Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mike Wheeler is straight. A perfectly normal, straight, 16 year old boy who likes girls.

At least, that’s what he had thought until this very moment.

Because straight boys probably didn’t freeze mid-breath at the sight of their best friend looking at them from across a military zone after killing three demogorgons, blood at his nose and power still humming faintly under his skin.

Straight boys definitely didn’t think oh in a way that felt like the ground was shifting under their feet.

Mike’s mouth is dry.

The military zone is quiet in the way places get after something violent has passed through them, like the world itself is waiting to see if it’s safe to start moving again. Smoke hangs low over the cracked asphalt. Somewhere, a generator sputters and dies.

Will Byers doesn’t move.

He’s still staring at Mike, his hazel eyes dark and bright all at once, like whatever power that had surged through him hasn’t fully let go yet. There’s blood smeared beneath his nose now, dragged there by the back of his hand, and for a second, Mike can’t look at anything else.

“Holy shit.” Mike mutters under his breath.

It’s wrong, the way his chest tightens. It was as if every single thing that he felt towards Will had finally come crumbling down all at once, like an avalanche.
Will tilts his head, just slightly, like he’s trying to read something on Mike’s face.

The distance between them suddenly feels too big. Or maybe too small. Mike isn’t sure which is worse.

There’s something in his gaze that makes Mike’s chest ache — a question, maybe. Or a challenge. Or a plea he doesn’t yet know how to answer.
Mike takes a step forward towards Will.

Joyce Byers beats him to it.

She crosses the space between them in a rush, trembling hands already reaching, voice breaking as she pulls her son into a tight hug.
“Oh my god, baby,” she says, still in shock. “How did you–”

Mike doesn’t hesitate.
He’s already moving, breaking into a half-run across the cracked ground, words tumbling out of him as he goes. “He’s a sorcerer,” he says breathlessly, disbelief and awe tangled together. “A real-life, honest-to-god sorcerer—”

Will barely has time to look up before Mike reaches him.

The impact isn’t rough, but it’s immediate — arms wrapping tight around Will’s shoulders, pulling him in like gravity has finally won. Mike presses his face into the side of Will’s neck, breath shaking, heart hammering against his ribs.

The hug is everything.

Will freezes for a fraction of a second, startled, and then melts into it, hands clutching at the back of Mike’s jacket like he’s afraid of being let go.
“Mike,” Will breathes, the name slipping out like a release he didn’t know he was holding.

Mike holds on, firm and grounding.

Smoke, metal and ozone cling to Will’s clothes, but beneath it there’s warmth. Real, steady warmth — and Mike feels it seep into him, easing something tight and painful in his chest.

Too soon, Mike pulls back.
Not far, just enough to look at Will’s face.

Up close, Will looks exhausted. Pale beneath the grime, lashes too dark against his skin, eyes glassy like he’s holding himself upright on something fragile and temporary. Mike’s hands linger at his arms, thumbs pressing lightly, like he’s reluctant to let go completely.

“Hey,” Mike says quietly. “You still with me?”

Will nods, but it’s slow. Delayed. Like the motion costs him something.

“Where… where did they go?” Will asks. His voice is hoarse and thin around the edges. “The kids. Vecna.”

The question lands heavy in the air.

Mike’s stomach twists. He glances toward Joyce, who’s already stepping forward, her face tightening with the weight of the answer.

“Will,” she starts gently and carefully—

The lights flicker.
Not once.
Twice. Then again, sharp and violent, buzzing overhead like something tearing at the wires.

Will stiffens.

Mike feels it immediately — the way Will’s body goes rigid beneath his hands, breath catching hard in his chest. The warmth drains out of him all at once, replaced by a trembling that starts deep and spreads fast.

“Will?” Mike says, panic flaring. “Hey—hey, look at me.”

Will doesn’t.

His eyes roll back just slightly, unfocused, and then his knees buckle.

Mike catches him instinctively, arms wrapping around him as Will’s weight goes slack. They both go down hard, Mike hitting the ground first, cradling Will against his chest as he collapses.

“Will!” Joyce shouts, rushing forward.

The lights go out completely.

For a heartbeat, the world is nothing but darkness and Mike’s frantic breathing and Will’s limp body in his arms.

Mike presses his forehead to Will’s hair, hands shaking now, terror flooding in where awe had been moments before.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers desperately. “I’ve got you. Please—please stay.”

Will doesn’t answer.
And somewhere deep beneath the silence, something old and hungry stirs.

Chapter Text

They get Will back to WSQK in pieces
.
Not literally — Mike doesn’t let that thought finish, but the whole thing feels fractured, like they’re moving through a fog made of adrenaline and fear and the echo of flickering lights.

Joyce keeps one hand wrapped tight around Will’s wrist as they hurry inside, fingers pressed hard against his pulse. Mike has the rest of him, his best friend’s arm slung over his shoulders, Will’s weight heavy and unmoving against his side.

Mike doesn’t complain. He doesn’t even register the ache in his back.

Because Will is warm, too warm, and breathing shallow against Mike’s neck.

The door slams open.

“Holy shit—” Lucas says, halfway out of his seat.

Erica’s eyes widen. “Is he dead?”

“He’s not dead,” Mike snaps immediately, sharper than he means to. “He just— he passed out.”

Robin’s already moving, hands fluttering uselessly as she circles them. “Okay. Okay. Couch. Put him on the couch.”

Mike doesn’t need to be told twice.

He lifts Will fully then, arms sliding beneath his knees and shoulders, careful and practiced like he’s done this a thousand times before. Will’s head lolls briefly before settling against Mike’s chest.

Mike doesn’t let go.

He carries Will straight to the couch and eases him down, arranging him gently — blanket pulled up, head supported, one hand still wrapped around Will’s like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

Joyce brushes damp hair back from Will’s forehead, worry etched deep into her face. “He was asking about the kids,” she says quietly. “Right before he collapsed.”
Mike swallows.

Robin straightens abruptly, hands flying to her hips like motion is the only thing keeping her upright. “Okay,” she says quickly, words tumbling over each other, “before we do literally anything else, can someone please explain what the hell just happened? What killed the demos? Why is Will passed out like that??”

“He killed them,” Mike says. The words feel unreal in his mouth. “The demogorgons. Three of them. Just—” He gestures vaguely, uselessly. “Like it was nothing.”

“Okay,” Murray says slowly, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “That’s not nothing.”

Robin crouches near the couch, peering at Will’s face. “He’s burning up,” she mutters. “That’s… that’s not great.”

Lucas looks between Mike and Joyce. “What happened out there?”

Mike exhales, dragging a hand through his hair.

“After Vecna killed the soldiers and took the kids,” he says, slow like he’s replaying it as he speaks, “it was like something snapped. Or— unlocked.”
Everyone’s eyes flick back to the couch where Will’s unconscious body is lying on.

Mike’s jaw tightens. “Then the demogorgons came out of nowhere. They were about to—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “They were about to kill us.”

Joyce’s hand tightens in the blanket.

“And Will?” Lucas asks.

Mike’s gaze doesn’t leave him. “Will stood up. He didn’t hesitate. It was like he knew exactly what to do.”

The room is still now, listening.

“There was this… force,” Mike says, frowning, struggling for the right word. “Not like El’s. It was sharper. Like he was tearing something apart instead of pushing it away.” He shudders. “The demos didn’t even get close. They just started floating in the air, and suddenly all their limbs snapped. Like strings got cut.”

Lucas and Robin look at each other. “That’s what happened to the demos that were about to attack us too..” Lucas says, shocked.

Erica lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“He got a nosebleed,” Mike adds, softer. “And the lights started flickering. He was breathing hard, but he was standing. He was still—” He trails off, throat tight. “Still there.”

“And then he wasn’t.” Robin adds quietly.

Mike nods. “He asked about the kids Vecna took. Mrs. Byers started to answer, and then the lights went crazy. He stiffened, and then he just…
He trails off, glancing back at Will.

“He went down,” Joyce finishes softly.

Erica folds her arms. “So, to summarize: Will Byers is now basically a psychic wizard, wiped out three demogorgons with his mind, and he fainted like a Victorian child.”

“Erica,” Lucas says automatically.

Mike frowns. “He’s more like a sorcerer than a wizard. It’s because his powers are innate.”

Erica smirks and nods. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Mike sinks down onto the floor beside the couch, back against it, close enough to feel Will’s presence through the cushions. He doesn’t realize he’s still holding Will’s hand until Robin notices and gives him a weird look.

“This might be a delayed effect,” Robin says carefully. “Like El after she overuses her powers.”

Mike nods. His chest tightens. “He was fine when I was holding him,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Everyone goes quiet.

Joyce looks at him.

Robin’s eyebrows lift.

Mike flushes. “I mean— he stabilized. For a second.”

Will stirs, just barely, a soft sound escaping his throat.

Mike leans forward immediately. “Will?”

No response. But his fingers twitch around Mike’s.

And Mike thinks, with a certainty that settles deep in his bones, that whatever’s happening to Will — whatever comes next — he’s not going anywhere.

Chapter Text

They worry hard at first.

It’s the kind of worry that fills the room — too many voices speaking at once, too many hands hovering over Will like they might accidentally break him. Joyce keeps checking his forehead, her touch gentle but frantic, like she’s trying to memorize the heat of him just in case. Murray mutters about power backlash and delayed shock responses. Robin paces, then stops, then paces again. Lucas and Erica keep arguing about what to do next.

Mike doesn’t move from the floor.

He stays planted beside the couch, his right hand slightly brushing Will’s. Every uneven breath makes Mike tense, shoulders locking like he’s bracing for impact.

“He’s still burning up,” Robin says quietly.

Joyce nods, eyes glassy but determined. “He used to run fevers a lot when he was a kid.” She exhales shakily. “He always came back.”

He always came back.

The words lodge in Mike’s chest and refuse to move.

Hours pass. The panic dulls into something heavier, slower. Will doesn’t wake, but he doesn’t get worse either. No flickering lights. No tremors. Just sleep — deep and unnatural, but steady.

Eventually, Joyce yawns and straightens, rubbing her eyes. “We should all try to rest,” she says softly. “We won’t help him if we’re exhausted. We should also let the others know about this, once we can contact the Upside Down again.”

She hesitates, looking down at Mike. “You should get some rest too, Mike.”

Mike opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. He nods instead, because this isn’t the hill he wants to fight her on.

Everyone disperses.

Joyce heads to the back room. Murray follows. Lucas and Erica disappear down the hall. Robin gives Mike a long look — one that says I see you — before turning off the overhead light and leaving the room dim and quiet.

Mike stays.

The door clicks shut behind the last of them, and suddenly it’s just him and Will.

Mike shifts closer to the couch, pulling a blanket around his shoulders and settling against the cushions. After a brief moment of hesitation, he holds Will’s hand gently, grounding himself in the familiar shape of it, checking for his best friend’s pulse. He watches Will’s chest rise and fall, and listens to the faint sound of his breathing.
His thoughts drift whether he wants them to or not.

The battlefield. The blood at Will’s nose. The way he’d looked at Mike — like he’d been trying to say something without words. Like he’d known something Mike didn’t yet.

Mike’s eyes burn.

He tells himself he’s just tired. That this is what fear does to you. That best friends worry like this.

Eventually, despite himself not wanting to, he falls asleep.

Morning comes. It’s not gentle.

Mike wakes with a sharp inhale, heart slamming into his ribs, because something is wrong.

Will’s hand is cold.

Not just cooler — cold, like it’s been pulled from winter air. Mike’s fingers tighten reflexively around it as he pushes himself upright, panic spiking instantly.

“Will?” he whispers, voice rough with sleep.

Sunlight filters weakly through the windows, pale and wrong.

Mike presses his palm to Will’s wrist, then his cheek, dread pooling in his stomach.

Will isn’t warm anymore. He was still burning up last night. What happened?

The room feels colder than it should.

Mike’s breath comes out shaky.

“No—no, no,” he murmurs, scooting closer, one hand sliding up to Will’s shoulder. He gives it a careful shake. “Will. Hey. Wake up. C’mon...”

Nothing.

The cold presses in around them, prickling at Mike’s skin. He shakes Will again, a little firmer this time, panic bleeding into his voice. “Will. Please.”

Will inhales sharply.

His body jerks like he’s been yanked out of deep water, eyes snapping open as he gasps. Mike’s relief lasts exactly half a second—because Will’s eyes are wrong. Completely black. No white, no hazel. Just an endless, lightless void staring straight through him.

Mike freezes. He's seen this before. It was just like when- He brushes the thought off before it finishes forming in his head. There was no way. It was impossible.

“Will?” His voice cracks. “Hey—hey, it’s me. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

For a terrifying moment, Will just stares, breath coming fast and shallow, chest rising like he’s fighting against something invisible. Then his brows knit, confusion flickering across his face—and the black bleeds away. Color rushes back in like ink in water, hazel reasserting itself, human and familiar and Will.

Mike swallows hard, forcing his heartbeat to slow.

“Jesus,” he breathes, trying for a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “You—uh. You scared me.”

Will blinks a few times, disoriented. “Mike?” His voice is hoarse, small. “Why does it feel so hot.. like… like it’s summer in here?”

“Uh.. what do you mean? It’s pretty chilly to me.” Mike answers, worry flickering across his face.

That’s when Mike really notices it. Not just his hand—all of Will is cold. Unnaturally so. Mike doesn’t think. He just moves.

He leans in and wraps his arms around Will, pulling him carefully but firmly against his chest, like muscle memory takes over. Will stiffens for half a second, then melts into it, forehead pressing into Mike’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you think it’s hot in here? You’re freezing,” Mike says, quiet but urgent. “Your body temp shouldn’t be this cold.”

Will lets out a weak huff of breath that turns into a sudden sneeze. He scrubs at his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, groaning softly. “Ugh—sorry.” He sniffles. “I think I might’ve… caught a cold.”

Mike snorts despite himself, relief crashing over him so hard his eyes sting. He tightens his grip just a little, careful and grounding.

“Yeah,” he says softly, chin resting against Will’s hair. “We’ll deal with that.”

Will hums faintly, eyes slipping closed again—not unconscious this time, just tired.

Alive.

Mike doesn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Will doesn’t pull away from Mike right away.

They stay like that for a moment — quiet, breathing syncing without either of them noticing. The cold hasn’t fully left Will’s body, but it’s not biting the way it was before. Mike shifts the blanket higher around his shoulders, careful not to jostle him.

“You okay?” Mike asks softly.

Will hesitates.

“Yeah,” he says, then winces like the word doesn’t quite fit. “I mean. I think so.”

Mike waits. He’s learned how.

Will swallows. “I had a dream.”

Mike’s fingers still. “A bad one?”

Will nods, eyes dropping to where their hands are still loosely tangled. “It wasn’t… scary. Not like before. It was quiet.”
That, somehow, is worse.

“It was dark. Everywhere. And there was snow,” Will continues, voice low. “But it wasn’t cold. Not at first. Everything was still, like the world had been paused.” He frowns. “I was somewhere. But I can’t quite remember where I was. I could hear the lights buzzing. Like they do before they flicker.”

Mike’s stomach twists.

“What else?” he asks.

Will’s brows knit together. “I was standing in the middle of it, and I knew I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel something watching. Waiting.” He shivers. “It felt… patient.”

Mike squeezes his hand. “Hey. It was just a dream.”

Will looks up at him then, searching. “That’s what I thought too… until..”

Before Will can continue, footsteps echo down the hall.

Joyce appears first, brown hair pulled back hastily, worry written all over her face the second she sees Will sitting up.

“Oh, honey—” she rushes forward, hands already reaching. “You’re awake. How do you feel? Your temperature was so hot last night, I was terrified—”

Will flinches. He looks at her like he’s trying to remember her from a dream, recognition coming a second too late.

That lack of recognition. It’s small. Barely there. But Mike sees it.

Will’s shoulders tense, his body drawing inward before Joyce’s hands even touch him. Joyce freezes mid-motion, pain flickering across her face before she masks it.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, pulling back. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Will says fast. Too fast. He forces a small smile. “I’m just… tired.”

Lucas and Erica file in behind her, Erica immediately squinting at Will. “You look like you lost a fight with a freezer.”

“Accurate,” Will mutters, sniffling.

Robin lingers near the doorway, eyes darting between Will, Joyce, and Mike. She clocks it too — the tension, the way Will’s curled into himself.

Joyce perches on the edge of the armchair instead of the couch this time, wringing her hands. “Sweetheart, you scared us. You were unconscious for hours.”

Mike watches Will’s reaction more than he listens. The way his jaw tightens. The way his gaze flickers toward the far wall, like he’s listening for something only he can hear.

“I’m fine,” Will insists. “I just think I caught a cold.”

“A cold doesn’t make you freeze like that,” Joyce says, voice trembling.

Mike clears his throat gently, before putting his hand on Will’s shoulders. “I never got the chance to tell you, but what you did back there at the MAC-Z, the demogorgons.. everything.. It was amazing.”

Everyone looks at Will again.

Will shrugs, but a small smile creeps up his face and he blushes. “It was nothing.”

Mike isn’t convinced, and he tries to hold back a wide smile.

As Joyce reaches for the blanket to pull it tighter around her son, Will tenses again.

“It’s fine Mom, i’m not cold. Actually it’s kind of hot in here..” He says quietly.

Mike’s smile falters at that.
Hot.
The room feels the same to him — stale cold air, old dust, the faint hum of equipment, but Will shifts under the blanket like it’s too much, tugging it down a few inches. His skin still feels wrong under Mike’s hand. Cool. Almost chilled.

Lucas swears under his breath. “Okay, no. That’s not—” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once. “You’re freezing, you passed out, you killed three demogorgons with your mind, and now you’re saying it’s hot?”

Will winces. “When you say it like that—”

“How the hell do you even have powers?” Lucas demands, not angry, just amazed. “Since when does that happen?”

