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He’s killing his mother.
When Will clicks into the moment, he’s killing his mother, his hands wrapped around her throat, and she can’t seem to make any sound, face pale and ghostly, and he’s killing his mother, while she claws at his hands that are unbudging, have never been so strong, have never been used for anything outside of pencils and paints, and he’s killing his mother, and he’s not himself, and he’s killing his –
When Will jolts awake, he’s crying.
He’s crying, and he’s kind of disgusting in more ways than one, with his clammy hands and tear-streaked face and nightmare-ridden brain and incriminating hands, and he’s gasping for air like he was the one being choked, and he can’t seem to register where and who he is, and – God.
God, he barely has a hold of himself, is barely clinging onto consciousness, and he knows it was a nightmare, but he can’t seem to force himself awake, half of him still being clawed at, still squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, and he’s – he’s the worst son alive.
His hands are trembling when he presses his palms into his eyes, hard enough for him to see supernovas. He sucks in a rattling breath, one that seems to shake him to his very bones, and his breaths keep coming out in gasps, like he’s hyperventilating, and that’s probably stupid, to be so panicked over a nightmare, but he’s stupid, always so stupid, stupid, stupid.
Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t like crying, but it’s always been out of his control, ever the crybaby, and, even now, he can’t help the onslaught of tears that slip out, the sobbing he’s trying so hard to stifle, biting down hard on his lip and turning his clammy hands into fists. He can’t escape his own murder weapon, even when he’s awake.
He’s trying to stop shaking, but it isn’t working. His mother’s face won’t leave his mind, and he still doesn’t know how to check, how to make sure he isn’t some murderer while he’s awake, too, and he can’t breathe properly. It feels like a fitting punishment.
“Will?”
He can’t help it when he jumps, and it’s another level of shame when he accidentally lets out a wet sob, and he’s an idiot for forgetting where he is, sheets strewn around his waist and the firm weight of warmth lying just a few inches away from him, legs bumping against his own.
Mike’s room is dark, but the stray rays of moonlight that peak in through the open window are just enough for him to make out the shape of the dresser, the door of Mike’s shut closet, the posters and signs and drawings he has up, and he can’t bring himself to look over to Mike. Humiliation washes over him, and he’s still gasping for air. God, what he would do to disappear for a few minutes. Days. Years.
“Sorr–y,” Will forces out, and it comes out a hiccup, voice the bare skeleton of what it should be, fragile and flimsy, and Mike is fumbling to get up, to – to do something that’ll probably bring Will’s hopes up, later, when he isn’t suffocating on himself and trying to remember who and what he is. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I – I –”
“Hey,” Mike says, slicing through Will’s stuttering, “come on, don’t – don’t apologize. It’s okay.” His hand finds itself on Will’s arm, warm and dry, steady against the cool, night air, and, still, Will startles, letting out a noise he’d probably be mortified of if he wasn’t close to dying. Mike’s fingers wrap around his arm. “It’s just me,” he tells Will, “it’s okay.”
Will shakes his head, although he doesn’t know what he’s exactly protesting, but he’s still shaking his head, and Mike is sitting up properly and leaning in a little closer, warm and unwavering when he places his other hand on Will’s back, rubbing in circles. The touch of it bleeds through his shirt. Will heaves in a breath that cracks in the middle, nearly choking on it.
“It’s okay,” Mike is saying again, and even if nothing is really okay, it still sounds nice, still sounds like something Will could let him believe while he tries to remember how to use his lungs correctly, and Mike is saying it like he believes it, like he means it. “It’s okay, I – I’m here, just – just breathe. It’s okay.”
His voice is all soft and gentle, like it used to be before, and it’s still like that now, Will supposes, just less often, and the reminder of what he’s lost makes him cry just a little harder, and that’s probably stupid, too, because Mike is right there, coaxing him back to calm, but it still aches like an old wound.
God, there’s no escaping any of it. He’s a mistake when he’s awake, a murderer in his sleep, and a monster in both.
