Archive of Our Own

Will had forgotten what his own body felt like when it wasn’t buzzing like a frayed wire. The sixth day without real sleep left him feeling hollowed out, light-headed, not-quite-solid, but he forced himself upright again and again, moving from task to task like someone powered by obligation alone. Maybe he was. Maybe that was all that was left of him at this point—duty, responsibility, the sheer refusal to be dead weight ever again.

He kept telling himself it wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t desperation. It was gratitude. Gratitude that he was finally—finally—useful in a way that didn’t stem from his trauma or his vulnerability. For once, he wasn’t the boy everyone had to save. He wasn’t the liability that slowed the party down or the vessel something monstrous could crawl into. He wasn’t poor Will Byers this time. He wasn’t missing Will. He wasn’t the kid everyone gathered around because he was fragile and at risk.

He had powers now. Real ones. Dangerous ones. Ones that could help.

And he was going to use them until he broke if that’s what it took.

The morning had started with Lucas asking if he wanted to stop by the hospital with him again. Will said yes before the whole question was even finished. Lucas had become a little quieter, a little older-seeming in the days since Max slipped into silence. He didn’t ask for help out loud, but Will could read it in him, the way Lucas hunched his shoulders when he walked into that white room, the way he looked at the empty space where Max’s voice used to live. Will never said no. Not once.

They sat together for hours, not talking much unless Lucas needed it. Will held the cup of water for Lucas when his hands shook. He gently smoothed Max’s hair, painstakingly helping Lucas unknot it strand by strand, even though he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He followed Lucas’s instructions clumsily, braids loosening halfway through, but he kept trying, kept adjusting, because Lucas kept breathing easier when he did.

Lucas had hugged him before they left—long, fierce, and grateful—and Will had pretended it didn’t almost shatter him.

In the afternoon, he headed straight to the radio station where Robin and Steve were juggling equipment and cursing at the massive tangle of cords Dustin had left behind. Robin immediately shoved a clipboard at him.

“Oh thank God. Steve, your reliable child is here.”

Steve threw his hands up like he’d been personally rescued from a burning building. “My favorite kid! My number one!”

“We all know your favorite is Dustin, dumbass” Will reminded him, even as he kneeled to start sorting the mess.

“Yeah, but he’s being an ass lately,” Steve grumbled under his breath. “If he doesn’t watch it, you’re getting promoted.”

Robin elbowed him. “He’s kidding. …Mostly.” But Will could see her very clearly mouth FIX HIM, so Will did what he did best. Reassure. 

He smiled, soft and tired. “Dustin still loves you, you know. He’s just scared. Eddie died, and it messed with him. He’s pushing everyone because he doesn’t know how not to.”

Steve’s mouth twisted, the kind of expression he only made when something hit him harder than he wanted to admit. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

Robin shot Will a warm, grateful look—one of those looks that made it clear she thought he was the only person in the building who had their head on straight.

Will forced a brighter smile. “He’ll come around. You’re still his favorite person.”

Steve didn’t really believe it. Will could see that. But Steve nodded anyway, like he wanted to let himself try.

After that, Joyce intercepted him before he made it through the kitchen, cupping his cheeks and fussing over how pale he looked. She asked if he’d eaten. He lied. She pressed a second sandwich into his hand anyway. Hopper then hauled him to the shed with a curt wave.

“Got a job for you, kid.”

Will didn’t complain. He never complained. Cleaning the guns, reassembling them, inspecting the firing pins—his hands moved with quiet confidence, muscle memory from years of learning in secret, from evenings with Jonathan when they were both too worried to admit what they were preparing for. Later, Hopper asked him to help patch a part of the cabin wall, and Will climbed up without hesitation. It felt good to be doing something that needed strength and focus instead of feelings.

Every hour he kept busy was an hour he didn’t have to face the empty space where El should’ve been. His sister. The house was wrong without her. Quieter. Dimmer. He told himself he needed to stay awake not just for safety—though that was the excuse he repeated to himself a hundred times—but because if he rested, he’d dream, and dreams always held the shape of loss.

And through it all—every room, every task, every shift in the day—he felt eyes on him.

He didn’t have to look to know who they belonged to.

Mike had become strange since El left. Stranger than usual. Tense in a way that wrapped around Will’s spine whenever he felt it. Mike was…watching him. Constantly. Sometimes from across a hallway, sometimes from behind a doorway, sometimes from the corner of the living room where he pretended to be organizing notes for a plan he wasn’t actually working on.

Will didn’t understand it.

He assumed it was pity. Mike feeling sorry for him because he was exhausted and quiet and trying too hard. Or Mike was worried about whether Will had sensed anything from the Upside Down. Maybe Mike needed something from him—some insight, some ability, some confirmation.

Maybe he was waiting for Will to break.

The thought made Will’s stomach twist.

He wished—God, he wished—that Mike was looking at him because he still cared. Because he missed him. Because he still saw him the way Will saw Mike every time he drifted too close. But Will had forfeited the right to want that. El was his sister. Mike was…Mike. And Will’s longing had always felt like a betrayal, a quiet, awful selfishness.

So he forced himself to ignore the way Mike’s gaze softened when it landed on him. He didn’t see the way Mike’s jaw clenched when Will swayed on his feet or the way Mike’s fingers tightened around whatever he was holding, like he was restraining himself from intervening.

To Will, it just felt like pressure—another reminder that he had to keep going, had to pull his weight, had to prove he deserved the place he’d been given.

By sunset, his legs felt rubbery under him, but he still moved, still helped, still smiled when people thanked him. He carried supplies. He fixed broken equipment. He held Max’s hair in place while Lucas cried into his shoulder. He reassured Joyce. He told Jonathan he’d be fine. He talked Steve through another rant. He steadied Robin when she tripped over a cable. He told Dustin he believed in him.

He kept everyone upright.

Everyone except himself.

Because if he sat down—if he stopped—he didn’t know what would happen to him.

He didn’t know if he’d get back up again.

Mike had lost track of how many times he’d muttered Where the hell is he now? in the last thirty-six hours. It had become a refrain, a pulse, a constant grinding irritation in the back of his skull—not at Will, never at Will, but at the universe for apparently conspiring to pull Will in six different directions until there was nothing left of him.

Will had slipped out again at dawn. Mike had been awake for it, though he kept his breathing slow and even so Will wouldn’t notice. He didn’t sleep deeply anymore—not when he knew Will was right there in the same room, lying on that shitty bedroll because he’d insisted Mike take the actual bed. “You’ve been through worse,” Will had said, and Mike had almost snapped at him right then. Worse didn’t matter. Comfort didn’t matter. Mike didn’t need the bed. Will did. Will needed sleep, warmth, a pillow, someone physically forcing him horizontal—

And instead Will got…this. A cold spot on the floor and the stupid conviction that he didn’t deserve more.

Mike had lain awake half the night listening to him not sleep. He could always tell the difference between Will tossing and turning and Will lying rigid, silent, staring at the ceiling while his brain gnawed itself apart. Around three in the morning, Will had carefully, quietly slipped out from under the blanket, tiptoed to the door, and disappeared.

Mike had watched him go through half-open eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

And now, twelve hours later, he was trailing Will again—close enough to keep track of him, far enough to pretend he wasn’t doing exactly what he was doing.

Will moved like a ghost now. Pale, bruised under the eyes, jittery, vibrating with an exhaustion that made Mike feel physically ill. Why wasn’t anyone else seeing this? Why did Robin joke with him like he wasn’t seconds from collapsing? Why did Hopper hand him heavy equipment like Will didn’t look like he might tip over? Why did Joyce fuss over him so gently when what Will needed was someone to shake him by the shoulders and say Stop. Sit. Sleep. Now.

