Archive of Our Own ^beta

Will’s woken up with a kiss. That’s a sentence he never thought he would say, never thought he would think. But it’s true all the same.

“Mm,” he hums happily, pressing his face into Mike’s shoulder. “G’morning.”

Mike laughs, low and raspy in that way that prompts little goosebumps all over Will’s skin. “Good morning, baby.”

The whole bed is warm. Will’s hair is damp with perspiration, sticking to the back of his neck. In his imagination, cuddling wasn’t so sweaty. But it’s a price he’ll gladly pay to be closer to Mike, to feel his long arms and legs tangled around him for all hours of the night.

Will used to be cold, but Mike’s touch keeps him warm. Keeps him safe.

“How’d you sleep?” Will asks, once his brain wakes up some more. He presses a kiss to Mike’s shoulder, right over the fabric of his Hellfire t-shirt.

“Perfect,” he answers, running a hand through Will’s hair. “What about you?”

Will lifts his chin to grin up at his boyfriend. “Perfect.”

Mike preens. “Of course you did. I’m here.”

In response to that, Will rolls his eyes and smacks Mike on the shoulder. “If your head gets any bigger, you won’t be able to carry it around,” he grumbles, biting down on a smile.

Like he can’t help himself, Mike bends down and kisses his smiling mouth, right over his teeth. “Well, that’s what I have you for,” he murmurs, low and teasing.

Will jokingly pushes his face away, barking out a surprised laugh. “To carry your head around? What, like your personal head-carrying butler?”

“Exactly,” Mike says, with a high air of satisfaction.

Will rolls his eyes again, but he’s giggling through it, and Mike can definitely tell, because his eyebrows are doing that idiotic smug thing that they do. “Go brush your teeth, dumbass. You taste gross.”

“Come with me?” Mike asks hopefully, eyes big and puppy-dog-like. 

Will’s never been able to resist that face.

So they get out of bed together, sleep-warm and rumpled, and make their way over to Will’s bathroom sink. Mike takes his spare toothbrush, the blue one, and hands Will his own yellow one without being asked. He wraps his arms around Will’s waist and rests his cheek on his shoulder, eyes half-lidded as they brush their teeth together.

It’s all so domestic. Will could fucking cry.

They spit in the sink, and Mike uses his big hands to turn Will around. “Kiss?” he asks quietly, tilting his face down.

Will beams, and gets on his tiptoes to kiss Mike. “Love you,” he says shyly.

Mike nuzzles his jaw, soft and affectionate. “Love you too.”

No matter how many times they’ve exchanged those words in the past few months, it never gets old. Never feels any less stomach-swooping, any less dizzying. Will comes alive with it, with every candied syllable.

Eventually, they make their way out to the kitchen, because it’s a school day and Mom’s frying bacon at the stove. The air smells like popping grease and well-cooked meat.

“Smells great, Mom,” Will says, and kisses her on the cheek. “Is there anything I can do?”

She waves him off. “Just sit down, honey. It’ll be ready in a second.” She peers behind him, to where Mike is trailing a respectable distance away. “Good morning, Mike.”

Despite the frequency of Mike’s overnight visits, he still flushes high on his cheeks. “Good morning, Joyce,” he says politely. “Can I help with anything?”

She points the spatula at him. “The only thing you can do, young man, is remember to keep the door cracked open at night. Don’t think I don’t know what you kids get up to.”

Both Will and Mike turn bright red. “Mom!” Will yelps. “We’re not—there’s no—”

“No hanky panky?” Hopper finishes, strolling into the kitchen, the day’s newspaper in hand. “Jesus, I’d hope so.” He points the paper at Mike. “Wheeler, you’re on thin ice.”

“Hanky panky,” Mike repeats incredulously, pulling out a seat at the table. “Hop, Ms. Byers—”

“Joyce!” she trills.

“Joyce is rubbing off on you.”

The two adults share an amused look, and Mike’s face immediately twists in disgust. “Ew. Nope. Don’t go there.”

“I didn’t say it,” Hopper mutters, taking his usual seat at the head of the table. Mom hands him a steaming mug of coffee and kisses his stubbled cheek, before rushing off to go plate the bacon and eggs.

“Will, honey, do we need to get you more clothes? I see you’re wearing Mike’s sweater again.”

Will gives up, then, dropping his head into his hands. “Mom.”

“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Jonathan says, bounding into the room. “It’s National Embarrass Will Day.” He ruffles Will’s hair as he walks by, then plops into his seat. “Thanks for the bacon, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie.”

Mike perks up, turning to look at Jonathan. “Shit, is it really? I’ve got some great material.”

Will lifts his head to glare over at him. “Do not.”

“Language,” Hopper grumbles.

Mike flips him off without looking. “Like you haven’t said worse, old man.” He seems to remember himself, then, and looks nervously across the table. “Sorry, Joyce.”

“Mike, honey, I’ve known you since you were five years old. I am perfectly aware of your… temper,” she says delicately, passing out the rest of the plates. “Dig in, everyone.”

“Mm. Thanks, Mom.”

Will feels something nudge his hand under the table, and he grins, intertwining his fingers with Mike’s. His boyfriend’s such a sap. He’s obsessed with him. 

El’s the last one to come into the dining room, dressed in bright colors, her hair twisted into two dutch braids. Max has been teaching her a bunch of different hairstyles lately, and so far, they all suit her well. “Good morning, everyone!” she chirps, sitting next to Jonathan. “Good morning, Mike.”

“Morning, El,” Mike returns, mouth full of bacon.

Will kicks him under the table. “Swallow, dumbass.”

Mike sticks his tongue out. It’s still covered with little pieces of egg and bacon.

Will gags. “I’m never kissing you again.”

“Noooo,” Mike groans, resting his head on Will’s shoulder and blinking up at him. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean it.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Hopper says gruffly. 

Mom laughs, nudging his side. “No, they’re sweet! You leave them alone.”

“They are always like this,” El says, cutting primly into her eggs. “It gets less sweet after a while.”

Mike sighs dramatically, then sits up, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth with his bare hands. His fingers are very shiny. “You guys just don’t appreciate our love,” he bemoans.

Will snorts. “I’m sure they appreciate it just fine.”

The rest of breakfast carries on similarly. Comfortably. A conversation between people who love each other, people with absolutely nothing to hide. A family.

It wasn’t always like this. So easy, Will means. But after Mike and him got together, after they figured their shit out—it got better. Will doesn’t remember how, exactly. He just knows that one day, they were fighting, hiding, lying to each other… and the next, they were here. It had happened almost overnight, in the blink of an eye. But Will couldn’t be more grateful that it did.

“Max would like to know when you two are free,” El says in their direction. “For her campaign.”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “Shit, she actually went through with that? She planned a whole thing?”

“She’s been working very hard,” El confirms, nodding. Her braids sway a little with the motion. “I think it will be fun.”

“Yeah, sounds great!” Will says eagerly. It’s been too long since the last Hellfire meeting—almost a week— and he’s itching to play again. He turns to Mike. “When are we—”

“Well, not Thursday, that’s date night—”

“Friday?”

“Lucas’s game.”

Will’s stumped for a second. “…Next Wednesday?”

Mike shrugs. “Works for me. El?”

“I’ll tell Max,” she says, giving them a little thumbs up. Her thumbnail is painted a bright shade of bubblegum pink.

In the living room, the clock chimes.

“Crap,” Will says, shoveling the rest of his breakfast into his mouth. “We’ve gotta go, we’re gonna be late.”

“I’ll put your coffee in a to-go cup,” Mike volunteers, jumping up from his chair. 

Will nearly melts, sinking into his seat with an undoubtedly lovesick expression. Then he pulls himself together. Okay. Bathroom, clothes, out the door. He’s got this.

It’s gonna be a good day. He can feel it.

—

“I call this meeting of The Upside Down to order,” Mike says grandly, banging an imaginary gavel on the table.

Will looks up from his sketch, bangs falling into his eyes. “Mike, you really don’t have to say that every time,” he jokes. “It’s just us.”

Dustin kicks his feet up on the table, crossing his ankles. “No, I like it,” he protests. “Makes it feel all official and shit.”

Will snorts out a half-assed laugh and returns to his rendering.

The UD club is a new facet in the Party’s lives. It’s something they’d always talked about, when they were little—Will drawing comics, and Mike writing them. So, when they realized they had some extra space in their schedules, they grabbed a New Club form from the front office and planned it all out. The name is super on-the-nose, suggested by Lucas as a joke, but after using it in preliminary meetings, it eventually stuck. 

Now, they have their senior year comic club. Mike writes, Will draws, Dustin’s in charge of marketing, and Lucas is their beta reader. It all works pretty well, and it gives Will an extracurricular to look forward to, aside from D&D.

“Mike,” Will says, squinting at his paper. “Do these vines look thick enough?”

“They look great,” Mike says immediately.

Will rolls his eyes. “You have to actually look, Mike. With your eyeballs.”

