Archive of Our Own

Will hums along to the radio as Belinda Carlisle sings, "And you complete the heart of me / Our love is all we need," swaying as he stands in front of the island and opens their mail. It's an easy way to start his day; even after a few years of adjusting to having one less eye, he prefers to do the things that don't require much depth perception after he wakes up, then as the day progresses, he'll start to do the more difficult tasks he's learned to handle.

As he separates the bills for Mike and him into piles, he sees an envelope addressed to Mike and Will Maldonado from Lucas and Max Sinclair. He smiles and quickly runs his thumb through the gap between the flap and envelope, ripping it open. There's, of course, a handwritten letter folded neatly and nestled inside the envelope. He carefully pulls it out, sets the envelope aside, and unfolds the letter. As he does so, a couple of photos drift out and onto the island; he grabs for them and holds them up, feeling his smile widen as he realizes the few wallet-sized ones are school portraits, the muted blue background recognizable.

Lucas and Max's son, Adrian, stares up at him, dressed in a simple red polo shirt and wearing a hesitant smile, showing off the gap where his canine tooth would be. He just started kindergarten, and he's sure the letter Max penned them details every up-and-down they've experienced as a family together since then.

The other photo is larger and shows the entire Sinclair family.

They seem to be somewhere with greenery—maybe a garden—as they're positioned in front of a flowering bush. Max holds Adrian within her arms, the boy's cheek squished against hers as they grin at the camera, the freckles on both their faces prominent. Lucas stands on Max's right, putting Adrian in the middle of them, and one of his arms is wrapped around his wife's shoulder. The grin on his face, Will would say, is even wider than that of the others.

His cheeks hurt as he beams down at the image.

He's ecstatic about how happy and healthy the three of them are, considering their lives after everything with Hawkins. Max had gone through grueling physical therapy to regain her motor functions and had gained some partial sight back after being freed from Vecna's grasp; Lucas had been there, right by her side every step of the way, and it had led to him pursuing a career in medicine while Max cited Mrs. Kelly, their school counselor, as the reason for her obtaining her Master of Psychology and working with adolescents.

After a few years, they'd eventually gotten married, and Adrian had come along.

Dustin and Jane had gotten married, too, though the idea of having a kid was put on the back burner for discussion at a much later date. They spent most of their time traveling, Dustin's job as a field scientist affording them the luxury to do so, so Jane could explore everything she'd missed out on in her youth.

He's glad their pack stays strong despite the distance, with frequent letters and calls between them to close the gap.

Max's letter will join the folder he keeps for them once he's read it, and he's definitely going to give one of the school photos for Mike to put in his wallet, just like he will. For right now, though, he wants to put the Sinclair family photo on the fridge, next to the photo of Dustin and Jane from one of their trips to Europe.

He sets the letter aside and pads over to the fridge, reaching for the silly taxi-cab magnet they'd bought when they visited Jonathan, Nancy, and Steve in New York City.

He holds the photo against the fridge and places the magnet on it, adjusting it so the picture won't slip to either side, with the magnet holding it in place at the bottom. He doesn't want to cover any of his pack mates' smiling faces.

As he takes a minuscule step back, feeling the photo is secure enough, his gaze shifts, and he sees his distorted reflection in the fridge's metallic surface. He pauses. He tries not to dwell on it, how he looks—inside and out—but finds that he can't help but do so now.

He peers at himself and sees his hair fall in a bit of a layered and blunt, wavy style around his face, grown longer after the years spent in Chicago and becoming a bit more comfortable in himself; his infamous bangs still reign—Mike always pressing a kiss to his forehead through them and saying he loves them as it makes him him—though the side pieces are "curtained," according to his hair stylist.

However, the soft curve of his hair frames his face—and more specifically, shines a spotlight on his closed right eye. His prosthetic is still in its case, as he'd usually put it in after breakfast; he takes in the scarring that bisects the eyelid, stretching from his hairline down to the end of his cheekbone. The Demogorgon's claw had been the one to start the destruction of his eye, but finding out it was the instrument for Vecna to spy had sealed the removal of it.

