Chapter Text
Just like the days before, Mike is gone when Will wakes up.
Pale morning light seeps through the curtains. The space beside him on the mattress is still warm, and he lets his hand linger there for a minute, fingers pressed to the fabric where Mike’s body had been.
For once, his limbs don’t ache. His head feels clear.
And he’s – warm.
Judging by the absence of digits on the alarm clock, the power is still out. Will stays under the blanket for a while, knowing it’s probably the warmest he’ll be all day.
It’s Mike’s blanket, he remembers – they’d swapped. Something twists low in his stomach. He closes his eyes, replaying their talk from last night in his head – the urgency in Mike’s voice as he opened up to him. Will knows how hard that must have been, because Mike is a lot of things, but he’s not good with emotions.
Will fights the urge, telling himself he shouldn’t do it, he really shouldn’t – but then he pulls the blanket over his face.
He stays very still, eyes closed, feeling the fabric against his skin. Then he breathes in – long and deep.
Mike’s scent has changed over the years – like that time he started using a different shampoo, or when Mrs. Wheeler found interest in a new detergent. There’s a hint of something a little more grown up and manly now – maybe his dad told him to use aftershave, even though there’s barely any reason to.
Beneath that, there’s the same scent that’s always been Mike – the one he’s known since they were five – smelling of a thousand versions of them, of sleepovers, suppressed thoughts, and butterflies. He’s breathed it in all night, his face inches from the fabric.
Now he presses it into his face, his blood rushing, the sound of his heartbeat inside his ears, suddenly feeling lightheaded and greedy. He’s gonna pretend he didn’t do this later, but for now, he lets himself. Just once – for that smaller, stupider version of him who thought just wanting something was enough to make it real.
Eventually, he forces himself out of bed. The cold in the room is a shocking contrast to the warmth under the covers. He moves quietly, carrying his blanket and pillow back down to the basement, careful not to make the floorboards creak.
He spots the drawing from last night on the table, lying out there for everyone to see and it feels too intimate now in the daylight, too raw and revealing.
When he reaches the kitchen, it’s just Mike, his dad and Holly, their faces pale and drawn, tired from the cold.
The radio on the table plays a song through static, loud enough to prevent conversation.
“Morning,” Will mumbles, sliding into the chair beside Mike. When he looks up, Mike is already looking at him, his hair a mess and Will waits for him to avert his eyes, but he doesn’t. Will’s eyes move over Mike’s frame, remembering the way Mike had sat still for him last night, despite the tremor in his shoulders.
“Morning,” Mike says with a cautious smile.
But there’s another pair of eyes that Will can feel on his face. He looks across the table and meets Mr. Wheeler’s gaze – no newspaper in sight, one elbow on the table, eyes sharp, mouth tight, against a coffee mug.
It’s strange to see him like that. To see him just be there.
It sends a chill down Will’s spine.
Across the table, Holly pushes a piece of bread onto Will’s plate and nudges the marmalade toward him, her fingers leaving a sticky print on the glass.
Will lets her decide what he’s having for breakfast – he couldn’t choose anyway. When he flips the lid, she smiles up at him.
Now that it’s been three full days without power – and no TV – Ted Wheeler is slowly going insane.
On the first evening of the power outage, he’d sat silently on his La-Z-Boy, staring at the blank TV screen, the newspapers from last week draped all over the couch and his lap, the radio on full blast. He started frantically working through all the crossword puzzles from the past issues, like they could somehow fix the blackout, muttering incomprehensible words.
The next day he claimed the walkie, spending all day trying to reach authorities, mumbling to himself between bursts of static.
Yesterday, he started paying attention.
And today, he’s watching Holly draw.
It’s unclear if he’s actually watching or just looking in her direction, eyes glazed and unblinking. But the sight alone is enough to unsettle Will. Mr. Wheeler doesn’t just sit and watch his kids. He exists near them, not with them.
Mike and Nancy have always been given a lot of freedom – or disinterest – from their father, which is why they were able to use this house as base of operations for the past few years. With Mr. Wheeler no longer distracted by the TV or newspaper, he’s suddenly another pair of eyes watching their every move.
And then he starts asking questions.