Why was Lucas dragging him to the hospital alone? Why did Steve latch onto him like Will was his emotional support child?

Why were they all taking little pieces of him? Why did no one understand that Will’s energy wasn’t infinite? That every smile he forced drained something vital out of him? That his hands shook when he thought no one was looking?

Mike cared. Mike noticed. Mike kept count. Mike watched Will’s breathing, how often he blinked, how many hours he’d been on his feet. Mike catalogued every time Will lied about eating. Mike tracked the exact moment Will’s knee buckled earlier at the hospital. Lucas had missed it. Mike had seen it from halfway across the room, hidden in a corner cart. He’d had to shove his hands in his pockets to stop himself from sprinting over.

He’s mine, Mike thought savagely, the words drowning out every rational thought. My best friend. My Will. My problem. Nobody else gets to run him ragged. Nobody else gets to break him down. Nobody else gets to use him like this.

He told himself it was protective, totally normal best-friend stuff. Guys being loyal. Bros being bros. Whatever.

It wasn’t.

Because the second Will had staggered slightly at the radio station earlier, Mike had fantasized—briefly, shockingly—about grabbing him by the jaw and kissing him so hard Will would finally just shut up, finally just stop pushing himself, finally let someone force him into bed. Just press their lips together and feel Will melt against him until Mike could lay him down and make him sleep for fifteen straight hours.

He’d shaken the thought away so fast he physically flinched. What the hell was wrong with him?

He stalked Will past the shed, where Will was hauling a box that was absolutely too heavy for him. Mike’s hands curled into fists. Will’s arms trembled. Hopper didn’t notice. Jonathan wasn’t around. Everyone else was busy. Of course they were. Because apparently only Mike Wheeler had eyes in his damn skull.

He didn’t approach. Not yet. If he intervened too early, Will would just smile that soft, self-sacrificing little smile and say I’m fine, Mike, like that wasn’t the biggest lie anyone had ever uttered.

He waited until Will moved to the next task—passing Dustin in the hallway. Dustin barely spared him a glance before demanding (asking) he help locate some missing parts. Will followed him immediately, obedient as a goddamn sheep, even though his legs looked like they were made of rubber.

Mike’s blood ran hot.

He followed.

Will knelt beside Dustin, reaching for the wiring equipment. The moment Will bent forward, his spine dipped in a way that screamed pain, and Mike felt something sharp and ugly flash through him. It got worse a second later when Will flinched. It wasn’t a dramatic flinch—just a tiny jerk, a quiet breath sucked in like something stabbed him under the ribs.

Dustin didn’t notice.

Mike did. Always.

Will shouldn’t be helping Dustin. Will shouldn’t be helping anyone. Will should be asleep. In their room. In a bed. Preferably with Mike physically trapping him underneath a blanket so he couldn’t escape again.

Mike hovered in the doorway, breath stiff with frustration. Will was shaking. Actually, visibly shaking, hands trembling around the wires like a seventy-year-old man with nerve damage. His cheeks were hollow. His mouth pinched. His eyes were glassy enough that Mike felt an almost feral instinct roar up in him—

Enough.

Mike didn’t know when the word formed—whether it was in his chest or his throat—but the moment it settled, it hardened into something cold and immovable. A decision. A line drawn in the sand.

He was done watching this. Done waiting for someone else to intervene. Done letting Will drag himself closer and closer to collapse because he was too polite and too scared to ask for help.

Will was going to sleep. Tonight. Mike would make him.

He’d drag him if he had to. He’d shove him under the covers. He’d pin him down. He’d—God help him—kiss him if that was what it took to short-circuit that martyr complex Will wore like armor.

Because nobody else was fixing this.

And Mike Wheeler took care of what belonged to him.

Whether he understood the full implications of that or not.

Jonathan found Will behind the cabin just as the sun dropped below the trees, staining everything gold and dim at the same time. Will was sitting on the old picnic table, elbows on his knees, head bowed—not resting, not relaxing, just…paused. A rare moment of stillness in a week where he hadn’t stopped moving at all.

Jonathan stood there for a second, watching him. Will looked older like this, not in a scary way, but in a way that tugged at something deep in Jonathan’s chest. Will wasn’t fragile anymore. He wasn’t the kid Jonathan used to tuck beneath a blanket fort to protect him from storms or nightmares. He was steady, composed, exhausted beyond belief, but carrying himself with this strange, quiet maturity that made Jonathan proud and achey at the same time.

Joyce had tried to mother-hen Will all day—hovering, fussing, checking his temperature as if lack of sleep could give someone a fever. Jonathan knew Will hated that. Knew Will didn’t want to be smothered. So he approached slowly, softly, giving Will enough space to breathe while still coming close enough to sit beside him on the table.

“Hey,” Jonathan said gently. “You hiding from Mom or from life?”

Will huffed a tired laugh. “Both.”

Jonathan bumped his shoulder lightly. “She’s worried about you.”

“I know.” Will didn’t look up, fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his jeans. “But she doesn’t have to be. I’m fine. I’m just…awake.”

“For six days,” Jonathan said.

Will’s jaw twitched. “Yeah.”

Jonathan exhaled through his nose, resisting the urge to do the Joyce thing—touch his forehead, make him lie down, wrap a blanket around him. Will didn’t need that from him. Will needed a brother.

So Jonathan kept his voice soft, calm. “You scared to sleep?”

Will took a moment before nodding. “Yeah. It’s not—I don’t think something’s going to grab me out of the bed or anything.” He glanced sideways at Jonathan, eyes steady. Clear. “I’m scared something will happen while I’m asleep. That’s all.”

Jonathan swallowed. There was no drama in Will’s voice. No tears. No trembling fear. Just acceptance. This is how it is.

It almost hurt more than if he’d cried.

“What about the others?” Jonathan asked carefully. “You know you’re not alone in this. We’re all here. Hopper’s here. Mom’s here. Mike’s—”

Will cut him off with a scoff, sharp and self-protective. “Mike doesn’t care.”

Jonathan raised a brow. “Okay. Lie again, but slower.”

Will flushed heavily. “He doesn’t. He’s just—he’s watching me because of my powers. I’m useful now. He needs me around. That’s all.”

Jonathan looked at him the way only an older brother could—dry, knowing, vaguely judgmental. “Right. And totally not because he’s a giant homosexual for you.”

Will choked. “Jon!”

“What?” Jonathan shrugged, fighting a smirk. “I can say it. You can’t, but I can. Kid’s got heart eyes every time you breathe.”

“He does not,” Will muttered, ears bright red.

“He does,” Jonathan repeated. “And that’s not me teasing. He looks at you like you hung the moon. He also looks like he wants to fight anyone who stands within ten feet of you, but that’s beside the point.”

Will pulled his knees closer, staring down at them. “He’s with El.”

“He thinks he is,” Jonathan corrected gently. “You’re the one he’s orbiting.”

Will swallowed. “He pities me.”

“No,” Jonathan said firmly. “He worries about you. He cares. And honestly? He should care a little less intensely because it’s getting creepy, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Will cracked a small smile at that.

They lapsed into a quiet moment, cicadas buzzing in the trees. Jonathan felt the weight of something burning a hole in his pocket, and after a hesitation, he fished it out.

“Actually…I needed to talk to you about something too.”

Will looked over—and his face lit up with surprise. “No way. Is that—?”

Jonathan opened his hand.

A ring. Simple golden band. Small carved detail. Nothing flashy. Exactly what made it perfect.

“I’m gonna propose,” Jonathan said, voice a little shy. “To Nancy.”

