck to his forehead.

Maybe he is just tired. Maybe that is all. Maybe Mike is being weird.

He looks away again.

Ten seconds later he looks back.

Will has not moved.

That is when it starts to feel wrong.

Mike watches the rise and fall of Will’s chest.

Too shallow.

He frowns.

No, maybe not shallow. Just... uneven.

Like Will is forgetting to breathe for a second at a time.

“Will?”

No response.

Mike’s heartbeat gives one strange, heavy thud.

He shifts a little closer. “Hey.”

Still nothing.

The noise in the car changes shape. Lucas is still talking. Dustin is still talking back. The radio is still crackling. Tires are still hissing over pavement.

But it all sounds far away now.

Like Mike has sunk underwater.

He stares at Will’s profile, trying to make sense of what he is seeing, but his mind will not move fast enough. It keeps snagging on dumb details instead. The tear in Will’s sleeve. The dirt under his fingernails. The way the window vibrates faintly.

“Will,” he says again, a little sharper.

Nothing.

No—something. A tiny shift. So faint Mike almost misses it.

Will’s head lifts a fraction, then droops again.

Mike’s stomach drops so suddenly it feels physical.

He turns fully toward him. “Will, look at me.”

For a second he does not think Will is going to.

Then, slowly—painfully slowly—Will lifts his head.

His eyes open halfway.

Mike goes cold.

They are unfocused. Not sleepy, not dazed in a normal way. Just... wrong. Glossy and distant, like Will is looking through him instead of at him.

There is sweat at his temples. His lips are parted slightly. He looks pale enough to disappear.

And Mike’s brain, stupidly, uselessly, does not know what to do with that.

It blanks.

It actually blanks.

For one awful second all he can do is stare.

“Hey,” he hears himself say, and his own voice sounds strange to him, too soft, too careful. “What’s wrong?”

Will blinks.

Slow.

His gaze lands somewhere near Mike’s shoulder instead of his face.

“I’m just... tired,” he whispers.

The words are slurred around the edges.

Mike feels the fear then, finally, properly. It hits late, but when it hits it is brutal.

“No,” he says immediately, though he does not know what he means by it. “No, you weren’t— you were fine.”

Will does not answer.

His eyes drift shut for a second too long.

Then his body sways.

Mike moves before he can think. One hand catches Will’s shoulder, the other grabs his arm, hauling him upright before he can slump sideways into the door.

And the second he touches him, everything gets worse.

Will is burning up.

Not warm. Not feverish. Hot. Sweat-damp and trembling under the layers of his hoodie.

“Okay,” Mike says, too fast now. “Okay, hey, sit up. Sit up, come on.”

Will lets himself be moved.

That is the part that really scares him.

Will does not resist. Does not complain. Does not even make that irritated face he always makes when people fuss over him.

He just folds where Mike puts him, boneless and heavy.

Mike’s thoughts start tripping over each other.

Something is wrong. Something is really wrong. He is hurt. He has to be hurt. When? How? Mike was right there. He was right there.

“Shit,” he whispers. Then louder, “Shit—Will, hey. Stay with me.”

Lucas looks over at the sound of his voice. Dustin does too, their argument cutting off mid-sentence.

Mike barely notices.

He cups Will’s face with one shaking hand, trying to get him to focus. “Look at me. Come on, look at me.”

Will tries.

Mike can see him trying, and that somehow makes it worse.

His eyelids flutter. His gaze catches on Mike’s face for half a second, slips, catches again. There is something open in his expression, something fragile and stripped down and horribly unlike the way Will usually holds himself together.

“It’s nothing,” Will murmurs.

Mike almost laughs, except there is nothing funny in him at all.

“What?”

Will exhales shakily.

His hand moves weakly toward his side.

Like he forgot for a second that he was hiding something.

Mike sees that movement and the whole world narrows to it.

His eyes drop.

There is dark wetness soaking through the fabric.

For a moment he does not understand what he is looking at. His brain refuses it. Just stares.

Then it clicks.

Blood.

A lot of blood.

And suddenly time does the opposite of what it was doing before. Instead of slowing down, it jerks. Everything happens too fast.

Mike’s breath catches so hard it hurts.

No no no.

His hand is already there, pushing at the hoodie, trying to see, trying not to, and Will makes this tiny sound—barely there, barely human—and sags forward.

“Oh my God.”

It comes out broken.

Will’s forehead falls against Mike’s shoulder. His whole weight follows after it, and Mike grabs him with both arms on instinct, dragging him close, holding him upright because if he does not then Will is going to slide right off the seat onto the floor.

And Will lets him.

Completely.

Like there is nothing left in him to hold himself up.

No.

No.

Mike’s mind is racing now, but it is the bad kind of racing, the useless kind. Not thoughts, not really. Just fragments smashing into each other.

He is bleeding.
How long?
How did I not see?
Why didn’t he say anything?
He is too hot.
He is going to pass out.
He already is.
Do something.
Do something.

“You’re hurt,” Mike says, and it sounds stupid, obvious, pathetic. His voice is shaking so hard he hates it. “Will, why the hell didn’t you say something?”

Will’s breath stutters against his neck.

“I didn’t... want...” He swallows. “You to worry.”

Mike just stares.

For a second he actually cannot process the sentence.

Then something inside him cracks open so wide it almost takes him down with it.

His arm goes tighter around Will without permission, one hand climbing up to cradle the back of his head, fingers tangling in damp curls. “You can’t do that,” he says, voice breaking on every word. “You can’t—Will, you can’t do that.”

Will does not answer.

His fingers twitch weakly against Mike’s chest, then curl into the fabric of his shirt.

It is barely a grip. Barely any pressure at all.

But Mike feels it like a knife.

That tiny, instinctive hold. Like Will is trying to anchor himself. Like he trusts Mike to keep him here.

Panic rises so fast Mike nearly chokes on it.

“Steve,” he says, but it comes out too thin.

He tries again, louder this time, sharp enough to cut through the whole car. “Steve!”

Everyone is looking now.

Nancy twists around in her seat. Lucas goes pale the second he sees the blood. Dustin’s mouth falls open.

“What happened?” Nancy says.

“I don’t know,” Mike snaps, too fast, too loud, because he does not know, because he should know, because he was right here. “He’s bleeding, he’s— just drive faster, okay? Just go!”