Mike widens his eyes dramatically and leans into Will’s space, pressing up against his side like a clingy cat. “Looks great,” he repeats, and gives Will a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Oh my god,” Will mutters, and looks across the table for help. “Can I get some objective feedback? Anyone. Please.”

“Hey!” Mike yelps, mock-wounded.

Lucas makes grabby hands, and Will gratefully passes him the paper. Lucas takes a few moments to carefully inspect it, then proclaims: “Looks perfect, Will. Seriously.”

The Upside Down is based, predictably, on the Party’s adventures in middle and early high school. Everyone praises them for their “innovative storylines” and “out-of-the-box creativity,” but truthfully, most of it’s nonfiction. Not that Mike isn’t a great writer, because he is. Hell, Will’s the one that lived through most of this stuff, and he could never put it into words the way Mike does. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen.

“If you two don’t stop being gross, we won’t get any work done,” Dustin sing-songs. “And our flyer says the next issue will be out by Friday.”

“Tell that to Mike,” Will grunts, trying and failing to push him away. “I’m doing my shit.”

“I have everything planned out!” Mike protests. “…In my brain.”

Dustin shoves a stack of lined paper at him. “Get writing, loverboy.”

“Yes, sir,” Mike mutters sarcastically, sending him a lazy salute. With a sigh, he rummages around in his bag for a pencil, then starts writing.

The meeting’s filled with soft sounds: the scratch of pencils against paper, the music drifting from Lucas’s headphones, a clock ticking on the wall. Will’s foot taps with it, a steady, pulsing rhythm. Tick, tick, tick. One, two, three.

Senior year is so much better than he ever imagined it would be. He’s in Hawkins, with Mike and the Party. He has the best boyfriend in the world, the only boy he’s ever wanted to date, and his friends and family are all totally fine with it. His mom and Hop are engaged, and Jonathan’s taking a gap year from NYU, so he’s home visiting. Will spends his days in a dreamy haze, floating on a cloud of happy feelings.

His bullies are almost nonexistent by now. Between their comic club and Hellfire, the boys are almost popular. It’s wild. Will won’t ever get used to it; walking down the hallway and having people look at him with admiration instead of disgust.

And the Upside Down—the real Upside Down—is gone. Dead. Every single part of it.

“What’s another word for slimy?” Mike muses absently, chewing on his eraser. He’s fully in the zone now, eyes unfocused and brow furrowed.

“Oozing,” Will says, finishing up a light patch of shading.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Mhm.”

Lucas gags from across the table, sticking his pointer finger in his mouth.

“Fuck off,” Mike says.

“No, that was just for the word oozing,” Lucas corrects. “But for you guys, too.”

“Go make out with Max,” Will says. “Or did she break up with you again?”

“Ooh,” Dustin murmurs, looking up from his promotional poster. “Got him.”

“I’ll have you know,” Lucas says, straightening up and pointing a finger at him, “that we’ve been going strong for three months.”

“Oh, three months, I’m sorry,” Will laughs, holding his hands up.

Lucas throws an eraser at him, which Will easily dodges. It falls harmlessly to the ground behind him. He doesn’t bother to pick it up. “Give it time,” he continues. “I’m sure she’ll think of something to get mad about.”

“Last time it was because I didn’t carry her backpack,” Lucas groans, a haunted look in his eyes. “But then when I tried to do it after that, she said I was being misogynistic and assuming she couldn’t carry it herself.”

Dustin snorts in amusement. “Fuck, I love that girl.”

“Back off.”

“Platonically,” Dustin follows. “Jeez, you’re touchy today. What, did you forget that Suzie exists?”

“Kinda.”

“Um, ouch.”

While they continue to bicker, Mike taps the side of his Converse against Will’s, then winds their ankles together. Will presses his palm over his mouth to hide his smile, because Mike’s ego is already inflated as it is, and he’d never let him live it down.

A few minutes before the bell, they put all their combined papers into a neat little stack, then stuff it into Mike’s designated comic folder. It’s getting a touch too crowded, so they’ll probably have to get a new one soon.

“Meeting adjourned!” Mike chirps, slamming the table. “Good work, guys. See you tomorrow.”

He kisses Will goodbye, and they part ways. During the whole walk to class, Will can’t stop smiling. He never can, these days. Not that he’d even want to.

—

Mike’s dappled by sunlight, ankles crossed in the air, chin resting on his folded hands, and Will thinks he’s never been more beautiful.

“I can feel you staring,” Mike says, eyes still closed.

Will scoffs, looking back at his math homework. “You’re insane. I’m not even looking at you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mike says lightly. “Must be someone else that’s sending major kiss-me vibes my way. You want to point me in their direction?”

Will gives up on his homework and lies down on his stomach next to Mike. They’re both on the floor of Will’s room, surrounded by books and papers and folders, none of which have been touched in several minutes. 

They really need to stop trying to do homework together. It always ends the same way. Will’s just lucky that his grades haven’t tanked yet, as an unfortunate side effect. 

Somehow, he thinks flunking senior year would still be worth it, for Mike. He’s probably just insane.

Mike opens his eyes, rolling his head sideways to look at Will. And the way he looks—Jesus. It takes Will’s breath away, every single time. “Hi,” Mike murmurs softly, reaching out a finger to trace over Will’s cheekbone.

Will shivers. It’s kind of cold in his room today—Mom must be cranking the AC, for some reason. “Hi,” he whispers back, not breaking eye contact.

“Did you know,” Mike says conversationally, “that I’m in love with you?”

A giant, sappy grin takes over Will’s face, until he’s smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. “I know,” he manages, “but it doesn’t hurt to hear it again.”

Mike’s expression softens. “I’m in love with you,” he says quietly. He leans forward, pressing an achingly gentle kiss on Will’s forehead. “You make me crazy. You make me so fucking happy, and just—Jesus Christ. I love you more than anyone, Will.”

The sudden sincerity burns Will’s eyes, prompting little pinpricks of tears. “God,” he breathes out, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“I prefer Mike.”

Will laughs, a little watery. “You’re the worst,” he says, not meaning it at all. “I love you too. So fucking much.”

“Good,” Mike says, smiling big now. “It would be a little awkward if you didn’t.”

“Just a little,” Will agrees, and kisses him. 

One kiss turns into two, then three, then four. Then that, as it tends to do, turns into Will’s hand threading in Mike’s hair, his leg slung over his hip, until they’re rolling and Will’s perched on his lap, kissing along his jaw.

“Boys!”

Will flings himself across the room so fast he nearly pulls a muscle. His cheeks are burning. “Mom, I—don’t you knock?” he says desperately. “Jeez.”

Mike hides his face in his hands, and what Will can see of his skin is extremely pink. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Byers,” he mumbles. “I—sorry.”

When Will finally chances a look at his mom, her expression’s gone soft. Fond. “Don’t be sorry,” she says. “I was just surprised, that’s all.” She glances at their open door. “You know, maybe you should start closing this,” she says thoughtfully. “But we’ll have to talk about safety—”

“Mom!”

“—and responsibility,” she continues, unbothered. “I’ll admit, I’m not the most knowledgeable, but I’ll go to the library after work tomorrow and check out some pamphlets—”

“Please go away,” Will says, staring at the ceiling. At his glow-in-the-dark stars, scattered in inaccurate constellations along the white plaster. “Please, please, please.”

Out of the corner of his eye, just beyond the plastic Big Dipper, he sees Mom trying not to laugh. “I’m just helping you two out, baby.”

“Mhm. We appreciate it, Mom,” he says, with great difficulty. “Can we—I think we’re gonna go to the quarry now.”

“Oh, are you sure?” She looks regretful. “I was just teasing, honey, I’m sorry. You can stay here, I won’t bother you again.”

Mike finally regains the ability to talk. There’s a heavy pink flush all along his neck, spreading below the collar of his t-shirt. “It’s not that, Ms… Joyce. We have a date tonight. We’re going to have a picnic and stargaze.”

Mom wiggles her eyebrows. “Ooh, how romantic!” She pauses. “Should I go get those pamphlets now, then? I think the library’s still open, if I hurry—”

“No pamphlets, Mom,” Will cuts in hurriedly. He’s so embarrassed that he thinks he might explode. “We don’t need them.”

“We don’t?” Mike asks, almost unthinkingly. Then, at the sudden silence, he immediately backtracks. “I mean! Yeah, we don’t. No, definitely not.”

Mom looks between the two of them, and there’s a long, awkward moment where Will very much wants to throw himself out his bedroom window. 

“I’ll be right back,” she says finally. “I’m going to the library.”

“Oh my god,” Will whines, flopping back on the floor. He hears the sound of her footsteps disappearing down the hall. “Jesus Christ. That was so bad.”

“It kinda was, wasn’t it,” Mike agrees. “I never want to have that conversation again.”