Will opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers curl into the blanket. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “It just… happened. Like ever since I connected with the hivemind, it was always there and I finally stopped holding it back.”

That lands heavy.

Joyce exhales shakily, pressing her hands together. “We need to tell the others. El, Hopper, Dustin. Nancy. Jonathan. Steve.” Her voice firms with resolve. “They need to know everything that’s happened.”

Robin nods immediately. “Yeah. Especially El. If anyone’s gonna understand power backlash and weird temperature stuff, it’s her.”

Murray pokes his head in from the hallway. “Glad that Byers Junior is awake, but we have a minor logistical hiccup,” he says. “The radio tower’s still busted.”

Of course it is.

Robin groans. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Murray says cheerfully. “Storm fried the receiver. We fix that, we can reach them.”

Lucas straightens. “Then we should go. Now.”

“I’ll come,” Joyce says instantly, already standing.

Mike’s heart jumps. “Mrs. Byers—”

“I’m not leaving him alone.” she says firmly.

Will glances at his mom, then away. He coughs and his shoulders tense again, that same subtle flinch, and Mike feels it like a warning bell.

Robin catches it too.

She steps in smoothly. “Okay, counterpoint,” she says, holding up a finger. “Will just woke up, he’s sick, and we’re about to drag half the team out into whatever nightmare mess broke the tower. Maybe he doesn’t need a whole anxious audience right now.”

Joyce hesitates.

Will clears his throat. “I’ll be okay,” he says quietly. “Mike’s here. And Robin.”

Mike doesn’t argue. He just tightens his hand on Will’s shoulder, steady and sure.

Joyce studies them — really looks — and finally nods. “We’ll be quick,” she says. “Yell if anything changes. Anything at all.”

They’re gone minutes later. Footsteps fading. Doors shutting. The radio station settling back into an uneasy quiet.

Now, it’s just the three of them. Mike, his best friend, and some random woman who he has never been fond of.

Of course, Mike noticed it. Back in the tunnels, and other places too. Robin and Will were technically inseparable. Always laughing, talking, hanging out. Will has never been this close to a girl before, and something about that makes Mike a little bit uneasy. Jealous maybe? Mike shakes that thought away. Why would he be jealous of his best friend being close with a girl? It wasn’t like Mike and Will’s relationship was exclusive or anything…

A part of Mike wishes it was.

Robin drops into a chair, folding one leg over the other, eyes sharp but gentle. “Alright,” she says lightly. “Emergency trio meeting.”

Will snorts weakly.

Mike stays close, closer than necessary, arm still warm around Will’s shoulders. He can feel how tense Will is, like he’s bracing against something unseen.

Robin watches the way Mike doesn’t move away. The way Will leans into him without realizing it. She smirks.

“So,” she says casually. “You wanna tell me about the dream?”

Will stiffens. Mike feels it immediately.

“It was nothing,” Will says again, too practiced.

Robin hums. “Funny. That’s what people always say when it’s very much something.”

Mike squeezes Will’s shoulder. Not to push, but just to remind him that he’s there with him.

Will exhales. “It was cold,” he admits. “But everything else felt… warm. Too warm. Like the air was wrong.”

Robin’s expression shifts — serious now.

“And when you woke up?” she asks.

Will hesitates. “I felt better.”

Mike’s stomach twists. Something in the way Will said it didn’t feel right.

Robin’s gaze flicks between them, landing on the way Mike’s thumb is rubbing slow, absent circles into Will’s sleeve. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Mental note. That’s not concerning at all.”

Will coughs again and huffs a weak laugh. “Sorry.”

Robin softens. “Hey. You’re allowed to be weirdly supernatural. It’s kind of our brand.”

Mike finally looks at her. “You noticed,” he says.

Robin raises an eyebrow. “The flinching? The temperature thing? The way you look at him like he’s gonna disappear if you blink?”

Mike flushes. “I—”

She waves him off. “Relax. I’m not interrogating you. Just… observing.”

Mike pulls his hand away from Will, visibly embarrassed.

“What are you talking about, Robin? There’s.. there’s nothing to observe. He’s my best friend. Of course I care about him.” He says, flustered.

Robin looks at Mike, and then at Will and smirks again. They see it this time.

Will’s ears turn pink.

Robin grins, fond and knowing. “Whatever’s going on,” she says gently, “you’re not dealing with it alone. Okay?”

Will nods.

Mike doesn’t say anything. He just stays exactly where he is, warm and solid at Will’s side.

Robin pushes herself up from the chair with an exaggerated stretch.

“Alright,” she says, clapping her hands once. “I’m gonna go be useful and save the world via questionable wiring choices. Try not to destroy anything with your magic powers while I'm gone.”

Will lets out a soft laugh. “No promises.”

She pauses at the doorway, glancing back at the two boys — really looking this time. The way Mike’s still half-turned toward Will, the way Will’s knee is angled in without thinking. Robin smiles, small and knowing.

“I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” she says gently.

Then she’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall.

Mike lets out a small sigh of relief. The atmosphere of the room feels better without her.

Mike glances at Will and shifts, suddenly aware of how close they are. His hand is resting on Will’s shoulder again, thumb warm against the fabric of his shirt. He considers moving it.

He doesn’t.

“So,” Mike says, because silence has always made him nervous. “Uh. How’s your head? How’s the cold?”

Will huffs softly. “A bit better. I think it’s mostly gone—”

He sneezes, sharp and sudden, barely turning his head in time.

Mike freezes.

Will groans, rubbing at his nose. “Okay. Maybe not mostly.”

Mike snorts before he can stop himself. “Wow. Incredible timing.”

Will’s cheeks pink a little, eyes ducking away. “Shut up.”

And—god.

The way his voice goes a little hoarse when he’s sick. The way he scrunches his nose like that afterward, embarrassed and annoyed at his own body. It’s—

Cute.

The thought hits Mike so hard it almost knocks the breath out of him.

Cute?

He frowns at the floor, brain scrambling to backpedal. No. That’s not— he doesn’t mean it like that. He just means… objectively. In a normal way. People can notice things without it meaning anything. It’s just a sneeze.

Best friends sneeze.

Best friends can think their best friend is cute sometimes. Right?

Right.

Mike smiles after regaining his composure, but the smile quickly disappears. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Will’s gaze flickers up to his face. “I’m sorry.”

Mike shakes his head immediately. “No. Don’t— don’t be. I just…” He trails off, rubbing his thumb along Will’s sleeve without realizing it. “When you fainted after killing the demos.. I thought I lost you.”

The words hang between them, heavier than he meant them to be.

Will swallows. “You didn’t.”

“No,” Mike agrees quietly. “I didn’t.”

Another beat of silence. This one softer.

Will shifts under the blanket, then winces. “It’s weird,” he says. “I feel awful, but also… kind of calm? Like my brain finally stopped screaming.”

Mike studies him. “Is that good?”

Will shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just— when you were holding me earlier, everything felt… less loud.”

Mike’s chest tightens. He gulps and forces himself to breathe.

“Yeah,” he says, a little hoarse. “You do that.”

Will blinks. “Do what?”

“Make things quieter,” Mike says, then flushes. “I mean— for me. You always have.”

Will’s cheeks turn even pinker.

“Oh,” he says.

Mike ducks his head, suddenly fascinated by the pattern in the carpet. “You should, uh. Try to rest,” he adds quickly. “I can— I can sit here. In case you need something.”

Will smiles in acknowledgement, small but genuine.

Mike risks a glance back up. Will’s watching him like he’s something solid and real, like he’s not going anywhere.

Without thinking too hard about it, Mike reaches for the blanket and pulls it up around Will’s shoulders, carefully and gently. His knuckles brush Will’s jaw by accident.

Neither of them moves.

Will exhales slowly. “Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For staying.”

Mike’s throat tightens. “Always.”

Will’s eyes flutter shut, but his hand shifts under the blanket, finding Mike’s wrist and curling there lightly — not gripping, just resting.

Mike lets it happen.

He stays exactly where he is, warmth pressed close, heart beating a little too fast, while the radio crackles faintly somewhere down the hall — and for the first time since everything started, the quiet doesn’t feel so empty.

Chapter Text

The radio tower fights them the entire way.

Erica’s perched on a portable chair, arms crossed, glaring at the exposed wiring like it personally offended her. Lucas is elbow-deep in dirt and cables, muttering under his breath.

Murray keeps offering suggestions that range from possibly helpful to definitely illegal.

Robin’s pacing again.

“Okay,” she says, stopping abruptly. “We’ve rewired this thing three times. If it doesn’t work now, I’m blaming the universe. Or capitalism.”

Joyce stands close, fingers twisted together, eyes flicking toward the radio station every few seconds like she can feel the distance between her and Will stretching thin.

“Try again,” she says softly. “Please.”

Lucas nods and flips the switch.

For a long second, there’s nothing but static — harsh and loud, the kind that sets your teeth on edge.

Then—

“—Hello?”

Joyce gasps.

“Hopper?” Her voice cracks immediately. “Hopper, can you hear me?”

There’s shuffling on the other end, then a familiar, breathless laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I hear you. You’re coming through.”

Relief hits the room like a wave.

“El!” Joyce says, already crying. “Are you there?”

“I am here,” El’s voice answers, steady but tired. “What is wrong?”

Joyce swallows. “Will.. he fainted after MAC-Z and.. woke up.”

There’s a pause from the other end.

“And?” Hopper asks, slightly confused.

Lucas steps in. “And he has powers now.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“He killed three demogorgons,” Lucas adds. “Like— instantly.”

El exhales sharply. “Is he okay?” She doesn't seem too surprised.

“He collapsed afterward,” Joyce says. “He’s sick. I think he.. caught a cold?”

“And Vecna took the kids,” Murray cuts in. “We weren’t able to save them which just sucks honestly.”

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice comes through, strained. “We’ll work on that. I'll go get Dustin and the others."

Joyce grips the table. “You need to come back. All of you. As soon as you can.”

There’s another moment of static, then Hopper’s voice, firm. “We’ll be on our way.”

The line clicks dead.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Then Erica hops down from the chair. “Cool. Crisis slightly less horrible.”

Joyce doesn’t wait. She’s already moving back toward the radio station, Robin right behind her.

The lights are low when they step inside.

The couch hasn’t moved. Neither has the blanket. But Mike has.

He’s asleep now, curled awkwardly on the floor beside the couch, shoulder pressed against it, one arm draped protectively across Will’s side.

Will’s turned toward him, face relaxed in sleep, his hand tangled in the front of Mike’s jacket like he reached for him without waking.

They look young like this, Joyce thinks.

They look.. safe.

Joyce’s breath catches.

For a moment, all she sees is the past — Mike sitting by Will’s bed when he was thirteen, refusing to leave after the nightmares. Mike sleeping in that awful hospital chair in ’84. A small Mike on the floor in her living room keeping watch on Will like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She smiles, small and aching and fond.

Robin looks at Joyce, then at Mike, and sees it too.

She doesn’t say anything. Just tilts her head, something warm and knowing settling behind her eyes as she clocks the picture in front of her.

“Yeah,” she murmurs quietly, mostly to herself, seemingly thinking about something. “I think i've got what's happening.”

Joyce pulls a blanket from the chair and drapes it gently over both of them, careful not to wake either boy.

For a couple more hours, they don’t stir.

___________________________________________

Mike wakes slowly.

Not all at once — just enough to register the dull orange glow bleeding through the windows, painting the walls in soft sunset colors. For a second, he forgets where he is. His neck aches. His arm is numb. Someone presses against his side.

Then he remembers.

Will.

Mike’s eyes snap open fully. He doesn’t move right away — just checks. Will’s still there on the couch, turned toward him, dark lashes resting against pale skin. His breathing is shallow but steady. One of his hands is still twisted in Mike’s jacket, fingers curled like he’d latched on sometime during their nap and never let go.

Mike exhales a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, barely a sound. “Will?”

No response.

Mike shifts closer, careful not to jostle him. He presses the back of his fingers to Will’s cheek automatically — and freezes.

Still cold.

“That’s… not right,” he whispers, panic sparking instantly.

He presses his palm to Will’s forehead, then his neck.

Same thing. Like Will’s heat has been leached straight out of him.

Mike sits up fully now, heart pounding. “Will,” he says again, louder this time, but still gentle. “Hey. Wake up. Please.”

Will stirs with a small, confused sound. His brow furrows, lashes fluttering before his eyes finally open.

For half a second, the moment he sees Will's soft hazel eyes again, Mike forgets how to breathe. Because that's what best friends do.

“Mike?” his voice cracks, rough and disoriented.

Mike grabs Will by the shoulders. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. You’re here. You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

Will blinks at him, breathing uneven, eyes glassy with leftover fear. “I— I had this really weird dream again,” he mutters. “It was cold. And loud. And—” He sneezes abruptly, turning his head just in time. “—achh’choo!”

The lightbulb above them pops with a sharp crack.

Both of them freeze.

Will’s breath stutters. “Oh—oh no. Mike, I didn’t— I swear I didn’t mean to—”

Mike’s eyes go wide. Not scared. Not angry.

Excited.

“Will,” he says slowly, like he’s afraid to spook him, hands still firm on his shoulders. “Did you see that?”

“I—I didn't see anything,” Will whispers, already spiraling. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what's happening, it’s like when I sneeze my head feels all fuzzy and then—”

Mike lets out a breathy laugh.

“Dude,” he says. “That was awesome.”

Will stares at him. “What?”

“The lightbulb,” Mike says quickly, glancing up at the smoking fixture and then back at Will, eyes practically sparkling. “It didn’t just burn out. It exploded. You're actually a real life sorcerer!”

“That’s not good,” Will says weakly, sniffling. “That’s— that’s really not good.”

Mike softens immediately, thumbs rubbing small circles into Will’s sleeves. It seems to have become a habit now. “Hey. Hey, no. I didn’t mean it like that.” He smiles, smaller now, warmer. “I just mean… you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Will’s nose wrinkles again. “I think I’m gonna sneeze—”

Mike reacts instantly. “Okay, okay— here.” He gently turns Will’s face away from him, grabbing a tissue just in time.

“Go ahead.”

“hh’TSH’uhh!”

A lamp sitting in the corner of the living room flickers wildly—then dies with a soft click.

Silence.

Will looks like he might cry. “Mike…”

Mike, however, looks like he might faint from joy.
“Oh my god,” he whispers. “Okay. Okay, I’m not freaking out. I’m not freaking out.” He pauses. “…I’m freaking out a little.”

He glances at Will and can immediately tell from his best friend’s eyes that he should change the subject.

Mike huffs despite himself. Relief and worry collide painfully in his chest. “You definitely still have a cold.”

Will sniffs, embarrassed. “I thought it went away.”

“Yeah, well, your body disagrees,” Mike says. Then his brain catches up. “…Except— it’s wrong.”

Will frowns. “Wrong how?”

Mike gestures vaguely at him. “You’re still freezing. Like— actually freezing. You were burning up a few days ago, and now you feel like you’ve been standing outside in August.”

Will shivers, hugging his arms closer to himself. “It’s… still really hot in here.”

Mike stares at him.

“…Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s bad.”

Will tilts his head, confused and tired. “Why?”

Mike’s mind races. Three years ago. The shadow monster. Power strain. Vecna. The way the Upside Down always feels colder than it should. The way Will had looked so comfortable in the cold, for just a second.

Something in Mike clicks into place. Right. Three years ago, when Will was possessed by the Mindflayer, something similar happened. He was unnaturally cold. His eyes were.. nevermind. The thing is, right now, Will didn't seem like he was possessed, at least to Mike, Will was still Will. But maybe, after unlocking his powers and strengthening that connection with the hivemind, its weaknesses might have become Will’s weaknesses too. Heat is the hivemind’s weakness. So that would mean…

“Because,” Mike says carefully, already reaching for the blanket — then stopping himself, “I think your fever’s backwards.”

Will squints. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Mike says firmly. “Opposite fever. New category. Medical mystery. We’ll— we’ll tell El later.”

Will lets out a weak laugh that turns into another sniffle.

“So what do I do?”

Mike’s overprotective instincts slam fully online.

“Okay,” he says, all business now. “First — no blankets.” He pulls the blanket off Will carefully and sets it aside. “Second — you need cold. Like, cold cold.”

He stands abruptly. “I’m getting ice packs. Water. Maybe we open a window. You stay right here.”

Will reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing Mike’s sleeve. “Don’t go far.”

Mike stills.

“I’m not,” he promises instantly. “I swear. I’m not going anywhere.”

He hesitates, then does something reckless and instinctive and very Mike Wheeler: he pulls Will into a loose hug, careful not to trap heat between them.

Will melts into it with a soft, relieved sigh.

“…You’re really warm,” Will murmurs.

Mike swallows, tightening his arms just a little before pulling away. “Yeah. Sorry. That’s on purpose.”

Will sneezes again, right against his shoulder.

Mike doesn’t even flinch.

The air crackles faintly.

Not a pop this time—just a low, electric snap, like static crawling over metal. The bedside clock flickers, its red numbers scrambling before settling again.

Will freezes. “Mike—”

“I know,” Mike says quickly, already rubbing Will’s back in slow, grounding circles. “You’re okay. That one was tiny. Barely anything.”

Will’s breath shudders, his nose pink and damp. “I don’t mean to. It just… happens.”

“I know.” Mike presses his forehead briefly to Will’s hair, then pulls back, focused again. “Okay. New rule.” He glances around the room, mentally cataloging every fragile object. “No sneezing near electronics.”

Will huffs weakly. “That’s… very specific.”

“I’m a very specific guy,” Mike says, then pauses. “Also a D&D genius. Remember that.”

He stands again, slower this time, making sure Will’s steady before stepping away. He cracks the window open just enough for cold night air to spill in. Will visibly relaxes as the chill reaches him, shoulders dropping.

“Oh,” Will breathes. “That… actually helps.”