“Nancy,” he says after lunch (another watery soup) while Will boils some water on the camping stove. Nancy’s already halfway out the door, coat half-zipped. “What exactly is it you’re doing all day?”
Nancy throws a quick look at Mike, like she’s worried about their dad’s mental state. The fact she’s been dating Jonathan for years is kept a secret, not just because Mr. Wheeler hates the Byers, but also because he could easily throw them out of the house if he knew. Which is why Nancy and Jonathan are usually anywhere but home.
“Just … out. With friends.”
“Do I know these girls?”
“Um, yeah. You remember Amy?” Will recognizes the name as one of Nancy’s childhood friends she hasn’t spoken to in years. Her tone is too light, and a more attentive father would’ve seen right through it.
She starts making up some excuse about preparing for college, dropping a few keywords that she knows her dad likes to hear (“application”, “preparation”, “extracurriculars”), and he lets her go.
At dinner, it’s Mike’s turn to be questioned.
“So, Michael. How’s school?”
Mike looks at his dad like he’s lost his mind. “Since when do you care?” he mutters and Will and Holly exchange a look, trying not to laugh. Will has always been fascinated by how easily Mike could talk back to his dad, because to Will, Mr. Wheeler was always a little scary – even if he didn’t do or say anything.
“I care, son.” Mr. Wheeler dabs his mouth with a napkin, his tone flat as usual.
Mike mutters something that sounds close to bullshit.
“Any nice girls in your class?”
“Oh my god, dad.” Mike’s groan is so dramatic even his mom hides a smile.
“It’s normal for boys your age to be interested in girls. I certainly broke one or two hearts myself when I was sixteen.”
It’s ironic, really. How when he’s questioning Nancy, the worst thing she could admit to is hanging out with boys – while with Mike, he’s expected to date, be a man and break hearts.
“Sure you did,” Mrs. Wheeler says with a smile, breaking the tension. “I’m boiling water for tea. Who wants one?”
The family spends the day by the fireplace, the warmest part of the house. Holly draws on the carpet, tongue poking out in concentration, occasionally asking Will for advice on the shading or the details.
Will tries to read, sitting cross-legged on the floor, when Mike joins him silently, a comic in hand. His knee brushes against Will’s and he doesn’t look up, like he didn’t even notice.
It feels casual – just them co-existing side by side, reading together like they used to. And maybe something has changed. Maybe things can go back to the way they were.
Will bites back a grin, hiding behind his book.
But the crackle of the radio, louder than the crackle of the fireplace, reminds him of Mr. Wheeler’s presence, sitting just five feet away from them with a critical lack of distraction, eyes moving around the room like he’s waiting for something to happen.
While looking through the room, his thumb and index finger turn the knob of the radio, clicking through the channels.
Again, Mike’s knee brushes Will’s, as he finds a more comfortable position on the carpet.
Holly hums quietly next to them.
“… no new information on the power outage. Residents are suggested to stay at home and keep warm. For anyone struggling with the cold, there are community spaces free –“
Static, then music. Will tries to block it out, focusing on the words on the page, but he’s too distracted by how close Mike’s knee is to his.
“… and we’re back with this month’s Top 40 –“
A click, more music.
Will throws a glance at Mike, who’s hunched over his comic, fringe falling into his face. He remembers drawing him last night, sketching out the curve of his nose, and now in the daylight he sees so many details that weren’t there last night. His fingers itch to draw him again, to draw him until he’s memorized every single detail to the last freckle.
He shifts a little, just to make their knees brush again, a touch so light it could have been accidental.
“… is this not the best song you’ve heard all year? –“
Another click.
Maybe they can be friends again. Go back to where they were, before everything changed. Maybe now they will work as a team, just like Mike had promised.
And maybe, whatever’s coming their way isn’t that scary after all, not when Mike’s there with him.
“… homosexual activists in San Francisco –”
There’s another click, then Mr. Wheeler seems to change his mind, twisting the knob back up the frequency. Will is still watching Mike, but then Mike is looking up in confusion, and their eyes meet and something is wrong, because there’s a glimpse of worry in Mike’s eyes, as they flicker over Will’s face.
That’s when the words on the radio finally catch up to Will.