They look at each other, embarrassed and blushing and still a little bit revved-up, even after their interruption. After a second, they start laughing; bright, full-bellied laughs that echo around Will’s small room. Once they start, they can hardly stop, crawling back to each other and leaning in for support. They sit on the floor, against the bedframe, and Mike slings an arm against Will’s shoulder, kissing him on the temple. “I love you,” he mutters against his skin. “I love you so much. Even if your mom is like, super embarrassing sometimes.”

Will tucks his chin towards his chest, leaning into Mike’s arm. “Ditto.”

A comfortable, taffy-sweet silence stretches between them. 

“Do you think there’s anything useful in those pamphlets?”

“Shut up, Mike!”

—

The night is cold. Dark. But with Mike wrapped around him like a tipsy koala, he can hardly feel it.

“I can’t believe Steve let us have vodka,” Mike giggles. “That’s, like, some hardcore shit.”

“Steve did worse when he was our age,” Will reminds him, giggling a little too. “He was a rebel, or whatever. King Steve.”

“Oh, shit, you’re right.” Mike takes a second to think. “Well, I think we’re cooler. Paladin Mike and Will the Wise. We go together.” He taps Will on the nose, and his finger nearly misses, landing somewhere near his nostril.

“Mm. We sure do,” Will agrees, snuggling into his side. “This was a good date, Mike. Thanks for planning it.”

“It was my… pleasure,” Mike hiccups, momentarily forgetting the word. “Did you have fun?”

Will stares up at the stars. They’re almost alarmingly bright. Like little balls of fire. Though, Will guesses, that’s exactly what they are. He’s never been the most sciency person. That’s Dustin’s area. “I did,” he murmurs. “I always have fun with you.”

“Me too,” Mike whispers back, then kisses his collarbone. His lips are wet and warm with alcohol, and Will feels dizzyingly happy. Mike just has that effect on him.

“I want to stay here forever,” he admits, tongue loosened by the vodka.

“I’ll stay with you,” Mike says, not missing a beat. “As long as you’ll have me.”

“That’s a long time,” Will replies, closing his eyes. Infinity, he thinks. I want to live with you for the rest of my life. For longer than that. For as long as we both exist, until we’re nothing but stardust and bones.

It’s possible that Will is a little drunk.

“Good,” Mike says. “You’re stuck with me, Byers.”

As if to illustrate his point, he wraps his arms and legs around Will, clinging on tight. “I’m a leech,” he slurs, sounding extremely intoxicated.

“Cutest leech I’ve ever seen,” Will says happily.

Mike perks up, pressing little puckered kisses all over Will, everywhere he can reach. After a particularly ticklish one behind his ear, Will squirms away, laughing so hard he thinks he might pee himself by accident. And that would not be cute, so he very much needs to not do that. “Stop! Stop,” he yelps, batting Mike’s hands away. 

Mike grabs Will’s hands and tangles them with his own, blinking up at him through his long, dark lashes. His eyes are endless. Solid black, like the night above them. So shiny that Will can see himself, tipsy and happy, in the reflection. “I want to be stuck with you,” Mike whispers, like it’s a secret. “I don’t ever want to leave.”

Will sucks in a sharp breath, squeezing his hands. “Then don’t,” he whispers back, punched-out and honest. “Stay.”

For a single, heady moment, Will’s vision is extremely clear, and the fog in his head clears. Mike looks like he sobers up, too. “Will,” he says urgently. “Will.”

Will blinks at him. “What is it, Mike?”

The fog returns. Cheap vodka swirls low in Will’s belly, heating his gut and deadening his limbs.

Mike relaxes, snuggling into him. “I love you,” he murmurs, sounding half-asleep already. “That’s all.”

“Oh,” Will says, shaking his head. A strand of hair curls over his eye, and he blows it away. “I thought…”

What had he thought? Now he can’t remember.

“Nevermind,” he says, settling back against the bed of Mike’s truck. He pulls the blanket—a Star Wars one from fifth grade—over them both. “I love you too, Mike. Goodnight.”

“Night, baby.”

The quarry yawns back at them. Cicadas chirp in the trees. Fireflies light the night, calm and peaceful and safe.

All is well.

—

“Right over center, Will. And then left. You just keep crossing them. It is not hard.”

Will frowns at the long pieces of brown hair in his hands. “It looks hard.”

He’s gonna fuck this up. Oh, god. He’s the worst brother ever, isn’t he?

“You are overthinking it,” El informs him. “Just do the action once, then repeat it.”

“Once,” Will murmurs, carefully crossing the right strand over the middle, “and repeat.” He does the same with the left side. “Oh. Oh, that’s not that bad.”

“See?” El bounces happily on the bed. “Mike will be so excited. His hair is getting very long.”

“I like it long,” Will says absent-mindedly, sticking the tip of his tongue out as he continues the braid. “He looks cool. Like a rockstar.”

“I agree,” El hums. She tilts her head back into Will’s hands, entirely trusting. “Next, I need to teach you the fishtail.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“It is!” she says, smiling. Will snorts a laugh and ties off the braid. It’s a little lopsided, especially at the top, but it’s a decent first attempt.

El reaches back to feel along her hair, then shoots Will a thumbs-up. He barely has a second to pat himself on the back, full of pride, before she takes the hairtie out and destroys the whole thing, running her fingers messily through the strands. “Okay. Now do it again.”

Will splutters indignantly. “Wha— El!”

“Repetition, Will. It is how we learn.”

Will huffs. He wishes he hadn’t taught her that. It’s true in art, but right now, it’s just annoying.

“Fine,” he concedes, and starts again.

They sit in silence for a while. Boys Don’t Cry filters through Will’s stereo, and he hums along, swaying back and forth as he braids.

“Will,” El says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re happy.” She turns over her shoulder to look at him. “Aren’t you?”

Will’s confused by the question. Of course he’s happy. He’s never been happier. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, definitely.” He pauses, trying to imagine why she asked. Is something up with El? Is this her roundabout way of saying she needs to talk?

“Are you happy, El?” he asks hesitantly.

She stalls out for a second, staring vacantly out the window. “Yes,” she murmurs, still staring. After a second, she snaps out of it, turning to smile at Will. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

That was… odd. But Will shakes it off, and smiles back at her, trying to be reassuring. If El’s not ready to talk, he won’t push her. Hell, maybe it’s just a bad day. He’d certainly relate—even if, truth be told, he hasn’t had any of those lately. He hasn’t even had a single nightmare in ages. Will’s never felt better in his life.

“Just making sure,” he says gently, tying off her hair again. “Alright, now keep that there. I want to show Mom my hard work.”

“I suppose you earned it,” El says, settling the braid over her shoulder. She holds her hand out. “Should we go show her?”

“Definitely,” Will says, fully forgetting any of the weirdness between them. He must have read it wrong. El is fine. She’s always fine, and when she’s not, she tells him, and they work it out together.

Everything is alright.

They hold hands, loose and carefree and happy, and bound down the hallway. Will thinks that, overall, this is a perfect day.

Just like all the rest.

—

“Mike, c’mon. I can’t focus when you do that,” Will grumbles, trying to shake off his boyfriend.

Mike kisses his shoulder again. “But you look so cute. Like a little Bob Ross.”

“I’m gonna smear paint on you,” Will warns. “And I’m not little.”

Mike hooks his chin over Will’s shoulder, rocking them back and forth. “First off, I’ll take my chances. And second, from where I’m standing… I hate to say it, babe, but you’re wrong.”

Will snorts. “Fuck off, don’t call me babe.”

“Oh, so baby is good, but babe isn’t?” Mike asks incredulously, fake-offended. “Sorry you have such high standards, William.”

“Well, Michael,” Will shoots back, “Babe makes us sound like a gross straight couple. I hate to say it, but it’s true.”

Mike clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Damn.”

Will blindly reaches back to pat his face. “Sorry, babe.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Mike laughs. “There’s paint on my cheek now.”

Will hums, not at all apologetic, and squints at the easel thoughtfully. “I tried to warn you.”

“Fine, you win,” Mike says dramatically, separating himself from Will’s back and heading over to flop onto his bed. “Never thought my own boyfriend would be begging for me to leave him alone. Oh, the betrayal! How the tables have turned. I’m all by my lonesome—”

“I will pay you to shut up.”

There’s a blissful moment of very peaceful silence.

Then: “Do you think I could lick this stuff off my face?”

“The paint?” Will glances back, somewhere between alarmed and amused. “Not unless you want me to drive you to the hospital.”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “Ugh, pass. You’re a terrible driver.”

“Like you’re any better.”

“Okay, out of the two of us, who’s hit zero mailboxes?”

“It was an accident! You know it was an accident.”

“Do I?” Mike hums playfully. “Maybe you just have a secret mailbox vendetta.”

“Nah.” Will sighs. “You know all my deep dark secrets already.”

“Oh, is one that you’re in love with me?” Mike laughs, bright and pleased. “I figured that out ages ago. Embarrassing for you, really.”