Steve does not argue. The car lurches as he speeds up.

Mike hardly notices.

His whole world has shrunk to Will’s weight in his arms, the fever heat of him, the frightening softness. Every few seconds Mike checks that he is still breathing. Then checks again. Then again.

He cannot stop.

His forehead presses briefly against Will’s hair. His eyes sting, but crying feels impossible, like his body has skipped right over it and gone straight into some colder, uglier thing.

“Stay with me,” he whispers.

Will makes a faint sound. Not words. Just a breath that catches halfway out.

Mike tightens his hold. “No, hey. Don’t do that, You stay awake.”

Will’s lashes flutter against his cheeks.

“Mike...”

“I’m here.” The answer comes instantly, almost angry in how fast it is. “I’m right here.”

And that is the truth of it, the only one that matters.

The rest of the car is noise and motion and fear. Lucas saying Will’s name. Nancy asking where the wound is. Dustin swearing under his breath. Steve taking a corner too hard.

Mike hears all of it and none of it.

Because panic is not always loud.

Sometimes it is this.

Sometimes it is your hands moving automatically while your mind lags three steps behind.
Sometimes it is seeing blood and feeling nothing for one full second because your brain refuses to let it be real.

Sometimes it is the world going soft at the edges, sounds turning distant, time stretching wrong.
Sometimes it is one thought, over and over, with no room for anything else:

Not Will.
Not Will.
Not Will.

Mike keeps one hand at the back of Will’s head and the other pressed uselessly to his side, like pressure alone can hold him together, like wanting hard enough might count for something.

Will is half-curled into him now, breath warm and uneven against Mike’s throat, body trembling in small involuntary shivers.

Mike can feel every single one.

He does not think he will ever stop feeling them.

“You’re okay,” he lies, voice raw. “You’re okay. We’re almost there.”

He does not know if that is true. He does not know how bad it is. He does not know if Will can even hear him anymore.

But he keeps talking.

Because the silence is worse.

Because if he stops, then all he will hear is the wet, unsteady sound of Will breathing.

Because if he stops, he might start thinking.

And if he starts thinking, really thinking, he is going to lose it.

So he keeps his mouth near Will’s temple and says whatever comes to him, low and frantic and shaking.

“I’ve got you.”
“Just stay awake.”
“Come on, Will.”
“Please.”

That last one slips out before he can stop it.

Please.

Will does not answer.

But his fingers tighten once, weakly, in Mike’s shirt.

And Mike holds him even closer, like he can force him to stay. Like he can make his body remember how. Like he can keep the whole world out with nothing but his arms.

Mike’s voice cuts through the car again, sharper this time, breaking at the edges.

“I don’t know what to do—he’s bleeding, he’s—he’s really bleeding—”

“I see that!” Steve snaps, eyes flicking to the rearview, then back to the road. His hands tighten on the wheel. “Where?”

“I don’t—his side, I think—” Mike’s words stumble over each other. He tries to pull the hoodie back again, hands shaking too much to be precise. “It’s a lot—”

Nancy twists fully in her seat now. “Let me see—Mike, move your hand—”

“I’m not—” he stops, breath hitching. He forces himself to shift just enough so she can look, but he doesn’t let go of Will. He can’t. “Just—be careful.”

Nancy leans over, quick, controlled, but Mike can see it—the second it hits her. The tension in her shoulders.

“That’s not small,” she says quietly.

That word—not small—lands wrong. Too calm. Too controlled.

Mike’s stomach drops harder.

“What does that mean?” he demands, too fast. “What does that mean, Nancy?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes scan the wound, already calculating, already thinking ahead in a way Mike can’t.

“We need to stop,” she says finally.

The word stop slams into Mike like a wall.

“What?”

“We need to stop the bleeding before—”

“No.”

It comes out instantly. 

Everyone looks at him.

Mike barely notices.

“No, we can’t stop,” he says, shaking his head, pulling Will closer like someone might try to take him. “We’re losing time if we stop. We just—just drive, okay? Just get to a hospital—”

“He might not make it to the hospital if we don’t—” Nancy starts.

“Don’t say that!” Mike snaps, louder than he means to. His voice cracks hard at the end. “Don’t—just don’t say that.”

Will shifts weakly against him.

Mike freezes for half a second, attention snapping back instantly.

“Hey—hey, I’m here,” he murmurs, voice dropping again, frantic but softer. “You’re okay. Just stay with me, okay?”

Will doesn’t really respond. Just a faint exhale, uneven, like it catches halfway out.

Mike’s heart stutters.

Behind him, Lucas leans forward. “Mike… she’s right. We can at least try to—”

“We don’t know how!” Mike shoots back, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “We’re not—we’re not doctors, okay? What if we make it worse? What if—”

His voice breaks completely this time.

What if he dies because of me.

The thought hits fully formed and knocks the air out of him.

He goes quiet for a second.

Just breathing.

Too fast. Too shallow.

Will’s head slips slightly, pressing heavier into his shoulder, and that’s it—that’s what breaks the hesitation.

“Okay—okay, wait,” Mike says suddenly, voice dropping into something else. Not calm, not really. But focused in a sharp, desperate way. “What do we do?”

Nancy turns back immediately, like she’s been waiting for that.

“We put pressure on it. Hard,” she says. “We need something clean—shirt, jacket, anything—and we keep it there until it slows.”

Dustin is already shrugging off his jacket. “Here—take this—”

Mike grabs it without thinking, hands fumbling as he folds it, presses it down against Will’s side.

The second he does—

Will gasps.

A sharp, broken sound.

Mike flinches like he’s been hit.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry—” he rushes out, panic spiking again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just—just hold on—”

Will’s fingers tighten weakly in his shirt again.

That tiny, reflexive grip.

Mike swallows hard, blinking fast, vision going a little blurry around the edges.

“Stay with me,” he whispers again, pressing down harder despite the way Will’s body tenses. “You have to stay with me, okay? Don’t—don’t go anywhere.”

“Should we pull over?” Steve asks, voice tight. “Just for a minute—”

Mike’s head snaps up.

He looks at the road ahead, then back down at Will, then at the blood seeping through the fabric already.

Time stretches again.