“… they say it’s not a ‘gay disease,’ but you don’t see churchgoers getting it, do you?” the man on the radio says and Will feels himself freeze. “God sends us signs, and this one is about as clear as can be.”
Suddenly the room feels small and Will is too aware of his own body, sitting on a carpet with a family that’s not his own, next to the boy he’s secretly in love with.
And suddenly it feels like everybody knows. Did Mr. Wheeler skip back to the channel for him specifically? To let him know that he knows? Is this his way of telling Will to scoot away from his son? To stop looking at him?
“Maybe it’s time we start talking about personal responsibility,” the man on the radio says. “Instead of government handouts for prevention methods. The kids don’t need to know all that – at least the normal ones.”
The words are loud and raw and Will blinks; his gaze fixed on Mike’s furrowed brow. He feels the blood rush in his ears.
But then Mike averts his eyes, glancing back down at the page. Will shifts on the carpet, moving his knee a few inches away from Mike’s, as if touch is suddenly something that needs to be avoided. His breathing is shallow, and he wishes he could leave the room, but that would just give it away.
Instead, Will stares at the blurry page, the spaces between the letters, and tries to melt into the carpet.
Only when the broadcast is over and some Christian music starts playing, he can breathe again. Mr. Wheeler changes the channel, like he’s not interested anymore.
All day, Will can’t shake the feeling of being watched.
It’s strange, because the past days he’d been dreading the night, but right now, the night feels like the safest time of the day, and Mike’s bedroom the safest place in the house.
At around 10 pm most of them have gone to bed, and Will gathers his pillow and blanket from the basement. On the stairs he’s extra quiet.
He knows how this would look.
There were rumors after Will disappeared. Theories about how Will, at only twelve years old, was meeting up with some “other queer” in the woods, before being killed and left in the lake. Nobody said it to Will’s face, but the rumors at school were spreading far enough to reach him.
Somebody said Mr. Wheeler was one of the people talking to other parents about it.
To this day, the thought alone makes Will sick to his stomach.
He thinks about it now, as he silently closes the door to the basement, holding his breath in the hallway, fingers clenching the blanket.
When Will was found that fall, Mr. Wheeler banned him from sleeping in Mike’s room. Will would stay in the basement and Mike would sneak down at night under the noise of the TV blasting in the living room.
But now, there’s no TV. No snoring. The radio’s out. It’s just silence.
When the floorboards creak under his feet, Will stills.
“Who’s there?”
He holds his breath. The pillow and blanket under his arm feel heavy and stiff.
“Uh,” he manages. “Just me.”
There’s a silence. Will stares at the stairs to Mike’s bedroom right in front of him. He should’ve waited longer. He should’ve made sure Mr. Wheeler was already asleep or distracted by the radio, before sneaking up.
“Come in here for a minute.”
Will’s stomach twists. Holding his breath, he drops his bedding on the floor, before stepping into the living room on quiet feet.
Mr. Wheeler sits in his chair, the silent radio in hand, but it’s unclear what exactly he’s doing. Probably just going in and out of sleep.
A single candle burns on the table, its flickering light trembling across the room, casting shadows that twist the furniture into eerie shapes.
“Why are you up here?” he asks.
“Uh, I just needed some water.” Will’s face burns. There’s a bathroom in the basement, where he can get water from. “I mean, I needed a glass.”
Mr. Wheeler’s eyes slowly drag over Will from head to toe. It’s not even what he says – it’s that he doesn’t have to. The radio voice from earlier echoes through Will’s head.
And maybe Mr. Wheeler doesn’t mean to scare him. But there’s something about him, something father-shaped, that makes Will feel seen in the worst possible way.
Even when he was young, he always got this feeling from Mr. Wheeler, like he knows who he is. It’s like he can smell it on him, the way his mind is messed up, like his brain is filled with a virus that is contagious – and he’d have to make sure his own son doesn’t catch it.
It's what his own dad always said – that Will must’ve caught it from some other boy.
The hairs on the back of Will’s neck stand up, the air in his lungs turns thin.
Finally, Mr. Wheeler grunts and looks away. “Okay,” he mutters, releasing him.
Will backs out quietly, throat tight.
In the kitchen, he fills a glass of water, grabs his blanket and pillow from the hallway, and rushes downstairs.