Will knows he’s joking, but something unpleasant squirms low in his stomach. It makes him uncomfortable, so he pushes the feeling away. Ignores it. “I think it’s more embarrassing that you’re in love with me,” he shoots back. 

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s a badge I wear with honor, thank you very much.”

Mike keeps talking, getting into a groove with his ramble about nothing and everything, but Will’s eyes are fixed on his painting, the one he’s finally finished.

It’s perfect.

Like, he’s not exaggerating. It’s actually perfect, as if Da Vinci himself painted it. Not a single imperfection, not a single out of place brushstroke. 

Will stares past the painting, at the completed works on his wall.

They’re all perfect. Like stock photos, almost. He can’t remember the last time he messed up. 

And something else comes to mind, then. Something that’s been bothering him for a long time, brought to the surface by the split second of weirdness just now. He just… never thinks about it. Never lets himself think about it.

But maybe now’s a good time. Maybe he should…

“Mike,” he says cautiously.

“Yeah?”

Will lets out an unsteady breath. “Don’t—don’t take this the wrong way. But why are you always… here?”

Mike blinks at him, furrowing his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Will sets down his wet paintbrush, then walks over to sit on his bed, next to Mike. “Like… you’re always at my house,” he says carefully. “I never see you go home anymore.”

Now, Mike looks even more confused. “Do you… want me to go home?” he hazards.

“I mean—” Will cuts off, frustrated. “Don’t you want to go home? To see Nancy, and Holly, and your mom?”

Mike blinks some more, recalibrating. “Oh,” he says evenly, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Yeah, I guess. Sorry. I’ll go right now.”

“Wha—just like that?” Will says, startled.

“Yeah. You’re right, baby,” Mike says, seeming more sure now. “I haven’t been home in a while. I should visit.”

“I… okay,” Will says, verging on bafflement. He’d expected… well, he doesn’t know what he expected. An argument, maybe. Some defensiveness, at least. Or possibly even a long-overdue breakdown, a confession that something bad happened at home. Something Mike’s been avoiding. 

But Will doesn’t know how to handle this… placidness, almost, from Mike. This geniality. The way he’s leaving right now, just because Will suggested that he should.

“Okay,” Will repeats, louder this time. Mike’s standing, gathering his jacket and his shoes from their spot by the door. “Well, we’re still on for Wednesday, right? The campaign?”

“‘Course,” Mike says easily. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Mike,” Will says, before he can think better of it. “Are we…” he hesitates. “Are we okay?”

Mike looks, for a second, entirely confused. Like Will’s just spoken in Portuguese, or something. “Yeah, Will,” he says, rushing over to kiss him goodbye. Will leans into the kiss, closing his eyes against the gentle touch. 

Mike pulls back, brushing their noses together in a soft nuzzle that makes Will giggle. There’s bright green paint streaked across his cheek. “We’re perfect,” he says fondly, breath fanning out across Will’s face. “We always are.”

Relief pools in Will’s stomach. Of course. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s just fine. Everything’s perfect, actually.

It always is.

—

Max’s hair is braided to match El’s. They’re ready for battle.

“Alright, losers,” Max says. “Prepare for the most epic campaign of your entire lives.”

Will’s almost giddy with excitement. He’s been looking forward to this all week. So much so that the days have blurred together, streaks of honeyed anticipation that left him nearly breathless.

“I think that’s an exaggeration,” Mike says skeptically. “It’s your first ever campaign, it can’t be that good.”

“Oh my god,” Will laughs. “Mike, do you remember your first campaign?”

Dustin snorts with laughter. “Jesus, it was so bad.”

“Hey!” Mike bristles, pouting exaggeratedly. “Like any of yours were any better. Nobody knows what they’re doing for the first few times. It takes skill.”

“Repetition,” El says thoughtfully, running her hand along her braid.

Mike points at her. “Exactly.”

Max clears her throat. “Hello! First-time DM here? I swear, I get no respect in this Party. None.”

“Guys, listen to Max,” Lucas says quickly, then looks at her for approval.

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks, Lucas.”

He shoots her a thumbs-up, grinning with all his teeth. He looks exactly like a dog that’s just heard the words good boy, just short of the lolling tongue and wagging tail.

They begin playing, Max laying out the exposition in a tone that’s somewhere between sarcastic and eager, and weirdly enough, it works. Will follows along closely, hanging onto every word.

The only problem is, the words feel… familiar. Like a campaign that he’s played before, a lifetime ago.

“Something is coming. Something hungry for blood.”

It’s so… Why does Will feel like he’s heard this before? It’s driving him nuts.

Sometimes campaigns are similar, he reasons. Drawn from the same source material, the same research. They’re bound for some repetition every once in a while.

“A shadow grows on the wall behind you, swallowing you in darkness. It is almost here,” Max continues, wiggling her eyebrows playfully.

“Fuck, I hope it’s not the Demogorgon,” Dustin mutters.

That’s when it hits him. “This is Mike’s campaign,” Will blurts. “I—Max, I’m sorry. But Mike already did this campaign, like… years ago.”

The whole table falls silent. Blank.

Will feels, immediately, like he’s said something wrong. He wishes he could shove the words back in his throat.

“No it’s not,” Mike says finally, an unreadable look on his face. “Will, you must be remembering wrong.”

“But…” Will’s breath has sped up in his chest. He counts his heartbeats to try and slow it down, matching it to the tick of the clock on the wall. One, two, three. One, two, three. “But…”

“Max worked very hard on this campaign, Will,” El says softly. “I’m sure you are mistaken.”

Sure enough, Will chances a look over at Max, and she looks upset. Her eyes are shiny with tears, and that alone is enough to startle him into apologizing. Max hardly ever cries, especially about something so trivial. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Max. You guys are right—I’m probably just remembering it wrong.”

The Party relaxes. The tears disappear from Max’s eyes, like they’d never been there at all. “Thanks, Will,” she says, smiling. “Okay, now where was I?”

They wait. Will raises an eyebrow.

“An army of troglodytes charges into the chamber!” Max exclaims, banging the table sharply.

Dustin barks out a laugh. “Troglodytes. Told ya.”

Will plays along for the rest of the game, but his heart’s not fully in it. Not anymore. He’s too distracted. Too confused.

Something is wrong. He just can’t pin it down. Can’t hold onto it. What’s worse, he’s not sure that he wants to.

Will’s never been the best at letting go.

—

But eventually, the crack grows too deep. Too important to ignore. 

“I feel like I’m going crazy.”

Mike widens his eyes at him, big and concerned. “Will, baby, what’s wrong?” Then he shoots him a comforting smile. “And whatever it is—crazy together, remember?”

“Crazy together,” Will returns automatically, threading his hand into Mike’s. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. It’s just, like, little things. Things that seem off, sometimes. I can’t explain it.”

Mike’s expression shutters. He looks, very briefly, like he’s been hit. Then, like he’s putting on a mask, his features all even out, one by one. “Oh,” he says neutrally. “That’s weird.”

Will frowns at him. “Yeah,” he replies eventually, a little freaked out. “It is.”

Mike squeezes his hand. “Have you talked to your mom about it?”

“Not yet,” Will says, shaking his head. “Just you, so far. I’m… I don’t know. I don’t even know what’s wrong.”

“Maybe it’s just stress?” Mike guesses. “I mean, college applications are coming up. Have you started working on them yet?”

Shit, he’s right. “Oh, Jesus,” Will groans, leaning back against his headboard. “I didn’t even think about that. I haven’t started any of them.”

Mike follows him, sidling up alongside Will on the bed and leaning his head next to his. “I’ll help you,” he promises. “Where do you want to apply?”

Will closes his eyes, taking a second to think about it. “Somewhere in a big city,” he says softly. “Somewhere we can be out. Somewhere we can go on dates and hold hands in the open. Somewhere I can do art and you can write.” He opens his eyes, looking shyly at Mike. “Somewhere with you. If you… if you want that.”

They haven’t talked about it yet. Going to college together. And Will wants to, wants to more than anything, but he doesn’t want to assume. Maybe Mike needs some space from him. Independence. They’re together pretty much every day.

Mike looks back at him, stars in his eyes. He leans his forehead against Will’s, and kisses the tip of his nose. “Sweetheart,” he whispers. “Of course I want that.”

“Oh,” Will breathes out, slumping with relief. “Oh, good.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” Mike murmurs sweetly. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Will giggles. “Like I’d want to,” he replies, and kisses Mike—a lingering, gentle kiss. He loves him. It’s actually a little insane, how much he loves him. “I’m staying right here, by your side.”

“That’s my favorite place for you to be,” Mike says, grinning.

“Mine too,” he agrees.

Boys Don’t Cry plays on Will’s stereo. He’s not sure when he turned it on, but he’s glad for the background noise, either way. He loves this song.

“So,” Mike says, getting down to business. “Our best bet is probably somewhere like New York or California. Somewhere democratic. I was thinking…”

He keeps going, eyes lighting up as he details his vision of their future together. Will smiles helplessly at him, charmed and reassured, and cuddles closer into his side.