“See?” Mike says, way too proud. He grabs a couple of ice packs from the freezer, wraps them in a towel, and kneels in front of Will like it’s the most serious mission he’s ever been on. “Okay. One here—” he gently presses one against the back of Will’s neck “—and one here.” Another settles against Will’s wrist.

Will shivers, but it’s different. Relieved.

“…Mike?” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“If this “cold” is really connected to the hivemind, to Vecna..” Will murmurs, eyes downcast, “what if it gets worse?”

Mike doesn’t dodge the question. He cups Will’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes. “Then we deal with it. Together. Like we always do.”

Will searches his face. “Even if I'm.. weird? Even if this is all.. crazy?”

Mike snorts softly. “Will, you’ve been weird since kindergarten. And also, crazy together. Remember?”

That earns him a tiny smile from Will.

“Yeah. Crazy together.”

Another sniffle builds, warning signs all over Will’s face. Mike reacts instantly, grabbing a tissue and holding it up.

“Okay, go. Let it out.”

“hh’kTSH’uhh!”

The window rattles—but stays intact.

Mike exhales in victory. “See? Cold helps. Science.”

Will slumps back against the pillows, exhausted but calmer. “You’re… not freaked out at all, are you?”

Mike hesitates, then admits quietly, “I’m a little freaked out.” He smiles. “But mostly? I’m just really glad it’s you. And that you’re here. And that I get to take care of you.”

Will’s eyes soften.

“Stay with me?” he asks.

Mike sits on the edge of the bed, hand firmly in Will’s.

“Yeah,” he says, no hesitation this time. “From now on, I’m not going anywhere. Not this time. Not ever.”

The lights hum softly—but don’t break.

Chapter Text

The WSQK radio station kitchen looks like a crime scene.

Mike stands in the middle of it, hunched over a hot plate that hums too loudly, stirring a pot with the same concentration he usually reserves for D&D campaigns.

The instructions sit nearby, folded and refolded until the ink’s smudged. He followed them. Mostly. The soup smells… fine. Probably.

He scoops some up, lifts the spoon, hesitates.

Then, without thinking, he slurps from it.

Too hot.

He hisses quietly, waving the spoon in the air, then frowns at it like it personally betrayed him. He tastes it again—carefully this time.

“…Okay,” he mutters. “That’s not poison.”

Behind him, Will lies curled on the couch, wrapped in towels instead of blankets, ice packs tucked where Mike was instructed to put them. His cheeks are pale, lashes heavy, but his eyes are open—tracking Mike’s every movement.

Mike turns, holding the spoon up. “Quality control.”

Will snorts weakly. “You used the same spoon.”

“Yeah,” Mike says automatically, blowing on it. “We’re best friends. That’s what best friends do.”

Will watches him blow on the spoon again. And again. The air between them feels oddly charged, like static waiting for something to happen.

Mike sits beside him, knees brushing Will’s thigh, careful not to trap heat. He lifts the spoon, still blowing gently.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Open.”

Will does. The spoon presses to his slightly chapped lips. He swallows slowly.

Mike watches his throat move like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“…It’s good,” Will murmurs. “I think.”

Mike lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Yes.”

He doesn’t even think about switching spoons. He dips it back into the pot, tastes it again, nods to himself, then feeds Will another bite—blowing, always blowing, like if he doesn’t, something bad will happen.

Outside, the radio tower hums quietly against the night sky.

_____________________________________________

In the Upside Down, the world is never quiet.

Ash drifts constantly, clinging to clothes, hair, lungs.

Hopper pushes forward through the decaying forest, shotgun in hand, eyes sharp. El walks beside him, gaze unfocused, like she’s listening to something deep beneath the rot.

“We should be close,” Nancy says, checking her bearings.
“The gate should be—”

Dustin trips over a root. “Fucking hell. I hate this place.”

Steve grabs him by the collar before he can fall. “You’re welcome.”

Jonathan lingers at the back, glancing over his shoulder. “Something feels off.”

El slows. “The hive is disturbed,” she says quietly. “Like it is in pain.”

Hopper grimaces. “That’s never a good sign.”

They keep moving.

Back in Hawkins, the radio station group lingers outside, waiting for a signal to come in from Hopper and the others. The night is deceptively calm.

Joyce sits on the hood of a car, arms wrapped around herself. Robin paces like she always does. Murray talks too much to fill the silence. Erica kicks at the dirt.

“This is the longest we’ve stood still without something horrible happening,” Erica says. “Statistically speaking, that’s bad.”

Lucas squints up at the tower. “You ever get the feeling something’s watching you?”

Everyone pauses.

“…Yes,” Joyce says softly.

They don’t see it at first.

Lucas is the one who trips.

His foot catches on something hidden just beneath the dirt. He stumbles forward, catching himself with a sharp breath.

“What the—”

He looks down.
The ground shifts.

Lucas drops to a crouch, brushing dirt aside. His fingers hit something slick.

Alive.

“Holy shit,” he says slowly. “Guys, I think I found something.”

They gather fast. Dirt peels away to reveal black vines coiled beneath the surface, faintly pulsing, twitching like they know they’ve been discovered.

Robin recoils. “Oh nope. Nope nope nope.”

Erica crosses her arms. “I knew it. Radio towers are gateways to hell. I’ve been saying this.”

Joyce’s heart sinks. “It’s attached to the radio tower. That's why we were having problems earlier.”

Murray swallows. “Still active.”

Lucas grabs the radio. “Wheeler. You there?”

Mike freezes mid-spoonful once he hears Lucas’s voice from the radio.

“Yeah,” he says carefully. “What’s up?”

“We found vines,” Lucas says. “Under the tower. Upside Down.”

Mike’s blood runs cold.
He looks at Will.

“I’m coming out,” Mike says, already standing. “Don’t touch anything.”

Will reaches for him without thinking, fingers catching his wrist. “Mike—”

“I’ll be right back,” Mike promises, squeezing his hand. “I swear.”

Outside, the air feels wrong. Mike circles the tower, heart pounding. He sees the vines—just barely visible beneath disturbed.

“I think we should burn it,” Lucas says quietly.

Mike stiffens immediately. “No. We shouldn’t.”

They all turn to him.

“If it’s part of the hive,” Mike continues, voice tight, “then burning it won’t just hurt something. It’ll hurt Will.”

Joyce’s eyes shine, torn. “I know,” she says softly. “But if we leave it, it spreads. We can’t let that happen.”

“So we just… gamble with him?” Mike snaps.

Erica rolls her eyes and exhales sharply. “Wow. Love these options. Burn the evil vines or let the evil vines eat the town.”

Mike looks back at the tower, at the dirt already shifting like it’s alive. He shakes his head, helpless, furious.

“…I don’t agree with this,” he says finally, voice breaking. “I really don’t.”

He swallows hard, forcing himself to meet their eyes.

“But if you’re going to do it no matter what," Mike adds, jaw clenched, “then be careful. Please.”

Lucas heads to the shed to grab gasoline and a lighter.

Inside, Will’s breath stutters.

The air hums. Pressure builds behind his eyes.

“Mike?” he whispers.

Outside, the fire catches fast.

The vines scream.

Inside the station, Will arches with a sharp cry, pain exploding through his chest like fire in his veins. The lights flicker violently. The radio screeches.

Mike notices it and immediately sprints back inside just in time to catch him.

“Will—!”

Will convulses once, twice—then goes limp.

“No— no no no—” Mike drops to his knees, cradling him, hands shaking. “Will, please— stay with me—”

Static screams from the radio. Joyce yelling his name. Lucas shouting apologies.

Mike doesn’t hear any of it.

All he knows is Will’s weight in his arms and the sick certainty that hurting the hive has hurt him too.

“I’ve got you,” Mike sobs, pressing his forehead to Will’s.

Outside, the tower stands quiet.

But in the Upside Down, something recoils.

Joyce doesn’t even realize she’s moving until she’s already running.

“God— God, I should’ve known,” she mutters, voice breaking as she bolts back toward the station. Her chest feels too tight, every breath sharp and shallow. “I’m so stupid. I knew it was connected, I knew—”

The door slams open hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Will?” Joyce calls, fear ripping straight through her. “Will, honey?”

The lights are out.
Every single one of them.

The station is plunged into near-total darkness, lit only by the faint orange glow of dying embers outside and the weak moonlight filtering through the windows. The air smells burnt— smoke and something rotten underneath it.

“Mike?” Joyce’s voice trembles.

She rushes forward and nearly trips over the overturned chair. Then she sees them.

Mike is on the floor, knees pressed into the carpet, Will limp in his arms. Will’s head lolls against Mike’s shoulder, skin ghost-pale. Dark shadows have bloomed beneath his eyes—deep, bruised-looking circles that weren’t there before, like something inside him has been drained hollow.

“Oh my god,” Joyce breathes.

She drops to her knees beside them, hands shaking as she reaches for Will’s face. “Baby— baby, can you hear me?”

Nothing.

Joyce’s vision blurs. “This is all my fault,” she whispers fiercely, like if she says it out loud she can take it back. “I shouldn’t have let them burn it. I shouldn’t have—”

Mike looks up at her.
His eyes are furious.
Not loud. Not screaming. Just burning.

“You told me it was a risk,” he says, voice tight and shaking. “You said it was the only way.”

Joyce flinches. “Mike—”

“He was stable,” Mike snaps, clutching Will closer like someone might try to take him. “He was drinking soup. He was laughing. And now he’s—” His voice cracks hard. “He’s out again.”

The others rush in then—Lucas first, then Robin, Murray, Erica right behind him. They stop dead the second they take in the scene: the darkness, the shattered light fixtures, the way the room feels wrong.

Lucas swallows, eyes flicking to Will’s face, to the dark circles under his eyes. “I— I’m sorry, man,” he says quietly. “I didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal. We’ve burned stuff before and nothing happened to him.”

That’s when Mike snaps.

He stands so fast Joyce barely has time to steady Will as Mike shifts him back into her arms.

“A big deal?” Mike explodes, voice cracking through the room. “Are you kidding me?”

Lucas stiffens. Erica goes very still.

“I always say something,” Mike continues, pacing now, hands shaking. “Every time something happens to Will, I’m the one saying, ‘Hey, maybe don’t do that,’ and nobody listens. And then he gets hurt. Again.”

“That’s not fair—” Lucas starts.

“It is fair,” Mike fires back. “Because somehow I’m always the only one who actually cares enough about Will to notice!”

“That’s not true,” Robin says softly.

Mike whirls on her. “Then why am I the only one holding him when he collapses? Why am I the one who stays up all night making sure he’s breathing? Why does nobody stop and think about what this stuff does to him?”

Silence.

Will doesn’t move.

Murray clears his throat. “Wheeler—”

“No,” Mike cuts in sharply. “You don’t get to tell me this was necessary when he’s the one paying for it.”

Joyce presses a hand to Will’s chest, feeling the shallow rise and fall. The dark circles beneath his eyes look worse up close—too deep, too unnatural, like the hive burned something out of him when the vines burned.

“We’ll fix this,” Joyce says, voice trembling but firm, tears in her eyes. “I don’t care how. We will.”

Mike finally stills. He drops back down beside Will, carefully taking him back into his arms, jaw clenched tight.

“I’m here,” he whispers fiercely, pressing his forehead to Will’s temple. “You don’t get to leave. Not again. You hear me?”

The radio crackles weakly somewhere in the dark. Static only.

The lights remain shattered, wires exposed, glass broken—like the building itself felt what Will felt and broke in response.

The radio crackles again—louder this time.

Not static.

“Joyce,” Hopper’s voice cuts through, rough and breathless. “We’re out. Gate closed behind us. We’re heading to the station now.”

Joyce’s breath catches. Relief hits first—sharp and overwhelming—then fear crashes in right behind it. “Hopper,” she gasps. “Thank god. You— you need to get here now. It’s Will.”

There’s a pause on the line.

“…Again? What happened?” Hopper asks, voice low.

Mike doesn’t look up. He just tightens his arms around Will, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like letting go would be the same as giving up.

Headlights slice through the dark twenty minutes later.
The door swings open hard, cold night air rushing in with them, carrying ash and rot and the sharp metallic smell of the Upside Down.

Hopper is the first one through.

He barely gets two steps inside before Joyce is there, slamming into him. Hopper wraps his arms around her instantly, crushing her to his chest like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I thought—” Joyce chokes. “I thought I would lose you again.”

“You didn’t,” Hopper murmurs fiercely into her hair.

Over Joyce’s shoulder, Hopper’s eyes land on Will.
His jaw tightens.

Dustin comes in next—and freezes.

“Lucas! Mike!” he breathes.

Lucas barely has time to turn before Dustin barrels into him, arms flung tight around his shoulders.

He glances at Mike and realizes that now probably isn't the right time.

“Dude,” Dustin says, turning back to Lucas, voice breaking despite his grin. “When we lost the signal, I thought you died or something.”

“Back at you,” Lucas mutters, hugging him back just as hard.

Steve and Nancy follow, both exhausted and filthy.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, like he’s not sure the room can handle anything louder.

“Hey,” Robin echoes, offering a small, relieved smile at Steve.

Jonathan slips in behind Steve, eyes immediately scanning the room—broken lights, scorch marks, the way everyone’s standing too close together.

Then he sees Will.

He’s across the room in seconds, dropping to his knees beside Mike. “Will,” Jonathan whispers, fear raw and unfiltered. “Hey, buddy.”

Mike barely acknowledges him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t loosen his grip.

El steps inside last.

Her eyes go straight to Will—and then to Mike.

She crosses the room quickly and wraps her arms around Mike from behind, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades.

“I’m here,” she says softly.

Mike leans into her automatically and brings one arm back to hold her, still cradling Will with the other. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t cry. He just breathes.

Sensing the unease from Mike, El pulls back slightly, enough to see his face.

She frowns.

“Mike?” she asks gently.

“I’m fine,” he lies immediately. Somehow, Mike has always lied when it comes to El.

El doesn’t argue. She just looks at Will—at the dark circles under his eyes, at how still he is—and her expression hardens with understanding.

“I can feel it from him,” she whispers. “The connection. It’s… damaged. Like something was torn instead of cut.”

She hesitates, then looks to Mike. “Can I?”

Mike nods stiffly.

El takes Will’s hand and closes her eyes.

Then El gasps and pulls back, shaking. “It hurt him. His mind is filled with nothing but static.”

A calm voice cuts through the tension.

“Of course it did.”

Everyone turns.

The short girl standing in the doorway is unfamiliar to most of them—shaved dark hair, eyes sharp and steady, posture relaxed in a way that feels earned through pain.

She steps inside without hesitation.

“Kali Prasad,” she says. “008.” Her gaze flicks to El. “She got me out of Hawkins Lab.”

Nancy’s eyes widen. “Wait— what?”

El nods. “She is my sister.”

Kali crouches beside Will, studying him closely. “The hive doesn’t like losing pieces,” she says quietly. “When you burned the vines, you shocked the entire network.”

Mike finally looks up at her. “Can you help him?”

Kali meets his eyes—and doesn’t look away.

“You can,” she says carefully. “But not by pretending this is just a sickness.”

Joyce steps forward immediately. “Whatever it takes.”

Kali nods once. “Then first, we stop hurting him by accident.”

Mike exhales shakily. Anger, guilt, and something like relief knotting together in his chest.

“Thank you,” he mutters.

Will stirs then—just barely.
A soft, broken sound slips from his throat.

Mike freezes instantly. “Will?”

His lashes flutter. He doesn’t wake—but his fingers curl weakly into Mike’s shirt, like his body remembers where safety is even if his mind doesn’t.

Mike presses his forehead to Will’s once again, voice trembling but fierce. “I’m here. You’re not alone. I promise.”

El watches him closely, worry etched deep into her face.

She squeezes his shoulder. “You are scared.”

Mike swallows. “…Yeah.” He doesn't lie this time.

Chapter Text

Jim Hopper doesn’t sugarcoat it.

He stands near the living room table, arms crossed, jaw set, eyes sharp. El’s beside him, quiet and focused.

The rest of them crowd the room. Too many people, too much noise — but when Hopper speaks, it all stills.

“Vecna didn’t just take those kids to scare us,” Hopper says. “He took them somewhere specific. For a reason. And I've come to notice that recently he’s been creating more and more tunnels, even after taking them.”

Lucas stiffens. “You mean the ones under Hawkins?”

“Yeah,” Hopper replies. “The ones that keep popping up exactly where we don’t want them to.”

Joyce’s hand flies to her mouth. “Do you think the kids are still alive?”

“I know Vecna took them for a reason,” Hopper says. “Which means there’s something worth finding.”

El nods slowly in agreement.

Nancy straightens, already in reporter mode. “Then we should move fast.”

“And carefully,” Steve adds. “Last time we rushed a crawl, we almost died.”

Dustin raises a finger. “Technically, Steve, you almost died.”

“Not helping, Henderson.”

The plan forms quickly after that.

Hopper, El, Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, Dustin, Lucas, Robin, Murray, Erica — they’ll move in shifts, keeping watch near the tunnel entrances. Kali will stay close to El as they go through the tunnels just in case anything goes wrong.

Mike listens.

He doesn’t speak until Joyce turns to him.

“And you should go with them, Mike,” she says automatically. “I’m not leaving Will alone.”

Mike shakes his head.

“No,” he says. Firm. “I’m staying.”

The room quiets.

Joyce stares at him. “Mike—”

“He’s sick,” Mike says, immediately, like it’s the only argument he needs. “Not just a cold. And whatever’s happening with his powers— it’s unstable. He needs someone here. Someone watching him.”

“I can—” Joyce starts.

“No,” Mike repeats, gentler now. “Mrs. Byers. You should go. You always do. You’re better at this.”

Joyce’s eyes shine, torn straight down the middle.

Hopper studies Mike for a long second. Then he nods.

“Kid’s right.”

Mike exhales shakily.

“We meet back up in three days,” Hopper continues.