Max had teased him lovingly when she had felt over his face once she awoke, saying the girls and boys would find him even hotter, and Mike reassures him constantly that he's beautiful, but it doesn't feel like it. Of course, Max has tried to reassure him over the phone now, too, commiserating with how off-putting her slightly cloudy eyes are to others; it's sweet, but not the same as the jagged peak that mars his face.

He's unconsciously raised a hand, pressing his fingers against the rough scar tissue on his cheek, and now that he's started surveying himself, he can't stop.

A heavy weight in his chest appears—a warning sign—but he pushes past it as he continues to soak in his imperfections.

He sees the black fern-like patterns that sprawl up his arm, that he knows continue onto his back and down his thighs. Remnants from the Mind Flayer's possession, surface-level in comparison to what it and Vecna did to his brain.

The doctors had said he was lucky enough not to have major scar tissue formation on his brain despite how often the Mind Flayer and Vecna would possess him. He supposed that his brain not having a mass of scarring adorning it, and that his seizures could be regulated with medication, was a good thing. But then his brain also decided that the seizures weren't enough, and that the trauma he experienced was severe enough to leave him with a lifelong stress disorder and depressive disorder—also managed by medication and a monthly visit to a government-vetted therapist.

Really, he supposes he should feel lucky. They saved the world, he got the girl (in his case, the boy), and they all lived pretty much happily ever after. All his issues are manageable. But they don't feel that way. He doesn't feel that way.

All of it instead culminates in him feeling like the most subpar Omega in the world.

He doesn't feel handsome or beautiful for the most part, and the stares when they go out don't help; sometimes he wonders if Mike should've mated another Omega, found someone more desirable and easy on the eyes. Someone who doesn't wake him up in the middle of the night screaming, hot-and-cold between either wanting to be held and scented, or wanting to be as far away from him as possible, seeing the Alpha as a threat in his sleep-addled mind. Someone who can handle freezing cold temperatures; someone who doesn't squirm at the sight of meat and doesn't subsist off a vegetarian diet; someone who hasn't struggled to even get intimate.

Someone whose body could handle a pup.

One of the major purposes of what an Omega is meant to do, ruled null and void by his physical and mental issues.

Mike and he had talked about it at length, how desperately Will wanted to carry a pup. Their love was evident in the little and big things that built their marriage, but Will wanted it represented in a physical form of both of them. He wanted to feel fulfilled, to raise someone like how his mom and Jonathan had raised him; he knew Mike wanted the same, to raise a pup like how his mother had raised him.

They had talked to the doctors, too, and they had suggested that if Will wanted to attempt carrying a child, there would be a high chance his mental disabilities would be passed down along with the sickly disposition he had had as a child. Mike had gently shut down the discussion, saying that they would revisit it in the future—but the future was now. Lucas and Max had had a child before them, and he knew every time Mike saw Adrian or another child, a longing look would cross his face. Mike could say one thing, but his actions were another.

God, what good of an Omega is he?

He searches his reflection, where it's seemingly warped even further, then forces himself to turn away, clenching his fists by his side. He completely bypasses the island, the letter left unread as he walks down the hall to their room.

He regrets taking the day off, having wanted to get ahead on household chores. Sure, it'll keep him partially busy, but he can feel the thoughts tug at him, whispering to him to climb back into bed and rot within it.

He wishes Mike were here, then he forces the thought away; he's already a failure of an Omega—why would he need to burden his Alpha more?

'It'll be fine,' he thinks to himself as he continues down the hall. He can handle it.

♡

He feels horrible. He truly is a failure, lying in bed.

He had managed to start a load of laundry at least and vacuum the house, but the moment he had entered their room again and sat on the edge of the nest he'd formed, it was as if all the negative thoughts he had earlier swarmed him and dragged him down.

He's been in and out of sleep since, his limbs heavy as he watched the strip of light through the curtains shift from a bright, morning light to a darkened one, signifying the approach of evening.

He turns his gaze to the alarm clock on Mike's nightstand. His head is laid on the Alpha's pillow—though really, his whole body is on his mate's side to try and glean some comfort from the familiar citrus scent as he spiraled. His cheek smushes into the pillow as he sees the clock flick from 6:26 pm to 6:27 pm. Mike's late.