Too many options.
None of them good.

If they stop—they lose time.
If they don’t—he keeps bleeding.

Mike feels like he’s going to choke on the decision.

“Don’t—” he starts, then stops.

His brain stalls again, stuck between two bad choices, neither of them feeling real.

He looks down at Will.

Really looks this time.

The pale skin. The damp hair stuck to his forehead. The way his eyes won’t fully open anymore. The way his breathing stutters, like it’s getting harder.

And suddenly the answer is obvious in the worst way.

“We don’t stop,” Mike says, quieter now, but firm in a way that scares even him. “We don’t stop. We just—drive. Faster.”

Steve doesn’t argue.

The car accelerates.

Mike presses the jacket harder against the wound, hands slick now, grip tightening as if pressure alone can hold everything together.

Will makes another weak sound, barely there.

Mike leans in closer, forehead brushing against his hair again, voice dropping to something raw and shaking.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Just—just stay. Please.”

Because that’s all he has.

His hands.
His voice.
And the desperate, useless hope that it’s enough.

Mike keeps the pressure steady.

Or—he tries to.

His hands are shaking too much for steady, but he presses anyway, harder than he thinks he should, harder than he wants to, because Nancy said hard and that’s the only instruction his brain managed to hold onto.

Will reacts every time.

Small, broken sounds—sharp inhales, soft, strained whimpers he’s clearly trying to swallow down. His body tenses under Mike’s grip, shoulders pulling in, breath hitching against him.

Each sound feels like it cuts straight through Mike.

“I know,” he keeps saying, over and over, voice uneven, barely holding together. “I know, I’m sorry—I’m sorry—just hold on, okay? Just a little more—”

Will’s fingers tighten weakly in his shirt again, like a reflex.

Mike clings to that.

To the fact that he’s still reacting.
Still there.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, leaning closer, almost pressing his face into Will’s hair. “Don’t—don’t go quiet, okay? Just—just stay—”

Will lets out another soft, pained sound.

Then another.

Then—

Nothing.

At first, Mike doesn’t register it.

Because the car is still moving.
Because Lucas is saying something.
Because Dustin is shifting beside them.
Because his own voice is still going, still spilling out in a low, frantic stream.

“I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s okay—just—”

He stops.

Something is wrong.

The absence hits slower than it should.

There should be another sound by now.

Another breath catching.
Another small noise.
Something.

There’s nothing.

Mike’s hand freezes where it’s pressed against Will’s side.

“…Will?”

No response.

He looks down.

Will’s head has gone heavier against his shoulder. Completely slack now, no resistance, no tension left in him at all.

His grip—

His grip is gone.

His fingers are still curled in Mike’s shirt, but loose now.

Mike’s chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.

“Will?”

Still nothing.

The world tilts.

“Hey—no, no—” Mike’s voice breaks immediately, panic snapping back in full force. “Will, hey—hey, look at me—”

He shifts one hand from the wound to Will’s face, cupping it, trying to lift his head.

It lolls too easily.

Too easily.

“Will.”

Nothing.

Mike’s breathing goes sharp and uneven.

“Will—hey, stop—stop doing that—”

He doesn’t even know what that is. Being quiet. Not responding. Leaving.

His thumb brushes under Will’s eye, desperate, searching for something—movement, reaction, anything.

His voice cracks completely.

“Will.”

Still nothing.

The silence is deafening.

“he’s—” Mike chokes, louder now, panic fully breaking through, uncontrollable. “ he’s not—he’s not answering—”

Nancy turns instantly. “What do you mean not answering?”

“I mean he’s not answering!” Mike snaps, voice high and shaking. “He’s not—he’s not saying anything—he was just—he was just—”

His words fall apart.

He can’t explain it.

He just knows.

Something shifted.

Something is wrong in a different way now.

Nancy leans over again, quick, checking—eyes on Will’s face, his chest.

“He’s unconscious,” she says.

The word hits Mike like a physical blow.

“No, he’s not—he’s just—he’s just tired, he said he was tired—”

“Mike—”

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head, grip tightening around Will like he can physically keep him here. “No, he was talking, he was just talking—he doesn’t just—he doesn’t just stop—”

Will doesn’t move.

And that’s when the real fear hits.

The kind that doesn’t spike and fade.

The kind that sinks in and stays.

Mike’s hand goes back to the wound automatically, pressing again, harder now, like doing something—anything—might fix it.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking into something almost pleading now. “Hey, will please—”

His other hand grips Will’s face again, thumb brushing over his cheek, desperate.

“Will, come on—open your eyes. Open your eyes, please—”

Nothing.

Mike feels it then.

That horrible, creeping thought pushing in again—

What if he doesn’t wake up.

His chest tightens so hard it’s hard to breathe.

“No,” he whispers, more to himself than anyone else. “No, no, no—”

“We’re almost there,” Nancy says quickly, but there’s tension in her voice now too. “Mike, keep pressure on it. Don’t stop.”

“I’m not stopping,” he says immediately, almost defensive, almost angry. “I’m not”

And he doesn’t.

He keeps one hand pressed hard against the wound, the other gripping Will’s shoulder, holding him upright, close, like if he loosens his grip even a little, Will might slip away completely.

His forehead presses against Will’s again, breath shaky and uneven.

“Stay,” he whispers, voice raw, barely holding together. “Just—just stay. You can’t—”

His voice breaks again.

“You can’t leave me like this.”

Will doesn’t respond.

But Mike keeps talking anyway.

Because the silence is worse.

Because if he stops, it feels too real.

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore.

Just words. Anything. His voice low and breaking, pressed into Will’s hair, like if he keeps speaking, Will will have something to follow back.

“Stay,” he whispers. “Just—just stay, okay? Don’t—don’t go anywhere—”

Nothing.

For a few seconds, it feels like the world has narrowed to that.

His hands.
The pressure.
The silence.

Then—

A breath.

It’s small.

So small Mike almost misses it.

But it’s different.

Not the shallow, fading kind from before—this one catches, sharp and uneven, like it hurts.

Mike freezes.

“…Will?”

Another breath.

This one shudders.

And then—barely—

Will shifts.

It’s weak. Uncoordinated. His head tilts slightly against Mike’s shoulder, like he’s trying to move but doesn’t have control over it.