“Wheeler house. If we find something sooner, we radio.”

Joyce hesitates… then nods. “Three days,” she says to Mike, voice trembling. “If anything changes—”

“I’ll let you know immediately,” Mike promises. “I swear.”

She pulls him into a fierce hug, surprising him. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Will stirs weakly on the couch at the sound, eyes fluttering open just enough to find Mike. His fingers curl instinctively into Mike’s sleeve.

Mike doesn’t move.

Robin clocks it immediately.

Dustin clocks it five seconds later.

Lucas clocks it and pretends he doesn’t.

“Well, dude.” Dustin says, slinging his backpack on. “Guess it’s just you and the haunted radio station love nest.”

Mike sputters. “It is not—”

Robin smirks. “Three days, Wheeler. Try not to fall in love.”

Mike’s ears burn. “Robin!”

Will sneezes in his sleep.

The lights flicker.

Everyone pauses.

“…Okay,” Erica says. “Yeah. We’re definitely leaving him in charge.”

One by one, people grab their backpacks and gear and leave the room.

Just before she leaves too, El finds Mike just as he’s taking out an emergency flashlight from his backpack.

The hallway is loud behind them — people talking, boots scraping, Hopper giving last-minute instructions — but she steps close enough that it all fades into background noise.

“Mike,” she says softly.

He turns. “Hey. El. You okay?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she gently reaches up and touches his face, careful and familiar, thumb brushing just under his eye like she’s done a hundred times before. Mike stills automatically, like he always does when she touches him.

Her hand is warm.

“I need.. to ask you something,” she says.

Mike swallows. “Okay.”

“Do you still love me,” El asks, “the way you used to?”

The question is quiet and steady. It doesn’t accuse him.

Mike’s chest tightens. He can’t help but be reminded of the fight that they had in California more than a year ago.

“I—” He hesitates, words tangling. “El, I care about you. A lot. You’re… you’re really important to me.”

Her thumb stills.

“That is not what I asked,” she says softly.

Mike looks at her, really looks — at the way her expression is soft but certain, like she already knows the answer and is just letting him catch up.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, voice cracking slightly.

El nods. “I know.”

She glances past him, toward the couch where Will lies half-asleep, curled in on himself. Her gaze lingers there — not jealous. Just knowing.

“You love him,” she says simply.

Mike frowns, confused. “Will? He’s— he’s my best friend.”

El chuckles softly, a sound more fond than sad. “Yes,” she says. “I know.”

She looks back at Mike, eyes shining but steady. “Our bond is strong,” she continues. “What we went through together — it mattered. It still does.”

Mike nods quickly. “Yeah. It really does.”

“But it is not the strongest one you have,” El finishes.

Memories flash back to El. She remembers how desperate Mike was when Will went missing, how he was willing to do anything to find him, and how that was the only reason why Mike even kept El around in the first place.

Mike opens his mouth to argue.
Then stops.
Because the words best friend don’t feel as solid as they should.

“I just—” he starts, then falters. “Will needs me right now.”

El smiles. Not broken or angry. Just… accepting. “That is why,” she says.

She cups his face fully now, forehead resting briefly against his, grounding them both in the moment.

“This does not mean we failed,” she says softly. “It just means we are… different now.”

Mike’s throat tightens. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Do not be.”

She pulls back, hands lingering a second longer before dropping. The distance feels strange immediately.

“So,” she says, trying — and failing — to sound casual. “I have considered this since California. With everything happening right now.. I want to find who I really am before trying to love another. So we will call this… a pause.”

Mike nods. “Oh.. Yeah. A pause.”

El studies him, eyes searching. Then she gives a small, knowing smile.

“Friends don’t lie,” she says softly.

Mike blinks. “What?”

She tilts her head, gaze flicking past him toward the couch before returning. “Just… remember that.”

Mike hesitates. “So we’re—”

She finishes it for him, voice gentle but certain. “Friends?”

The word hangs between them.

Mike swallows. “Friends.”

El nods, satisfied, even if it hurts a little. She offers him one last, awkward smile —

“Take care of my brother.”

Mike’s mind latches onto the word without him meaning to — brother.

It makes sense. It always has.

El and Will aren’t related by blood, but sometimes Mike thinks they might as well be. They move through the world the same way — quiet but observant, shoulders always a little tense like they’re bracing for something. Both brunettes. Both with eyes that seem to see too much. Both carrying something heavy and invisible that no one else quite knows how to name.

And now this.

Telekinesis. Flickering lights. Nosebleeds.

Mike exhales softly.

Superpowered twins, he thinks, almost fondly. Different storms, same lightning.

El clearing her throat snaps Mike out of his thoughts. He blinks, heat rushing to his face.

“I will,” Mike says quickly.

El hesitates, then adds, almost teasing, “You always do.”

She turns to go, stopping once more at the doorway.

“Oh,” she says, glancing back. “And Mike?”

“Yeah?”

She smirks. “Best friends do not usually look at each other like that.”

Mike flushes. “El—”

But she’s already gone.

Mike stands there for a second, heart pounding, mind buzzing — before a soft, congested sound pulls his attention back where it belongs.

Will stirs on the couch.

Mike’s at his side immediately.

Somewhere behind him, a door closes — not in anger or finality, but with the quiet certainty of something ending so something else can finally begin.

With everyone gone, the room has gone quiet in that late-night way — not peaceful, exactly, but hushed. The lights are dimmed low, the radio tower humming softly like it’s breathing in its sleep.

Will blinks awake slowly.

It’s not the startled kind this time. No gasp, no panic. Just a soft, confused frown as he shifts against the couch, nose red, eyes glassy with lingering sickness. They're still dark, but the faint color of familiar hazel bleeding back in warms Mike’s heart a little.

“Mike?” he murmurs.

“Hey,” Mike says immediately, already leaning over him. “Hey. Easy. You’re okay.”

Will squints at him, then relaxes when Mike comes into focus. “How long was I out?”

“Uh,” Mike says, rubbing the back of his neck. “A day. But— good news? You didn’t miss anything catastrophic.”

Will snorts weakly, which turns into a sniffle. “Low bar.”

Mike smiles despite himself. He grabs a tissue and hands it to him without thinking, like his body’s memorized the routine. Will takes it, blowing his nose quietly, looking embarrassed in that way that always makes Mike’s chest feel too tight.

They sit there for a second, just breathing.

Then Will looks around. “W-where is everyone?”

Mike exhales. “Okay. So. Big update.”

Will braces himself slightly, shoulders tensing. Mike notices — of course he does.

“Hopper has a plan,” Mike continues gently. “They’re going near the tunnels. Trying to find where Vecna took the kids. El’s with them. Everyone is.”

Will’s eyes widen. “And you?”

Mike hesitates — then says it plainly. “I’m staying here. With you.”

Will stares at him. “Mike, you don’t—”

“I do,” Mike interrupts softly. “You’re sick. And whatever’s going on with your powers? It’s not stable yet. We made a deal. Three days. We meet back up at my house.”

Will swallows. “My mom agreed to that?”

“Reluctantly,” Mike admits. “But yeah.”

Will looks down at his hands, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I don’t want to hold anyone back.”

Mike’s voice is firm, but warm. “You’re not.”

Will glances up at him, searching. “You sure?”

Mike doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yeah. I am.”

Will swallows, then hesitates like he’s weighing something heavy.

“I’m.. sorry,” he says quietly.

Mike shifts closer without thinking. “What? Sorry about what?”

Will’s fingers curl into the blanket. “Earlier. Right before I passed out. When they were burning the vines.” His voice drops. “It hurt..”

Mike goes still. Guilt creeps up his chest for failing to stop them.

“W-why are you sorry for that?” he asks carefully.

Will exhales, shaky. “It felt like— like someone poured fire straight into my chest. I couldn’t breathe for a second. Everything felt so intense.” He winces. “But no matter what I didn’t want them to stop. I knew it was important.”

Mike’s heart twists painfully.

“And then,” Will adds, softer, “when the signal went down and stuff broke… I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to. I keep breaking things.”

Mike blinks. “Will.”

“I’m serious,” Will insists, cheeks flushing. “The lights, the radio earlier, the—” He trails off, shoulders hunching inward. “I don’t want to mess everything up.” Tears start to form in his eyes.

Mike reacts instantly.

He leans forward, hands gentle but firm on Will’s shoulders, grounding him. “No. Hey. No. Don’t be sorry.”

Will looks up at him, startled.

“First of all,” Mike says, voice rising with emotion, “you didn’t break anything on purpose. Second of all, the fire hurting you is not your fault. And third—” He stops himself, exhales, then continues more softly. “I tried to stop them.”

Will blinks. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Mike admits. “I told them not to do it. I said it was risky. I just—” He swallows. “I knew that no matter what.. I couldn't convince them.”

Will’s eyes shine. “You really did all that?”

“Of course,” Mike says, like it’s obvious. “ I wasn’t just gonna ignore the fact that they were technically trying to set you on fire without realizing it.”

Will lets out a breath he’s clearly been holding for a while.
“Okay.”

“Okay,” Mike echoes.

Once again, they sit there in the quiet for a moment, the hum of the radio filling the space between them.

“I’m sorry,” Will says again, softer this time.

Mike sighs, fond and exasperated. “You’re really bad at this.”

“At what?”

“Not apologizing for things that aren’t your fault,” Mike says. He reaches up and gently tugs the blanket back into place around Will’s shoulders — then pauses. “Too warm?”

Will shakes his head. “No. This is okay.” Will ignored how the blanket felt like it was burning on his skin. He didn't want Mike to worry.

Mike nods, satisfied. “Good.”

Will hesitates, then says, “Thank you. For… trying to stop them. And for staying with me.”

Mike shrugs, suddenly shy. “That’s just— what best friends do.”

Will smiles faintly. “Yeah.”

The word settles between them, soft and warm despite the strange cold still clinging to Will’s skin.

Mike stays right there, close enough to feel Will’s breathing even out again, ready to intervene if the lights flicker or the cold worsens — overprotective and unapologetic about it.

Because if the world insists on hurting Will Byers for doing the right thing like it always does, then Mike Wheeler is more than happy to stand in the way.

“I caught you up,” Mike adds after a moment. “Mostly. About the plan. And… El.”

Will’s brow furrows. “You and El?”

Mike swallows. “We’re— friends. Now.”

Will’s breath stutters, just a little. “Oh. Why?”

“She.. wants time by herself. I guess. Or maybe i’m just an oblivious idiot who doesn’t know what the hell's going on around him.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” Will says quietly.

Mike lets out a short, humorless laugh. “That makes one of us.”

Will sniffles, then a small sneeze slips out of him.

“Hh’ts—choo!”

Down the hallway, a light bulb pops with a sharp crack, plunging that section of the room into sudden darkness.

Mike notices that.
He pretends not to.

They sit there as the night deepens, the radio lights blinking softly in the corner. The outside world feels far away — tunnels, monsters, plans — all of it distant and unreal.

Will sneezes again, small and pathetic. Nothing happens this time.

Mike sighs fondly. “Yeah, you’re definitely still sick.”

Will grimaces. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Mike says, gentle but insistent. He pulls the blanket up around Will’s shoulders, then pauses.
“Actually— wait. Too warm?”

Will nods, relieved that Mike had realized. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“Okay,” Mike says, immediately adjusting, grabbing a cool pack from the table and setting it beside him instead.

“We’ll figure this out.”

Will watches him for a long second. “You don’t have to do all this.”

Mike looks back at him, a certain softness in his eyes. “I know.”

The words land softer than anything else he could’ve said.

Will shifts, eyes drooping again. “I’m tired,” he admits, voice thick with sleep.

“Yeah,” Mike says tenderly. “I know.”

He helps Will settle more comfortably on the couch, adjusting the pillow, making sure the cool pack stays where it should. He stays close, knees tucked in, back against the cushions — close enough to reach out if Will shivers, or sneezes, or the lights decide to misbehave again.

Will’s eyes flutter shut. His breathing evens out.

Mike watches him anyway.

Because tomorrow, everything changes.

Tomorrow starts the three days.

Three days alone in a half-broken radio station with his sick, telekinetic, childhood best friend.

Three days of fevers that run cold, flickering lights, half-confessions and too-long looks and a growing, undeniable truth Mike Wheeler has been doing his best not to name.

Mike exhales, rubbing a hand over his face.

He has no idea what’s going to happen to him.

He just knows this: whatever it is, it already started the moment he decided not to leave.

Chapter Text

Day One

Mike wakes up because his arm is numb. That’s the first thing he notices — the pins-and-needles ache crawling up from his elbow, his hand curled wrong against the couch cushion. He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle anything, and then remembers why he slept like this in the first place.

Will.

He quickly opens his eyes.

The radio station is washed in pale morning light, the kind that makes everything look softer than it really is. Dust hangs in the air. The hum of the old equipment is still low and constant, almost comforting.

Just a few moments later, Will wakes up.

Not fully — not alert — but propped halfway up against the couch arm, knees drawn in, jacket slipping off one shoulder. His fluffy hair sticks up in every direction, face pale but calmer than it was last night. He’s staring at nothing in particular, like he’s still halfway caught between sleep and thought.

“Hey,” Mike says quietly, voice rough.

Will blinks and turns his head. It takes a second for recognition to settle in, but when it does, his shoulders ease.

“Morning,” Will murmurs. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been swallowing too much cold air.

Mike pushes himself up, rubbing his arm back to life. “How’re you feeling?”

Will considers this seriously, brows knitting together. “Not… as bad,” he decides. “I think I can sit up.”

Mike’s already moving, instinct taking over. He steadies Will’s back, slow and careful, letting him lean as much as he needs to. Will’s weight is lighter than Mike remembers — or maybe Mike just notices it more now.

“Tell me if you get dizzy,” Mike says.

“I will.”

Will sneezes immediately after, small and sharp, then winces.

Nothing happens.

They both wait anyway.

Mike exhales first. “Okay. Good. No… exploding lights.”

Will chuckles weakly.

Mike smiles before he can stop himself.

The room feels a bit too warm, like the air’s been sitting still all night. Mike glances at the window.

“Mind if I—?”

Will shakes his head. “Please.”

Mike cracks it open just enough to let cool air slip in. It brushes against his face, sharp and clean, and when he turns back, he notices Will breathe a little easier.

They sit there quietly after that.

No urgency. No panic. Just the sound of breathing, the hum of the radio, the morning settling around them like it’s unsure what to do with the two of them yet.

Will’s fingers fidget with the edge of the blanket.

“I don't know how many times i've said this but... thanks for staying,” he says suddenly, not quite looking at Mike.

Mike shrugs, even though his chest flutters a little. “Where else would I go?”

Will nods, like that answer makes sense. Like it’s obvious.

And maybe it is.

Mike lets the quiet stretch for a moment longer than necessary. He tells himself it’s because Will needs rest, because mornings should be slow when someone’s sick. Not because he likes this — the way the light hits Will’s face, the way his shoulders have finally stopped being pulled up around his ears like he’s bracing for something.

Best friends can like quiet mornings together where nobody else is around. That’s normal. Completely normal.

“You sleep okay?” Mike asks, mostly to fill the space.

Will shrugs, careful with the movement. “In pieces. Kept dreaming I was… somewhere cold.” He wrinkles his nose. “But not scary. Just— weird.”

Mike nods, pretending his stomach doesn’t drop at that. “Yeah. Well. Cold’s kind of your thing lately.”

Will huffs. “Unfortunately.”

Another pause.

Mike glances at him not once, not twice, but thrice, then away again. “Uh. You hungry?”

Will shakes his head immediately. “No, I’m fine.”

Right on cue, his stomach growls — loud and traitorous.

They both freeze.

Will’s ears go pink. “Okay,” he mutters, eyes wandering. “Maybe a little.”

Mike grins, relief bubbling up in a way that feels stupidly disproportionate. “Thought so.”

He stands, offering a hand. “C’mon. We’ll make breakfast. Or— attempt to.”

Will hesitates, then takes it. His grip is a little cold, a little unsteady, but solid. Mike keeps hold longer than strictly necessary, just in case.

Just in case.

They move toward the small radio station kitchenette together, slow and careful. Mike keeps himself half a step behind Will, ready to catch him if he sways. He tells himself it’s practical. That anyone would do this.

Still, his heart does something weird every time Will leans back without looking, trusting Mike to be there.

“You’re hovering,” Will says softly, not unkind.

“Am not,” Mike lies.

Will smiles.

As Mike reaches for the cabinet for some pancake mix, he has the fleeting, dangerous thought that this feels… domestic. Like something he shouldn’t be thinking about. Like something that belongs to a different version of him — one who isn’t straight, one who isn’t definitely overthinking this...

He shakes it off immediately.

It’s just making breakfast.
It’s just his best friend.
And best friends take care of each other.

Right?

Mike grabs the pan first.

He sets it on the stove with an air of confidence that is, frankly, unearned, then reaches for the box of pancake mix like it’s a trusted ally. He reads the instructions twice, lips moving silently.

“Okay,” he says. “Pancake mix. Butter. Heat. Easy.”

Will, standing close to Mike, watches him with clear skepticism. “You’re taking this very seriously.”

He squints a little. “Do you… actually know what you’re doing?”

Mike scoffs, already reaching for the leftover butter near the stove. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Will hums. “Uh-huh.”

“I’ve watched my mom do this, like, a hundred times,” Mike insists. “It’s basically muscle memory.”

“That’s not how muscle memory works,” Will says mildly.

Mike ignores him. “Well you'll just have to trust me, 'cause you're medically banned from kitchen duty.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“It is now.”

Mike tosses a slab of butter into the pan. It hits the heat and starts sizzling immediately, melting into a glossy puddle. Mike nods to himself like this was all part of the plan.

He pours pancake mix into a dark blue plastic bowl. Too much. He squints, then adds water. Too much water. He stirs anyway, splashing pale batter onto the counter, his sleeve, and the edge of the sink.