It doesn’t matter how cold it is. He slips under the covers, presses his eyes closed, trying to detach from his mind and body, in hopes of being completely unaware of the freezing cold around him or his thoughts, or the gut-wrenching feeling of not only being perceived a freak, but actually being one.
Because they are right – Mr. Wheeler and his own dad. They’ve always been right.
It's strange, because the last few nights Will had been scared not of the things inside the house, but of what was lurking outside. Surely the homophobic dad of your best friend isn’t scarier than interdimensional monsters trying to find you.
But the darkness didn’t look at him like that.
He felt safe upstairs with his knee brushing against Mike by the warmth of the fireplace. But maybe that was an illusion, only possible through all the lies Will’s telling and all the things he keeps bottled up.
And maybe it is wrong what he’s doing – sneaking up into Mike’s bedroom. Maybe he should never have provoked this much pity, that made Mike feel like he needed to share a bed with – no. No, Will forced himself to stop thinking like that years ago. He’s not gonna fall back into it now. He’s not.
He curls up, hugging his legs to his chest and pulling the blanket over his head, hoping his breath warms up the air inside. His clothes are stiff from the cold and his thoughts aren’t helping.
Mr. Wheeler knows who he is. He’s known for years. Today he reminded him that this is his house, his son, and that he can kick Will out as easily as he let him stay.
And maybe that’s not true – maybe Mr. Wheeler wouldn’t actually kick him out. But Lonnie used to say it all the time, when Will was only six years old and they were still living together. Keep this up, and you’ll need to find another place to sleep.
Will squeezes his eyes shut. The basement feels small and empty. He’s right back where he always ends up – cold, scared, and hiding.
It must have been an hour at least, when a noise startles him out of his racing thoughts. The candle’s burned out, the room is pitch black. Will’s too far up in the blanket and the cold to bring himself to call out a reply. After a couple of seconds, the door creaks open either way, and there’s quiet footsteps in the dark, shuffling over the floorboards.
“Will?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer. Not until a small flare of orange light cuts through the dark and Will pulls his head from under the blanket. Mike is right there at the bed, his face wrapped in orange light, as he lights a candle. Their eyes meet.
“Are you okay?” Mike whispers, voice thick with cold.
Will wants to tell him. He wants to tell him everything, get this weight that's been building up over all these years off his shoulders. But he can't.
“Yeah.”
“Where were you? I waited.”
Will swallows the lump in his throat, hoping it’s not too obvious how miserable he is. He props himself up on one elbow. “Your dad – um.” His voice feels thick. “I had to go back.”
“Why?” Mike kneels by the mattress, setting the candle on the floor. His breath is visible in the air. He hugs himself, rubbing his arms. “What did he say?”
“Nothing, he just …” Will trails off.
“You should’ve just come up.”
“I told you yesterday, he doesn’t want me sleeping in your room, Mike.”
“He wouldn’t let you freeze down here if he knew how cold it was.”
“He would.” Will suddenly feels stupid, like he’s making it all up. He feels too fragile to fight. “He was like this when we were kids, too, remember? And he literally said it three days ago, he said boys our age aren’t supposed to sleep in the same –“
“Well, he doesn’t know shit,” Mike cuts in, sharper than usual. His fingers slip inside his sleeves and his shoulders tremble with cold. “And honestly, I don’t care what he thinks.”
“I can't talk back to him like you can, Mike.” The exhaustion from explaining himself weighs on Will. “He can kick me out of the house. It's not – I can't just do whatever I want.”
Mike's eyes move over Will's face, softening.
“Okay, then – how about we go upstairs together and if he hears us, I’ll tell him to mind his own business?”
Will quietly shakes his head. Nothing in the world can convince him to go up there again. Not tonight.
“It’ll be fine, Will. He was asleep just now.”
“No,” Will says again. “It’s not worth it.”
Mike sighs. He looks across the room. Then he disappears into the shadows and returns with the blanket and pillow from the couch that Jonathan barely uses. “Fine. Scoot over then.”