He can’t remember what he was ever so worried about.

—

The next night, Will goes to the quarry alone. He’s been spending a bit more time by himself, since he practically kicked Mike out of the house. He still feels bad about that, feels like there’s gotta be a reason that Mike didn’t want to go to his own house, and Will didn’t even give him a chance to explain.

But, regardless, Will’s alone.

He’s not exactly sure why he came out here. It’s something about the appeal of a starlit night, the peace of a large, still body of water. Somewhere he could swim.

Somewhere he could drown.

He did drown here, once. Another him. A him that was full of cotton and lined with rubberized skin, but realistic, down to every last mole. Will’s glad he wasn’t there to watch the rangers pull his body out of the water. He’s not sure he would have survived it.

But he did. Survive, that is. 

So why does it feel like something’s wrong? He doesn’t get it. Will’s running himself in circles, trying to figure out why he’s so happy, why his life is so genuinely perfect, but he still feels like he’s running from something. Like he has to look over his shoulder.

That’s the thing about trauma, he guesses. You never fully outgrow it.

He needs to talk to someone about this. His mom, Jonathan, Mike, Hopper— anyone. But he’s always been bad at telling the truth, bad at revealing the cracked and broken parts of himself. So he sits on the edge of Hawkins quarry, throwing rocks into the dark water below, just to watch the ripples they make.

Will rests his chin on his knees. Throws another rock.

There’s several seconds of silence. One, two, three, four, five. Will hears the tick of a clock in his head, the little hand counting away the heartbeats of time. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. An ever-constant metronome in his brain.

The rock splashes in the quarry below.

“Will.”

Will jumps about a foot in the air, scraping his hands on the rocky ground by accident. “I— El? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Will, I don’t have much time. I need you to listen to me.”

He stares at her. “How did you get out here? Why aren’t you at home?”

El looks different than usual. Almost… transparent. Like she’s flickering, like she’s not fully here. There’s dark bags under her eyes that weren’t there this morning, the last time Will saw her.

Will shivers with cold. With fear.

“Will, I need you to fight this,” she says softly, leaning closer to him. “I need you to try.”

His heart races in his chest, and his throat clogs with terror, until he can barely breathe. “Fight what?” he asks, voice cracking. “El, what are you talking about?”

She looks around the quarry, a nervous flurry of movement. “I don’t have much time,” she repeats. “Will, promise me. Promise you’ll fight.”

Bewildered, terrified tears build behind Will’s eyes. “I can’t promise,” he chokes out. “I can’t, because I don’t know what you’re talking about. El, what the fuck is going on?”

Her eyes soften. She reaches out a hand, placing it on his shoulder. Except it doesn’t land—it ghosts over the fabric of his Hellfire tee; a staticy, barely-there touch. An illusion. “Will,” she says, with great gravity. “You’re—”

And then she disappears.

Will blinks hard, and some tears force themselves out with the motion. But nothing changes. The spot next to him is just as vacant as it had been when he arrived. Almost unthinkingly, he thrusts his arm forward into the space. The air is cold. It tingles over Will’s skin.

He can’t be here anymore. He’s officially freaked out.

As he walks back through the woods, he brainstorms a game plan. He has to talk to El, obviously. He doesn’t know what she was thinking, if she’s testing out some new sort of astral-projection power or something, but she really scared him. And he needs answers. Kind of desperately, actually, because with every passing day, it feels more and more like he’s going insane.

And this shit does not help.

The leaves crunch under his feet, crisp and reassuring. Even if he’s losing his mind, the forest is still the same. Leaves are still leaves.

His flashlight beam swings widely as he walks, illuminating all the random trees and bushes in his path. It’s comforting. He’s always been a little bit scared of the dark; a fear he could never fully shake.

Then he sees the flag. The sign.

A detour wouldn’t hurt. Right? El will still be home when he gets there. He can get answers later.

Will shoulders his way into Castle Byers, even though he’s far too big for it by now, and he might end up destroying it from the inside out.

But miraculously, he fits fine. Even more miraculously, everything inside is the same. Exactly how he remembers it. Everything in his place.

(Something wiggles in the back of his head. Insistent. A memory. Isn’t everything supposed to not be in its place? Didn’t something happen here?)

(No. No, of course not. Castle Byers has always been whole.)

Will draws comfort from the old drawings, the photos of the Party, the scattered toys and colored pencils. Here, he’s safe. Safe from his confused, weary thoughts. Safe from El’s cryptic words, from the ever-growing sense that something is wrong.

In Castle Byers, he can turn his brain off. Breathe. Just be.

He curls into a little ball, tucks his face into his lap, and breathes. In and out. In and out. He’s okay. He’s safe. Everything is fine.

It’s eerily reminiscent of his time in the Upside Down, when he was small and hiding and terrified. He might as well start singing Should I Stay or Should I Go, just for old times’ sake.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t need to freak himself out any more than he already has. He rests his cheek against his knee and stares sideways at the old Ghostbusters photo.

They all looked so happy. So small.

Will doesn’t mean to fall asleep. But he’s cold, and tired, and scared. 

So he does.

—

Will wakes up in his bed. He can’t remember why this isn’t right. 

He yawns, stretching his arms over his head. “Morning, Mike.”

“Morning, baby,” Mike rumbles, pressing his face into the pillow. “You’re chipper today. What time is it?”

Will shrugs, then checks his clock. “Like, six?”

“AM?” 

At the distress in Mike’s voice, Will snorts out a laugh that’s fond and teasing all at once. “You’re so lazy.”

“It’s Saturday. I don’t want to hear any numbers that come before eleven.”

“One,” Will says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Two. Three.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Nah,” Will says happily, snuggling back into Mike’s side. “You love me.”

Mike kisses his forehead. “I do. I swear, I wouldn’t wake up at six for anyone else.”

“Good,” Will murmurs, already falling back asleep. Then something pops in his brain, like a cracking joint, and he frowns. “I think I needed to talk to El.”

Mike hums to show he’s listening, then tightens his grip on Will. Will goes easily, molding along his side. They fit perfectly together, like paired puzzle pieces. “What about, baby?”

He tries to remember. Nothing comes up.

“I don’t know,” he admits, a small frown on his lips.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of it later,” Mike says reassuringly, rubbing along his back. “Right now, I vote that we sleep.”

“I second that,” Will says. Almost on command, a huge yawn tears out of his throat. “Shit, I’m exhausted.”

“I must’ve worn you out last night,” Mike teases, kissing his jaw.

“Must’ve,” Will agrees absently, but now he’s a little worried. Because he… doesn’t remember. Doesn’t remember falling asleep, or being in bed with Mike. Doesn’t remember why he has this pressing, unignorable feeling of danger. But that doesn’t make sense. Everything is fine.

“Mike,” he says carefully. Maybe he should…

“Mhm?” 

Mike already sounds half-asleep. Will shouldn’t wake him—he seems so peaceful. Calm. He doesn’t want to worry him for no reason, for something so silly and unsubstantial.

Is it, though?

“Nevermind. Later.”

“Mmkay,” Mike agrees, easy and drifting. “Night, sweetheart.”

“Night.”

Will’s pulse pounds in his throat. For a long time, he doesn’t fall asleep.

The words rattle around in his brain, begging to be set free. His skull feels like a cage. His skin feels too tight. 

Something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something is—

—

“I hereby call this meeting of The Upside Down to order.”

Will blinks, looking around the classroom. How did he get here? Is it a school day? 

“You’re full of shit, Mike,” Dustin laughs, flipping him off. “Hereby. Who do you think you are?”

“A writer,” Mike says grandly, and takes his seat next to Will. “And hereby, we will be working on the comic. So shut up.”

“You didn’t even use that right,” Dustin grumbles, but starts in on his marketing materials anyway.

Will stares at the table in front of him. He has a spread of papers and colored pencils. He’s supposed to be working on the comic. He’s supposed to…

What is going on?

Automatically, he takes a green colored pencil. Draws a line.

It’s perfectly straight.

He draws another one.

Perfect.

The clock on the wall ticks, louder and louder and louder. Will can’t hear himself think. Can’t hear himself panic.

“Where’s Lucas?” he mumbles.

“At basketball,” Mike answers immediately. “Remember?”

No.

Will’s memory seems to be a bit shit, these days.

“I think—” Will sets his pencil down, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m gonna go get some water.”

“Oh, okay,” Mike says easily, eyes lifting from his paper. “You want me to come with?”

“No, that’s okay,” Will manages. He stands to his feet, a little shaky, and starts to head out the door. 

Behind him, he hears Dustin: “That was just an excuse to go make out in the hallway, wasn’t it.”

“Shut up, man.”

Will closes the classroom door as he leaves, then paces down the corridor. It’s early before school, so there aren’t many people around yet. Everyone’s just getting here.

How did Will get here?

What’s the last thing he remembers? It’s all a blur—the quarry, cuddling with Mike, Castle Byers. He doesn’t know what time it is. What day it is.