“Sorry,” he’s forcing out again, and he has so much to apologize for, and he doesn’t know how to begin, so he repeats, “sorry, sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t –”
“It’s okay,” Mike replies immediately, unmoving from where he has his hands on Will. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
He sounds like he believes it. Will keeps shaking his head, and he can’t help it when he twists in on himself, hiding in his hands, and he’s trying to seem smaller, trying to stop crying, but nothing is working, and the tears won’t stop and his breaths are still coming out in hiccups and he can’t, he –
“– can’t, I can’t, I – I can’t,” he’s rambling, and he probably sounds insane, but Mike takes it all in stride, and sweeps him up in his arms.
He seems to have no regard for the way Will is trying to disappear into himself, trying to curl in and out of existence, because Mike wraps his arms around him and pulls him close to his chest, cradling his head under his chin, and Will can hear the steady stutter of Mike’s heart.
“It’s okay,” Mike says, for maybe the eighth-hundredth time, and his hands are firm and warm when they press into Will, presses him closer into Mike, gives him no room to squirm away and escape. “I – just focus on me, okay? Just try to breathe, it’s – I – I’ve got you. Just focus on me.”
Will’s lungs feel tight, and he catches himself on a gasp, trying to gulps down the cool air, and he feels the slow rise and release of Mike’s chest, tries to match it, tries not to choke when he can’t seem to breathe properly, feeling coiled in.
I’ve got you, Mike says, like he wants to have Will in his arms like this, a desperate mess of tears and trauma, like he doesn’t mind dealing with Will when he’s like this. He sounds so sure, so certain, so reminiscent of who Will had fallen in love with. It hurts like hell, and Will can’t escape. He shakes his head, and Mike’s arm tightens around him.
The air is cool and tasteless when he focuses on breathing in, out, in, out, and his ear presses against the thump-thump-thump of Mike’s heartbeat. He squeezes his eyes shut, curling his fingers into the sheets of Mike’s bed. The cotton crumples under his hands.
Time seems to slip past him, and he doesn’t want to guess how long he stays like that, slumped against Mike’s chest and still in his arms, and Mike doesn’t seem eager to let go. Will paces his breathing, a small achievement when he isn’t gasping or choking or dying on his own breathing anymore. Mike’s thumb strokes over Will’s shoulder blade.
“It’s okay,” he’s saying again, and Will squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s okay, you’re safe, and I’m here, and – and it’s okay.” His hands won’t move away. “It’s okay.”
Will’s nose digs into Mike’s shirt, the familiar smell of the Wheeler household, and maybe just Mike, and the scent of their laundry detergent replacing the still air of the bedroom. Mike is warm all over, comforting like he always is, always has been, and Will can feel the exhaustion slowly seep into him.
His throat feels awfully dry, and his body, oddly, feels worn out, like he’d run a mile. He can breathe properly, now, though, and it doesn’t feel like his body is going to collapse in on itself. There are small miracles.
Embarrassment follows in suit to exhaustion, however, and Will twists his face, grimacing in the feel of tears on his cheeks. He tries to shift away, tries to keep some of his dignity, but Mike doesn’t let up his hold, giving him no chance to leave.
“I’m sorry,” Will says again, just to make sure Mike knows, and it comes out more sensical this time, his voice croaking and worn out.
He can feel the brush of Mike’s chin on the crown of his head when Mike shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he replies, and he sounds certain. There’s a beat of silence, before he slowly questions, “Feel better?”
Will swallows, and gives a slow nod. Mike doesn’t let go.
Despite having shared a bed for the past few days, in light of the Byers having no place to actually stay and Mike offering his bed to share, this is the closest they’ve been, and Will almost wishes he had denied Mike’s offer to stay with him. His heart attempts to beat out of his chest, and Mike isn’t moving, other than the swipe of his thumb and his chest falling with each breath.
It’s slow when Mike does adjust, still not letting go of Will when he slowly tips both of them back, until Mike lands against his headboard, and Will partially lays onto Mike, head on his chest and his body curled close.
