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Will is sick. And that fact in itself seems unintimidating at first, when you hear those words you'd think maybe he has a cough, or a cold, or he can't leave his bed without maybe feeling a little nauseous. That's what Mike thought at first. When he had heard “will’s sick” from a doctor with a remorseful face and papers in hand he had thought ‘oh, will’s sick a lot. This is fine.’ and sure, that's not as true as it used to be, but the sentiment remains. Because Will got sick all the damn time as a kid, it's nothing unexpected for him to have a fever in his 20s.
It wasn't fine. Will is sick, he's sick and he isn't getting better.
He had swung at the first doctor to break that news to him.
-
He’s been taking Will to all of his doctor’s appointments from the start. He’s never minded - it's not like he really has anything better to do. His books and Will’s paintings bring in all of their income, so he doesn't go to work, and the only days of the week he does anything is Wednesday - he hosts a teen dnd program at the library - and Friday, when he and will go out to the local diner for a date.
They haven't been going on dates lately, considering will’s…declining condition. He doesn't like to use that wording though - “declining” makes it sound like Will wont get better or something. Which he will, Mike is sure of it. Will Byers has survived a war with interdimensional monsters controlled by some deranged guy with powers from a lab when he was in high school, some stupid unidentified sickness isn't gonna kill him.
And sure, Will can barely go a few moments without a coughing fit. And yeah, maybe the pain in the man’s chest would bring him to inconsolable tears at moments, and Mike has started having to help Will bathe or dress, but he would do those things a million times over for the man, even though he won't have to. Because Will is gonna get better, and they're gonna start going on their stupid dates again, and they're gonna argue over who pays the bill, Mike's gonna slip the waiter his card before he has a chance to object and he's gonna pay for his boyfriend’s absurd taste in desserts.
This specific appointment has been getting on his nerves though. Usually, he and Will are only in the office for an hour or two, this time, they're nearing three and a half fucking hours.
He can see it's getting to Will too, with how his boyfriend keeps fidgeting with a loose string hanging from his pants and glancing at the clock every few moments.
The doctors had said they needed to do some ‘more complex’ tests on will, and that the couple couldn't leave until those test results come back in. which is absolute bullshit - can the doctors not just call them to tell them the results? It's stupid. They’re both tired and wanna go the fuck home, end of story.
There's a knock on the door, and Mike doesn't bother replying. He knows they'll open the door anyways.
He's right it seems, as the door opens only a moment later. There's a man there, frown petulant on his face as he closes the door and sighs.
Mike isn't worried about it. The doctors here are always frowning, they always have something to be upset about. He doesn't quite blame them - he doubts he'd be happy working in a place such as this. The nurses are more upbeat though, which he appreciates.
The doctor sighs again for the second time in the past five seconds. He sets his clipboard of papers on the mobile desk in the room and gestures to the door.
“Mr. Wheeler,” the man says, Mike scowls. He's told him his name so many times over and they still use his last name. His dad is Mr. Wheeler, not him. It feels wrong. Gross. “If you could please escort yourself out for a moment.”
He almost immediately objects. Even if the chair closest to Will's bedside is the most uncomfortable chair he's sat in since 1989, he's staying.
But Will gives him the look, and he has no choice but to listen to that. He does not feel like being subjected to a, so lovingly named, Will lecture after this.
So, despite his mind screaming at him to stay, he exits the room and lets the door close behind him.
Mike feels kind of like a child sent to do their schoolwork in the hall as he waits for the doctor to finish speaking with will. It's awkward, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed as nurses go back and forth between rooms carrying trays of all sorts of things, half of which he cannot even begin to comprehend, and the other half looking slightly reminiscent of prison food.
He’s never been kicked out of the room before, even if he probably deserved it with how much he bitches at the doctors whenever they try giving Will a hard time. Which is more often than Mike would like. He understands why doctors might dislike him, he's brash and annoying and still squeaky even years after high school, but Will is a medical angel. His boyfriend asks all the right questions, stays still for the absurd number of tests, does all the paperwork without complaint, he should be a saint in the eyes of the doctors.
He’s a saint to Mike, at least. Even if Will is bitchier in the company of people that he knows. Him and will are opposites in that way, he supposes.
The door to the room is opened, and the doctor exits. The room inside is eerily silent, Mike notices. Alarms go off in his head at that - sure, will isn't quite as loud as him, but the man is anything but silent. He's always doing something that makes even the slightest noise, like fidgeting with his rings or brushing his hands across his jeans, or a more recently added one, coughing fits. So the fact that the room, from the small bit that he can hear before the door is closed behind the doctor, is dead silent except for faint, labored breaths? It isn't comforting.
The doctor clears his throat, clicking his pen against the clipboard and looking at Mike like he expects something from him. He stares back. He's not giving into whatever weird attempt at mind control this guy is doing on him.
The guy gives up after a few moments of the staring contest, sighing and looking back at his clipboard. That goddamn clipboard.
“Mr. Wheeler, I believe we may want to locate someplace where you can sit before we have this conversation.”
Mike furrows his brow - that's never good to hear from a doctor. Did the tests come in positive? He isn't exactly sure what they were for, but medicine can fix almost anything nowadays. Even if Will’s condition is worse than they thought, it's still curable with modern medicine.