Mike’s heart slams painfully in his chest.

“Hey—hey, okay—” he rushes out, voice breaking instantly, relief and panic crashing together. “I’m here—I’m right here—”

Will’s lashes flutter.

Slow.

Heavy.

It takes effort—visible effort—for his eyes to open even halfway.

They don’t focus right away.

They never do, not at first.

They just… drift.

Lost.

Mike cups his face again, gentler this time, thumb brushing against his cheek. “Will, come on—look at me. You’re okay. You’re okay—”

Will blinks.

Once.

Twice.

His gaze catches on Mike for a second—just a second—and something in it tightens, like recognition breaking through fog.

“Mi…ke…”

It barely comes out.

A whisper more than a word.

But it’s enough.

“Yeah,” Mike breathes, almost choking on it. “Yeah, I’m here—I’m here—”

Will’s body shudders suddenly.

Not from pain this time.

From cold.

It hits him all at once—his shoulders drawing in, a weak tremor running through him that doesn’t stop.

Mike feels it immediately.

Every small shake.

And it terrifies him in a different way.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” he says quickly, his hand moving instinctively to Will’s arm, like he can steady it. “What—what is it?”

Will’s teeth barely click together, breath coming out uneven.

“I’m… cold,” he murmurs.

The words are faint. Fragile.

But the shaking says the rest.

Mike’s chest tightens.

Cold.

That’s not right.

That’s not right at all.

“You’re not—you’re burning up,” Mike says automatically, almost confused, because he felt the heat earlier. “You’re—”

Will shakes his head weakly.

Or tries to.

Another shiver runs through him, stronger this time, his fingers twitching against Mike’s shirt like he’s trying to hold on but can’t quite make them listen.

“So… cold…”

That—

That hits worse than the silence did.

Mike swallows hard, panic shifting shape again, sharper, more focused.

“Okay,” he says quickly, voice shaking but determined now. “Okay, it’s okay—I’ve got you—”

He moves without thinking, shrugging off his jacket with one hand as best as he can, awkward with the limited space, never fully letting go of Will.

“Dustin—give me that—” he mutters, already grabbing the extra fabric, pulling it around Will’s shoulders, tucking it in clumsily.

It’s not enough.

It doesn’t feel like enough.

Will is still shaking.

Small, constant tremors, like his body can’t hold onto heat anymore.

Mike pulls him closer.

Closer than before.

One arm tight around his shoulders, the other still pressed firmly against his side, not letting up on the wound.

He presses Will into his chest, trying to cover as much of him as possible, like body heat alone might fix this.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, softer now, almost instinctive. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just—stay with me, okay?”

Will leans into him.

Fully this time.

No hesitation.

His forehead presses weakly against Mike’s collarbone, breath uneven, cold against his skin despite the heat still lingering underneath.

Mike tightens his hold immediately.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispers, one hand coming up to the back of Will’s head again, holding him there. “Stay here. Don’t move. I’ve got you.”

Will’s fingers find his shirt again.

Weak.

Shaking.

But this time they hold.

Just barely.

“I’m… so tired…” Will murmurs, voice slurring at the edges again.

Mike’s heart lurches.

“No,” he says quickly, too quickly. “No, hey—you don’t get to sleep, okay? Not yet. Stay awake. Talk to me.”

Will doesn’t really answer.

Just breathes.

Shallow. Uneven.

Shivering harder now, even tucked against him.

Mike presses his cheek against Will’s hair, eyes stinging again, his voice dropping into something softer, steadier despite the panic still clawing at him.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. Just stay with me. We’re almost there, alright? Just—just a little longer.”

He shifts slightly, trying to block the cold air from the window, pulling the fabric tighter around Will, holding him like he can trap the warmth there.

Like he can keep him from slipping again.

Like he can hold him together with nothing but his arms.

“Don’t go quiet again,” he whispers, barely audible now. “Please… don’t do that again.”

Will doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t go still either.

He stays there.

Shivering.
Breathing.
Barely awake.

Will’s shaking doesn’t stop.

If anything, it gets worse.

Small at first—just tremors under Mike’s hands—but then stronger, uneven, like his body can’t decide what it’s doing anymore. His breath comes out in short bursts, too fast one second, too slow the next.

Mike tightens his hold instinctively, pulling him closer, trying to cover him completely.

“I’ve got you,” he keeps saying, voice low, almost automatic now. “You’re okay. Just stay with me—just a little longer, alright?”

Will doesn’t answer right away.

His head shifts weakly against Mike’s chest, like it takes effort just to move it. His fingers twitch in Mike’s shirt, grip slipping, then finding it again.

Barely there.

But it’s enough to make Mike lean down immediately.

“Yeah—yeah, I’m here,” he says, too fast, voice already breaking. “I’m right here—”

Will’s breath stutters.

His chest rises unevenly against Mike’s arm, like it’s taking too much effort just to pull air in.

“I’m… sorry,” he whispers.

Mike shakes his head instantly. “No—hey, no, don’t—don’t say that. You don’t have anything to be sorry for, okay? Just—just stay with me—”

Will tries to shake his head.

It barely moves.

“I didn’t…” he swallows hard, words catching, falling apart. “I didn’t… say…”

Mike leans closer, panicking now. “Say what? You can tell me later—just—just breathe, okay? We’re almost there—”

Will’s grip tightens for a second.

Like he’s trying to hold onto something.

“I didn’t… tell you…” he forces out, voice barely holding together. “I didn’t… want you to… not know…”

Mike’s chest tightens painfully.

“Know what?” he asks, softer now, desperate. “Will—what?”

Will’s eyes flutter open halfway.

Unfocused.

But searching.

Trying.

They land on Mike for a second—and something in them clears, just enough.

“…you,” he breathes.

The word barely forms.

Mike leans even closer, almost pressing his forehead to his.

“I’m right here,” he says quickly. “I’m right here, you don’t have to—”

“I know,” Will whispers, a faint, broken exhale following it. “I just… I didn’t… say it right…”

His fingers twitch weakly against Mike’s chest.

Like he’s trying to point at something.

Like he’s trying to fix it.

“I didn’t… want you to think…” he struggles, breath catching harder now. “that I didn’t…”

His voice breaks completely.