Will’s eyes went huge. “Jon! That’s amazing!”

“You think so?” Jonathan asked, suddenly unsure in the way only a big brother letting himself be vulnerable could be.

Will nodded so hard his hair bounced. “Yes! I mean—of course! She loves you. You love her. This is…this is perfect. It’s so you, Jon.”

Jonathan felt his shoulders loosen. God, Will always knew how to do that—how to make weight evaporate with a single honest sentence.

“You sure it’s not too sappy?” Jonathan teased.

“Oh, it’s extremely sappy,” Will said with a grin. “Peak romance novel. Maybe dial down the emotional monologue when you propose.”

Jonathan shoved him lightly. Will shoved him back, laughing—a real, bright laugh that Jonathan hadn’t heard in days.

Moments like this made Jonathan ache—in the best way. Will was still his softhearted brother. Still gentle. Still kind. But he’d grown sharper too, stronger, steadier. A boy who’d been through hell and somehow come out glowing.

Will shifted, leaning into Jonathan’s side for a moment—not clingy, just present, trusting. “I’m proud of you,” he murmured.

Jonathan blinked. “Hey, that’s my line.”

“I’m still proud of you,” Will insisted. “You’ve always been brave. Even when you thought you weren’t.”

Jonathan’s throat tightened. “I learned that from you.”

Will glanced away, embarrassed.

“What about you?” Jonathan asked quietly. “Your powers—are you okay with them?”

Will breathed out slowly. “I’m scared. But…I can handle it. I know how to be scared and still keep going.”

Jonathan’s chest swelled—pain, admiration, love tangled into one. Will wasn’t the boy he used to tuck under blankets. He was someone new. Someone strong.

Someone Jonathan would protect until the world ended, even if Will never wanted protecting.

Jonathan slid the ring back into his pocket, heart steadier than before.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “Really.”

Will nudged him. “Anytime.”

Jonathan watched him for another moment—saw the small tremor in his hands, the heavy blink he tried to hide, the exhaustion carving hollows under his eyes.

Will needed help.

Will needed rest.

Will needed someone he’d actually listen to.

Jonathan knew exactly who that someone was.

He didn’t tell Will he was going to find him.

He just squeezed Will’s shoulder, stood up, and headed toward the cabin.

Time to deal with Michael Wheeler.

Jonathan found Mike Wheeler lying flat on his stomach in the grass behind the Hopper-Byers place, elbows dug into the ground, a pair of Joyce’s old binoculars pressed to his face. He was wearing—God help him—a camouflage jacket Will had outgrown at fourteen. It didn’t match the rest of his clothes at all. He looked like a child playing spy, or a raccoon rooting through trash with angry purpose.

Jonathan stared for a long moment, squinting, wondering if maybe exhaustion had finally snapped whatever thin thread held reality together.

Because Mike Wheeler.

Was army-crawling.

Through the yard.

And spying—no, let’s call it what it was—stalking Will.

Jonathan dragged a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and stepped forward.

Mike didn’t hear him at first. Too focused. Too intent. Too rabid, apparently.

Jonathan cleared his throat.

Mike shrieked.

His legs kicked, he scrambled sideways, and the binoculars flew into the air before thudding into the dirt. He scrambled upright, eyes wide, hair stuck to his forehead like he’d been sweating.

“Don’t sneak up on people like that!” Mike whisper-yelled.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “You’re in my backyard.”

Mike opened and closed his mouth, then pointed vaguely toward the house. “I—I’m observing something.”

“You mean my brother.”

Mike flushed hard enough to be audible. “I’m—not stalking him. I’m monitoring a situation.”

Jonathan sank into a squat beside him with a long-suffering groan. “You’re in camouflage.”

“It was the only jacket in the laundry room.”

“It’s two sizes too small.”

Mike tightened his lips. “You’re being really judgmental for someone who doesn’t know the whole story.”

“I know you’re crouching in a bush watching Will like you’re planning a hostage rescue,” Jonathan said, deadpan. “So yeah, I think I know enough.”

Mike groaned and flopped onto his back. “He won’t stop. He’s doing everything. Everyone keeps asking him for shit, and he just—goes.” He flung an arm toward the distance. “And every time I try and get him alone, someone drags him away. Hopper needs him to hold a ladder. Joyce needs him to sort mail. Lucas needs someone to check on Max. Steve needs—God, I don’t even know.”

Jonathan snorted. “Steve needs constant emotional validation.”

“EXACTLY,” Mike snapped, stabbing a finger at him. “And they’re all using him like he’s their personal Swiss Army Knife. Like he belongs to them.”

Jonathan blinked. “Are you hearing yourself?”

Mike clamped his mouth shut. Too late. The words were out, the meaning obvious.

Jonathan felt a slow, smug grin crawl across his face. “You think Will belongs to you.”

“No I don’t.”

“You just said it.”

“I didn’t mean—look, no—shut up.”

Jonathan leaned in, voice annoyingly gentle. “Mmm. Sure.”

Mike’s scowl could’ve curdled milk.

Jonathan let him suffer for a solid ten seconds before sighing. “Look. I was gonna come find you hours ago, but Hopper roped me into patching the roof. Again.” He rolled his eyes affectionately—Hopper never used the phrasing son, help me, but the tone was there. Jonathan couldn’t resist it. “Anyway. I need you to talk to Will.”

Mike blinked. His whole body stiffened. “Talk to—why? Did something happen?”

“No,” Jonathan said. “Everything happened. And he won’t stop. And he’s not sleeping, or eating, or slowing down. And you’re the only person on Earth he might listen to.”

Mike froze, staring at Jonathan like he’d been handed a live grenade. “He—he won’t listen to me. He hates me.”

Jonathan’s jaw dropped. Then he actually laughed. Loud and ugly. “Oh my God. You’re both idiots.”

Mike winced. “Can you not—be you—for five seconds?”

“No,” Jonathan said. “Because you’re stupid. And it’s painful.”

Mike huffed, crossing his arms like a petulant cat. “Will has every right to hate me. I’ve treated him like garbage. For years. The way I handled stuff with El—making him feel like he wasn’t enough—saying that shit in the car—I mean—” He broke off, shoulders curling inward. “He should hate me.”

Jonathan stared at him, incredulous. “You realize Will thinks YOU hate HIM, right?”

Mike jerked his head up. “What? Why would he—why would he think that?!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jonathan said, listing on his fingers. “The emotional constipation. The awkward babbling. The way you look at him like a kicked puppy and then avoid eye contact? The panicked scrambling away whenever he stands too close? The fact you’ve never once told him you appreciate him? Or how about the way you sleep with your back to him like he’s radioactive?”

Mike stared, horrified. “I—shit. I didn’t—no. That’s—Jesus.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Is he upset about that?”

“Upset? Mike, he was crying in the bathroom before dawn.”

Mike’s whole body snapped taut. “He—he was—what? When?”

Jonathan blinked. “You didn’t know?”

“I heard him,” Mike whispered, voice low and sick with guilt. “Hand over his mouth, like he was trying not to bother anyone.” He swallowed. “I tried to talk to him later. He told me I imagined it. I thought it was a dream.”

Jonathan let out an exhausted sigh. There it was—the heart of the problem. “This is why you need to talk to him. He won’t tell anyone what he needs. And you’re the one he trusts. Even if you’re both too dumb to see it.”

Mike looked simultaneously devastated and determined. “I—okay. I’ll talk to him. I just—need a second. And maybe also some instructions. Or a script. Or a tranquilizer.”

Jonathan snorted again. “Just do one of your Mike moves.”

Mike recoiled. “What the hell is a Mike move?”