“I’m fine to remain here." he responds, taking his words slowly. He’s confused, it doesn't make sense why the doctor looks so solemn when speaking of a living, relatively healthy, person.
The doctor looks like he’d like to protest, probably in an attempt to persuade Mike to move to the waiting room or something, but he won't be moving. With how silent it was in that room, only shallow puffs of breath in it? No. No way. He needs easy access to Will, he needs to be able to run in if anything happens. The doctor seems to notice this, with the way his eyes dart to the door and then back to Mike, landing on him with a troubled expression.
He shakes his head and begins. “The tests we were doing came in, and as we feared, were positive.”
Mike nods, still confused. So, his theory was right- but that's fine. Yeah, he might have to pick up an actual job to account for how much treatment will cost, but that's fine. Will is gonna get better, even if Mike has to suffer a few months of customer service for it.
The doctor continues after the nod. “And what those tests told us, was that Mr. Byers cancer has progressed far into stage four and spread across both of his lungs. We don't have an exact prognosis yet but we can confirm that the disease will likely be fatal-”
Everything around mike fades out. The nurses, the coughing of other patients, the scratching of pens or typing of keyboards. It's all static- nothing can get past the pure panic infesting his head. Because will was fine- he was gonna get better- but now mike has to use fucking past tense for that because will is gonna die. He can't believe it- will doesn't just die. That can't just happen.
The doctor is still talking, but Mike comprehends none of the words- and God this is the hospital's fault, isn't it? He has been taking will here for months, and they just now caught the severity of his sickness? Maybe if they had just done their stupid fucking tests earlier then will would still be in the early stages, he would still be able to live a life and be treated and get that stupid dog at the shelter that he’s been looking at and-
-and Mike swings towards the doctor’s stupid face before he has a moment to really think clearly about his actions.
-
Will is sick, and he isn't getting better, and Mike doesn't quite know how to feel about that. Because yes, he feels the all-consuming and debilitating grief that is expected of someone losing the love of their life, but at the same time its Will. The kid who survived interdimensional monsters in middle school. He doesn't - he can't - just die. It doesn't make sense. It's unfair.
“Secondary smoke inhalation” the doctor had said, which is also bullshit. Everyone in the Byers family smokes except will. He’s the only damn person that Mike knows who shouldn't have fucking lung cancer.
And of course, when the shock had died off and reluctant acceptance had settled in, him and Will had shot theories back and forth. It could've been the upside down, with its toxic chemicals infesting the air being the only thing that will had breathed for a week. Or it could've been Vecna’s last hurrah of a sort, infesting Will’s lungs with a disease he wouldn't be able to overcome before they had defeated the guy.
But no, the facts were horrifyingly laid out for Mike, Will too. Joyce smoked too much when Will was a kid, and the smoke had crawled deep into his lungs and settled. It's simple, too simple for mike. He needs something to decode- something to figure out. He needs to gather ingredients for a cure, he needs to find information that he already has.
If anyone were to cure cancer for their boyfriend, it would be Mike.
He toes Will’s bedroom door open, tray balanced by one hand and glass of water in the other. He’s begun bringing Will his meals, considering half the time the man doesn't have the strength to get out of bed and when he can actually muster up the strength to leave his deathbed he's a weak, coughing mess.
So, Mike has started learning how to cook all of Will's favorite meals. He’s never been…great in the kitchen, considering the length of their wall that has burned scorches across it in the kitchen. But he’s been getting better out of necessity, and is quite proud to admit that he can make something vaguely resembling food for will to eat now.
And so, he carries the tray holding Will’s food and medications into the room and sets it on the cluttered bedside table. Will in bed is a sight he's gotten quite used to unfortunately, with his body curled up and at least three blankets covering him. His eyes are sunken in and his skin is paler than Mike’s ever seen a human beings’ skin. He looks dead, really. And within the next few weeks, he will be.
Mike winces at the thought. He’s desensitized to the sight of will, sure, but he's never gonna be desensitized to the reality they've both been caught in. It's unfair, to die in front of your lover. It's unfair for your lover to die.
Mike grabs Will’s shoulder lightly, pressing down a bit and shaking the man.
“Will?” he whispers, and knows he's been heard from the way that Will mutters curses at him for being awoken.
Mike doesn't smile - he hasn't done that in a long time, it feels like. - but it's a close thing. Some things never change, and even in death Will’s shitty sleep schedule is no exception.
Mike assists a sleepy Will into a somewhat sitting position, setting the man's pillows against the bed's headboard to make it more comfortable. It's still not a great situation, with how Will grimaces when he sits up and coughs when he attempts to shift into another position.
“I made you food.” Mike mutters, picking up the tray off of the table and holding it out to Will. Will probably already knows that, considering he's done it everyday since they got the news, but Mike informs him anyway. Will doesn't talk nearly as much as he used to, no rants about color theory or his future paintings or the current series he's reading. And if mike were to stop talking, stop narrating his every move, all they would hear is Will’s breathing that has only been getting more labored by the day.
Still, Will gives him a weak smile and whispers a hoarse thank you as he takes the tray from Mike's waiting hands and picks up his fork.
Will is sick. Will is not getting better.
Mike needs to accept that.