He'd occasionally be late when his job as a copywriter kept him working late to finish an assignment, or just because Mike's perfectionist streak forced him to stay until he got his work right in his eyes. Today, though, with the way his mind is running, it latches onto the irrational belief that sprouts up: Mike has found another Omega.

He wouldn't fault him for it. Who enjoys coming home to an Omega where it's uncertain whether or not they'll be in an okay mood? He's a bit surprised it took him this long, but everyone reaches their breaking point.

It's as if thinking of the Alpha makes him appear.

He can hear the front door opening, then the click of it as it shuts. There's a multitude of shuffling noises as Mike goes through his routine of storing his briefcase and removing his shoes, though there's a muffled curse after a small thud (always the clumsy one), then the Alpha calls out, "I'm home!"

Will can't find it in himself to reply, his chest much heavier than it'd been this morning.

He can hear Mike's footsteps as he meanders through their place, before the click of the knob and creak of the door announces Mike's pinpointing of his location, most likely through his scent, which, as Will inhales, has soured from its more pleasant, sharp, and fresh aroma.

"Hey," Mike says softly as he crosses into the room, shutting the door gently behind him before he walks over to where Will is lying.

"Hi," Will murmurs. As he inhales again, he picks up a faint scent mixed in with Mike's citrusy oak—an unfamiliar floral scent. It doesn't smell like any of the other faint scents that Mike usually picks up from the office, and to his unstable mind, it just confirms his belief.

He feels as if he sinks deeper into the mattress at the proof.

"Bad day, baby?" Mike asks, voice still soft as he perches on the edge of the bed. Will supposes it's not hard to guess with the way he's curled up in Mike's spot under their duvet.

He notices in return, though, that the Alpha is still wearing his windbreaker, and Will can feel his brows furrow. Usually, Mike will take off his jacket and leave it in the main hall, but he pulls his gaze away from the garment and back to Mike's face, seeing that concern has filled it.

"Kinda," he replies. Mike reaches a hand out and tucks the stray pieces of hair that droop into his vision behind his ear.

"I'm sorry," Mike says. The apology makes Will's heart flutter the tiniest bit, as Mike always apologizes, even if it's not his fault. He'll struggle to say it with others, but with Will, it flows from him easily.

Will lets out a soft hum of acknowledgment, and Mike's thumb strokes over his cheek before he pulls back. Will watches as Mike reaches into his pocket, fumbling for something before he finally pulls it out. It's a simple, nondescript black box, and he raises his questioning gaze to meet Mike's.

"Hopefully this will make you feel better," Mike muses softly as he holds the box and extends it to Will. He waits patiently as Will pushes himself to sit upward, even helping with his free hand to prop his own pillow up behind the Omega's back. Once Will is settled, he reaches out his own hands to take the gift from Mike.

He glances at his Alpha again as he runs his fingers over the edge, seeing him nod encouragingly and trying to keep his smile contained. He looks back down at the box, carefully opening it, and feels his lips part in disbelief as he takes in what's stored inside. At his reaction, Mike launches into an explanation.

"So I found a newspaper ad of someone offering to do, like, art commissions, and they mentioned one of the mediums they work with is acrylic plastic. I thought, 'Well, wait, isn't that what your eyes are made out of?' and contacted them."

Will lifts the box a tad higher, taking in the prosthetic that sits on the nice inner velvet lining. It shimmers under the light, the blue pigment that makes up the die painted on it metallic. He looks closer, and a soft gasp escapes him as he realizes what would constitute the pupil is a 7, drawn in black with a thin white outline to make it stand out.

"Mike—"

"It might not be perfect! 'Cause she'd never created a prosthetic eye before and I had to sneak the mold from one of your old wax eyes— Wow, that sounds weird to say, but anyway, I thought… I don't know…," Mike shrugs harshly, his ramble cutting off abruptly as he blushes.

"Mike, this is… This is gorgeous. I— Hold on," Will mutters as he holds the box out. Mike takes it wordlessly, but his eyebrows twitch in slight confusion. Will hurriedly raises his hands and opens his right eye, which remains empty as he had never inserted his prosthetic.