And then he sees her, walking in through the front door. “El!”

El looks up, a pleasantly surprised expression on her face. “Will! Why aren’t you at UD club?”

“I’m taking a break,” he says dismissively. “El, can I—can we talk?” He glances around the sparsely populated hallway. “Alone?”

Her face twists with concern. “Of course, Will,” she says gently. Together, they head into an empty classroom and sit at two of the desks in the front row. Will taps his fingers against the wood. Onetwothree. Onetwothree.

Repetition.

“What is it?” El asks, hands folded atop the desk. Ready to listen. Nonjudgmental.

“I think—” He breathes out harshly. Tries to form an accurate sentence in the thick, jumbled alphabet soup that is his brain. “I think I might be… sick.”

“Sick?” She immediately reaches out to feel his forehead with the back of her hand. “Do you have a fever? Do you need me to drive you home?”

“No, nothing like that,” Will says, and her hand falls away.

Come to think of it, though, he is a little chilly. He wishes he had a thicker jacket.

“Oh. Like what, then?”

Will hesitates. But this is El. His sister. If anyone understands, it’s her. She won’t judge him.

“Like, sick… in the head. Mentally.”

She takes a second to think about that, brows furrowed together in thought. “Have you been feeling… anxious? Sad?”

El sounds sad herself at the thought, like the very idea of Will being upset is causing her pain. 

“No, I—well, anxious, yes,” Will allows. “But it’s more like—like, I’m missing memories. Sometimes I even think I’m hallucinating. I don’t… I feel like I’m going crazy,” he admits, voice small.

“Will.” She reaches forward, wrapping him in a tight hug that he gratefully returns. “Will, I’m so sorry. How long has this been going on?” 

“Since…” He blinks. “El, what month is it?”

Her face does something unreadable. “It’s—um. It’s…October.”

“October?” Will swallows over the lump in his throat. “…Okay. Since August, then? I guess. Maybe, I don’t know.”

But that doesn’t feel right. Is it really October? Why are there no Halloween decorations up? Why hasn’t anyone been talking about costumes?

A dazed fog settles over his brain. No, it’s October. It’s always been October. Of course.

“Will, why didn’t you say anything?” El chides. “This is serious. We need to get you to a doctor.”

“But…” He sighs. “I guess I just don’t really like doctors, after… everything. But maybe I’ll go.”

“At least tell Mom?” she presses. “I am worried about you, Will.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Alright, I will.”

Tell her about what?

El smiles back at him. “Okay. You know you can always talk to me, right?”

“I know.”

With that, the conversation is over. Will walks back out into the hallway.

It’s covered, floor to ceiling, with Halloween decorations.

Why is Will here? He’s supposed to be in UD club. He must have taken a wrong turn.

—

Will paces the length of his room. Walks back. Back and forth, back and forth.

It’s a rare moment of clarity. They’re harder and harder to hold onto, each one more slippery than the last.

But he can’t ignore this anymore. And he can’t fix it.

He doesn’t know what to do. How do you find a solution when the problem is a big blank? An empty, undefinable void?

“Will, you’re freaking me out,” Mike says slowly. “Come sit.”

You’re freaking me out, Will thinks. All of this is freaking me out.

“Mike,” he says finally. “What day is it?”

He shrugs. “Thursday. Why?”

“No, what day is it. Like, the date.”

Mike squints, like this is a test he’s trying to pass. “October… thirteenth.”

“Okay,” Will breathes, shaking his hands out. “Okay.”

“Baby, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me,” Mike says, voice gentle. “You can talk to me, you know?”

“I know,” Will says thickly. “I know, it’s just…” He stops pacing, finally, and walks to sit on the bed. “Can I ask you some questions?”

Mike blinks in surprise, but nods. “Of course.”

“Mike…” Tears burn behind Will’s eyes. “How did we get together?”

Mike plays with his fingers, then holds his hand, resting their interlocked pinkies against Will’s blanket. “You told me you loved me,” he says softly.

“Yeah, but when?” Will insists. “Mike… what’s our anniversary? How long have we been together?”

He rests his head on Will’s shoulder. “Always.”

Will forces a laugh. It comes out broken and watery. “No, you sap. Like, when did we start dating?”

“A while ago,” Mike says vaguely. “Before senior year.”

“The day, Mike.”

“What is this?” Mike asks, lifting his head. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong? I don’t get what’s going on.”

Neither do I, Will thinks.

But he knows. Deep down, he has an idea. And he thinks he’s known for a while now.

Mike would never forget their anniversary.

Then Will blinks, and the clock by his bed ticks, and he knows nothing at all.

“No, I’m not mad at you,” he rushes out. “I’m sorry I’m being weird. I’m just… stressed, I think.”

Mike stares at him. And stares. And—

“Will.”

His voice is different, and Will can immediately tell. He’s more serious. More present.

“Will, I care about you… so much.”

“I know,” Will says hesitantly. “I care about you too.”

Mike keeps talking, like he didn’t even hear Will speak. “I’m sorry I don’t say it more. I’m sorry I never said it enough. But I miss you, okay? I really, really miss you.”

“I’m right here,” Will whispers, scooting closer. “Mike, honey, what are you talking about? I’m right here.”

“Please come back,” Mike murmurs. His eyes are shining with tears. “Please come back. We need you.”

“Come back?” Will repeats. “Mike, I don’t… you’re scaring me. Okay? I’m scared.”

There’s a heartbeat of time. It feels infinite. It feels non-existent.

Mike’s eyes dry up. He frowns, mildly concerned. “Are you okay, baby?”

Will’s nearly hyperventilating, and he can barely speak—so Mike pulls him close, tucking him against his chest. “Shh. You’re alright. It’s okay,” he soothes, rocking them back and forth on the mattress.

Will stares blankly at the wall. At his stock-photo paintings.

No, it’s not okay, he thinks. Not at all.

You’re tired, he thinks. Of course it’s okay. Just rest.

It’s only then that he realizes the voice in his head isn’t his own.

—

Will’s one freaky occurrence away from murder-boarding this shit, tangled red string and all. Every day feels worse than the last, like he’s fighting his brain to just make it through a normal scenario.

But somehow, nothing is normal. Even when it is.

He’ll admit that he has absolutely no idea what’s going on. He’s out of his depth. He’s scared.

And he can’t tell Mike, or El, or even Jonathan and Mom. Everyone he tries to tell either brushes him off, changes the subject, or smothers him with meaningless platitudes. 

The only people he can hold onto are in his head. Buried somewhere, under a hazy red fog. Snatches of forgotten memories, moments where things seemed real. Where they seemed dangerous.

Will’s not entirely sure he wants to remember.

He’s worried that there’s something wrong with him. Like, seriously wrong. Mental-illness wrong.

It’s just his luck, really. Of course this shit would happen to him, whatever it is. On top of everything else that’s wrong with him…

Nothing’s wrong with you. Just breathe. Stop thinking about it.

Will pauses, pulse pounding in his ears. The clock ticks, almost in rhythm with his heart. 

“Who are you?” he says out loud. 

He feels ridiculous. He feels terrified.

One, two, three. One, two, three. In and out. 

Then: I’m you.

“No, you’re not, who are—”

—

“Do you need some more coffee, Will?”

“What?”

His hands are shaking. He’s so cold, he can barely breathe—

Mom smiles at him. “Coffee?”

Will stands abruptly from his chair, sending the legs scraping across the dining room floor. Everyone’s looking at him like he’s crazy, and shit, maybe he is, what’s happening—

“I need to—” He heaves in a huge, panicked breath. “Bathroom. Sorry, I—”

He runs.

“Will!”

The shout could have come from anyone. Their voices blend together—Mom, Hopper, El, Jonathan, Mike. He stumbles down the hallway, and his surroundings blend together, too. Blur into streaks of color and light. Hallway, kitchen, bathroom. 

The walls flicker.

An empty classroom. The quarry. The Upside Down.

Bathroom again. Tile. Sink. Toilet.

Will grips the edge of the counter, hunching over the sink. When he meets his eye in the mirror, he looks harried. Insane. His pupils are too small, and he’s sweating everywhere, his hair is soaking wet and he’s still so cold, somehow—

“Will.”

“El, I don’t—” He looks at the locked door, then at his sister. “How did you get in here?”

But as soon as he sees her, he knows the answer.

This isn’t the same El he knows.

Or at least… the one he’s known lately. Since everything started going wrong. Since everything started going right. 

This isn’t the El that sat with him in his bedroom and taught him how to braid. It isn’t the same El that frowned at him across the D&D table for hurting Max’s feelings. Who giggled with him at breakfast, who waved cheerfully in the school hallways.

This is the El from the quarry.

The moment he thinks it, he knows it’s true. The memory unlocks bit by bit, detail by detail. Past and present. Flickering skin. Translucent hands. Huge, worried eyes. 

“Will. Can you hear me?”

What kind of question is that? he thinks.