“You know,” Jonathan said vaguely. “The…thing. Where you barge into a room and start talking like you’re the only person with a brain.”

Mike sputtered. “THAT’S NOT—WHAT?!”

“Just do that, but directed at Will.”

“He’ll think I’m yelling at him!”

“Then try being softer.”

“HOW?!”

“Oh my God.”

Jonathan rubbed both hands over his face. Mike Wheeler. The bane of his existence. The kid who made Will cry at least twice a year from pure emotional stupidity. Will’s bad-taste-in-men problem made flesh.

And yet—he loved the little bastard. Against his will.

He sighed. “Look. It’s okay to be gay.”

Mike froze. “I—what—why would you—”

“You’re in love with him,” Jonathan said simply.

Mike’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I—this is—not—”

Jonathan patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. You can freak out about it later. For now, go get my brother.”

Mike swallowed. Hard.

And just as he turned—

A metallic screech rang out across the driveway.

Jonathan and Mike whipped around.

There, twenty yards away, Will and Steve were crouched beside Lucas’s mom’s station wagon. Will had just yanked off a third damaged tire—no powers, no hesitation, just brute exhausted adrenaline—while Steve cheered like a proud soccer dad.

Will wiped sweat from his forehead. “Got it! Next one!”

Mike’s eye twitched so violently Jonathan feared he’d combust. He whispered, voice strangled:

“DO YOU SEE THIS?! Jon, I can’t leave him alone for thirty seconds or he does THIS SHIT!”

Jonathan clapped him on the back. “Then go stop him, champ.”

Mike groaned like a dying animal, then stormed across the yard toward his boy.

Jonathan watched him go, shaking his head.

“God,” he muttered. “They’re idiots. Perfect for each other. But absolutely, unfixably, idiots.”

Mike didn’t even wait for Jonathan to finish muttering something about “seriously, please just go talk to him.” He’d already stepped out from behind the garbage cans he’d been crouching behind—dust on his jeans, knees aching, binoculars still hanging around his neck like he was some kind of deranged, extremely offended scout leader—and marched straight toward the street where Will was standing with Lucas’s mom.

He was ready.

He was righteous.

He was about to corner Will Byers like a cat cornering a mouse, except—no, not a mouse, he corrected internally with a flare of possessive heat—his idiot, sleep-deprived boy who needed to be talked to, dragged home, forcibly tucked into a blanket burrito, and maybe kissed until he stopped having self-sacrificing thoughts.

But before Mike could even open his mouth, Will glanced at his watch.

Then blanched.

Then swore—loudly. “Shit. I’m—Mrs. Sinclair, I am so sorry, I promised Dustin I’d help him with something. He’s probably waiting—sorry, sorry!”

Lucas’s mother shook her head, smiling warmly. “Sweetie, don’t even apologize. You helped so much. I’m going to be telling Joyce for weeks what a lifesaver you were.”

Will’s cheeks flushed scarlet. He ducked his head like she’d just declared him Hawkins’ new saint, waved awkwardly, and then—

Then he got on his bike.

And sped off.

sped off.

Right in front of Mike.

And Mike just—

Stood there.

Twitching.

Like his entire soul rebooted.

His eye developed a spasm.

His jaw clenched so hard it gave an audible click.

His fingers curled like claws around his handlebars.

Jonathan—who was still lingering near Mike with the kind of baffled older-brother energy of a man who knows he’s about to watch a car crash in slow motion—raised his brows. Mike didn’t even look at him; he sprinted to his bike like a velociraptor, knocked over a trash can, tripped over the curb, scrambled up again, and launched himself onto the seat.

He pedaled like hell.

Jonathan, somewhere behind him, muttered, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

Will had no idea he’d left a Mike Wheeler–shaped hurricane behind him.

Honestly, he felt… lighter.

Which was strange, considering the last week had felt like walking around with a lead blanket strapped to his shoulders.

But talking with Jonathan—seeing the ring, teasing him about being a sap, getting shoved and shoving back—yeah. It helped. Jonathan’s joy helped. His certainty helped. His future, finally forming into something happy and adult and hopeful, helped.

Will wanted that for him. Desperately.

And if his own future didn’t look quite as bright—

Well.

That was fine.

He was useful.

He was awake.

He was needed.

That was enough.

He hummed softly as he biked, letting the evening breeze cool his overheated skin. His muscles ached in that familiar, deep-to-the-bone way they had since El had gone back into the Upside Down. His ribs twinged every time he breathed in too hard. His head buzzed with hunger and exhaustion and the faint, electric hum of his powers, but he ignored it.

He could rest later.

(He wouldn’t. But the thought kept people from worrying.)

He reached the clearing where Dustin was supposed to be waiting, propped his bike against a tree, and heard rustling behind the big cluster of equipment Dustin had commandeered from anywhere he could steal it.

“There you are,” Dustin said, breathless, waving a screwdriver at him like a sword. “Finally. You’re late, but I still love you. Now come hold this. No—other side. Focus, Byers. Don’t let it slip.”

And just like that, Will was swept into Hurricane Dustin.

Fetching tools.

Holding wires.

Crawling under a table.

Being used as a human weight to stabilize a wobbly antenna.

Will didn’t mind. Helping Dustin felt familiar, grounding. Dustin ordered him around affectionately, like they were still kids building radios in Mike’s basement. Dustin didn’t treat him like a weapon or a miracle or a fragile glass ornament Joyce needed to bubble-wrap. He just treated him like Will.

It was… nice.

He didn’t even notice how much time passed until Dustin handed him a bundle of tangled cords.

“Can you untangle this while I—”

A bike screeched, loudly, violently, dangerously, through the tree line.

Will jerked upright.

Dustin froze.

And there—pedaling into the clearing with murder in his eyes—was Mike.

He didn’t even brake. He jumped off the bike while it was still rolling, stormed toward them, and grabbed Will by the arm so sharply Dustin actually yelped.

“You,” Mike hissed. “You are coming with me.”

Will blinked. “Wh—Mike? What are you—?”

“No, nope, don’t talk, don’t try to talk—Dustin, he’s not helping you anymore—he’s coming with me.”

Dustin, offended and alarmed, sputtered. “What—Mike, what the hell—?”

“I’ll bring him back later!” Mike snapped, already yanking Will away like a furious, possessive cat that had just found someone else petting its kitten.

“Mike!” Will twisted, mortified. “I’m helping Dustin—”

“Not anymore you’re not!”

“What do you need—? Is something wrong with El? Did something happen?”

That made Mike whirl around so fast Will’s stomach flipped.

“Oh my god,” Mike said with venomous disbelief. “You think I’m doing this because I need your powers?”

Will’s lips parted helplessly. “…Yes?”

Mike actually choked.

But he didn’t slow down.

He dragged Will across the clearing, fingers locked around his wrist with a grip that should have been breakable—but Will was too tired. He couldn’t shake him off. He barely had the energy to stay upright.

“Mike—Mike, seriously—what are you doing?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Mike shot back, half furious, half… something else Will couldn’t name. “You think you’re so clever, huh? Taking a shortcut through the quarry? You think that would throw me off? Well. HA!” His laugh cracked like brittle wood. “HA-HA-HA, WILLIAM. I STILL FOUND YOU.”

Will stared at him.

“…Um. Congrats?”

Mike bared his teeth like he wanted to bite him.

“AND ANOTHER THING. Did you really have to cross the creek?” Mike demanded. “Seriously? Are you trying to die?!”

Will blinked. “Mike, the creek is three inches deep.”

“It could’ve been deeper!”

“It wasn’t.”

“You could’ve slipped!”

“I didn’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I… do? Because I didn’t slip…?”