“Do you,” Mike begins slowly, and his hand on Will’s shoulder moves to his hair, where it is a little more wild and is slowly curling past his ears, and Will can’t help the shiver that runs through him when Mike’s nimble fingers brush against his nape, through his hair and on his scalp, “want to talk about it?”
Will gives a minute shake of his head. “No.”
“Okay,” Mike responds, complacent, and Will is glad for it, glad that Mike always seems to know what to do, what to say.
Still, he can’t help the shame that is constantly haunting him, and it feels worse this time around. Will doesn’t know why Mike is still holding him, because he’s not suffocating on his nightmares anymore, and he’s breathing just fine, but Mike still won’t let go of him.
Mike holds him like he isn’t revolted, isn’t disgusted by the mess that Will is, the monster that inhibits the nape that Mike’s palm grazes, the murderer under his skin. Mike holds him like it doesn’t matter. Like he matters. Like Mike wants him close.
He shouldn’t entertain that train of thought.
“You – don’t have to do this,” Will tells him, just to put it out there, because he’s half-terrified that it’s pity, that it’s a dream, that Mike feels some obligation to mimic the person he used to be. “I’m fine. You don’t – you can let go.”
Will would blame it on his imagination, the way Mike’s hold on him seems to tighten imperceptibly, but he knows he feels Mike’s hand flex against his side, before sliding up and pressing against his ribcage. Mike feels all-encompassing, bigger than life, with long limbs and a bold personality, and it’s easy to fall into him, easier to remember how to breathe, and easy to let himself be held like this. Will feels like some sort of thief.
“No way,” Mike answers, as though the mere suggestion of letting go is outrageous. “Why in the world would I – why would I let go?”
There’s a lot of reasons that Will could list, but Mike sounds almost aghast and lost all at once, and something in him says the question was mostly rhetorical. He gives a shrug, one that has his shoulder rubbing against Mike’s shirt.
There’s a pause, and Will wonders if Mike is asking himself the same thing, if he’s realizing how terribly not-platonic this probably is, even if their relationship had been one of holding hands until middle school.
Mike sounds strangely nervous when he asks, “Do you – want me to let go?”
Will almost wants to get up, just to see what he looks like right now. He bites down on his tongue, and gives a small shake of his head. It feels like a confession.
Now, his tone is somehow both bewildered and almost offended when Mike follows up, “Then why would I let go?”
Will offers another shrug. He doesn’t know how to say the reasons in his head without sounding terribly concerning.
This answer, assumedly, isn’t as sufficient as the ones prior, and his silence doesn’t seem to be enough when Mike shifts in his place, and maybe he’s finally decided to let go, finally realizing how strange this is, remembering who Will is.
Instead, Mike’s arm stays around him, and his hand in Will’s hair removes itself to instead cradle Will’s cheek like it’s something precious, gentle when it slides to his chin and tilts his face up.
It’s a thousand times more mortifying like this, Will decides, when he has to look Mike in the eye, as if he hadn’t been pressing his face against his chest just a few seconds ago. Mike’s eyes are always scrutinizing, always heavy, and it almost feels suffocating. Will is pretty sure he looks like an idiot right now, red face and dried tears and watery eyes.
Mike looks a little worried, a little concerned, a slight pinch between his eyebrows and eyes moving from one place to another on Will’s face. The whites of his eyes shine in the darkness. He’s gorgeous.
“Will,” Mike says, almost a whisper, and it’s soft all over, “come on.” He offers a tilted smile, and it’s reassuring, but Will doesn’t know what to do with the little space between them, doesn’t know what Mike is saying come on to, as if he’s insisting there’s something obvious Will should already know.
Will blankly stares back.
Mike flounders, seemingly unprepared what to do with Will’s cluelessness. His fingers, gently placed under Will’s chin, slide away, until his hand is cupping the back of Will’s neck. His palm is warm, and it feels like Will’s on fire.