Mike’s heart is pounding too fast.

“Didn’t what?” he asks, almost pleading now. “Will, just—stay with me, okay? You can tell me later—”

Will exhales.

Shaky.

Slow.

“…that I didn’t mean it,” he finishes, barely audible.

Mike stills.

For a second.

But before he can even respond—

Will’s grip shifts.

Weak.

Desperate.

He tugs faintly at Mike’s shirt, pulling him closer with what little strength he has left.

“…don’t…” he whispers.

Mike leans in instantly. “I’m here—”

“…don’t leave me,” Will forces out, voice trembling, breaking apart. “I need you—”

His breath stutters hard.

“…mike.”

That—

that nearly stops Mike’s heart.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mike says immediately, voice cracking. “I’m right here, I swear—”

Will’s eyes stay on him.

Fighting to focus.

“…don’t let me be alone,” he whispers.

Mike shakes his head, tears slipping now. “You’re not alone—you’re not, I’ve got you—”

Will exhales, a weak, trembling breath.

His grip loosens.

Just a little.

“…stay,” he murmurs again.

“Yeah,” Mike says instantly. “I’m staying—”

Will’s lashes flutter.

His voice is barely there now.

“…okay.”

His head slips.

His body goes heavier in Mike’s arms—

All at once.

“Will—?”

No response.

Mike’s stomach drops so hard it feels like falling.

“Will.”

Nothing.

Not even the weak shivering from before.

Not even the uneven breath.

Nothing.

“he’s—” Mike chokes, voice breaking completely now, panic snapping into something wild and uncontrollable. “Steve, he’s—he’s not—he’s not—”

The car jerks as Steve slams harder on the gas.

“We’re here—we’re here—” Nancy says, already reaching for the door.

Mike doesn’t hear it properly.

He’s staring at Will.

At how still he is.

Too still.

“No, no, no—” Mike’s hands move automatically, shaking as they shift from the wound to Will’s face, his neck—anywhere. “Will—hey—wake up, okay? Wake up—this isn’t funny—”

He presses his ear closer, like he’s trying to hear something.

Anything.

Nothing.

The silence is worse this time.

Different.

Final.

“No—”

His voice cracks into something unrecognizable.

The car stops abruptly.

Doors fly open.

Voices—shouting—footsteps—

Mike doesn’t move.

He doesn’t let go.

“Will,” he says again, softer now, like if he says it the right way, it’ll fix it. “Hey… you’re okay. You’re okay, you just—wake up, alright? Come on—”

Hands are on him now—pulling, trying to get Will out of his grip.

Mike resists instantly.

“Wait—wait—” he gasps, panicked, disoriented, like the world is moving too fast now. “No, he’s—he’s with me—just—wait—”

“He doesn’t have a pulse,” someone says.

Everything goes quiet again.

Not outside.

Inside.

Mike doesn’t understand the sentence.

Doesn’t process it.

“He what?”

They take Will out of his arms.

Mike doesn’t remember letting go.

One second he’s holding him—still warm, still there—and the next there are hands everywhere, voices cutting through each other, and Will is being pulled away, laid flat on a stretcher.

“Move—move, give them space—”

Mike follows anyway.

He doesn’t think about it. His legs just go.

The doors burst open and they’re inside—too bright, too loud, everything echoing off white walls and tile. A nurse is already moving alongside the stretcher, another one rushing ahead, calling something out Mike can’t fully hear.

“Male, unresponsive—possible trauma—no pulse—”

No pulse.

That again.

Mike’s brain catches on it this time—but only halfway. It doesn’t settle. It just… floats there, wrong, unfinished.

No pulse.

That doesn’t make sense.

Will was just—

“Sir, you can’t—”

Someone tries to stop them.

Steve pushes past. Nancy is already right behind the stretcher. Lucas and Dustin hover close, wide-eyed and silent for once.

Mike doesn’t even register the resistance. He slips through anyway, eyes locked on Will.

They wheel him into a room.

Everything speeds up.

Hands everywhere.

Machines.

Voices snapping into sharp, practiced rhythm.

“Get him on the bed—now.”

They lift Will, shift him—

And he doesn’t help.

Not even a little.

That’s what hits Mike the hardest.

Not the blood.
Not the shouting.

That.

The way his body just… moves. Empty. Unresponsive.

“No, no—” Mike whispers under his breath, shaking his head like that might undo it. “He’s—he’s just—he passed out, he’ll wake up—he always wakes up—”

No one answers him.

A nurse steps in front of them, blocking.

“You need to stay back.”

Mike doesn’t listen.

He leans sideways, trying to see around her, like if he can just look, if he can just confirm—

They start compressions.

Hard.

Hands pressing down on Will’s chest, again and again, fast, mechanical, nothing like the way he should move.

Mike flinches.

His stomach twists violently.

“Hey—” he chokes out, stepping forward. “You’re hurting him—”

“They have to,” Nancy says quickly beside him, but her voice is tight, controlled in that way that means she’s barely holding it together.

Mike shakes his head.

“No, he—he was just talking, he was—he was right there—”

He watches the nurse push down again.

And again.

And again.

Each one looks wrong.

Too hard.
Too much.

Like they’re trying to force life back into something that isn’t responding.

“Come on—” Mike whispers, barely audible now, like he’s talking directly to Will. “Come on, just—just wake up, okay? You’re fine. You’re fine—”

“Still no pulse.”

The words slice clean through everything.

Mike’s breath stutters.

“Charging.”

Someone brings over the machine.

Mike’s eyes lock onto it immediately.

The paddles.

His brain recognizes it before he wants it to.

Before he’s ready.

“No—no, wait—”

“They’re shocking him,” Dustin whispers, voice small, horrified.

Mike’s head snaps toward him, then back to Will.

“They don’t need to—he’s—he’s fine, he just—”

“Clear!”

The word rings out.

Everyone steps back.

Except Mike.

He doesn’t move.

He can’t.

Nancy grabs his arm and yanks him back just as—

Will’s body jerks.

Sharp.
Violent.
Unnatural.

Mike flinches like he’s been hit himself.

A sound tears out of him—half gasp, half broken protest.

“No—!”

It’s wrong.

Everything about it is wrong.

Will isn’t supposed to move like that.