Will tilts his head. “Is it supposed to look like that?”

“It’s fine,” Mike says quickly. “The box didn’t say anything about texture.”

The butter’s starting to brown. Mike grabs the bowl, moves to pour—

Will laughs. It’s quiet and breathy, catching in his chest.

It turns into a sneeze.

“—hh’TSH’uh!”

The kitchen lights flicker — then go out completely. The radio hum cuts off. The stove clicks and dies.

They both freeze.

Will’s smile drops. “Oh. Um. Sorry.”

Mike blinks once, then twice. “Okay. Nope. That’s— that’s fine.” He waves his hands like he’s calming a startled animal. “You didn’t break it. You just… startled it.”

Will looks unconvinced.

Mike reaches over and flips a switch on the breaker box near the wall. The lights snap back on. The stove clicks to life again.

“There,” Mike says, way too cheerfully. “See? Modern technology. Very sturdy.”

Will exhales, shoulders relaxing. “You’re really bad at lying.”

“I’m excellent at problem-solving.”

Mike pours the batter into the pan. It spreads unevenly, a lopsided blob that immediately starts bubbling in all the wrong places.

“Mike,” Will says carefully, “that doesn’t look—”

Mike flips it too early.

The pancake slaps back down, folding in on itself.

“…Right,” Mike mutters. “Abstract art.”

Will snorts — then sniffles, rubbing at his nose.

Mike turns too fast, bumping the bowl. A small puff of pancake mix flies up and lands right on Will’s cheek.

They both stop.

Will blinks. “Did you just—”

“Oh my god,” Mike says. “I’m so sorry— hold on—”

He steps closer without thinking, reaching out. His thumb brushes Will’s cheek, wiping away the powder in a slow, careful swipe.

Too close.

Mike doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he pulls his hand back and, reflexively, licks the batter off his finger.

They lock eyes.

The light above them flickers violently — once, twice, three times — like it’s shorting out.

Mike’s heart jumps into his throat.

Will’s breath stutters.

“Oh,” Will says faintly.

Mike yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. “I— I mean— it tasted bad. I don’t know why I did that. I just— sorry.”

The light steadies.

The pancake burns.

They both pretend very hard not to notice any of it.

Mike turns back to the stove, cheeks blazing. Best friends clean pancake mix off each other’s faces. Best friends stand too close sometimes. Best friends definitely don’t mean anything by it.

He flips the pancake again, determined.

“Breakfast,” he says firmly. “Is happening.”

Will watches him, a small, unreadable smile tugging at his mouth, and says nothing at all.

Mike slaps the spatula down like he’s won a small but meaningful war.

“Okay,” he declares, staring at the lumpy, slightly-too-dark pancake in the pan. “We did it.”

Will peers at it doubtfully. “Did we?”

“Yes,” Mike says, grabbing a plate and scooping the pancake onto it with far too much confidence. “Look at that. Golden. Rustic. Very… homemade.”

He reaches for the syrup bottle, twists the cap—and immediately squeezes too hard.

Syrup rockets out, splattering the counter, the plate, and very nearly Will’s sleeve.

Mike freezes. “Oh shit. Not sure why i'm being so clumsy.”

Will laughs, real this time, head tipping back before he remembers he’s sick and has to lean forward again, sniffling. “Mike.”

“I panicked,” Mike says helplessly, trying to wipe syrup off the counter with a paper towel and only spreading it further. “Why is it so aggressive?”

He sets the plate down in front of Will like an offering.

“There,” he says. “Breakfast.”

Will looks down at it, then back up at Mike. “You know this is one pancake, right?”

“Quality over quantity,” Mike says immediately, a smile blooming on his face. “Also there are… backups.” He gestures vaguely at the pan, where something pancake-adjacent is still cooking.

Will takes a careful bite.

Mike watches his face like he’s waiting for a verdict from a judge.

“…It’s not terrible,” Will says after a moment.

Mike beams. “See?”

Another bite. Will hums thoughtfully. “It’s actually kind of good.”

Mike pumps a fist. “Yes.”

Will snorts, then sneezes—small and sharp.

The lights flicker once.

Mike barely reacts this time. He just reaches for a tissue and hands it over automatically, like this is already routine.

“Bless you,” he says.

“Thanks,” Will mumbles, wiping his nose.

Before Will can stop him, Mike reaches over and plucks the fork straight from Will’s hand, spearing a bite of pancake like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hey,” Will protests weakly.

“Chef’s tax,” Mike says around the mouthful. “Also I’m starving.”

They eat like that—sharing the plate and the fork, knees bumping when Mike shifts closer, syrup sticky on their fingers and laughter coming easy despite everything.

It’s messy. It’s dumb. It’s warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. Just like when they were kids.

Mike doesn’t let himself think about how natural it feels to stand here with Will, feeding him pancakes in a half-broken radio station while the world ends somewhere else.

Best friends do stuff like this.

He tells himself that firmly, flipping the next pancake in the pan with renewed determination.

“Okay,” he says. “Round two is gonna be even better.”

Will smiles at him over the rim of the plate, eyes soft.

Mike doesn’t notice the light flicker again.

They finish the pancakes eventually.

What’s left of them, anyway — crumbs on the plate, syrup smeared between their fingers, the pan abandoned in the sink like a casualty of war. Mike insists on cleaning up, which mostly involves shoving things aside and promising himself he’ll deal with it later.

Will’s tired again by the time they make it back to the couch.

He curls up automatically, knees tucked in. Mike drops down beside him without thinking, close but not touching — except their shoulders brush when he settles, and neither of them move away.

“So,” Mike says eventually, because silence with Will has always made him nervous. “Uh. Pancakes were a success.”

Will smiles faintly. “Debatable.”

“Hey. You lived.”

“That’s your metric?”

Mike grins. “Low bar.”

Will lets out a quiet laugh, then grows thoughtful, gaze drifting toward the far wall. His fingers twist in the blanket absentmindedly.

“They’re still out there,” Mike says after a moment, quieter now. “The kids Vecna took. Holly. I hope we'll be able to find them.”

Will’s smile fades.

“They won’t be hurt,” Will says, voice distant and certain. “Not yet.”

Mike turns to him. “What?”

Will blinks, like he’s just realized he spoke out loud. “He doesn't intend to kill them,” he says slowly. “He needs them.”

Mike’s stomach tightens. “Needs them for what?”

Will’s eyes unfocus for half a second. “He needs his vessels."

The word lands wrong.

Mike’s chest goes cold.

“…Vessels?” he repeats, carefully.

Will frowns, like he’s searching for the right explanation. “To.. do things. To do what he can’t.” He presses his thumb into the couch, harder than necessary. “They’re not really… people to him. Not yet.”

Mike swallows. Vecna’s voice from the MAC-Z echoes in his head — the way he talked about the kids like tools, like doors.

“Will,” Mike says quickly, forcing a lightness he doesn’t feel, “you’ve been unconscious for like… a day and a half. Your brain’s probably just— you know. Rebooting.”

Will blinks again, refocusing on him. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Yeah. Probably.”

The moment breaks when Will sneezes again.

“—h’TSHh’uu!”

Mike barely registers the lights flickering this time. He’s already reaching for the tissue, already leaning in.

“Here you go.”

Will scrubs at his nose, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” Mike says automatically.

They lapse into quiet again — but this time it’s heavier. Mike shifts, rubbing his palms together, nerves buzzing under his skin.

“I—” he starts, then stops.

Will looks at him. “What?”

Mike swallows. This wasn’t what he meant to say. It just… comes out.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Will frowns slightly. “For what?”

“For… California.” Mike’s voice drops. “For being weird. And mean. And not— not saying stuff I should’ve said.”

Will’s shoulders tense just a little.

Mike stares at his hands. “I was scared,” he admits quietly. “Of messing things up. Of… realizing things I didn’t want to deal with. And I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair.”

The radio hum feels loud in the space between them.

“I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t matter,” Mike continues. “You do. You always did.”

Will doesn’t answer right away.

When he finally does, his voice is soft. “I know.”

Mike looks up, surprised.

Will gives him a small, tired smile. “I knew you were scared.”

That somehow makes it worse.

“I still shouldn’t have—”

Will nudges his knee gently with his own. “Mike. You stayed. You’re here now.”

Mike exhales shakily, something loosening in his chest.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

They sit shoulder to shoulder, the couch warm beneath them, the world paused just long enough to let something fragile settle into place.

Mike doesn’t notice the light flicker again.

He’s too busy thinking about how close Will feels — and how terrifyingly easy it would be to stop pretending he doesn’t know why.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

At first, Will thinks it’s the heat.

It comes on all at once — heavy and suffocating, like the air has thickened around him. The blanket that felt fine a minute ago suddenly feels unbearable, clinging to his skin. His chest tightens. His head starts to buzz.

Then the ringing begins.

High-pitched. Distant. Like feedback from a radio tuned just slightly wrong.

Will squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his fingers to his temples. The sound doesn’t stop. It crawls deeper instead, settling behind his eyes, coiling around his thoughts.

Too hot.
Too loud.

Kill them all.

The thought isn’t his.

It drops into his mind fully formed, sharp and violent, like a command spoken directly into his skull. Will sucks in a breath, heart slamming painfully against his ribs.

No, he thinks desperately. No, no, no—

You and I, We will reshape the world.

His eyes snap open.

The room tilts. The edges blur. Across from him, Mike is talking — still talking — but his voice sounds far away, warped, like it’s coming through water.

Will can feel something inside him shift.

A pressure. A pull.

He catches his reflection faintly in the dark screen of the radio equipment and freezes.

His eyes are darker.

Not fully black — not yet — but the warm hazel is muddy now, shadowed, like ink bleeding into water.

Mike notices.

Will sees it in the way Mike’s smile falters, the way his posture changes instantly, alert and worried.

“I—” Will starts, then stops. His throat feels tight. Wrong. “I need the bathroom.”

Mike’s already halfway up. “Want me to—”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than he means it to. Will forces himself to breathe. “I just.. need a minute.”

Mike hesitates, clearly unconvinced, but nods. “Okay. I’m right here.”

Will doesn’t trust himself to answer.

He stands too fast. The ringing spikes. The world swims, but he makes it down the hall, one hand dragging along the wall for balance.

He shuts the bathroom door.

Then locks it.

The second the latch clicks, Will lurches forward over the sink, gasping.

His nose starts bleeding immediately — dark and fast, splattering against the porcelain. He coughs, sharp and wet, doubling over as something thick rises up his throat.

He gags.

A small, black, slug-like thing drops into the sink with a soft, sickening sound, twitching once before going still.

Will stares at it, breath shaking.

“..shit,” he whispers hoarsely. “Nope. This— this isn't right.”

His hands shake as he turns on the faucet, rinsing blood from his fingers, trying not to look too closely at the thing in the sink. The ringing hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s louder now — pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

In the living room, Mike frowns.

There’s a sharp crack from somewhere near the windows.

Mike’s head snaps up just in time to see a thin fracture spiderwebbing across the glass, spreading slowly from the corner.

“What the hell…?” he mutters, standing.

The lights flicker.

Once.
Twice.

The radio hum spikes into harsh static.

Mike’s stomach drops.

“Will?” he calls, already moving toward the hallway.

No answer.

The power surges again — lights dimming, then flaring too bright — and the crack in the window spreads another inch.

Mike doesn’t knock this time.

He reaches for the bathroom door, heart pounding, dread settling heavy in his chest.

“Will,” he says urgently. “Open the door.”

Inside, Will grips the edge of the sink, blood still dripping, breath coming fast and uneven as the voice curls warmly through his thoughts again.

Good, it murmurs. You’re listening.

The lights flicker violently.

And Mike pushes the door open.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mike Wheeler hears it before he understands it.

A sharp crack — thin, high-pitched — cuts through the radio station like a warning shot.

He looks up from the couch, heart jumping into his throat.

“What—?”

The window by the equipment table splinters outward, a hairline fracture spiderwebbing across the glass. The lights overhead buzz, dim, flare again. The radio hum stutters like it’s choking.

Mike stands immediately.

“Will?” he calls, already moving.

No answer.

The bathroom door is shut. Locked.

The buzzing grows louder. Not just the lights — the air itself feels wrong, like it’s vibrating too close to his skin. Mike’s chest tightens with a familiar, sickening dread.

“Will,” he says again, louder now. “Hey— talk to me.”

Still nothing.

Another crack tears through the room. The window fractures again, a second line branching off like it’s being pulled apart from the inside.

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope,” Mike mutters, breaking into a jog.

He reaches the bathroom door and knocks once — sharp, urgent.

“Will. Open the door.”

Inside, something clatters — glass, maybe — followed by a wet, choking sound.

Mike’s blood turns to ice.

“Will!” He pounds harder now. “Open it. Right now.”

A light flickers violently above the hallway, plunging everything into half-darkness. Mike grabs the doorknob and twists.

Locked.

“Okay,” he says, breath shaky but controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to spiral. “Okay. I’m coming in.”

He throws his shoulder into the door.

It doesn’t give.

Mike backs up and slams into it again — harder this time — the wood groaning under the impact. On the third hit, the lock snaps with a sharp crack, and the door flies inward.

The bathroom is chaos.

The lights strobe violently overhead, flashing between blinding white and sickly dim yellow. The mirror is fogged and smeared with red. The sink is splattered — blood streaked across porcelain, dripping slowly into the drain.

And Will—

Will is bent over the sink, shaking so hard his arms barely hold him up.

Blood pours from his nose unchecked, running over his lips, his chin. His breaths come in harsh, uneven gasps, like his chest can’t remember the rhythm anymore.

Mike is at his side instantly.

“Oh my god— hey, hey, hey,” he says, voice pitching high with panic as he grabs a towel, pressing it gently but firmly under Will’s nose. “Okay. Okay. You’re fine. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Will doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick up for half a second — too dark again — and Mike’s chest tightens painfully.

“Look at me,” Mike says, steady now, grounding. He cups Will’s cheek without thinking, thumb warm against cold skin. “Hey. It’s me. Mike. You’re here. You’re safe.”

The lights flare.

Mike doesn’t care.

He pulls Will away from the sink, guiding him down to sit on the edge of the tub, keeping one arm locked around his shoulders like an anchor. Will slumps into him immediately, all the fight gone, body trembling.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Will gasps. “I'm sorry, I just—”

“Shh,” Mike says quickly, cutting it off. “You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to do anything right now.”

His hands are shaking, but his grip stays sure. He wipes blood from Will’s face with the towel, careful, methodical, like he’s done this a thousand times before even though his heart feels like it’s trying to tear its way out of his chest.

Mike takes a slow breath and makes himself move carefully.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, like he’s afraid to startle him. “I’m gonna turn the water on, okay? Just to help you cool down.”

Will nods weakly, trusting him without question.

Mike reaches past him and twists the knob, adjusting it until the water runs cool but not shocking. The sound fills the small bathroom immediately. He tests it with his hand first, fingers flinching at the chill before relaxing.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “This should be good.”

He helps Will lean forward slightly, one hand still firm at his back, the other guiding him under the spray just enough for the water to reach his face. He keeps it gentle, careful not to overwhelm him.

The cool water runs over Will’s skin, washing away the last traces of blood, rinsing sweat from his hairline. Mike cups his hands and brings water up to Will’s face instead of letting it hit him directly, slow and deliberate.

“There,” Mike murmurs. “Just breathe. In and out.”

Will closes his eyes.

His shoulders loosen almost immediately, tension melting away as the heat drains from his body. He exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

“That feels… better,” Will whispers.

Mike’s chest tightens — relief, sharp and sudden. “Yeah? Good.”

He gently wipes Will’s face with the edge of the towel, brushing damp hair back from his forehead with his fingers. The touch is instinctive, familiar, like something he’s done a hundred times before.

Best friends do this.

He keeps reminding himself of that as he smooths water away from Will’s eyelashes, as he steadies him when he sways, as he murmurs quiet reassurances without even thinking about the words.

“You’re doing great,” Mike says softly. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Will leans into him just a little more, forehead tipping forward until it rests briefly against Mike’s shoulder. Mike freezes — then relaxes, adjusting his grip so Will’s weight is supported and safe.

The lights flicker once, faintly.

Neither of them look up.

After a few moments, Mike reaches to turn the water down, keeping one hand on Will the entire time like an anchor he refuses to lift.

“Okay,” he says gently. “That’s enough for now.”

Will nods, eyes still closed, calmer than he’s been all morning.

Mike wraps the towel around his shoulders, pulling him in just enough to keep the chill from setting in. He presses his forehead briefly to Will’s temple — grounding and steady.

“You’re safe,” Mike whispers, like a promise. “I’m right here.”

And for the first time since it started, Will believes it.

They stay like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Will wrapped in the towel, Mike still half-kneeling in front of him, one hand steady at his back like he’s afraid that if he lets go, everything will start shaking again. The bathroom feels quieter now — not calm, exactly, but contained. Like whatever almost happened has retreated just enough to linger in the corners.

Mike’s heart is still pounding.

He forces himself to breathe.

“Okay,” he says gently, after a beat. “You’re… you’re good now. I think.” He searches Will’s face, eyes flicking over every detail. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Will swallows.

For a second, it looks like he’s about to answer honestly. His mouth opens, then closes again. His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face — not like fear, but resistance. Like he’s pushing against something.

Inside his head, the air shifts.

That pressure returns — vast, patient, spreading through his thoughts like frost creeping over glass. The same presence he’s felt before. The same presence that he felt years ago. The same one that always sounds calm when it wants something.

Don't tell him the truth.

The command settles heavy and unquestionable, threading through his mind like roots.

Before Will can stop himself, the words come out wrong.

“I just—” he starts, then pauses, blinking. “I think I got overheated. And the cold made it worse earlier. That’s all.”

Mike nods immediately, relief flooding his features. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Will’s chest tightens.

Because that isn’t what happened.