“Come on,” he’s saying again, “you know you’re my best friend.” Will can feel the blood-rush blush on his face, and Mike’s eyes are boring into him. His hand trembles where it sits, just next to Mike’s side, and Mike’s hand slips away to hold it, unhesitating, even with Will’s clammy hand clutched in his. His eyes flicker between Will’s. “I – I care about you.” His hand squeezes Will’s. “And I don’t – have to do anything, but I want to.”
“Oh,” Will breathes out, and he watches a bloom of pink on Mike’s cheeks.
“I care about you,” Mike repeats, like he’s trying to say something else. His eyes don’t leave Will’s face. “You know that.”
Will doesn’t, is the thing, but Mike says it so certain, so factually, and Will has no room to deny it, as though questioning it would be blasphemous. He nods, and Mike’s lips twitch up in a full smile, shifting, and he tugs Will even closer, unsatisfied with the distance between them.
It makes Will’s stomach jump, but he’s tired and he likes being so close to Mike, even if it kind of aches, and Mike says he cares about him, and he’s still pulling Will closer, and he’s still a little on top of Mike, but Mike doesn’t seem to mind, seems to be pulling Will further onto Mike, taking Will’s hand to place it on his chest.
Will’s lips part, and he doesn’t know what to say when they’re barely a few inches away from each other. Mike’s gaze drops, before looking back up, and both his hands come up to hold Will’s face. Will resists the urge to look away, clear his throat, and shatter the moment. His blood fizzles under his skin.
Mike’s staring problem seems to be heightened, now, when he shamelessly looks at Will, and it’s worse, this time around, because it’s as though he’s properly drinking Will in, letting his eyes linger on his lips, glancing back up to meet his eyes, and his thumb rubs against Will’s cheek, and Will feels warm all over.
He wants to squirm away, wants to hide in his hands or flop over to suffocate in his pillow, except Mike keeps him in place, doesn’t move either of them and makes Will meet him face to face. It’s a little mortifying. Almost humiliating.
Will’s hands have stayed carefully unmoving, but the hand that isn’t motionless on Mike’s chest digs into the sheets, holding onto something for dear life. He’s in disarray, because Mike is usually forward, but even this is too much for him.
Will swallows. Mike’s eyes dip downward.
“If,” Mike murmurs, voice low and gentle, and Will tries not to wriggle away out of sheer shyness, “you want me to stop, I’ll – I’ll stop, okay? Just say so, and – and I’ll stop. Promise.”
And – it would sound more ambiguous if Mike hadn’t been staring at Will’s mouth for so long, because Will may be stupid, but there’s no mistaking the multiple glances Mike spares downward, and Will can feel his face flush.
He gives a singular nod.
It seems to be enough for Mike, who doesn’t hesitate to lean in, and he’s angling upward, moving his entire body, and he cups Will’s face in his hands, still, and brings him a little closer to place a kiss on his forehead.
It’s close-mouthed and it lingers, Mike’s mouth pressed against his skin, and it’s warm and it sends electric bolts up Will’s spine and into his palms. Will’s body stutters, and he can’t help it when his eyes fall shut. His hand twitches against Mike’s chest.
Mike’s mouth stays there for a beat longer, as if to make sure Will is okay with it, and Will can’t imagine a world where he wouldn’t be. His fingers poke a little harder into the bed, and he forces his eyes open, and Mike leans away to look at him.
Will blinks, flushed pink, and Mike comes closer to brush a kiss on his cheek, high under his eye, and Mike’s thumb strokes over his cheek, soothing and sweet. Mike presses another kiss against the bridge of his nose, just on the side, and his lips drag when he places another kiss between his eyebrows.
Will’s eyes slip shut again, and he can’t bring himself to open them, even when Mike leaves another kiss on his cheek, and tilts back to look at him again, as though Will was changing under his hands. It’s embarrassing, probably, to have his eyes shut like this, while Mike holds him in his hands and stares at him, and Will feels vulnerable and exposed, but he’s also tired, and – it’s Mike.