He’s not supposed to be forced to move.

“Check pulse.”

A beat.

“Nothing. Resume compressions.”

Hands are back on his chest.

Pushing.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Mike’s vision starts to blur.

Not all at once.

Around the edges first.

The room feels too bright.

Too loud.

Every sound echoes strangely, like it’s coming from far away.

“Come on…” he whispers, voice shaking uncontrollably now. “Come on, please—”

“Charging again.”

“No,” Mike says, louder this time, shaking his head hard. “No, stop—he’s—he’s had enough—just—just stop—”

No one listens.

“Clear!”

The second shock hits.

Will’s body jerks again.

Mike can’t take it.

Something in him just… gives.

His breathing turns sharp and uneven, too fast, not enough air, chest tightening painfully.

“I—” he starts, but the word doesn’t finish.

The room tilts.

He reaches out blindly—doesn’t know for what.

“I can’t—”

Nancy’s voice cuts in somewhere, distant. “Mike—hey, sit down—”

He doesn’t.

Or tries not to.

But his legs don’t listen.

The floor feels like it’s moving.

Everything goes louder, then quieter, then too far away.

Will’s body jerks again—

Or maybe that’s just in his head now.

“I can’t—” he repeats, weaker this time.

His vision tunnels.

Sound collapses into a dull, ringing hum.

The last thing he sees—

Is Will on that bed.

Too still between the movements they’re forcing out of him.

And then—

Nothing.

Mike drops.

Mike’s eyes open slowly, light burning into them, everything heavy and wrong.

For a second—

nothing.

Then—

Will.

The bed.
The stillness.
“No pulse.”

His breath catches.

And that’s it.

There’s no space for doubt.

He’s gone.

Mike doesn’t move.

He just stares ahead, chest tight, like something is pressing down on him, not letting anything out.

“…no,” he whispers.

It comes out thin.

Unsteady.

He shakes his head once, small, like that might undo it.

“No—”

His breathing starts to pick up.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

This isn’t real.

It can’t be real.

His hand jerks—he notices the IV then, taped into his skin, the line pulling slightly as he moves.

It feels wrong.

Everything feels wrong.

Without thinking, he grabs it—

yanks.

The sharp sting barely registers.

He just needs it off.

Needs something to change.

The line pulls free, tape tearing, a small spot of blood welling at his wrist.

He doesn’t look at it.

Doesn’t care.

His legs pull up to his chest, arms wrapping around them, folding in on himself like he can make it smaller—like he can make the world smaller.

“No, no, no,” he breathes, shaking now, forehead pressed hard against his knees. “No—this isn’t—this isn’t real—”

His shoulders hitch.

A broken sound slips out before he can stop it.

He clamps his eyes shut.

If he stays here—

if he doesn’t move—

maybe he’ll wake up again.

Maybe this will reset.

Maybe—

“Mike—?”

The door opens.

He doesn’t look up.

“Mike—hey—”

Nancy crosses the room fast.

Stops when she sees him—

curled in on himself, shaking, blood on his wrist, barely holding it together.

“Oh my God—” she breathes.

She’s beside him in a second.

“Mike—hey, hey—”

He flinches when she touches him, like he didn’t even register she was there.

“…he’s gone,” he chokes out, voice breaking completely now. “He—he’s gone—”

Nancy doesn’t hesitate.

She pulls him into her.

Tight.

Both arms around him, grounding, firm.

“No—no, he’s not,” she says quickly, her voice right next to his ear. “Mike, listen to me—he’s not—”

“Yes he is,” Mike says, shaking his head hard against her shoulder, hands gripping onto her like he’s about to fall apart. “I saw—I saw them—they said—”

“I know,” she cuts in, softer now, but just as firm. “I know what you saw.”

He’s crying now.

Not loud.

Not screaming.

Just… breaking.

Quiet, uneven breaths, face buried into her shoulder like he’s trying to hide it, like he doesn’t want it to be real if he doesn’t look at it.

“I didn’t—” his voice catches, words falling apart. “I didn’t even—I didn’t get to—”

Nancy tightens her hold.

“He’s okay,” she says again, slower this time. “Mike, listen to me. He’s okay.”

Mike stills.

Just slightly.

Doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t fully react either.

“…don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t say that—”

“He’s alive.”

The words land.

But don’t stick.

Mike shakes his head weakly. “No—”

“He is,” Nancy insists, pulling back just enough to look at him. “They got him back. He’s awake. He asked for you.”

Mike’s breathing stutters.

His eyes flick up to hers.

Searching.

“…what?” he asks, barely there.

“He’s awake,” she repeats, softer now. “He’s in recovery. He’s okay.”

Silence.

Mike just looks at her.

Like he’s trying to find the lie.

Trying to protect himself from it.

“…you’re lying,” he says quietly.

“I’m not.”

Another pause.

Longer.

Then—

“…he asked for me?” Mike says.

Small.

Fragile.

Nancy nods. “Yeah.”

That—

that’s what gets through.

Something in his expression shifts.

Not fully.

Not safe yet.

But… cracking.

“…he’s not—” he swallows. “He’s not—”

“He’s not gone,” Nancy says gently.

Mike exhales.

Shaky.

His grip on her loosens just slightly.

“…okay,” he whispers.

This time—

it lands.

Slow.

Careful.

But it lands.

Nancy brushes her hand over his hair, grounding him.

“You wanna see him?” she asks.

Mike nods immediately.

Too fast.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah—”

He pulls away, wiping at his face quickly, not really stopping the tears, just trying to get himself moving.

He swings his legs off the bed, stands—unsteady, but determined now.

Nancy steadies him for a second.

“Slow—”

“I’m fine,” he says, even though he clearly isn’t.

He doesn’t care.

His eyes are already on the door.

“…he’s really there?” he asks again, like he needs to hear it one more time.

Nancy nods.

“He’s there.”

That’s all it takes.

Mike moves.

Out the door—

toward him.

The door opens.

Mike steps in slowly, wiping at his face, trying—failing—to steady his breathing before it gives him away completely.

He stops just inside.

For a moment, he doesn’t move.

Will is there.

In the bed.

Machines around him. Too many of them. The quiet beeping. The wires.
And him—too still, too small against all of it.

Mike just watches.