But he doesn’t say it. He understands now. This is beyond him, beyond his limited brain capacity. Something big is happening—much bigger than him. Bigger, maybe, than El.

“Yes,” he whispers. His voice is raw with terror.

“Good,” she says intently. “Will, listen to me.”

“I’m…” He takes a deep breath. His chest hurts, a bone-deep ache from within the far reaches of his ribs. “I’m listening.”

“Will, I love you,” she says, which is not at all what he’d expected her to say. It takes him off-guard, and his hands slip, sweaty, against the marble counter.

He rubs his palms on his pajama shorts. “I love you too, El.”

“I need you to remember that,” she continues, glancing around. “For later. No matter what, I love you. You are my brother. This will never change.”

Tears burn in Will’s eyes, part affection, part gratitude, part what-the-fuck-is-going-on. “I love you too,” he repeats. “You’re my sister, El.”

Her expression softens, just for a second, before growing serious again. It’s clear that she’s on high alert. Ready to strike at the first sign of danger. 

What danger? There’s no danger here.

Shut up, Will thinks. I’m trying to focus.

As if prompted by the thought, his head starts to swim. He clutches at his temple in pain, more pain than he’s felt in… well, since he can remember. There’s no pain here.

Here? Where is here?

“El, hurry,” he chokes. “Something’s happening, I don’t… my head hurts.” A sob catches in his throat. “Nothing makes sense, I’m so… I feel crazy, El.”

“You’re not crazy,” she says, eyes shining with tears. “You’re just asleep.”

The world stops.

The fog stops.

The pain stops.

The clock ticks on.

“What?” Will whispers. It doesn’t even sound like his own voice. The word sounds like it came from someone else. A child.

It couldn’t have been Will. He hasn’t been a child since he was seven.

El sniffles, her face pale in the harsh bathroom light. “I need you to wake up, Will. This is a nice dream. It really is. I can see why you like it here. But it’s time to wake up.” She reaches for his hand, and her fingers pass right through his; little ghostly illusions. “It’s time to go home.”

Will stares at their hands. “But I am home,” he says softly. Even as he voices it, he knows it’s a lie.

But it could be the truth. He could make it the truth.

“No,” she tells him. “You are not.”

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and they both jump. El wanes in and out of view, like a faulty lightbulb.

“Will? Baby, are you okay?”

El’s eyes widen, and Will chokes on thin air. 

Oh. Oh, Jesus.

Fuck.

“El,” he breathes. “I’m so—I’m so sorry, holy shit—”

She shakes her head, loose strands of hair flying around her face. “Do not be sorry. Just wake up.”

“Will, please talk to me. I’m right here. Please let me in,” Mike pleads.

Will’s heart breaks. It breaks for Mike, for El, for himself. Hell, mostly for himself, because above all else, he’s always been so selfish, Jesus fucking Christ.

He can’t believe this. There’s no way this is happening.

“Will.”

“I’m sorry, Mike,” Will forces out. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He sounds like a broken record, but he can’t stop.

And the worst part of it all is that he’s lying. 

He’s not sorry.

He’s not sorry, because the last… however long he’s been here, has been the happiest time of his life. Everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

“Will,” El says urgently. “I cannot stay for much longer. He will find me. Please wake up. It is time.”

Will blinks away tears. “I don’t want to,” he confesses, barely more than a whisper. “I want to stay.”

“You can’t, Will. This is not real.” El pauses. “I miss you very much. We all miss you.”

They watch, then, as the bathroom lock slides open. Mike shoulders through the door, panting. Once he takes in the scene before him, he looks bewildered. “El? What are you doing in here?”

He shakes his head, then focuses on Will. “Nevermind. Will, are you okay?”

“No,” he answers automatically. “No, I’m not.”

Completely ignoring El and her weirdly translucent body, Mike rushes forward to wrap him in a hug. Will knows he shouldn’t, but he throws himself into it, burying his head in Mike’s shoulder and squeezing him tight around the middle.

He smells like Mike. Like Will’s boyfriend. Rubber and cedar. Pine-scented soap. Scrambled egg and bacon, from Mom’s breakfast.

And he feels so solid. So real.

But he’s not.

Will takes a second to commit the hug to memory. To commit everything to memory: the taste of Mike’s lips, the curve of his hip, the sound of his laugh. The movement of his mouth around the word baby.

More than anything, Will wants to kiss him. One last time. He wants it so desperately that his whole body shakes with need.

He can’t, though. He can’t, because the real El is standing right there, staring at them, looking so, so sad. And he did that. It’s Will’s fault.

This is all his fault. 

He pulls away, and it’s a small punishment in itself: the separation of his body from Mike’s. Not yours, he thinks.

He could be. If you stay.

Will ignores the voice. Ignores Mike’s confused: “Will?” Ignores the tiny furrow of his brows, the way it seems like he’s aching to understand.

Not real. Not real.

He’s dreaming.

“I have to go, Mike.”

It’s the hardest sentence he’s ever spoken.

“Go where?” Mike asks, reaching down to intertwine their hands. “I’ll come with you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees El’s face fall. She looks devastated.

His fault.

“You can’t,” Will chokes. “You can’t, Mike. I’m sorry.”

All at once, Mike seems to realize. His expression shudders, cycling through a myriad of emotions before landing on hurt. Heartbroken. “You said you’d stay with me,” he whispers. “You promised.”

A sob is ripped violently from Will’s throat, and he has to turn away from Mike to press his palms over his face. To breathe.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

The ticking is so loud.

There isn’t even a clock in the bathroom. 

“I know,” Will says finally, trying to gather himself. “I know, Mike. But I have to do this. I have to go.”

El nods, satisfied. Will, she mouths. Hurry.

He nods back. “Goodbye, Mike,” he says. He glances hesitantly at El, but… fuck it. He has to. Even if she hates him for it. “I love you,” Will says for the last time. He squeezes his eyes shut, and his eyelids are sticky with tears. “So much.”

“I love you too,” Mike says immediately, and it hurts. It hurts because it’s not true. “I don’t—Will, I don’t understand. Where are you going? Why are you leaving me?”

“I’m going home,” Will murmurs, through the clog of his throat and the burning pressure behind his eyes. “I have to go home.”

“But you are home,” Mike replies. He seems confused and desperate all at once, he seems like Mike, and Will can’t fucking breathe.

“Mike,” he says, voice thin. “I wish that was true.”

Red flares behind his eyelids. The back of his neck prickles.

Danger. Danger. Danger.

“Will, it’s time.”

He turns to El and takes a deep, steadying breath. “I’m ready. What do I do?”

She smiles, and it’s as broken as it is relieved. That’s how Will knows she’s stronger than he is. After all he’s done to her, she can still smile at him, somehow.

“Open your eyes.”

They’re open, he thinks.

But they’re not. Not really.

Stay. You belong here, Will. You are already home.

“No,” he says aloud, stronger than he feels. “I’m leaving.”

And the last thing he sees, before he opens his eyes, is the heartbreak splayed across Mike’s face.

It splits him right along the seams.

He comes apart, skin and bone and shattered dreams. The taste of a boy on his lips.

A boy that will never again be his.

—

Will wakes up with a scream. With a sob. With a hand in his own, surrounded by people that love him. His family.

“He’s up!” Mike yelps, jolting to his feet. “He’s up, he’s up, holy shit.” 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom cries, folding Will in a gentle hug. Her face is streaked with tears, and she looks like she hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in months. “We missed you so much. How are you feeling?”

“Weak,” Will croaks, too overwhelmed to be anything but honest. “Tired.”

Heartbroken. Devastated. Grieving.

His entire body is numb, tingling with pins and needles. His throat is dry, his lips chapped to the point of pain. Even with the three blankets layered on top of him, he’s cold. 

He looks around the room. He’s lying in Mike’s bed, and just about everyone he knows is in here, crowded around like sardines. Everyone except one person.

“Where’s El?”

“She’s in the bath,” Mike explains. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, full of nervous energy and excitement. His hands are shaking. “Hopper’s watching her. It’s the only way she could reach you.”

It hurts too much to hear his voice, so Will closes his eyes. Tries to pass it off as exhaustion. “What… what happened? How long have I been asleep?”

There’s a thick silence. The occupants of the room shoot each other tense looks, trying to decide who should speak.

Eventually, Mike takes the lead, sobering a bit. His hands still. “You’ve been asleep for… for six months, Will.”

Holy fuck.

“Six…” he breathes out, in complete disbelief. “How?”

Dustin steps forward, face hard and set. “Vecna. Henry. One. Whatever his name is—he got you.”

“And he put me to sleep?” Will asks incredulously.

Lucas clears his throat. “From what we know—from what El’s helped us piece together—he was weakened, in the Upside Down. He needed a human host to draw energy from. And he… he picked you.”

“He trapped you in a dream,” Jonathan says softly. It’s the first time he’s spoken, and his voice is thick with tears. Broken. “Your deepest fantasy. The truest desires of your heart. Something you wouldn’t ever want to wake up from, so he could drain you until there was nothing left.”