Mike made a strangled, animal noise of pure exasperation and kept dragging him like nothing Will said mattered.

Behind them, Dustin shouted, “UM. SHOULD I—LIKE—CALL SOMEONE? OR—???”

Mike whipped around just enough to shout back, “HE’S MINE FOR THE NEXT DAY! GET SOMEONE ELSE TO HELP YOU.” before marching onward, tugging Will by the arm again.

Will’s heart stuttered.

His cheeks warmed.

His breath stilled for a moment.

Mine.

He knew Mike didn’t mean it like that.

He knew Mike was straight.

He knew Mike was worried about El.

He knew Mike pitied him.

But his treacherous heart still fluttered.

Still hoped.

Still hurt.

Will swallowed hard, staring at the ground as Mike dragged him toward the road. “Can… can you please tell me what’s going on?”

“What’s going on,” Mike said, seething, “is that you haven’t slept in six days and you’re running around town like some kind of—of—Hawkins public servant-slash-superhero-slash-idiot martyr. And I, apparently, am the only person who gives a shit!”

Will stumbled over his own feet. Mike caught him, grip tightening.

Will’s throat closed.

Oh.

Oh no.

He really thought Mike was here because of El. Because of the powers. Because he needed Will to sense something.

But this—

This was Mike angry.

Mike frantic.

Mike barely breathing because of how tightly he was wound.

For him.

The realization hit Will’s stomach like a punch.

He whispered, “I’m not—Mike, I’m fine—”

“You’re not fine!” Mike barked. “And you’re coming with me before you collapse again like you did earlier. Because I swear to god, if you pass out in front of Dustin or Steve or Lucas or freaking Mrs. Sinclair again—”

“Again?! That wasn’t—” Will sputtered.

“DON’T EVEN START!”

Will shut his mouth.

Mike pulled him closer, practically hauling him forward. His pulse was hammering—Will could feel it where Mike’s fingers wrapped his wrist. Mike wasn’t just angry. He was… scared.

Deeply. Viscerally.

For Will.

Will stared at the side of his face as they walked. At his furrowed brow. At the way his jaw trembled with tension he couldn’t hide. At how his free hand curled into a fist and uncurled again, like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling ripping him apart inside.

Will’s heart squeezed.

Because he knew this Mike.

This was Mike in protect-mode.

Mike who stayed awake all night in the hospital when Will was possessed.

Mike who once biked miles in the rain because Will hadn’t shown up at school.

Mike who cared more fiercely than any human being he’d ever met.

Will hated that he loved him for it.

He hated that he wished Mike meant it in the way Will wanted him to.

But he also loved—quietly, painfully—the fact that Mike was here at all.

He let himself be pulled forward, because fighting felt pointless now. His limbs were too heavy. His eyes too grainy. His bones too tired.

“Where… where are we going?” Will whispered.

Mike’s voice softened, barely.

“Home,” he said.

But underneath it, like a growl Will wasn’t meant to hear, like a truth Mike didn’t realize he’d let slip—

“Mine.”

Mike shouldered the door open so hard it slammed against the wall, rattling a picture frame. His grip on Will’s wrist was white-knuckled, like he expected Will to dissolve into dust if he let go for even a second. They stumbled into the small entryway of the cabin—really more of a cramped temporary shelter Hopper called “the property” like it wasn’t basically glorified plywood—and Mike was in the middle of a rant that had been going strong since the clearing.

“—and then you have the nerve—THE NERVE—to look at me like I’m the crazy one for not wanting you to drown in a river! A river, Will! A creek that literally ate shit when we were seven, remember that? You fell in once and cried for an hour, what, now you’re Poseidon?!”

Will dragged behind him, panting, barely processing any of it. His face had gone pale, that fragile, chalky shade Mike had been seeing more and more. He tried to pull free, breathless. “Mike, I told you—I needed to help Dustin—”

“NO,” Mike barked, spinning on him so sharply Will stumbled. “NO MORE HELPING ANYONE. You’re not going anywhere except inside, and then you are going to do the thing normal, mortal, human beings do when they’re about to fall over and DIE—”

“Mike—”

“—YOU’RE GOING TO SLEEP.”

They stepped into the dim hallway. The floorboards creaked. Will’s arm tugged once, twice, and then—his knees buckled.

Mike’s rant snapped off mid-syllable.

Will dropped forward like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Mike lunged, catching him with both arms around his torso. The weight was wrong—too heavy in the wrong places, too limp in others. Will sagged against him, breath hitching, fingers clutching at Mike’s hoodie like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Mike’s vision tunneled.

“Oh my god—oh my god—Will—” His voice cracked. “What—why—why didn’t you tell me you were—Jesus, you almost—”

Will tried to straighten. “I’m fine,” he muttered, voice slurred with exhaustion. “Just… tired. I just need to sit for a—”

“NO.” Mike’s voice went high and sharp with panic. He grabbed under Will’s arms, trying to hoist him, completely ignoring the fact that Will was almost the same size as him now. “Up. I’m carrying you. I’m—just—hold still—STOP MOVING—”

“I can walk,” Will protested weakly, flinching as Mike nearly dropped him.

“You CAN’T,” Mike insisted, breathing too fast. “I saw your legs give out, Will, I SAW IT—I—just—god—why are you so heavy—”

“You’re picking me up wrong!” Will snapped, mortified but also too drained to hide it.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were in any position to give constructive criticism while you’re BUSY COLLAPSING.”

They staggered down the hallway, bumping into the wall twice. Mike was shaking—legitimately shaking—as he all but shoved Will through the doorway to their shared room. The lights were off except for the soft yellow glow from the lamp Mike kept on for Will even though Will always pretended he didn’t need it.

Mike wrestled him toward the bed, practically tripping over Will’s bedroll on the floor.

Will reached for the bedroll immediately.

Mike saw red.

“NO. ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT.”

Will blinked at him, startled. “But—Mike, it’s your bed—”

“It is NOT,” Mike said, voice cracking again, “more important than YOU. Lay. Down. On. The. Bed.”

Will folded his arms, swaying on his feet. “I have to go back to Dustin. He’s waiting for me. I promised him—”

“IT’S MIDNIGHT.” Mike threw his hands up. “MIDNIGHT, WILL. NORMAL PEOPLE STOP WORKING AT MIDNIGHT.”

“He needed help—”

“NO. He needs to learn time management. You need to not DIE.”

Will’s tired eyes flashed with something like wounded pride. “I’m not going to die, Mike.”

Mike took two steps forward and pressed a trembling hand to Will’s cheek. “Will. Your legs stopped working.”

Will looked away.

That was all the confirmation Mike needed.

He shoved Will—not harshly, but firmly enough that the boy toppled backward onto the mattress with a startled oof. Will tried to sit up immediately, but Mike planted a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Stay.”

“Mike—”

“STAY.”

Will glared, breath coming fast. Mike could see the tremor in his hands. Could see the way his whole body was vibrating with fatigue. Could see his ribs moving too quickly under his shirt—shallow breaths, panicked breaths.

Mike swallowed hard.

“Water,” he muttered. “You need water. Don’t move.”

Will didn’t answer. Mike took that as compliance—foolishly—and jogged out of the room.

He was gone maybe thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds too long.

When he returned with the glass, he froze in the doorway.

Will had one leg out the window.

His jacket was half-on.

He was mid-escape.

Mike’s soul left his body.

“WHAT—ARE—YOU—DOING?!”

Will jerked, caught red-handed. “I—I just—Dustin—”

“DUSTIN CAN WAIT UNTIL THE END OF THE UNIVERSE, GET BACK IN THE BED.”

“I’m fine!”