Mike seems to pick up the pace when he kisses Will’s nose again, on the arch of the bridge, and then the first kiss on the right side of his face, on his cheek, on his brow bone, close to his ear, on three different birthmarks, on his eyelid, straying close to his jaw.
There’s a pause afterwards, and Will opens his eyes. He’s been a little terrified that Mike would suddenly push him off, reveal this all to be some terrible ruse, and call him out to be what he is, although Mike would never be so cruel. Still.
When Mike leans in this time, he’s tilting his head to the right, and he brings Will closer, and his warm breath ghosts over Will’s mouth, before Mike’s lips settle just above Will’s, kissing his cupid’s bow. It’s a little bit of an awkward angle, and their noses bump when Mike is moving away. Will feels aflame, and he can’t help the breath that escapes him.
Mike leans back and licks his lips, and some part of Will wants to writhe away, hide away in his hands or Mike’s chest or roll over and onto the floor, but Mike still has his hands on Will, and he couldn’t turn away even if he wanted to. Most of Will, still, knows that if he wanted to be let go, he could.
“Tell me – tell me if you want to stop,” Mike whispers, and he’s close enough that their lips brush. Will barely holds back a shiver.
He fists the hand on Mike’s chest, and tugs him closer by the shirt, and Mike meets him halfway.
And, despite him pulling Mike in, Will gasps into the kiss anyway, the shock of it all hitting him just as Mike slots their lips together properly, angling them both with the gentle press of Will under his palms. Mike holds him a little tighter, thumbs swiping over his cheeks soothingly, as if to say, It’s okay, it’s just me, just focus on me, it’s okay.
Will lets his hand curl a little firmer into Mike’s shirt, and Mike lets out a little sigh. Will feels blurred around the edges, caught between exhaustion and surprise, because the night so far has felt somewhat like a fever dream, and he still doesn’t know what any of this means.
I care about you, Mike had said. I want to.
Will doesn’t deserve this kind of care. Mike keeps kissing him like he does.
He’s firm when he kisses Will, as if he’s real, like this isn’t a dream Will’s muddled brain had come up with. Still, Will lets himself fall into it when Mike lets one hand drop to pull Will closer, until half of his body is fully on top of Mike, and – he’s warm. Mike is warm all over. It coaxes the chill out of Will.
The kiss is soft and sweet, just like Mike’s voice, and when they break apart, Mike lingers close to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, hand pressed against Will’s back and fingers tilting Will’s chin up. Will lets out a shaky breath, and he feels it when Mike smiles against his mouth.
Mike looks calmer than Will feels, something nervous crawling up his lungs while Mike leans back against the headboard, but he keeps Will close. Will keeps his hand on Mike’s chest. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“Okay?” Mike quietly asks, eyes flittering across Will’s face, chewing on his lower lip.
Will flushes, and nods in Mike’s hand. “Yeah,” he mumbles back, embarrassed, and Mike beams.
The remnants of his nightmare lay forgotten in the corner of his brain, and Will knows it’ll probably come back to haunt him tomorrow, when he has time to have his mind wander, and Mike isn’t around. He wilts at the thought, and bites his cheek.
Mike is close again, though, and when he slumps back against his pillow, he takes Will with him, won’t let him stray away when he rolls over and keeps him close. Will lets out a puff of breath when he lands against his pillow, facing Mike, and Mike grins bright when he doesn’t turn away.
His hand stays curled around Will’s neck, warm fingers pressing into his nape, and Will leans into the touch. Will feels a shot of bravery unlike himself take hold when he lets his hand move, drift across the minimal space between them when his fingers find Mike’s hand. He can’t help the nervousness in him when he slowly interlocks their fingers, palm against palm.
Still, the fleeting fear is worth it when Mike’s smile widens, and he leans a little closer, close enough for their noses to brush. Will’s heart jumps in its place, and he sucks in a breath. Mike squeezes Will’s hand in his.
I care about you, Mike had said. I care about you.
Just for the night, Will lets himself believe it.