“What? Mike, no, it’s freezing down here –“
“That’s exactly why I’m staying.” Mike’s already crouching beside him, his knees brushing Will’s thigh and Will quickly scoots against the dead heater. He watches, as Mike lies down next to him, adjusting Jonathan’s pillow and pulling the blanket over himself. “Dude,” he mutters, a thick tremble in his voice. “This blanket is like an ice brick.”
“Which is why you shouldn’t sleep down here.”
“Could say the same about you.”
When Mike settles into the small space next to him, Will can’t help but tense up. This is different from upstairs – the mattress is narrow, the space crowded. Even pressed against the heater, with blankets and clothes between them, he can feel Mike’s shoulder and arm brushing against him. It's distracting enough to make him forget about how scared he was earlier.
“Great,” Will mutters, voice casual to not give away how his breath is hitching. “Now we can both freeze to death.”
Mike chuckles, but the noise is disturbed by the chattering of his teeth. From the movement of the blanket, Will can tell he’s rubbing his arms. They stare at the ceiling for a while, watching the candlelight flicker over the beams, the air clouded by their breath.
“You know,” Mike says after a while. “I liked it better when my dad didn’t care.”
Will laughs. “Yeah.”
“He’s been up in our business all day. Like, who does he think he is?” There’s a grin audible in Mike’s voice and Will turns his head slightly because he doesn’t want to miss it. Mike is close, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. A small smile on his mouth, a slight tremble of his lips.
“Sucks when your dad gives a shit about you.”
“Exactly.”
They used to bond over this: Both having shitty dads in different ways. While Mike’s dad is mostly harmful through being absent, Will’s was aggressive, always calling him names.
Mike seems to follow a similar thought trail. “I know my dad can be an asshole, but he’s not like yours. He’s too lazy to cause real damage. He just wants to scare people, but it’s usually just a bluff. Today he was probably just bored. You don’t need to take him seriously.”
Will remembers the radio broadcast and the way Mr. Wheeler looked him up and down earlier. Maybe it’s true that neither of these things meant anything, but it still made Will feel incredibly small.
“It’s still his house. His rules.”
“It’s a stupid rule. Why shouldn’t we sleep in the same room? It doesn’t make sense.”
Will watches Mike’s profile, that’s cast with orange light. Does he really not know? Have the blatant homophobic comments his dad muttered in those past years really just – moved past him?
“He thinks I’m … a bad influence,” Will says vaguely.
Mike snorts. “You? You’re the most innocent person I know, you don’t even drink at New Year’s.”
“It’s not that, Mike.”
Mike turns his head, eyebrows wrinkled in honest confusion. They’re lying so close, Will can see the freckles on Mike’s face. “Then what?”
He hesitates. “You know what he thinks of me.”
Mike’s frown deepens. His eyes search Will’s face. Will looks back, his eyes flickering between Mike’s.
Just like they had earlier on that carpet, when both boys were listening to the violent words on the radio.
Will watches, as a hint of realization washes over Mike’s face, but it’s cautious and hesitant. “You mean – he thinks that you’re – um.” Mike stops, his eyes a little too wide. “That you’re –“
Will cuts him off, before Mike can say a word that neither of them would be able to take back. “He thinks I’m weak and quiet and not interested in the right things.”
His face feels heated and there’s a part of him that wishes he didn’t interrupt Mike. A part of him wanted to hear him say it – this forbidden three-letter-word that their dads like to use as an insult.
“Yeah.” Mike lets out a breath, like he’s relieved he didn’t have to finish his sentence. “But it doesn’t matter what he thinks, Will. He doesn’t know you.”
He knows my secret.
“He doesn’t know you,” Mike repeats with more force.
But what if he’s right?
“Even if you were … um, these things.”
A silence spreads between them. Will’s heartbeat picks up and his eyes widen. Mike’s eyes flicker over Will’s face, then he looks back at the ceiling.
“I mean, even if you were … quiet or weak – which you’re not,” he says, stumbling over his words. “And even if you were … interested in things my dad doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know the first thing about you. He doesn’t know what you like or think about or what you’ve been through. He’s barely spoken to you. His opinion means nothing. Nothing.”
Will looks at the ceiling, blinking. He’s never been so close to speaking to Mike about this and he’s not sure if Mike can feel the underlying meaning of his words. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I guess so.”