“YOU ARE NOT FINE.” Mike slammed the water on the dresser so hard it splashed. “I TURN MY BACK FOR THIRTY SECONDS—THIRTY—AND YOU’RE OUT HERE LIKE SOME KIND OF ROGUE RACCOON TRYING TO FLEE INTO THE NIGHT.”

“I promised him—”

“You promised ME you wouldn’t DIE,” Mike snapped. “Or—well, you didn’t, but you SHOULD HAVE. GET IN THE BED.”

Will pressed his lips together and stubbornly lifted himself back onto the window ledge.

Mike saw it coming.

He lunged.

He grabbed Will around the waist, dragging him back into the room. Will twisted, struggling—not aggressively, just tired and frantic.

“Mike—stop—Mike, let go—”

“No,” Mike grunted, hauling him bodily toward the bed. “NO. If I have to TIE YOU DOWN I WILL.”

“You’re overreacting—”

“I AM REACTING EXACTLY THE AMOUNT REQUIRED WHEN SOMEONE I—” He choked on the end of the sentence, redirected. “—SOMEONE I CARE ABOUT IS TRYING TO JUMP OUT WINDOWS AT MIDNIGHT.”

“I wasn’t jumping—!”

“BED.”

Mike shoved him down again.

Will sat back up instantly.

Mike flattened him with one palm to the sternum.

Will sat up.

Mike pushed him down.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

“STOP THAT,” Mike snapped.

“Then let me go!”

“NO.”

They stared at each other—Mike frantic, Will trembling, both breathing hard.

Will’s exhaustion wasn’t going anywhere.

And Mike’s fury wasn’t, either.

They were nowhere near done fighting.

Will hit the mattress again with a dull, hollow thump.

Mike’s palms were still on his shoulders, not crushing, not rough—just unyielding. That was somehow worse. If Mike had been angry in the way Will expected—shouting, shoving, calling him stupid—it would’ve made sense. But this? This stubborn, desperate insistence?

It left Will feeling stripped bare.

He tried to sit up for what had to be the twelfth time, muscles trembling, arms shaking under his own weight. And for the twelfth time, Mike pushed him right back down, jaw clenched, eyes blazing in that furious, terrified way that made Will feel like he was going to throw up.

“Stop getting up!” Mike snapped. “Jesus, Will, just—just stop.”

“I can’t,” Will croaked. His voice cracked on the word like something old and worn finally splitting. “Mike, I can’t. I have to—I need to go finish helping Dustin. He’s expecting—”

“No,” Mike said, voice dropping, low and sharp like a command. “No more helping. No more running around. No more disappearing before sunrise. No more almost collapsing in the damn yard.”

Will flinched. He hadn’t known Mike had seen that.

Of course he had. Mike saw everything.

Will’s breath hitched, shallow and fast. “Mike—let go. Seriously. I’m fine. I’m just tired, okay? I just need to—”

“To work yourself to death?” Mike barked. “To pretend you’re not shaking? To pretend you’re not starving? To pretend you’re not—”

“I have to!” Will’s voice broke, and he hated how loud it came out. “I have to, Mike. Nobody else—”

“Yes, someone else!” Mike nearly shouted back. “Me! Let me—Just let me—god, Will, let me do something!”

Mike didn’t even realize he was breathing too fast until Will’s vision tilted sideways. His lungs took in air too quick, too harsh, and suddenly everything felt narrow, tight, like the room was shrinking.

And then the trembling hit.

Hard.

“Will?” Mike’s voice dropped immediately. “Hey—hey, are you—Will, breathe. Breathe.”

No, no, no.

Will tried to get up again, panic pushing instinct through exhaustion. But his limbs wouldn’t cooperate; they were dead weight, sandbags of burning lead. He couldn’t sit up. He couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t stop the tears starting behind his eyes because his stupid body was betraying him again.

Not in front of Mike.

Please, not in front of Mike.

His chest squeezed—tight, tighter—like someone had wrapped a belt around his ribs and pulled. His breath stuttered, short, sharp bursts of air that did nothing to help.

“Will—hey, hey, look at me,” Mike said, hands coming to hold his face, thumbs brushing sweat-damp curls from his forehead. “Will. Will, come on. Look at me, please.”

“I—can’t—” Will gasped, shame flooding him so hard he felt dizzy with it.

He didn’t have panic attacks around people. Ever. He hid them the way he hid everything—quietly, perfectly. Pressing a hand over his own mouth in some dark corner so no one could hear the shaking or the pathetic little sounds he made.

And now here he was, hyperventilating under Mike Wheeler.

Humiliation ripped through him so sharp it made him choke.

His hands clawed blindly at Mike’s wrists, not to hurt him—never that—but to anchor himself. To ground something. To stop himself from flying apart from the inside out.

“Mike—” The words tumbled out between gasps, raw and broken. “I can’t—I can’t sleep. If—if something happens—if something attacks—if El’s not here—if I’m not awake—if you get hurt—”

Will’s voice cracked into a sob.

“—if I fail again—”

Mike’s breath caught like Will had punched him.

“Will,” he whispered. “You’re not going to fail. And you don’t have to protect me.”

Will squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head frantically. “Yes—I do—I do—I have to protect everyone—there’s no one else—there’s never anyone else—”

“You don’t have to protect me.” Mike leaned closer, voice fierce and shaking. “Let me protect you for once.”

Will let out a strangled, panicked sound and tried to push him away. He didn’t know why—he didn’t want Mike gone. He just didn’t want Mike seeing him like this. Weak. Needy. Falling apart.

Mike didn’t budge.

He held Will’s shoulders firmly, forcing eye contact. “Will. Stop—stop pushing me away. I’m not leaving you. I’m not letting you get up.”

Will broke harder, the shame coming in hot waves. “Why—why do you even care? You hate me—why do you even—”

“I don’t hate you.”

Mike’s voice cracked like lightning.

Will froze.

Mike stared down at him with a look Will had never seen before—wide, afraid, furious, tender, all at once.

“I don’t hate you,” Mike repeated, louder, breathless. “I—Jesus, Will, I—”

Words weren’t working. Not for either of them.

Will was spiraling too fast, breathing too fast, on the edge of something that felt like breaking completely—

—and then Mike snapped.

He leaned down and kissed him.

Hard.

It wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t careful—it was desperate, wild, like Mike was drowning and Will was the only air left in the world. Will made a shocked sound against Mike’s mouth and then he melted—instantly, helplessly—into the contact he’d wanted for years and never let himself imagine.

Heat flooded his chest so intensely he forgot to breathe entirely.

Then reality slammed back in.

Shit.

This wasn’t real.

Mike was pitying him.

Mike was doing this because Will was pathetic and panicking and couldn’t even breathe right.

Will flailed again, heart lurching painfully, fingertips digging into Mike’s shoulders.

Mike just kissed him harder.

His hand cupped Will’s jaw, steadying him, grounding him. His mouth moved against Will’s like the world wasn’t ending outside, like nothing else mattered except this—the way Will gasped against him, the way his breath hitched, the way his shaking slowly eased.

The way he was finally, finally breathing again.

Will went shock-still beneath him.

Mike pulled back only when Will’s chest actually started moving with something that resembled a real breath. His forehead pressed to Will’s, eyes blown wide, breathing ragged.

“Will,” he whispered. “Will, look at me.”

Will opened his eyes.

And Mike broke.

“You’re mine,” Mike said, voice trembling. “My Will. My best friend. You’ve always been mine. I don’t want you doing everything for everyone else. I don’t want you running yourself into the ground. I don’t want you far from me. I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Will sobbed.