“I’ve been sick,” Will continues, his voice strangely even, like it’s being guided along a path he didn’t choose. “Fevers mess with your head. And I panicked. That’s probably why the lights—”

He cuts himself off, breath hitching.

That wasn’t supposed to come out.

Mike doesn’t notice.

He’s already reaching out, squeezing Will’s shoulder gently. “Hey. Anyone would’ve panicked. I freaked out just watching.”

Will nods, even as something coils cold and satisfied behind his thoughts.

“Sorry,” he says again, quieter now.

Mike exhales and shakes his head. “Don’t. Seriously. You scared me, yeah—but you didn’t do anything wrong.”

As Mike helps him back toward the couch, Will glances once over his shoulder, quick, subtle — at the sink.

It’s clean.

No dark residue. No movement. No sign of anything at all, like it had never been there in the first place.

A chill crawls up his spine.

He doesn’t say anything.

They move back to the couch slowly, Mike keeping an arm around Will’s shoulders the whole way, guiding him down like he’s made of glass. Will sinks into the cushions, exhausted, towel replaced with a blanket that he subtly shrugs off, eyes heavy but awake.

The day winds down after that.

The light outside shifts from pale afternoon to soft gold, then fades toward dusk. Mike brings Will water, crackers, another cool pack. They don’t talk much. They don’t need to.

At some point, Will looks up.

Their eyes meet.

And they don’t look away.

It’s long — longer than normal — something unspoken stretching between them. Mike feels it in his chest, a strange pull, warm and terrifying all at once. Will’s gaze is open, searching, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t know how.

Or isn’t allowed to.

Mike’s throat goes dry.

He lifts a hand slowly, giving Will time to pull away if he wants to.

Will doesn’t.

Mike’s fingers slide gently into Will’s hair, stroking once, carefully, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he’s too rough. Will exhales, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

Neither of them speak.

The radio station is calm. The lights stay steady.

And deep beneath Will’s thoughts, something vast and cold settles in — patient, watchful, and very pleased.

End of Day One.

Chapter Text

Day Two

It's been one full day since Mike Wheeler and his boyf- no. BEST friend, were alone together at the WSQK radio station. And so far, Will is starting to lose it.

Mike wakes up rather peacefully today by the chill of the living room. Once he gains his full consciousness, he realizes that there's something cold wrapped around his arm.

He looks down, and, it's Will. Still asleep. Of course.

Mike freezes in his spot, refusing to move. He wished that he could stay like this forever, but he knew that it was inevitable that his arm would betray him and give up eventually.

He looks over at Will, and his heart starts racing.

The soft sunlight from the half-open windows from yesterday shines off Will's face, bringing out the features that Mike had never quite noticed, until this very moment.

There's a certain word in Mike's heart that could perfectly describe how his best friend looks right now. He can't quite describe what it is..

The golden sunlight, the bridge of his nose, his eyelashes, his breathing, especially his lips..

So.. delicate.

So.. perfect.

So pretty..

Yeah. Mike knew it now. The word that he was thinking about earlier was 'pretty'.

His best friend, Will Byers, was pretty.

Wait.

What?

Mike pulled his hand away from Will's face. He'd started touching Will without realizing it.

What did he just think?

Pretty?

He thought Will was pretty?

Mike lets out a small gasp of confusion. How- why did he allow himself to think that?

He shakes his head, hoping to shake the thought away too.

It doesn't work.

Mike lets out a small exhale, telling himself the exact same thing that he's been telling himself for years, ever since he met Will on the swingset that day when they were kids

It's normal to find your best friend pretty. Right.

After calming himself down, Mike gently nudges Will.

"Hey." he whispers. He can literally feel the cold radiating off his best friend. But it doesn't matter to him. It never did.

"Will. It's morning. Wake up." He whispers again, making sure he doesn't startle him.

__________________________________________

Wake up, William. It is time.

Will wakes up to the sensation of something wet and cold wrapping around his throat.

A vine.

He frantically looks around.

It's dark. And cold. There are vines all over. On the walls, on the ground, on him.

"Hello, William" A low, hoarse voice growls at him from the darkness. It sounds strangely human.

Will didn't need to see him to know who it was.

Vecna. Henry Creel.

A shadowy figure steps out from the darkness.

An ugly, decaying, humanoid monster walks towards him, wrapped in the same vines that were entrapping him.

Will swallows, a mixture of fear and rage clouding his vision.

Vecna gets closer, and closer.

But something happens once he reaches Will.

The vines around Vecna distort, as if transforming him. Into something else.

Will's vision goes blurry for a moment, but when he gets it back again, the thing standing in front of him was no longer a monster.

It was a human.

A man wearing a brown suit and a red tie. A man with golden hair and bright blue eyes, hidden under a pair of glasses. He was smiling at Will, but that smile felt.. insanely wrong.

"Looking different won't ever fool me, Henry." Will snaps. He tries to break free of the vines, but he can't.

Vecna- no. Henry, smirks.

"You are a smart one, William. I am impressed." He says, the smile starting to disappear. His voice sounds human now, but it is laced with malice.

"What do you want from me?" Will asks, feeling the vines slowly take away the physical energy from his body. There's no use fighting them.

"I want you." Henry answers, his voice so monotonous that it feels like he's reading it from a script.

"What?"

Henry takes in a breath, and begins again.

"You and I, William. We are so, so similar."

Will finds himself transported into a dark, endless void.

Henry isn't there.

But he hears two people in the distance. Something's happening. He walks towards the noise.

Suddenly, Will is hit by something wet. A water droplet? The droplets suddenly multiply, turning into a downpour of rain. It's raining. The two people come into view

Wait... He recognizes them immediately. Two boys.

It's.. him. With Mike, years ago. The fight in the rain. His own frustrated voice echoes loudly through the void. He winces.

"You've ruined EVERYTHING and for what? So you can swap spit with some stupid girl?!?"

Mike's voice bites back. Will is frozen in place the moment he hears Mike's voice from that night again. He's immediately reminded of how mean Mike was, how cold and detached he was.

"El's not stupid!"

Of course. Mike loved El. Unlike Will, El was always perfect in his eyes. Mike Wheeler loved Eleven, not him. Will tries to silence this thought from his head. It doesn't work. Because this wasn't what Henry thought. This was what he thought. And it couldn't be changed. Hot tears start to form in his eyes.

After a short moment, Mike from the memory snaps again.

"It's not my fault that you don't like girls!"

A small part of Will breaks. It was a memory that had hurt him so much, that he had decided to bury it deep in his memory forever, never to be brought back up again.

Until now. A tear runs down his cheek.

"We've been hurt." Henry's voice echoes loudly.

"Betrayed."

"Because we were weak"

More memories flash through the void space. Will being beaten up by bullies at school, while being called a fag and a queer. Mike kissing El passionately in front of him, while he watches from the side. Mike telling El he loves her, when she was fighting Vecna inside his mind, while he was encouraging Mike to do it because he wouldn't be able to tell her alone. Him crying next to the window of the van after giving Mike the painting that he made, with Mike fully believing it was from El.

He clenches his fists.

"Do you see it, William?"

"Just how cruel this world is?"

The void disappears. Will is back in the same place, vines wrapped around his neck and body, tears running down both his cheeks this time.

Henry stares at him with a stern smile. He raises an arm towards Will.

"You will help me reshape the world." Henry says.

"We could destroy every single thing that hurt us." His arm turns into a hideous claw.

Will struggles, trying to break free from the force that is holding him in place. Blood trickles down his nose.

"Don't try to resist this, William. Even if you resist me, you will never be able to resist IT."

Will's eyes widened.

"The Mindflayer has already chosen you. It had chosen you from the very beginning." Henry continues.

Will struggles again, trying to break free of Henry's grasp. A chill prickles across the back of his neck. The vines wrap tighter around him.

"No.. please." Will whimpers, before a cold vine is shoved down his throat.

Henry's eyes roll to the back of his head, his monstrous form slowly returning.

"Let Us Begin."

______________________________________________

The lights in the radio station flicker aggressively. Mike has Will in his arms, desperately trying to wake him up.

"Will, you have to wake up. Please." Mike says, voice breaking.

"Please." Mike pleads again.

Will gasps and sits up immediately, starting Mike. The windows around them shatter completely.

A powerful force pushes Mike from where he is sitting and slams him into the wall. Mike yelps, grabbing his arm in pain. However, it doesn't stop him from getting back to Will as fast as possible. He runs over with a limp and grabs Will by the shoulders. Fuck, his body is even colder than before.

"Oh my god, are you o-"

Something unsettling makes Mike unable to finish his sentence.

Will's eyes are black. Completely black. Much darker than before. Exactly like three years ago. It had been like this earlier, but this time, Mike senses something. Something is wrong. There's no humanity left behind those eyes.

Dark blood slowly trickles down Will's nose as he stares at Mike with no warmth left in him.

Goosebumps raise on Mike's arms. His instincts are telling him to run. But he doesn't.

"Will..?" Mike croaks.

A small wave of relief washes over Mike when his best friend opens his mouth to speak. However...

Will flinches, pulling himself away from Mike's grasp, immediately distancing them.

The moment he hears what Will just said, Mike's stomach drops.

"I-i'm sorry. W-who are you?"

Chapter Text

Mike’s breath catches in his throat.

For a split second, he thinks he misheard. That the ringing in his ears from being slammed into the wall is messing with him. That Will is just disoriented. That this is normal. That this is fixable.

But then Will looks at him again.

Not through him this time—
past him.

“I’m sorry,” Will repeats, voice thin and shaking. “Who are you?”

Mike’s hands tighten on Will’s shoulders before he realizes what he’s doing. He loosens them immediately, afraid that if he holds on too hard, Will might break. Or worse, pull away again.

“No,” Mike says quickly. “No, hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
He swallows. His mouth is dry. “It’s me. It’s Mike.”

Will’s brows knit together, confusion folding into fear. His breathing quickens, shallow and uneven, like he’s on the edge of a panic attack.

“Mike…?” Will echoes, like he’s testing the word. It doesn’t settle. It doesn’t stick.

The lights overhead flicker again, buzzing angrily.

Mike forces himself to slow down. He lowers himself so they’re eye level, even though every instinct in his body is screaming at him to grab Will and never let go.

“It’s okay if you don’t remember,” Mike says softly. “You just had a nightmare. A really bad one. But you’re safe. I promise.”

Will’s gaze darts around the room. He sees the shattered windows, the overturned chairs, the wires sparking faintly in the corner. His chest rises and falls too fast.

“This place is damaged,” Will says.

The flatness of his tone sends a chill straight down Mike’s spine.

“…Yeah,” Mike says carefully. “You kinda did that.”

Will blinks once. Then again.

“I don’t remember that.”

The temperature drops. Mike can see his breath now.

"I know." he says. "It's safe now. I won't let anything hurt you."

Something shifts in Will’s expression at that. Not recognition, but something darker. Something unsettled. His fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeves like he’s grounding himself, or trying to.

“You keep saying that,” Will murmurs. “Like it’s supposed to mean something.”

Mike flinches.

Before he can respond, Will suddenly jerks back, pressing both hands to his temples. His breath stutters.

“No—no, stop,” Will whispers.

Mike’s panic spikes instantly. “Will? Will, what is it? What do you hear?”

Will shakes his head violently.

“I don’t—” His voice breaks. “There’s… something. It’s loud. It won’t stop.”

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Mike says, reaching out again. This time, he doesn’t pull back. He cups Will’s face gently, thumbs brushing cold skin. “You’re here. With me. At the radio station. Just us. Okay?”

Will’s blackened eyes flicker—just for a second.

For that one second, Mike sees him. The Will he knows. The Will who looks at him like he’s home.

Then it’s gone.

Mike pulls away and rubs his arms, trying not to let his fear show. “It's okay. You don’t have to remember everything.”

Will looks back at him.

Something in his gaze sharpens.

“You’re lying,” Will says calmly.

Mike freezes.

“What?”

“You’re afraid,” Will continues, voice eerily even. “Your heart rate increased. Your breathing changed.”

The lights buzz louder, whining overhead.

Mike forces a laugh that sounds wrong even to his own ears. “Dude, you just broke every window in the building. Yeah, I’m freaked out.”

Will stares at him for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he frowns.

“You shouldn’t be,” he says. “Nothing here is dangerous.”

The radio crackles.

Mike’s stomach twists.

“Will,” he says, voice lower now. “Look at me.”

He reaches out again, instinctively gripping Will’s arms to keep him grounded—

Will’s head snaps up.

“Let me go.”

His voice is flat. Cold.

The lights go insane.

Every bulb strobes violently, flashing white-hot before plunging the room into darkness and back again. The radio screams with static. Metal groans. Papers lift and slam against the walls like they’re alive. The old crack in the wall starts to crack even more.

Mike stumbles back, barely keeping his footing.

“Okay—okay,” Mike says, hands raised. “I’m letting go.”

Will shoves him anyway.

Hard.

Mike crashes into a table, pain exploding through his side. He gasps, scrambling upright just in time to see Will standing perfectly still, hands clenched at his sides.

Blood runs freely from Will’s nose now, dripping onto the ground.

Unlike before, he doesn't react to it.

“You’re interfering,” Will says.

Mike’s heart is hammering so loud he can hear it in his ears.

“…With what?” he asks quietly.

Will’s eyes flicker—just barely.

“Stop asking questions.”

The lights dim again, plunging the room into a sickly half-glow.

Mike backs up a step without realizing it.

Three years ago flashes through his mind. The hospital. The cabin. The way Will’s voice hadn’t sounded like his own. The cold. The eyes.

“Oh,” Mike whispers. “Oh no.”

Will looks at him.

Something dark curves at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile. Then it disappears.

“Is there something wrong?" Will asks.

Mike’s blood runs cold.

“Will,” he says, voice shaking despite himself, “if this is—if it is—”

Will takes a step toward him.

The floor creaks under the pressure.

“I'm fine, Mike, don't worry about me." Will says softly.

Mike backs up again, until his shoulder blades hit the wall.

His instincts are screaming now. Not to leave, but to fight. To save Will.

“You’re cold,” Mike says desperately. “You’re bleeding. You’re not fine.”

Will stops inches away from him.

“You keep talking like I’m hurt or something,” Will murmurs. “I feel very fine. Better than normal, even."

The lights cut out completely.

In the darkness, Mike feels something brush his wrist—cold, vine-like, tightening just enough to warn him.

Will’s voice comes again, right by his ear.

“You should have left when you had the chance.”

Chapter Text

The pressure tightens.

Mike barely has time to gasp before something invisible slams into his chest.

He’s lifted off the ground like he weighs nothing.

“Will—!” Mike shouts, reaching out—

And then the world goes white.

His body hits the far wall with a sickening crack. His head snaps back, pain blooming sharp and fast—and then everything goes dark.

A few hours later. Mike wakes up to warmth.

Not physical warmth—but something steady and grounding. A sound, faint at first. A broken, uneven sound.

Crying.

Mike groans softly, his head pounding like it’s splitting in two. He tries to move and immediately regrets it. Every muscle and bone in his body aches like hell. He feels blood on the left side of his forehead.

“Mike—”

The voice is right there. Too close.

Mike’s eyes flutter open.

Will is kneeling beside him, hands hovering uselessly over Mike’s shoulders like he’s afraid to touch him. His face is streaked with tears, and dried blood has darkened the edge of his nostril. His eyes are red and glassy—

—and wrong.

One eye is hazel. Familiar and terrified.

The other is darkened, veined faintly black around the edges, glassy and unfocused like something else is looking out through it.

“Oh my god,” Will sobs. “Oh my god, you’re awake.”

Mike sucks in a breath, panic flaring instantly. “Will…?”

Will lets out a broken sound—half laugh, half sob—and then his hands are on Mike’s jacket, gripping like he might disappear again.

“I’m sorry,” Will says, words tumbling over each other. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t—I couldn’t stop it, I tried, I swear I tried—”

Mike struggles to sit up, ignoring the pain screaming through his skull. “Hey—hey—shit, Will, slow down—”

Will shakes his head violently. “No, no, don’t move, you hit your head, I—I thought I killed you.”

That word lands like a punch.

“What?” Mike croaks. “Will, no—Jesus Christ—”

“I lost control,” Will says, voice cracking completely now. “I lost it and it just—happened. I could feel it pushing and I pushed back and everything went wrong and I thought—”

The lights above them suddenly explode.

Not flicker—explode.

Glass rains down. Sparks scream from the ceiling. The remaining radios erupt into shrieking static. The air vibrates, pressure slamming into Mike’s ears until it hurts.

Will screams, clutching his head.

“I can’t stop it!” he cries. “I can’t—I can’t—I don’t want this, I don’t want it—shit, Mike—”

Mike doesn’t think.

He lunges forward and pulls Will into him.

Hard.

Will’s body is shaking violently, power tearing through him in jagged waves. The walls crack. Metal bends inward with a scream that feels alive.

“Will!” Mike yells over the chaos. “Will, look at me! Look at me, okay?!”

Will clutches Mike’s jacket like a lifeline, fingers digging in painfully.

“I’m scared,” Will sobs. “I’m so fucking scared, Mike. It’s in my head and it won’t leave and I don’t want to hurt you—”

“You won’t,” Mike says fiercely, voice raw. “You hear me? You won’t. You’re here. You’re with me.”

The room continues to tear itself apart.

Mike wraps his arms tighter around Will, pressing his forehead against Will’s. He can feel how cold Will is, how badly he’s shaking.

“Hey,” Mike whispers desperately. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, okay?”

The lights finally give out completely.

Darkness.

Silence—except for Will’s crying.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the pressure eases. The shaking stops. The air stills.

Will goes limp in Mike’s arms.

Mike sinks to the floor with him, heart racing, and pulls Will into his lap without thinking, cradling him like something fragile and irreplaceable.

Will sobs into Mike’s chest, shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

Mike closes his eyes.

His own tears finally spill over, hot and silent.