Will’s chest rises.

Falls.

Rises again.

Mike exhales, but it comes out uneven.

He takes a few steps forward.

Slow. Careful. Like getting too close might break something.

He reaches the bed.

Stands there.

Looking at him.

Peaceful. Eyes closed. Breathing.

Alive.

Mike sits down beside him without a word, hands clasping together tightly, like if he opens his mouth now he won’t be able to stop.

Will shifts.

Just slightly.

Mike’s breath hitches instantly.

“…Will,” he whispers.

Will stirs again, slower this time, eyes fluttering open.

He turns his head—

Finds him.

“…Mike.”

He looks fine.

He does.

And Mike—

Mike breaks before he can even think.

“Will—are you okay? Are you—”

He’s already moving.

“Are you okay?” he repeats, breath uneven, hands reaching before he can stop himself.

He cups Will’s face.

Both hands.

Firm.

Like he needs to keep him there.

“You’re okay, right? You’re—” his thumb brushes along his cheek, his jaw, grounding himself in the feel of him. “You’re awake—”

“Mike—”

He doesn’t stop.

His hand drops to Will’s chest.

Right over his heart.

Presses lightly.

Waits.

Feels it.

Beating.

“…okay,” he breathes.

But he checks again.

Like it might stop if he lets himself believe it too quickly.

His hand moves again—up to his forehead, brushing his hair back, pressing lightly.

“You’re warm,” he mutters, frowning faintly. “Or—no—wait—are you too warm? Do you still feel cold? You said you were cold—are you still—”

“Mike.”

He barely hears it.

“You were shaking,” he keeps going, voice starting to rush now, slipping. “In the car—you were freezing, and then you just—”

His hands move again—face, shoulder, back to his chest—like he’s mapping him, making sure everything is still there.

“Mike.”

Will reaches up.

Grabs his wrists.

Not hard.

But enough.

Mike stills.

Just like that.

“Hey,” Will says softly. “Breathe.”

Mike blinks.

Realizes—

he isn’t.

His chest is rising too fast.

Too shallow.

“Breathe,” Will repeats, thumbs pressing lightly into his wrists.

Grounding him.

Mike tries.

It comes out uneven.

Then again.

And again.

Will doesn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like that.”

Mike’s shoulders drop slightly.

Not fully.

But enough.

The edge pulls back just a little.

There’s a pause.

Quiet.

Then—

Will lets go of one wrist, lifting his hand instead.

He touches Mike’s face.

Gentle.

Thumb brushing just under his eye.

“…are you okay?” he asks.

That—

that breaks him.

Mike’s breath catches hard.

He shakes his head once.

Small.

“…no,” he admits.

His voice cracks.

His eyes are already wet.

“I thought—” he swallows. Tries again. “I thought you—”

He can’t finish it.

Will’s expression softens immediately.

“…I’m here,” he says quietly.

Mike nods too fast.

“I know, I just—” his voice breaks again, a tear slipping down. “I woke up and you weren’t there and no one told me anything and I just—”

He drags a hand over his face, trying to pull himself together.

Fails.

“I thought I watched you die,” he says, quieter now.

Will’s grip tightens slightly around his wrist.

“I didn’t know,” he says softly.

A pause.

“…hey,” Will adds, gentler this time.

Mike exhales shakily.

“…yeah.”

Will studies him.

Really studies him.

"...you sure you'r okay?” he asks again.

Mike lets out a weak breath—something that almost sounds like a laugh.

“…you’re the one in a hospital bed.”

“I’m serious.”

Mike looks at him.

Sees it.

The worry.

Real.

Focused entirely on him.

And somehow—

that makes it worse.

“…I’m okay,” Mike says.

Softer now.

Not convincing.

Will doesn’t argue.

He just shifts slightly, careful, and takes Mike’s hand again.

Pulls it closer.

Turns it over.

The IV mark.

Bruised.

Raw.

Will’s expression tightens.

“…what’s this?”

Mike glances down.

“Oh—that’s nothing,” he says quickly.

Will looks up at him.

“…what happened?”

Mike hesitates.

“…I passed out,” he admits.

Will blinks.

“…you passed out?”

Mike huffs faintly. “…yeah. Well. You weren’t exactly making it easy.”

Will’s grip tightens slightly.

“…you passed out,” he repeats, softer now.

Not teasing.

Just… taking it in.

Mike shrugs weakly.

“…they gave me something to calm down. It’s nothing.”

Will’s thumb brushes lightly over the bruise.

Careful.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

Mike’s other hand comes up again.

Slower this time.

Resting against Will’s cheek.

Not checking anymore.

Just… holding.

“…you’re really okay?” he asks again.

Softer.

Almost afraid of the answer.

Will nods.

“…yeah.”

Mike exhales.

Long.

Shaky.

And this time—

he lets himself believe it.

Just enough.

He stays close.

Doesn’t pull away.

And Will—

doesn’t let go either.

The room settles into something quiet. The kind that isn’t empty—just full of everything neither of them is saying yet.

Mike’s thumb is still resting against Will’s cheek.

Not moving anymore.

Just there.

Like he’s afraid if he lets go, this might disappear again.

Will doesn’t push him away.

He just watches him.

Really watches him.

Mike’s eyes flicker over his face again—like he’s memorizing it, like he’s still not convinced this is real.

Then—

his breath stutters.

Just slightly.

Will notices before Mike does.

A tear slips down.

Mike blinks like he didn’t expect it.

“…shit,” he mutters under his breath, turning his head slightly like he can hide it.

He can’t.

Will’s grip tightens around his wrist.

“…hey,” he says softly.

Mike shakes his head.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quick, too automatic.

Another tear follows anyway.

He lets out a quiet breath, almost annoyed at himself.

“I just—” he exhales again, trying to steady it. “Can’t stop thinking about it—”

He stops.

Will’s expression softens immediately.

Mike looks back at him.

Eyes a little red now.

A little unfocused.

“…I missed you,” he says.

Will’s breath catches faintly.

“…you saw me yesterday,” he says.

Mike shakes his head.

“…not like this.”

He swallows.

His hand presses a little more firmly against Will’s cheek now, grounding himself in the warmth.

“Not… talking,” he adds. “Not—looking at me. Not—”

He gestures vaguely, like he can’t find the right words.