Not the silent kind he’d perfected. Not the hidden, lonely kind he’d learned because Lonnie hated “fairy crying.” His whole body shook, sound ripping out of him like it had been trapped for years.

Mike’s hands were gentle now, brushing tears from Will’s face, thumbs trembling.

“Hey,” Mike whispered, voice thick. “It’s okay. Will, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Will tried to speak and couldn’t. Tried again.

“You—you’re with El,” Will choked out. “You’re—you’re with her—and I—I just—”

“No,” Mike said instantly. “We broke up months ago. I should’ve told you sooner, I just—I didn’t know how. But I’m not with her. I’m not cheating on her. You didn’t—Will, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Will sobbed again, a small broken noise that made Mike’s eyes fill too.

“I like you,” Will whispered, voice cracking in the middle. “I’ve always—always liked you. And—and I thought you hated me. I thought—”

“I could never hate you,” Mike murmured. “Not in a million years.”

Will trembled, exhausted, overwhelmed, but—for the first time in days—something inside him loosened. Not fully. Not safely.

But loosened.

Mike leaned his forehead against Will’s again, breath warm and shaking.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And Will finally let himself cry. Fully, openly, the way he never let himself cry in front of anyone.

Because Mike was there.

Because Mike wasn’t letting go.

Because Mike cared.

And because—for the first time—Will wasn’t alone.

Mike lay there with his heart trying to punch its way out of his ribs, staring at the dim, familiar slant of the ceiling like it had personally betrayed him.

He kissed Will.

He kissed Will Byers.

And Will Byers kissed him back.

Mike Wheeler, who had spent actual years carefully boxing up every thought that even vaguely resembled this, was now lying in a bed with Will curled against him, sobbing into his chest like Mike was the safest place in the world.

Gay. So incredibly, irrevocably gay.

His brain kept looping it, like if he said it enough times the word would lose its power. It didn’t. If anything, it got louder, sharper, more real. His mouth still tingled. His lips still remembered the shape of Will’s. The way Will had gone still under his hands—not in fear, but in shock, in overload, in that terrible fragile space where your body finally believes something good might be allowed to happen.

Mike swallowed hard and tightened his arms without even realizing he was doing it.

Will was crying. Really crying.

Not the silent, contained kind Mike had grown used to—tears wiped away before anyone could comment, shoulders held rigid, face carefully blank. This was messy. Breath hitching, nose running, fingers clutching the fabric of Mike’s shirt like if he let go he might fall apart entirely.

Mike let him.

He didn’t rush it. Didn’t shush him. Didn’t try to fix it with words. He just stayed, breathing slow on purpose, chest solid and warm beneath Will’s cheek, one hand splayed between Will’s shoulder blades like an anchor.

He’d learned, over the years, that Will needed space to finish feeling things. Interrupting only made it worse.

So Mike lay there and took it. Took the tears soaking through his shirt. Took the way Will’s fingers occasionally curled like he was bracing for something that never came. Took the soft, broken sounds Will probably hated himself for making.

If this was the cost of kissing him, Mike would pay it forever.

Eventually—slowly, cautiously—Will’s sobs softened. Not stopped. Just… ebbed enough that he could breathe without gasping.

“I need—” Will croaked, then stopped, throat working. He sniffed hard, mortified in that way Mike recognized instantly. “I need a tissue.”

Mike lifted his head just enough to look down at him. Will’s eyes were red-rimmed, lashes clumped, cheeks blotchy. He looked wrecked. He also looked real in a way Mike didn’t think he’d ever seen him before.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Mike said, then immediately added, dead serious, “If you even look at a window, I will chase you down, tackle you, and sit on you until Hopper comes and arrests me.”

Will huffed despite himself. It came out wet and shaky, but it was a laugh.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. There it was—that steel under the softness. The Will who had survived monsters and possession and hell itself. “I just need to blow my nose.”

Mike hesitated for exactly half a second, then loosened his arms. “Okay. But I’m timing you.”

Will rolled his eyes weakly and slid out of bed, wobbling but upright. Mike watched him go with the intensity of a guard dog, counting footsteps, listening to the sniffle and the tap of the sink, jaw clenched the entire time.

The second the bathroom door shut, Mike sprang into motion.

He peeled off his tear-soaked shirt and tossed it aside like it had personally offended him. His hands shook as he yanked open his duffel and dug out clean clothes, changing as fast as humanly possible. Soft sweats. An old sleep shirt. Then—without thinking—he grabbed another shirt.

One of his favorites. Oversized even on him. Faded from a hundred washes. Soft in that broken-in way that meant comfort.

By the time Will came back, eyes red but calmer, Mike was standing there holding it out like an offering.

“For you,” he said.

Will blinked. “Mike—”

“Don’t,” Mike interrupted. He stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Will’s mouth—gentle this time, almost reverent. No force. No desperation. Just warmth and certainty.

Will melted.

It wasn’t dramatic. He just… sagged, like his body finally accepted that resisting wasn’t necessary right now.

Mike pulled back just enough to murmur, “Please.”

Will exhaled, long and tired. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re wearing the shirt,” Mike shot back.

Will took it.

The fabric swallowed him. Sleeves hanging past his wrists, hem brushing his thighs. Mike felt something feral and protective coil tight in his chest.

I want to put him in a soft glass box, his brain supplied unhelpfully, feral now that it had uncovered the real object of his affections. Label it DO NOT TOUCH. DO NOT HURT. PROPERTY OF MIKE WHEELER.

He shoved the thought aside and focused on what mattered: getting Will back in bed.

Once Will was changed, Mike guided him down without resistance this time, tugging him close until Will’s back was pressed to his chest. Mike tucked the blanket up carefully, right to the back of Will’s neck, sealing him in like that was the most important task he’d ever been given.

Will rested a hand over Mike’s arm. Strong fingers. Calloused from work and weapons and survival. This was not a fragile boy. This was someone who had endured more than Mike could fully understand.

And still, he needed this.

Mike needed this.

He kissed the crown of Will’s head, then his temple, then his cheek, unable to stop himself. Years of restraint snapped like a rubber band, and suddenly all he wanted was to pour every unspoken thing into touch.

Will shifted, eyes fluttering closed.

Mike froze. Held his breath.

Sleep didn’t come.

A crash sounded outside—metal clanging somewhere on the property. Will jerked awake instantly, muscles going taut.

“It’s okay,” Mike murmured. “Just something falling.”

Will nodded, embarrassed, and tried again.

Thunder cracked in the distance. Will startled, breath hitching.

Mike’s jaw tightened.

Again. And again.

Every time Will drifted, something yanked him back. Like the universe had decided tonight was a good night to test Mike’s patience and Will’s limits.

After the fifth time, Mike snapped.

Not at Will. Never at Will.

At the world.

“Enough,” he muttered, more to the universe than anything else.

He slid his hand up, gentle but firm, cupping the side of Will’s face and settling his palm over Will’s eyes. Not restraining. Shielding. Blocking out light and fear and every goddamn thing that kept trying to take Will away from rest.

“Sleep,” Mike said quietly.

Will tensed for half a second, then let out a slow breath. His hand tightened around Mike’s fingers, interlacing with purpose.

Mike tucked his chin down, kissed Will’s hair again and again, whispering nothing at all. Just being there. Holding. Guarding.

His thoughts churned—boyfriend? are we boyfriends? Jesus Christ what if he wakes up and regrets this? what if I ruined everything?—but he pushed them aside.

For tonight, this was enough.

For tonight, Will was safe.

Eventually, finally, Will’s breathing evened out. Deep. Real. Unconscious.

Mike didn’t move.

He stayed like that, hand still over Will’s eyes, arm locked around his chest, heart pounding with awe and terror and something dangerously close to happiness.