He places one hand to pull up his right eyelid, and the other reaches for the prosthetic. He should honestly clean it before putting it in, but he's a little too excited for that as he plucks the eye out of the case, holding it between his fingers.

"She made sure it was cured and even did her research, since, like I said, it was her first time making one, and she wanted to make sure she wasn't hurting you or anything," Mike states, the smile on his face wider as he watches Will, who nods before carefully bringing the prosthetic up and inserting it gently, then pulling on his lower lid to make sure it was in all the way before blinking and feeling it settle.

Mike keeps his eyes on him the whole time. He had never shied away once during the whole ordeal with his eye, even when it had been removed in a long, drawn-out, gory spectacle. He'd also accompanied him to every appointment after, arguing with both their mothers that he wanted to be there.

"I'm his best friend!" Mike had practically shouted at his parents when they'd been discharged from the hospital, and his mom had wanted to put a foot down, fear from her attack with the Demogorgon and Holly's kidnapping reigning over her. Will had been sitting on the couch, an eyepatch covering his wound at the time, as he'd watched their argument as if it were a tennis match, opting to stay silent. "I've been there by his side every step of the way for everything! I'm not stopping now."

"Does it look okay?" He asks, brushing the memory away as he blinks again and looks at Mike.

"It looks… It looks so cool," Mike gushes, snapping the box shut and setting it aside on the cover as he leans in. "It's kinda like—"

"—the Arcane Eye," Will finishes easily, both of them thinking of the magical glass eye Mike had created for one of their campaigns in elementary school, and they both pause before the Alpha laughs. Will finds himself smiling.

"Yeah, it kinda is! Maybe it'll give you +1 Charisma."

"Maybe," Will murmurs, smile lessening then completely dropping as he lowers his gaze, fiddling with his hands that lay in his lap.

"Hey. Hey," Mike says softly, and Will feels his fingers graze his cheek before his jaw is partially cupped within the other man's palm, tilting it up so his eyes meet Mike's. "Baby. What's wrong? Talk to me."

Will can feel his eyes water as he stares at his Alpha. Here he was, thinking the worst of him, when in all actuality Mike had been thinking of him the entire time, going so far as to buy him a beautiful gift just because; he'd been putting in so much effort for an unreliable Omega.

"I—," he tries to start, but his voice breaks. "I— Mike—"

"Baby, come on, breathe for me. Take your time, it's okay." Will can feel Mike's thumb brush over the soft underside of his eye, rubbing away the few tears that have already spilled over.

"You're so good to me," Will cries out, voice cracking. Mike's face turns blurry in his vision, but he can make out how it's become pinched, pure worry filling it.

"I'm— Mike, I'm a horrible Omega," and Mike's mouth opens, always quick to protest, but Will pushes on, "No, listen to me, Mike. You're… You're such a wonderful husband. You take such good care of me, and I— I can't even handle one day alone before falling apart. I can barely be a proper Omega. While you're out buying me such a thoughtful gift, I'm lazing around in bed… thinking you're cheating on me, just because you're late. And— And I know you're late often because of work, and it's not logical, but—"

"Will. Will, honey, stop. Stop, breathe," Mike commands, both of his hands having come up to cup Will's face within them. Will tries to listen, to breathe as Mike said, but finds himself hiccoughing as he struggles to inhale. Mike lowers one of his hands and takes Will's within his, pressing it against his chest. "Okay, come on. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in, and out."

Will follows his instructions, feeling the rapid beating of Mike's heart under his hand, along with the way his chest expands and contracts with each breath. It's enough to ground him and calm him; only a few minutes pass until he's able to breathe normally, though he's still sniffling.

"Okay?" Mike asks, hunching slightly as he peers at Will, who only nods in response. "Okay. Let me talk now, alright? I won't lie and say that it doesn't hurt to hear that you thought I'd cheat on you, even though we both know it's just the bad thoughts your counselor has talked to us about. We're mated, Will, and that means I'm with you until the end of the line. I'll repeat it every day until I lose my breath and pass out. I love you so much. You're the only Omega for me. You're my mate, my cleric, my sorcerer—my Will. There's no one else."