“I was scared,” Mike admits quietly. “I was. I still am.”

Will stiffens slightly.

“I knew it,” he whispers. “I knew you’d—”

“But I’m still here,” Mike cuts in, voice breaking. “I didn’t run. I didn’t leave. I’m right here.”

Will looks up at him. His eyes are still wrong—one dark, one normal—but there’s so much Will in his face it hurts.

“Why?” Will asks weakly. “After... everything.”

Mike swallows hard.

His hands tremble where they rest on Will’s back.

“Because I care about you,” Mike says. “Because I always have. Because when you get hurt, it feels like.. it’s happening to me too.”

Will’s breath catches sharply.

“You think I don’t notice?” Mike continues, words pouring out now, messy and unfiltered. “The way you try to make yourself smaller. The way you think you’re a burden. The way you look at me like you’re waiting for permission to exist.”

Will breaks completely, crying into Mike’s chest.

“I should’ve.. said something earlier,” Mike says, voice cracking. “I should’ve been better. I should’ve paid attention. But you matter to me. You always have. More than—”

He stops.

His throat tightens painfully.

“More than… fuck,” Mike exhales shakily. “More than I know how to explain.”

Will clutches at him like he’s afraid to fall apart.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Mike whispers. “I don’t care how messed up this is or how scary it gets. I’m not leaving you alone in it. Okay?”

Will nods weakly.

“I’m tired,” he whispers.

Mike gently brushes Will’s hair back, careful and slow. “You can sleep.”

Will hesitates, then carefully curls into Mike’s lap, like he’s afraid Mike will disappear if he lets go.

Outside, the last of the sunset fades through the shattered windows, the room sinking into complete darkness.

Will’s breathing evens out.

He falls asleep.

Mike doesn’t move.

He stays there, cradling Will, one hand absently stroking through his hair, over and over, grounding himself as much as Will.

After a while, Mike carefully reaches for the radio, hoping to reach Robin and Erica's shared radio.

“Robin?” he whispers. “Are you there? Come in.”

Static crackles.

“Holy shit,” Erica’s voice comes through. “Wheeler? You alive?”

“Yeah,” Mike says quietly. “Barely.”

“What happened?” Robin asks immediately.

Mike looks down at Will, asleep and peaceful for the first time all day, eyes finally fully closed.

“Will. …It’s bad,” Mike says. “But he’s okay. For now.”

Erica snorts. “Wow. Inspiring. Good luck trying to survive, lover boy.”

Mike grimaces. “Erica—”

The radio clicks.

Robin’s voice comes back softer. “Mike. You okay?”

Mike exhales shakily. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause.

“You don’t get scared like this unless it matters,” Robin says gently.

Mike’s throat tightens.

“There’s… something between you and Will,” Robin continues. “Something... real. And yeah, it’s terrifying. But don’t throw it away just because it’s complicated.”

Mike stares into the dark, fingers still gently moving through Will’s hair.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” he whispers.

Robin’s voice is warm. “Then don’t disappear.”

The radio goes quiet, and Mike sets it down.

He looks at Will again, asleep in his lap.

And despite the subtle fear still crawling under his skin—

He stays. Because for Will, Mike Wheeler always stays.

The building is dead silent now—no lights, no hum, no crackles. Just the distant wind pushing through broken glass and the slow, steady rise and fall of Will’s chest against his legs.

Mike keeps his hand in Will’s hair.

It’s instinct at this point. It always has been. Mike just isn't resisting it anymore.

Will’s head rests in his lap, cheek pressed against Mike’s thigh. There’s still dried blood beneath his nose, dark and rusted, a brittle reminder of everything that just happened. Mike notices it and feels another sharp twist in his chest.

Carefully—so carefully—he uses his sleeve to wipe it away.

Will stirs.

Mike freezes immediately, breath caught halfway in.

“Hey,” Mike whispers, barely audible. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

Will makes a soft sound, something between a sigh and a whimper, and curls in closer without opening his eyes. His fingers twitch, then latch onto the fabric of Mike’s jacket again, like he’s afraid to lose it.

Mike swallows hard.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m still here.”

The sunset from earlier is completely gone now. Whatever faint orange light there was has fully drained from the room, leaving only darkness and the outline of Will’s face when Mike blinks slowly enough to let his eyes adjust.

Mike’s still scared.

He doesn’t lie to himself about that.

Every so often, he flinches at a sound that isn’t there. Every time Will’s breathing changes, his heart stutters. His mind keeps replaying the way Will looked earlier—how cold his voice was, how wrong his eyes were, how easily he could’ve killed him.

Mike couldn't believe it. It felt like only a while ago when Will was that little, sweet boy with the brightest and most beautiful eyes in the world that Mike couldn't help but adore. The boy that wanted and needed Mike to protect him, not the other way round where Mike had to protect himself from Will. How did things change so quickly?

Mike sighs. Would a day ever come where they could all just go back to being kids again, playing D&D in his mom's basement all day, without a single care of what was actually going on in the outside world? He misses it all.

But the thing he misses the most is Will. His Will.

Will is a bit warmer now. Shaking only a little. Human.

And Mike can’t bring himself to pull away.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Time feels strange in the dark.

Will suddenly exhales sharply, breath hitching.

“No,” he whispers in his sleep.

Mike’s grip tightens instantly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stroking Will’s hair again, slower this time. “You’re okay. You’re not there. You’re with me.”

Will’s brow furrows. His lips part like he’s trying to say something.

“I didn’t—” Will whispers. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Mike says softly. “I know.”

Will relaxes again, sinking fully into sleep.

Mike closes his eyes for a second, resting his forehead against the wall behind him.

He thinks about everything Robin said.

About the bond. About not disappearing.

He thinks about how easy it would be to pretend this is just trauma. Just fear. Just survival instincts.

But it isn’t.

It never has been.

Mike exhales slowly and looks down at Will again.

“God,” he whispers, voice barely steady. “You scare the shit out of me. Not because of your powers, but because of.. how you make me feel. Everything that you do to me.”

Will doesn’t respond.

“And I don’t care,” Mike adds quietly. “I don’t care. I.. don't want to be scared anymore. ”

He laughs weakly under his breath, realizing the true meaning of what he just said. “I'm so stupid.”

He falls silent again.

Then, almost without realizing it, he starts talking—quiet, rambling, like the words have been building up for years with nowhere to go.

“You know,” Mike says softly, “I keep thinking I should’ve seen this coming. Not the… psychic apocalypse part. But you. How much you carry. How much you never say.”

He brushes his thumb gently along Will’s temple.

“I always thought if something was really wrong, you’d tell me,” he continues. “And now I realize you probably thought the same thing about me.”

His throat tightens.

“I don’t know how to say things right,” Mike admits. “I screw it up. I get scared and I say the wrong shit or nothing at all. But it doesn’t mean I don’t—”

He stops.

His chest feels too tight.

“I mean,” he tries again, quieter, “you matter to me. A lot. More than I’m ever gonna be good at explaining.”

Will shifts slightly, nose brushing against Mike’s stomach.

Mike stills, then resumes stroking his hair.

“Don’t go anywhere, at least, not without me." Mike whispers. “Please.”

⸻

The radio crackles suddenly.

Mike jolts, hand instinctively tightening in Will’s hair before he forces himself to relax.

“—Mike?” Robin’s voice comes through, hushed. “You still there?”

Mike grabs the radio, careful not to move Will. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“How is he?” Robin asks.

Mike looks down.

“He’s asleep,” he says quietly. “Finally.”

“That’s… good,” Robin says after a beat. “That’s really good.”

Erica cuts in. “We’re about ten minutes out. Tunnels are clear-ish. Which is not reassuring. Rest of the team is still in the Upside Down.”

Mike huffs weakly. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

There’s a pause.

“Hey,” Robin says gently. “You don’t have to explain everything. But—did he… come back? Like, him him?”

Mike hesitates.

“…Yeah,” he says. “Mostly. For now. I think so."

“That counts,” Robin says firmly.

Erica snorts. “Bare minimum standards, but sure.”

Mike almost smiles.

“Listen,” Mike says quietly. “If he asks… don’t tell him everything. He doesn’t need to hear it from anyone else.”

Robin doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

Static crackles.

“And Mike?” Robin adds. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Mike swallows. “I don’t know if I am.”

“You stayed for your boyfriend," says. “That’s not nothing.”

"Yeah." Mike smiles, then it falters. "Wait, boyfriend? That's not... ROBI-"

The radio clicks off abruptly.

Extremely flustered, Mike sets the radio down carefully, praying that Will didn't hear that.

He looks at Will, asleep in his lap, face soft and unguarded.

His hand keeps moving through Will’s hair, slow and steady, even as his eyes burn.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mike whispers. “You and me, we're a team. We'll always be.”

He leans his head back against the wall again, eyes closing.

Chapter Text

DAY 3

Day three feels earned.

Like the universe finally got tired of hurting them and decided to pause.

The radio station is still wrecked—burn marks on the walls, shattered glass swept into uneven piles, but it doesn’t feel hostile anymore. Just.. quiet. Like a place that’s been abandoned rather than destroyed.

Mike wakes up to the sound of paper moving.

Not footsteps, not voices, just the soft, rhythmic scratch of a pencil.

Will is sitting on the floor near the couch, legs folded beneath him, sketchbook balanced on his knees. He’s wearing Mike’s jacket, sleeves pulled over his hands. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, head tilted slightly as he concentrates.

Seeing his jacket on Will, heat creeps up Mike's face. He swallows his overwhelming feelings.

"Shit." he mutters, soft enough for Will not to hear.

For a second, Mike just watches.

Will looks… okay.

Not great. Still pale. Still colder than Mike remembers him ever being. But okay. Awake. Calm. Breathing evenly. No shaking. No blood. No screaming lights.

Normal.

Mike pushes himself up slowly, joints sore, and clears his throat. “You’re up early.”

Will glances over. Smiles. It’s real. A little tired, but real.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” he says. “You looked exhausted.”

Mike snorts quietly. “I wonder why.”

Will’s smile widens just a bit.

Mike notices then—he hadn’t yesterday, or maybe he just didn’t want to—that Will’s eyes still don’t look entirely the same.

They’re hazel now, even though the color leans toward dark brown. They’re still Will’s. But there’s something uneven about them, like the light isn’t hitting both the same way. One looks sharper, more focused. The other… distant. Like it’s looking through something instead of at it.

Mike blinks and looks away.

He tells himself it’s nothing. Bad lighting. Lack of sleep. Classic Mike Wheeler overthinking.

“Feel any better?” Mike asks, moving closer.

Will thinks about it. Really thinks.

“I feel… lighter,” he says slowly. “Like something stopped pressing on me. But also kind of empty.”

Mike nods. “That’s probably normal. I mean—after everything.”

“Yeah,” Will says. “Normal.”

They eat together again. Same boring leftover food. Same complaints. Will teases Mike for rationing like it’s the apocalypse. Mike says it basically is. Will laughs, soft and breathy, and Mike feels something in his chest unclench.

The morning passes easily.

They talk about dumb stuff. Movies they want to rewatch when this is over. Dustin’s inevitable “I told you so.” Lucas being the only one who ever plans ahead. Erica calling Mike useless over the radio earlier that day.

It feels familiar. Comfortable.

But every so often, Mike trips over something invisible.

“Remember when we camped out in the basement during the storm?” Mike says at one point, absentmindedly stacking broken radio parts. “At school?”

Will pauses mid-draw. “Storm?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “In fifth grade. Snowed like crazy. We thought the roof was gonna cave in.”

Will’s brow furrows—not in pain. Just confusion.

“I don’t remember that.”

Mike laughs, quick and automatic. “Seriously?”

Will shakes his head. “I remember the storm. I don’t remember… us being there.”

Mike shrugs. “Guess it wasn’t that memorable.”

But something twists in his stomach.

Later, it happens again.

“The quarry,” Mike says, staring out a cracked window. “You remember how Dustin dared us to jump?”

Will nods. “Yeah.”

“And how we promised not to tell anyone,” Mike adds. “Ever.”

Will hesitates. “We did?”

Mike turns. “You don’t remember that part?”

Will looks apologetic. “I don’t remember a promise.”

Mike doesn’t press.

He should. He knows he should.

But Will looks fine. Sounds fine. And Mike is so tired of things going wrong.

The afternoon drifts by.

Eventually, Will suggests going outside.

“The sunset,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve watched one in a while.”

Mike agrees instantly.

They walk toward the tower together, the air cooler now, the sky already beginning to change. Orange bleeding into pink. Pink dissolving into gold.

They sit near the base of the tower, close enough that their shoulders brush when they shift. The metal hums faintly behind them, catching the light like it’s alive.

Mike exhales slowly.

“Everything’s kind of going crazy,” he says quietly.

Will hums. “It has been.”

Mike smiles sideways at him. “But hey. We’ve handled worse.”

Will looks at him. Waiting.

Mike’s voice softens. “We made a promise, remember?”

Will tilts his head slightly. One eye sharp, the other distant.

“What promise?”

Mike’s heart stutters.

“You know,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Our thing. When stuff gets bad.”

Will searches his face, genuinely confused.

Mike swallows. "If we're both going crazy, we go crazy together. Remember?"

Silence.

The sun dips lower.

Will blinks. Once. Twice.

“Huh,” he says softly. “Promise?”

Mike doesn’t answer right away.

The sky burns gold behind them.

And for the first time all day, normal feels fragile.

Mike still doesn’t say anything.

He just nods, like Will hasn’t just reached into his chest and tugged on something that’s been there forever.

“Oh,” Mike says instead after a while, voice a little too light. “Yeah. Guess… guess I made that up.”

Will smiles at him, relieved. Like he’s glad Mike didn’t push.

“Sounds like something we would’ve said,” Will adds.

Mike laughs weakly. “Yeah. Totally.”

They sit there as the sun finishes setting, the sky deepening into purple and blue. Crickets start up somewhere in the distance. The tower casts a long shadow over the grass, stretching toward them like it’s trying to listen in.

Mike tells himself it’s nothing.

People forget things. Trauma messes with your brain. Will’s been through hell—of course some memories are fuzzy. That’s normal. That’s expected.

Still.

As they head back inside, Will walks a little ahead of him, hands tucked into the sleeves of Mike’s jacket. For a second, the thought slips in uninvited:

Is there something wrong with him?

Mike shakes his head immediately.

No. He’s fine. Will said he’s fine. He looks fine.

Mike’s just overthinking. He always does.

The basement feels darker now without the sunset glow. Mike turns on a lamp and sets it on the floor. The light flickers once, then steadies.

Will yawns. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

“You should sleep,” Mike says. “I’ll keep watch.”

Will hesitates. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” Mike says quickly. Then, softer, “It’s okay.”

Will nods and lies down on the couch again, curling onto his side. Mike pulls a blanket over him without thinking. Will doesn't mind the heat this time. Their fingers brush.

Will looks up at him.

“Hey, Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for always staying,” Will says.

Mike swallows. “Always.”

Will smiles, eyes warm—one clearer than the other, but Mike doesn’t look too closely this time. He just sits down on the floor beside the couch, back resting against it, knees drawn up.

Minutes pass. Maybe more.

Will falls asleep easily. Too easily.

His breathing evens out, slow and steady. His face softens in a way that makes Mike’s chest ache. There’s dried blood beneath his nose again, dark and faint, like Mike missed a spot earlier.

Carefully, Mike reaches up and wipes it away with his thumb.

Will doesn’t stir.

Mike’s hand lingers.

He tells himself it’s just because Will looks younger like this. Smaller. Like he needs protecting.

He strokes Will’s hair once.

Then again.

“Oh my god,” Mike mutters under his breath. “Get a grip, Mike.”

But he doesn’t stop.

He leans closer without realizing it, resting his head briefly against the couch. He can feel Will’s warmth through the thin cushion. Can hear his breathing. Can smell soap and dust and something unmistakably Will.

His heart starts racing.

This is stupid, Mike thinks. This is so stupid.

He’s your best friend. He’s asleep. Don’t be weird.

But then Will shifts slightly, lips parting as he exhales, and something in Mike snaps—just a little.

He leans in.

Too far.

His lips brush Will’s.

It’s not planned. It’s barely even a kiss. Just contact. Warm. Soft.

Real.

Mike freezes.

“Oh—oh my god—” he whispers, pulling back so fast he nearly falls over. “Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god—”

His face burns. His heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” Mike breathes, hands shaking. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—I swear—”

Will doesn’t wake up.

He just sighs softly in his sleep, brow smoothing like nothing happened.

Mike stares at him, horrified.

“What is wrong with me,” Mike whispers, pressing his hands over his face. “What the hell is wrong with me.”

He peeks at Will again, half-expecting him to be awake, confused, hurt.

But Will is still asleep.

Peaceful.

Mike sinks back down, chest heaving, and laughs quietly—one sharp, panicked breath.

“Cool,” he mutters. “Cool, cool, cool. Totally normal behavior.”

He runs a hand through his dark hair, trying to calm down.

It was an accident. Just an accident.

It doesn’t mean anything.

Except—

Mike glances at Will again, heart softening despite himself.

Except it kind of does.

And that thought scares him more than anything else ever could.

The radio station goes quiet in a way Mike doesn’t like.

Not the peaceful kind. The hollow kind. The kind that presses in on him until every sound feels too loud—his breathing, the faint hum of old wiring, the creak of the building settling around him.

It’s the middle of the night.

Will is still asleep in the basement, curled on the couch exactly where Mike left him. Mike checked. Twice. Three times. He made sure Will was breathing, that his face was relaxed, that there was no flicker behind his closed eyelids.

He’s fine, Mike told himself. He’s okay.

Mike sits in the living room area now, knees bouncing, radio tucked into his jacket pocket like a safety net. His thoughts keep circling back to the kiss, unwanted and impossible to shake.

I kissed him.
Will Byers.
My childhood best friend.
On the lips.
What the hell is wrong with me.