If tomorrow came with consequences, Mike would face them.

But tonight?

Tonight, Will Byers slept in his arms.

And Mike Wheeler would burn the world down before he let anything wake him.

Jonathan woke up to quiet that felt wrong.

Not the good quiet—no birdsong, no distant clatter from the kitchen, no Will humming under his breath while he pretended not to be awake yet. Just stillness. Noon-light slanted through the living room windows, pale and lazy, dust motes floating like they had nowhere better to be. The clock on the wall ticked, loud in a way clocks only ever got when something was off.

Jonathan sat up on the couch and frowned at it.

12:07 p.m.

“…No,” he muttered.

Will did not sleep past nine. Ever. Not as a kid, not as a teenager, not even after being possessed by an interdimensional nightmare monster. If Will was still asleep, something had gone deeply, profoundly sideways.

Joyce and Hopper were gone—Chicago, radio tower parts, a trip Joyce had only agreed to because Jonathan had all but shoved her out the door with a promise that everything would be fine, that Will was safe, that Jonathan would watch him. Nancy was at the hospital with her parents, needing space Jonathan understood too well to push against.

Which meant Jonathan was the only thing standing between his little brother and the world.

And Will was not awake.

Jonathan scrubbed a hand down his face and stood, tension already crawling up his spine. He checked the kitchen. Empty. No tea mug abandoned on the counter, no toast crumbs, no carefully washed plate set to dry. The back door was still locked. Will’s shoes were still by the mat. His jacket still hung on the hook.

“Okay,” Jonathan said to the empty house. “Okay. That’s fine. Maybe he’s just… sleeping.”

He didn’t believe it for a second.

His gaze slid, slow and inevitable, toward the hallway. Toward the bedroom. Toward the door that had been shut since last night.

And then the thought hit him, sharp and bright and instantly infuriating.

Where the fuck is Michael Wheeler and what has he done with my brother.

Jonathan stalked down the hall on silent feet, every sense tuned tight. He paused outside the bedroom door, hand hovering over the knob. He could already feel it—something coiled and complicated in his chest, equal parts dread and rage and an older, more familiar fear that never really went away. The kind that had learned the shape of Will’s pain and never stopped memorizing it.

“If that evil little twink hurt him,” Jonathan muttered under his breath, teeth clenched, “I’m killing him.”

He eased the door open.

The room was dim, curtains half-drawn against the late morning sun. The bed was a mess of blankets and sheets and tangled limbs—and right there, in the middle of it, was Will.

Passed out cold.

Not curled tight in on himself like he usually was when he slept. Not rigid, not poised to bolt. Will was sprawled across Mike Wheeler like gravity itself had personally decided where he belonged, cheek pressed to Mike’s chest, one arm slung loose and heavy across Mike’s ribs. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in odd places. His mouth was slack with sleep.

And his eyes—Jonathan didn’t even need to see them open to know. The skin around them was red, swollen, raw. Tear tracks faint but unmistakable against his cheeks.

Will had cried.

Really cried.

Not the quiet, perfect, no-one-will-ever-know cry Jonathan had learned to recognize years ago. Not the controlled, swallowed, internalized kind. This was aftermath. This was wreckage.

Jonathan’s eye twitched.

Mike was awake.

He was propped slightly against the headboard, one arm wrapped around Will’s back like a shield, the other hand moving slow and gentle at the nape of Will’s neck, thumb brushing skin in an absent, reverent rhythm. He looked down at Will like he was something fragile and priceless and real, like the rest of the world could go fuck itself as long as Will stayed right there.

Jonathan took one more step into the room.

Mike froze.

Like, full statue. Breath caught, hand stilled, eyes snapping up to meet Jonathan’s with the wide, guilty alertness of someone who knew they were already in trouble.

“I can explain,” Mike whispered. Then, after a beat, “Maybe.”

Jonathan stared at him.

He stared at Will. At the way his fingers were knotted into the fabric of Mike’s shirt like a lifeline. At the way his shoulders rose and fell, slow and deep and even—sleep like Jonathan hadn’t seen him get in months.

Jonathan’s jaw clenched.

“Hallway,” he said quietly. Dangerously.

Mike shook his head immediately. “I can’t.”

Jonathan’s eyebrow ticked up. “You can.”

“I really can’t,” Mike insisted, voice low but firm. He didn’t move. Didn’t loosen his hold. “If I move, he wakes up.”

That stopped Jonathan cold.

“…What.”

Mike swallowed. His eyes flicked down to Will, then back up. “If he’s not touching me, he wakes up. Like—every time. And then it takes forever to calm him back down. I’m not letting him escape.”

Jonathan scoffed despite himself. “Escape,” he echoed. “Jesus Christ.”

“He tried to go out the window,” Mike said immediately.

Jonathan snorted. “Of course he did.”

Mike shot him a look. “He nearly collapsed.”

That one hit harder.

Jonathan’s humor drained out of him all at once. His shoulders stiffened. “What.”

“He—his knee buckled. He almost went down. I caught him.” Mike’s voice was tight now, words pressed together like he was afraid they’d spill if he loosened his grip. “He wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t lie down. Wouldn’t—he just kept trying to help people. It was almost midnight.”

Jonathan closed his eyes for a second.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

Mike nodded like he’d been waiting for that. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy but not hostile. Mike spoke again, quieter. “He had a panic attack.”

Jonathan’s eyes snapped open. “Since when does Will get panic attacks?”

Mike’s mouth opened—and then closed.

They looked at each other.

“Oh,” Jonathan said slowly.

Mike’s jaw tightened. His hand resumed its careful motion at Will’s neck, possessive and furious all at once. “He’s been hiding them.”

Jonathan’s chest ached with it. With the knowing. With the years of it. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Mike hesitated. “I—I kissed him.”

Jonathan blinked. “You—what.”

“I didn’t—like—I wasn’t—” Mike rushed, panic flaring. “He couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t hearing me. I just—needed him to stop. To breathe.”

Jonathan stared at him for a long second.

Then: “That’s the only thing you could think of?”

Mike winced. “In my defense, it worked.”

Jonathan huffed a laugh despite himself, sharp and disbelieving. “Un-fucking-believable.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Mike added quickly. “I mean, I did, but I—”

Jonathan held up a hand. “Stop. Before I kill you.”

Mike went very still again.

Jonathan looked down at Will. At the way his face was soft in sleep, stripped of every careful mask he wore for the world. At the way his fingers twitched faintly, like even in rest he was braced to respond.

“You hurt him,” Jonathan said quietly, not a question.

Mike shook his head immediately. “No. Never. I swear.”

Jonathan studied him for a long moment. He saw the fear there—real fear, not of Jonathan, but of losing this. Of failing Will. Of not being enough.

Finally, Jonathan nodded once.

“Good,” he said. “Because if you do, I won’t just kill you.”

Mike swallowed.

“I’ll make it hurt.”

Mike nodded back, solemn. “Fair.”

Jonathan stepped back toward the door. He paused, hand on the frame, and looked once more at his brother. Sleeping. Finally. Messily. Safely.

“Let him rest,” Jonathan said.

Mike’s voice was barely a whisper. “I will.”

Jonathan slipped out and closed the door behind him, careful not to make a sound.

He stood in the hallway for a long second, breathing through the tangle in his chest. Then he scrubbed a hand through his hair, turned toward the living room, and muttered to himself:

“God, Will. Jesus Christ. Why him.”

He dropped onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, heart full and aching and furious and relieved all at once.

“…Get better taste in men,” he added weakly.

But even as he said it, he knew.

If it had to be someone.

Of course it was Michael Wheeler.