Will furiously nods, his eyes having become teary again. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Mike. I know… I know you'd never do that, and I hate that I even thought that. I just— I don't know."

Mike looks at him with hurt on his face, though it's not for himself—it's for Will. He asks softly, "Did something set you off?"

Will wants to deny it, say no, and that it was just random, but he knows that'd be a lie. He still hesitates before he answers. "Lucas and Max sent a letter and pictures, and… Just seeing them, happy with Adrian… I don't know. It just— I couldn't. I feel like you could do so much better than me. I'm not— I'm not beautiful. I'm scarred all over, and I'm a mess mentally, and we haven't— I know you want a pup, and you're so nice, never having brought it up again, but I'm such a disaster and not a good mate, because all of my issues will infect our kid—"

"Don't say that. Will, please don't say that. You'd— God, you would never, ever 'infect' our kids. You're not— I'm gonna sound like that self-help book I read, but you're not defined by any of your medical things. You're Will, who has some pretty badass scars. You're Will, who has post-traumatic stress disorder and persistent depressive disorder "—Will winces at it said so plainly—"and not, like, depressed Will. Do you get what I mean? I don't care— Well, I do care! I just mean that, overall, I don't see you as someone made up only of these things, okay?

"I see you as Will, the boy who said yes to being my friend; the boy who helped me make my D&D paladin when we had no idea what we were actually doing; the boy who loves Reese's Pieces yet, strangely enough, hates it as a topping on his ice cream; the boy who's kind of a music snob; the boy I kissed in a church while we were hiding from Vecna; the boy who graduated with As and Bs in everything but math; the man I chose to move to Chicago with… I can go on?"

Will shakes his head, shoulders shaking as he tries to hold in a sob. He grips Mike's shirt in his hand, which has remained pressed against his chest; the Alpha squeezes Will's hand, which is still under his.

"I love you, Will. You're beautiful to me, especially with the scars. Yes, sometimes I think about having a pup of our own running around, but you're what's most important to me. If you want a pup, we'll look at the process for that to make sure you stay healthy; if you don't want a pup, that's fine with me! You're the one I chose to mate with, and I don't care if we have a kid or not. My life is fulfilled with you."

Will finally collapses forward into Mike, who wraps his arm around him, pulling him close. His hair falls forward, darkening his sight; the only thing he focuses on is the weight of Mike's arm around him and his comforting scent as he cries again.

"I love you," he whispers, and he can feel Mike press a kiss against the crown of his head.

"I love you, too. Come on, show me your pretty face, angel." The hand on Will's slips away, then he feels fingers nudging the underside of his chin. He gives in, allowing the Alpha to lift his head.

"Mike," he whines, trying to avoid the other man's eyes. "I'm definitely not pretty after I just sobbed my eyes out."

Mike scoffs, rubbing his thumb over Will's jaw. "What'd I say earlier? You're always beautiful, pretty, gorgeous, showstopping, handsome, stunning—"

"Okay, okay! I get it," Will wetly laughs, and Mike cracks a smile. "Using your powers as a writer for evil."

"What?! I would say they're for good! What type of writer would I be if I couldn't list all the synonyms that describe my attractive Omega?" Mike croons, leaning in and smooching Will's cheek. Will snorts, the shame and embarrassment he'd felt washed away by the fondness and love Mike lavishes him with.

Mike pulls away and stares at him, still smiling as his eyes flit over his face and take him in. "God, you truly are so beautiful, Will. And, sorry, but the eye is so cool!"

Will finally bursts into a loud laugh at that. Mike can never deny himself the opportunity to geek out, and he has to admit he loves the pride Mike takes in the gifts he gets Will; he feels the same way when he successfully buys something for Mike on a whim, and he enjoys it.

"I'll take your word for it today," he says, and Mike nods in understanding.

"You should take my word every day."

"Okay, let's not get too full of ourselves," Will says, smiling, and Mike barks out a laugh. He leans in again, and this time, presses his lips to Will's. It's a soft peck that sends warm feelings through Will.

They draw back just enough to separate their lips, and Will feels himself still smiling.

"I love you," Will says again, and Mike kisses him again.