He drags a hand down his face and stands, pacing the room. He tells himself he’s just staying alert. Being useful.

He pauses near the desk, staring at an old poster peeling from the wall.

Okay, he thinks, if this were a movie, this is the part where he has to set traps.

The radio in his pocket crackles.

Mike freezes.

Static floods the channel—violent, tearing, loud enough to make him flinch. He grabs the radio instantly.

“Hello?” he whispers.

The static sharpens.

Then—

“Mike.”

His heart jumps into his throat. “Mrs. Byers?”

No.

Not Joyce.

The voice is rougher. Urgent.

“Hopper?” Mike breathes.

“Mike,” the voice snaps. “You and Will need to get out of there. Now.”

Mike’s stomach drops.

“What?” he whispers. “Why? What’s happening?”

The radio screams with feedback.

“Hopper?” Mike says louder. “What do you mean get out—”

The signal cuts.

Dead.

Mike stares at the radio.

“No," he mutters, shaking and hitting it. “No, no—”

Nothing.

His pulse roars in his ears.

Okay.
Think.

The lights flicker.

Once.
Twice.

“Oh, shit,” Mike breathes.

Will.

He bolts for the basement stairs—and stops halfway down.

Will is still asleep. Completely still. Peaceful. His chest rises and falls evenly.

So it’s not him.

That realization crawls down Mike’s spine.

Then he hears it.

A sound outside. Low. Wet. Wrong.

A roar.

Mike’s blood turns to ice.

“Fuck.” he whispers.

Heavy footsteps crunch outside. Something brushes against the wall outside. The building shudders faintly.

Mike moves on instinct.

He runs upstairs, slams the doors shut, locking them with shaking hands. Drags furniture in front of the entrance. His heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

He grabs the nearest weapon he can find.

A baseball bat.

He backs toward the basement door, planting himself between it and Will like that alone might be enough.

“I’m not leaving,” he mutters. “I’m not.”

The front door rattles violently.

Mike tightens his grip on the bat, fear screaming at him to run.

Instead, he steps forward.

“Hey!” he yells, voice breaking. “Come get me!”

The door explodes inward.

Wood splinters fly everywhere as the demogorgon surges through the opening, massive and horrifying, teeth unfurling as it lets out a shriek that makes Mike’s vision blur.

Mike swings.

The bat hits—but it barely slows the thing.

A claw catches him across the chest, sending him crashing to the floor. The breath is knocked clean out of him. He scrambles backward, palms slipping, terror burning through him.

“Oh god,” he gasps. “Oh god, Will—”

The demogorgon rears back—

And then—

The air snaps.

A sharp, violent crack echoes through the room—like the sound of something being torn in half.

The demogorgon freezes mid-motion.

Its body jerks unnaturally, limbs twitching as an invisible force twists through it. There’s a sickening snap, loud and final, and the creature collapses in on itself, lifeless, folding to the ground like it was never real at all.

Silence slams down.

Mike stares, frozen.

Slowly, he turns.

Will stands at the top of the basement stairs.

He’s steady. Awake.

His eyes are split—one warm hazel, locked firmly on Mike, the other slightly darker, distant and sharpened with something powerful and unreadable. His hand is still raised, fingers curled slightly, like he hasn’t fully let go of whatever he just did.

Blood runs freely from his nose, bright against his pale skin.

But he isn’t shaking.

He isn’t weak.

He looks… controlled.

Mike’s breath catches.

“Will?” he croaks.

Will lowers his hand slowly and wipes the blood off his nose. “I heard it,” he says, voice hoarse but solid. “I woke up.”

Mike pushes himself upright, staring at the broken door, the snapped body on the floor, then back at Will.

“You—you just—” Mike gestures helplessly. “You snapped it.”

Will smiles. “Yeah.”

And the thing is—he doesn’t look scared of himself.

Mike’s brain absolutely implodes.

Because all he can think is:

Holy shit.

It hits him all at once, too fast, too sharp, and suddenly he’s painfully aware of everything about Will. The way he’s standing there like he didn’t just snap a demogorgon in half. The blood streaking down his nose, bright and reckless and unfairly distracting. The steadiness in his broad shoulders. The way his eyes—split between familiar hazel and something stronger are locked on Mike like nothing else in the world matters.

Like he matters.

Mike’s brain short-circuits.

Oh my god.

This is so bad. This is so, so bad.

Because this isn’t just fear anymore. It’s the same awful, electric feeling he got last time—buried under adrenaline and denial—except now there’s nowhere for it to hide. Will looks powerful. Confident. Dangerous in a way that makes Mike’s chest feel too tight and his thoughts go stupid and traitorous.

He’s my best friend, Mike tells himself desperately.
He almost died.
I almost died.

So why is his brain doing this?

Why is he thinking about the way Will’s voice sounds low and steady, or how unfairly good he looks standing in the wreckage like that? Why does the thought slip in—unwanted and loud—that Will has always been like this, Mike just never let himself see it?

Mike swallows hard.

His hands feel clammy. His face is hot. He hopes to god Will can’t hear how fast his heart is beating.

This is not the time.
This is not appropriate.
This is not—

“Mike?”

Will says his name again, softer now, snapping him out of it.

Mike blinks, forcing himself back into his body. Into the room. Into the reality where monsters are real and feelings are a liability.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’m here.”

But his brain is still screaming.

Get it together, Mike Wheeler.
You are having a gay crisis over your possessed(?), psychic best friend.
Now is not the time.

And yet—standing there, alive, bloodied, powerful—Will has never looked more real to him.

And that scares Mike more than the demogorgon ever could.

Will steps down the stairs, shoulders squared despite the blood, despite everything. The lamp light catches his face, the intensity in his expression, the way he’s standing like he belongs in the aftermath of something violent and terrible.

Mike’s heart is racing—not just from fear now.

He’s incredible.

He's... hot.

He’s—

Mike clamps down on the thought hard.

Not now. Not the time.

But his body doesn’t listen.

His chest is tight. His face still feels hot. His eyes keep tracking the line of Will’s jaw, the blood on his face, the calm aftermath of something no one else could’ve done.

Will looks at him. Really looks.

“Are you hurt?” Will asks.

Mike blinks. “What? Oh—yeah. I mean—yeah, I mean- no, but yeah it’s fine.”

Will steps closer.

Mike doesn’t move.

“Mike...,” Will says, softer now.

Mike swallows hard.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he admits quietly.

Will’s expression cracks for just a second.

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

And Mike—idiot, disaster, walking disaster—feels his knees almost give out.

Jesus Christ.

This is getting worse.

What has he done to me?

Chapter Text

Mike doesn’t let himself think for too long.

If he does, he might actually implode.

“Okay,” he says, a little too fast. “Okay. We—we need to clean this up. And you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Will says automatically.

Mike shoots him a look. “You’re literally bleeding.”

Will blinks, reaches up, and only then seems to register the blood on his fingers. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” Mike mutters.

He guides Will toward the couch, hands hovering awkwardly at first, like he’s afraid to touch him—and then finally gives in, steadying him by the elbow. Will doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in slightly, like he trusts Mike to keep him upright.

That thought does something dangerous to Mike’s chest.

He sits Will down and grabs the first aid kit with hands that are still shaking from adrenaline. He kneels in front of Will, closer than he probably should be, and tilts Will’s chin up gently.

“Don’t move,” Mike says.

Will doesn’t.

Mike dabs at the blood from Will's nose carefully, trying very hard not to think about how close their faces are, or how Will’s eyes keep flicking to his mouth and back up again.

Stop. Stop it.

“You didn’t get tired,” Mike says suddenly.

Will looks at him. “What?”

“After,” Mike clarifies. “After you—did that. You’re usually wiped out.”

Will hesitates.

“I know,” he says slowly. “I thought I would be.”

Mike stiffens. “And?”

“And I wasn’t,” Will finishes.

They share a look.

Not alarmed and not scared.

Just… confused.

Mike swallows. "Well, the only thing that matters is that you were incredible. A true sorcerer.”

My sorcerer.

Will nods, but his gaze lingers, thoughtful. Like he’s cataloging things.

Mike finishes cleaning the blood and pulls his hand back too quickly, like he touched something hot.

Will's body temperature was the opposite of hot.

“You saved me,” Mike says again, gentler now.

Will’s shoulders relax a fraction. “I wasn’t going to let it hurt you.”

Mike laughs under his breath, brittle. “Yeah, you said that.”

“I meant it,” Will says.

There’s something dangerously sincere in his voice.

Mike looks away.

They move the demogorgon’s body out of sight as best they can—Mike doing most of the physical work while Will watches, strangely alert, like he’s still tuned into something just beyond the room. The doors are re-secured. The furniture dragged back into place.

By the time they’re done, the station is quiet again.

A bit too quiet.

The two boys retreat to the basement.

Mike insists Will lie down. Will insists Mike sit with him. They compromise in the most unfair way possible: Will lying on the couch, Mike on the floor beside it, close enough that their shoulders touch when Mike leans back.

Neither of them comments on it.

The lamp light is low. Shadows pool along the walls. The world feels smaller down here—contained. More..

Romantic.

Mike rubs at his face, exhausted now that the adrenaline is wearing off.

“You could’ve left,” Will says suddenly.

Mike looks at him. “What?”

“I heard when Hopper told you to get out,” Will continues. “You could’ve.”

Mike freezes.

“What do you mean… you heard that?” he asks slowly. “That was— Will, that was over the radio. Upstairs. You were asleep."

Will shifts slightly on the couch, brows knitting together like he’s trying to put the feeling into words. “I know.”

Mike’s stomach drops a little. “So how did you—”

“I heard it through the demogorgon,” Will says.

Just like that. No drama. No fear. Like it makes perfect sense.

Mike stares at him, eyes slowly widening.

“…Through the demogorgon,” he repeats.

Will nods. “When it was close. It’s like—” He hesitates, searching. “Like I connected to it through the hive mind. That's how I knew it was coming for you. Like everything’s connected for a second.”

Mike’s shock melts almost instantly into something else entirely.

Something bright. Awed.

“Oh my god,” Mike breathes.

Will blinks. “What?”

“That’s—that’s insane,” Mike says, pushing himself upright. “You’re telling me you can hear things through monsters from another goddamn dimension?”

“I... guess?” Will says, unsure.

Mike lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Dude. Holy Shit.. You’re amazing.”

Will looks at him, startled. “I am?”

“Yes,” Mike says immediately. “That is, like— actual sorcerer stuff. A real-life sorcerer. Dustin would lose his mind.”

Will’s lips twitch despite himself.

Mike grins, the tension bleeding out of him. “Seriously. My best friend is basically a sorcerer. That’s kinda awesome.”

He pauses, then adds softly, without thinking, “My sorcerer.”

Will’s breath catches. The light from the lamp flickers.

Mike doesn’t notice.

Will studies Mike’s face, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes— it's something distant, buried deep under the warmth and the affection.

For just a second, there’s a faint pressure in his head. A whisper of something cold.

Connected.

Will doesn’t react to it. Doesn’t recognize it as wrong.

He just smiles, small and real.

Mike finally seems to realize what he said and clears his throat, suddenly flustered. “I mean— you know. Like. In a cool way.”

Will nods. “Yeah. Cool.”

They sit there, the moment settling between them—sweet, strange, and unresolved. Mike has no idea that whatever let Will hear Hopper’s voice… is still there. It's still listening.

Mike snorts. “Not happening.”

“You didn’t even think about it,” Will says.

Mike hesitates. Then shrugs. “Didn’t need to.”

Will watches him closely.

“Why?” Will asks quietly.

Mike’s heart stutters.

“Because,” he starts—and almost says it.

Because I love you.

The words sit right there, terrifying and fragile.

Mike panics.

“Because you’re my best friend,” he finishes quickly. “And that’s kind of the whole point.”

Will’s expression shifts. Not disappointed, just… knowing.

“Oh,” he says softly.

Mike curses himself internally.

You're a fucking idiot, Mike Wheeler.

They fall into silence again.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer.

Will’s breathing slows. His eyes flutter. He’s exhausted now— it finally catches up to him.

Mike reaches up without thinking and gently strokes Will’s hair.

Once.

Twice.

Will’s eyes open slightly.

Mike freezes. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” Will murmurs. “You always do that.”

Mike’s throat tightens. “I do?”

“Yeah,” Will says, eyes already closing again. “When I can’t sleep.”

Mike’s chest aches.

He keeps his hand there this time, lighter and careful.

Will drifts off again.

Mike, however stays awake.

He watches Will sleep, heart full and terrified and hopelessly tangled. His mind keeps replaying the fight, the snap, the way Will stood there—strong and steady and impossibly cool.

This is bad, Mike thinks weakly. I’m so screwed.

The radio sits silent in his pocket.

The basement is still when Will wakes.

It isn’t sudden. It’s slow, like heat creeping back into his veins, like something turning a dimmer switch inside his chest. His breath catches first. Then his fingers twitch.

Mike notices immediately.

“Will?” he whispers, already moving. “Hey—hey, you’re okay, I’ve got you.”

Will doesn’t answer. His forehead is damp, curls sticking to his skin.

“Shit,” Mike mutters, panic snapping back into place. “Not again.”

He scrambles to his feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table as he rushes upstairs. The fridge light feels blinding as he yanks it open, grabbing an ice pack, then another for good measure.

“I’m coming back, okay?” he calls down, voice too loud. “Don’t—don’t freak out.”

He’s already moving before Will can say anything else. The ice pack is cold enough to sting his hands as he pulls it from the freezer, wrapping it in a towel out of habit, out of care. When he comes back down the basement steps, Will is sitting up, knees pulled to his chest, Mike’s jacket still around his shoulders, slipping off a little, exposing Will's bare neck.

The sight hits Mike right in the sternum. Fuck.

“Y-you overheating again?” Mike asks quietly, voice a bit shaky.

Will nods, embarrassed. “A little. I can’t sleep.”

Mike exhales. “Yeah. Me neither.”

He hands Will the ice pack. Their fingers brush.

Static sparks through Mike’s chest.

They sit together on the couch this time, not touching but close enough that Mike can feel the cold coming off him anyway.

The basement is quiet. Safe. Almost normal.

“I really thought I was gonna sleep,” Will mutters. “Guess my brain hates me.”

Mike huffs a tired laugh. “Same. My brain is always a traitor.”

They sit there, listening to the hum of the station, the distant night sounds outside. The quiet stretches — not awkward, but heavy.

Mike swallows.

“Now that you're.. you again, there's something I never told you,” he says.

Will looks at him immediately. “Okay.”

That word — okay — gives Mike just enough courage to keep going.

“The.. painting, that you gave me in the v-van that day,” Mike says, stuttering a little.

Will’s brows knit together. “What about it?”

Mike stares at his hands. “I knew El wouldn’t give me something like that. Not… like that. She doesn’t even know D&D stuff like that.”

Will goes still.

“I knew, from the beginning,” Mike continues, voice shaking now. “I just didn’t say anything because I was.. scared of what it meant. And because I didn’t want to mess things up. And because I’m an idiot.”

Will’s breath catches. “Mike—”

“I knew it was from you,” Mike says. “I always knew.”

The lights flicker.

Just once.

Mike notices, but he doesn’t stop.

“And Robin,” he adds quietly. “She said something earlier. About not disappearing. About how pretending you’re someone else doesn’t actually keep you safe — it just makes you lonely.”

Will watches him like he’s afraid to blink.

“So I figured,” Mike says, voice cracking open now, “if everything’s already going crazy… if monsters are real and the world keeps almost ending…then I don’t want to be a coward on top of that.”

He looks at Will. Really looks.

“I love you, Will," Mike says.

The words hang there - fragile. Terrifying.

“I think.. I always have,” he continues, breath unsteady. “Everything I’ve ever done... staying, fighting, not leaving — it was always you. It was never about being Mike the brave. It was always about loving you.”

The lights flicker again. Stronger this time. The lamp buzzes.

Mike barely notices.

“I was scared,” he admits. “Because people say it’s wrong. Or weird. Or that it’ll ruin things. But I don’t think it’s ever wrong to love you. I think the only wrong thing I did was pretending I didn’t.”

Will’s eyes are glassy.

“Mike…” he whispers.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Mike says. “I was a complete idiot.”

For a moment, Will doesn’t move.

Then he reaches out, fingers curling into Mike’s shirt like he’s grounding himself.

“I love you too,” Will says. “I always did.”

The lights flicker wildly now — in rhythm, like a heartbeat.

Mike doesn’t even think.

He leans in.

This time, the kiss is sure.

Soft, trembling, and real. Will kisses him back — not hesitant, not unsure. Just there. Like they’ve been holding their breath for years and finally let it out.

When their lips meet, every light in the basement flares.

Bulbs burst. Sparks crackle. Glass pops.

They pull apart, startled but laughing breathlessly, foreheads touching.

"Mike.." Will chuckles, his face flushed.

“Holy—” Mike starts. He doesn't notice the drastic change of Will's facial expression.

And then—

The force hits him.

Mike is thrown backward like the air itself turned solid. He crashes into the floor, pain exploding through his shoulder, his ribs. The wind gets knocked out of him in a sharp gasp.

“Will!” he shouts.

Will stumbles.

His eyes are dark again. Completely dark. Just like before.

Blood spills from his nose, dripping onto the floor as he sways.

“No—no—no,” Mike pants, scrambling toward him despite the pain. “Will, hey—look at me—”

Another surge ripples through the room.

Then Will collapses.

His body hits the floor hard.

The lights die.

Silence.

Mike drags himself to Will’s side, hands shaking, heart screaming.

“Will,” he whispers. “Please.”

Will doesn’t respond.

Mike presses his forehead to Will’s shoulder, breath hitching, chest aching with fear and something worse — the terrible knowledge that nothing is simple anymore.

Nothing is safe.

And the kiss that felt like a beginning…

might’ve been the last moment they had before everything breaks.