“…being here.”

Will doesn’t interrupt.

He just listens.

Mike lets out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.

“I thought that was it,” he says. “Like—that was the last time I was ever gonna see you and you were just—”

He cuts himself off.

His jaw tightens slightly.

“…yeah.”

A pause.

Then he keeps going.

Because once it starts, it doesn’t really stop.

“I’m not gonna annoy you anymore,” he says suddenly. “Like—no more stupid jokes, no more—” he waves his hand vaguely. “—whatever I do.”

Will’s lips twitch faintly.

“…everything?” he asks.

Mike huffs a weak breath. “Okay, maybe not everything. But like—the annoying stuff.”

“You are the annoying stuff,” Will mutters.

Mike almost smiles.

“…yeah, okay. That’s fair.”

Another pause.

But this one doesn’t close it.

Mike keeps going.

“I just—I don’t know,” he says, voice dipping again. “I don’t wanna waste time on dumb things if—”

He stops.

Shakes his head faintly.

“If something like that can just… happen.”

Will watches him closely now.

“…you think it’s that easy?” he asks quietly.

Mike exhales.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Yesterday it felt like it was.”

A silence settles again.

He looks down for a second.

Then back up.

“I mean it though,” he says. “If something happened to you, I—”

He hesitates.

This part sticks.

“…I wouldn’t be okay,” he finishes.

Will tilts his head slightly.

“…you’d be okay,” he says softly.

Mike shakes his head immediately.

“No.”

Too fast.

“I wouldn’t,” he says again, quieter but firmer. “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Will studies him.

“…with what?”

Mike lets out a breath, frustrated now.

“…anything,” he says. “Just—everything. Like—I wouldn’t—” he runs a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t have you.”

Will doesn’t look away.

“…you have other people,” he says gently.

Mike shakes his head again.

“That’s not the same.”

“Why?”

The question lands clean.

Direct.

Mike freezes for a second.

“…what?”

“Why is it not the same?” Will repeats.

Mike opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Because the answer is there—

he just doesn’t know how to say it without saying too much.

“…because it’s you,” he says finally.

It comes out simple.

But it doesn’t explain anything.

Will’s eyes narrow slightly.

“…that’s not an answer.”

“I know,” Mike says quickly. “I just—”

He exhales sharply.

“…I don’t know how to say it right.”

“Try.”

Mike glances away for a second.

Then back.

“…I just—when I thought you were gone, everything else felt… wrong,” he says slowly. “Like it didn’t matter anymore. Like—none of it was enough.”

Will’s breath slows.

“..Mike,” he says.

But Mike’s already shaking his head.

“No, I know—just—wait,” he says quickly, words tripping over each other again. “I’m not saying this right, I’m not—I didn’t mean to just—dump it on you like this, I just—”

He drags a hand through his hair, breath uneven.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he goes on, faster now. “About yesterday, about you not—about you just being gone and me not even—” he cuts himself off, exhales sharply. “I didn’t get to say anything, and now I am and it’s all—wrong, like I’m doing it wrong—”

Will tightens his grip slightly on his wrist.

“Hey—”

“I’m serious,” Mike keeps going, almost over him now. “Like, I really thought that was it, and I just—everything felt off, like something was missing, like—I don’t know how to explain it without sounding insane—”

“You don’t—”

“And I know this is bad timing,” Mike rushes on. “Like, you literally almost died and I’m sitting here making it about me, which is—great, really great, Mike—”

Will huffs a quiet breath. “You’re not—”

“And I know I can’t—” Mike pushes, voice catching now. “I know I can’t do this, okay? I know that. Because we’re—we’re us, we’re friends, and I have—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated, “—I have a girlfriend, and this isn’t—I’m not supposed to be—”

He stops.

Just for a second.

Like he’s hit the edge of it.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he says.

It comes out quieter.

But it lands harder than everything before it.

Mike freezes right after.

Like he hears it too late.

“…shit,” he whispers, shaking his head immediately. “No, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to just say it like that, I just—”

His voice starts to unravel again.

“I’m not trying to—mess things up, okay? I know this is—complicated, and I don’t want to lose you over something I can’t even explain properly, I just—”

“Mike.”

He doesn’t stop.

“I’m scared,” he admits, words breaking now. “Because I don’t know what this means and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it and I don’t—”

Will leans in.

And kisses him.

It cuts him off mid-word.

Soft.

Mike just stares at him.

Still too close.

Still trying to catch up.

Like his brain hasn’t fully come back online after that.

“…you—” he starts, but nothing follows.

Will watches him for a second.

Then—very lightly—

“…I just almost died, you know,” he murmurs.

There’s a hint of something there.

Soft.

Almost playful.

Like he’s easing the edge of it on purpose.

Mike blinks.

“…yeah,” he says, a little breathless. “I noticed.”

Will’s lips twitch faintly.

“…so I think I get to interrupt you.”

Mike lets out a small, disbelieving breath. “…that’s your takeaway?”

“…it’s a good one.”

Mike shakes his head, but there’s no real fight in it.

He still looks a little stunned.

A little lost.

Like he hasn’t fully processed anything that just happened.

Will sees it.

The way he’s hovering there.

The way his hand hasn’t left his face.

The way he’s still… waiting.

So he doesn’t say it right away.

Instead—

he reaches up, fingers curling lightly into Mike’s sleeve again, and pulls him in.

Another kiss.

Softer this time.

Mike responds almost immediately now, like his body remembers even if his brain is still catching up. His hand shifts slightly against Will’s cheek, steady, grounding.

When they part, Will doesn’t pull back far.

Their foreheads nearly touch again.

And this time—

he says it.

“…I love you too.”

It’s quiet.

Simple.

But it lands like everything.

Mike goes still.

Again.

“…you—” he breathes.

Will huffs a faint, tired smile.

“…yeah.”

Mike searches his face.

Like he’s trying to make sure it’s real.

Not just something he imagined.

“…you mean that?” he asks, softer now.

Will nods faintly.

“…I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

A pause.

Mike exhales.

Long.

Shaky.

Like something in him finally settles.

“…okay,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t move away.

If anything—

he leans in again.

Just a little.

Still close.

Still holding onto him.

he believes it.