“Tomorrow, you’ll come up to my room again, okay? No matter what my dad says. Cause this is – a really fucking shitty place to sleep.”
Will laughs breathily.
After a minute of silence, Mike shifts, turning to his side to face Will. He adjusts his leg and in the narrow space, it slips under Will’s blanket, knee bumping Will’s thigh. He doesn’t pull back.
“You’re still shivering.”
“So are you.”
“Yeah, this isn’t really working.” Mike sighs, eyes moving over their blankets. “Do you think we should …” He hesitates, making a vague gesture with his hand. “Share one blanket? We could stack them. You know, for body heat. That’s how they used to do it in the army. Or still do, I don’t know.”
Will stares at him. “The army?”
“Yeah, for warmth. Just – never mind.”
“No, uh. It’s probably a good idea. Your dad would hate it, though.”
Mike laughs and Will can’t help but join in – it’s freeing in a way, to joke about it and Will can feel the tightening around his chest loosen a bit.
There’s a rustle as Mike lifts the edge of Will’s blanket and slides under. The first rush of cold air makes Will shiver. Mike’s clothes are cold and not making this any better. He drapes his own blanket on top, so they’re both buried under the weight of two blankets.
“This okay?” Mike asks, his voice closer now.
“Yes.”
When they were kids, they’d done this a hundred times – sharing blankets and sleeping bags, giggling as they’d try to stay awake all night, only to fall asleep after barely twenty minutes.
Mike shifts again, turning his back to Will. Will does the same. They lie back to back, sweaters brushing. Mike shifts closer until their spines touch.
“Probably good to stay close,” Mike mumbles.
“Right. Like the soldiers.”
“Shut up.”
The room settles into silence. Will feels too aware of everything – his breathing, Mike’s breathing, the rustle of Mike’s movements, Mike pressed lightly against his back.
How would someone normal feel right now? Someone not in love with Mike Wheeler?
He doesn’t know. It’s hard to imagine because he’d done it for so long.
Then he hears a soft voice, a quiet “Good night.”
And Will remembers. This is Mike. He might not look like the one from ten years ago, but it’s still him. And it’s easier to breathe.
“Night.” Will allows himself to relax, closing his eyes and gently pressing back against him just to feel him there – solid and warm and all too familiar, the rhythm of his breathing humming against his back.
When he wakes up, the candle’s gone out. The room is pitch-black.
Mike shifts beside him, his limbs too long to be subtle, his elbow bumping into Will’s back.
“What are you doing?” Will whispers.
“Sorry. I can’t find a comfortable position.” He sounds awake, restless, like he hasn’t slept yet. “Do you want me to light another candle?”
Will considers for a moment, but he feels safe enough now. “It’s fine.”
Mike is turning again, his chest brushing against Will’s back. Then his voice is at the back of his neck, hesitant: “Can I … put my arm around you? I don’t really know where else to put it.”
“Uh, okay.” Will stays very still, as he feels Mike’s arm on his side. He’s careful not to touch Will with his hand. When Mike sighs, Will can feel his breath in the back of his neck.
“Your nose is cold,” Will whispers.
“Sorry,” Mike says, but doesn’t pull away from where his face rests against the skin of Will’s neck, just where his hair starts. “Your neck is warm, though. It’s nice.”
Will lets out a quiet breath. “Glad I can be of service.”
Mike laughs softly against him, breath tickling the thin hairs on the back of Will’s neck. Their breaths are short, their bodies a little tense, adjusting to the unfamiliar closeness.
“Is this okay?” Mike asks.
“Yeah,” Will says.
He stays still and listens, as Mike’s breathing slows down.
Now Will is the one lying awake, staring into the darkness, while feeling the warm air of Mike’s breath wash over him. His heartbeat is unsteady. But slowly, his body is heating up. He lies awake, until Mike’s nose is all warm and he can feel the heat radiating from the body against him.
He forgets about Mr. Wheeler, or Vecna, or his own inner voice, telling him to be ashamed and scared.
When his eyelids go heavy, he relaxes against Mike, and all that’s left is the feeling of being safe – here, on this bed in the dark, with nobody to witness the way Mike is pressed against him and the way his heart is beating a little too loudly inside his chest.