His deepest fantasy.

The truest desires of his heart.

He’s so pathetic.

Will squeezes his eyes shut, and he feels the tears leaking out, unstoppable and uncontrollable. Humiliating. Who does he think he is, grieving something that was never real? A life he never lived?

But it was real to him. Jesus, it was so real. He can still feel Mike’s hand in his own, his lips against his skin.

“Take your time, honey,” Mom says, running cool fingers over his forehead. She pushes back his sweaty hair, just like she used to do when he was little and sick. “You were in there for a long time. You’re not going to be at full strength for a while.”

He pushes himself up on his elbows, a new, panicked thought coming to mind. “El. Is she fighting him? Henry?”

As if on cue, they all look towards the hallway. El’s padded in, wrapped in a thick bath towel, soaking wet from head to toe, Hopper trailing behind her. The second she sees Will, she breaks into a sob. “It worked,” she chokes. “It worked, you’re okay.”

Define okay, he thinks. But still, because he’s always been a liar about stuff like this, he nods. “I’m okay,” he says hoarsely. “Are you okay?”

“Henry got away from me,” she mutters. “If that’s what you mean.” El looks down at her body. “But physically, yes. I am okay.”

The room goes silent as they wait for Will to respond. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying to muster up something— anything— to say. Something that isn’t I’m sorry I stole your boyfriend with my mind.

“And… emotionally?” he hazards, almost afraid to hear the answer. He searches her face for any trace of anger. Any sign that she wants to blast him out the window with her powers, or just give him a good-old-fashioned punch. 

Her expression softens immediately, like she’s read his mind. Hell, maybe she did. “Will,” she says softly. “I am not angry.”

Across the room, Jonathan lets out a sharp, shocked exhale. He obviously figured it out, which makes Will even more embarrassed. The deepest desires of his heart. What bullshit.

For a second, Will’s terrified that everyone in the room can see right through him. That every single person knows exactly what kind of depraved, horrible shit he dreamt up.

It wasn’t depraved, though. And it wasn’t horrible. 

It was beautiful. Will had been so, so happy. Everyone had.

But at the same time, he can’t believe he’s violated Mike like this. Mike would be so disgusted if he knew. He would never want to be Will’s friend again. He would want to run, as fast and as far away as he could.

Maybe he should. Maybe it would be for the best.

“I think I need… some space,” he manages eventually. And it’s not a lie—he feels like he’s suffocating under the weight of all these expectant stares, all these teary eyes and reddened cheeks. “I’m not feeling too good.”

“Of course, honey,” Mom says right away. She stands to her feet, then begins ushering people out of the room. As they leave, Will hears several I love yous and we’re happy you’re awake ’s. He doesn’t believe any of them. 

He stares at the wall, feeling nothing. Numb. Empty.

Who is he, now that he’s not Mike’s boyfriend?

He’s a predator. A creep. A jealous, disgusting…

A sob wrenches out of his throat, then another. The room is empty, and he’s crying so hard he can’t breathe. 

He doesn’t know how to be alive anymore. He doesn’t want to do this.

But he is alive, and he has to keep going. 

No matter how much he doesn’t want to.

—

Will spends the next week in a daze. A worse daze, now, because this one is real. And it fucking hurts. Every inch of his body is screaming in pain, muscles and joints weakened. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to sip on the chicken noodle soup that different friends and family members take turns bringing him. It hurts even more when it’s Mike’s turn. Or El’s.

He hasn’t talked to anyone. He feigns sleep, feigns vocal cord damage, feigns anything he can to avoid speaking. Because he knows that the second he opens his mouth, everything will come spilling out. Ugly, messy, pained.

The truth is: he misses it.

He misses his dream. He misses being under Henry’s curse.

How selfish is he, to think that? Everyone was hoping, praying that he would wake up. Max is still in a coma, set up in the Wheeler’s spare room. Not everyone got as lucky as he did. Outside Mike’s house, the world has gone to hell. Demodogs run rampant through the streets. The air is thick with poison.

And Will just wants to go back to sleep.

He wants to go back to the bed of Mike’s truck, to starlit nights at the quarry, to comic club meetings and big, sunny family breakfasts. He wants to go back to cuddles and forehead kisses and shared laughter.

He wants to be loved again.

It hurts.

It hurts more than any of the pains in his body. More than any of his recovery has, so far. 

He thought he knew this ache before. That he knew how hard it was to love from afar and be given scraps in return, to hate your own heart, to want to scream and rage and cry while being thoroughly unable to do any of that.

But he was wrong. He was fucking wrong, because this ache—this feeling of having loved and lost, of holding everything in your grasp only to have it ripped away—this is infinitely worse. It feels like he’s dying.

He wishes he was.

Today’s soup-bringer is Jonathan. Will can tell before he even opens the door. He’s memorized the shuffle of his brother’s footsteps, the pattern of his breathing. Of course he has.

He closes his eyes, folds further under the blanket, and fakes sleep. After Jonathan leaves, he’ll eat the soup. Despite feeling like death, he’s starving.

The door opens and shuts with a soft snick. Soft footfalls enter the room, going right up to Will’s bed.

“Will, I know you’re awake.”

Will keeps his eyes closed. “No you don’t,” he says stubbornly. His voice is still pretty croaky, but there’s no use in pretending. Jonathan knows him too well.

“I’ve given you time. Now you’ve gotta talk to me, buddy.”

Will sighs heavily and opens his eyes, propping himself up against the headboard with a slight wince. Jonathan sets the soup on Mike’s nightstand and rushes to steady him. “Hey, take it easy,” he murmurs, automatically in protective-brother mode.

As he sits down on the side of the bed, Will stares up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to talk, Jonathan.”

“Clearly.”

Will frowns at his tone. “Hey, you have to be nice to me. I was in a coma.”

Jonathan flinches, but stays seated. “Yes,” he says, after a second. “You were. And I think we should talk about that.”

Gritting his teeth, Will asks, “What is there to talk about?” He looks down at Mike’s Star Wars blanket, running his hand gently over the fabric. “It wasn’t real.”

“Well. Was I there?” Jonathan says eventually, with a small smile.

It’s not the question he expected, and that alone lets Will relax a bit. “Of course you were,” he laughs. “Of course, Jonathan.” Fully alert now, Will takes the soup from his nightstand and takes a careful spoonful, blowing on it to cool it down. He takes a sip.

“You were home from NYU. You ate breakfast with us every morning.”

“Were we in Hawkins?” Jonathan asks curiously. “At our old house?”

Will swallows, and the soup nearly burns his throat. “Yeah.”

There’s a hesitant silence. Will glares at his soup.

“…Who else was there?”

“Just say what you’re thinking, Jonathan,” Will snaps. “Stop talking around it. You’re driving me nuts.”

Jonathan blinks in surprise, and Will shrinks back a bit. “Sorry. But still.”

“I didn’t want to push,” Jonathan says, considerate and gentle. “I know how hard this must be.”

“No,” Will says. “You don’t.”

His brother takes a few moments to think about that. “Okay. You’re right, I don’t,” he allows. “So why don’t you explain it to me?”

Tears prick behind Will’s eyes. God, he’s so fucking sick of crying. He doesn’t know how he has anything left to cry out.

“I’m a monster,” he chokes, and doesn’t even realize the truth of it until he says it. “I’m a monster, Jonathan, I’m a horrible person–”

“No,” Jonathan says immediately, lunging forward to wrap him in a tight hug. “No, no, no. Will.”

Will’s body heaves with dry sobs as he cries into his brother’s shoulder. They haven’t done this in… well, since the pizza place, years ago. Since their Talk.

He has a feeling this is going to be another one of those Talks, capital-T. And they always take everything out of him, they always wring him out and leave him to dry, but he’s not sure he has much left to give.

“Will, you are not a monster,” Jonathan says, pulling back to look at him. “You know who is? Henry Creel. And we’re going to get that son of a bitch, I swear to you. I’ll kill him for doing this to you.”

Will shakes his head. “It wasn’t him. I mean, it was, but—it’s my fault. The dream, it was all—it was all me.”

Jonathan searches his eyes. “Well, were you… murdering people, in this dream? Hiding bodies in the freezer, maybe?”

Shocked, Will barks out a strangled laugh. “What?”

His brother rolls his eyes fondly. “Didn’t think so.” He runs a hand down Will’s back, then up again. “You want me to tell you what I think happened?”

No. 

Yes.

Will swallows thickly, then nods; a short, jerky movement that probably resembles a muscle spasm over anything else. 

Jonathan seems to understand him, anyway. “I think you were happy,” he says softly. “I think you were in love.”

A tear rolls hotly down Will’s cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “It was so real, Jonathan,” he whispers. “And… I miss him.”

The admission sits heavy between them, but Jonathan’s face doesn’t change. Not a single feature. He still looks just as protective, just as loving, as he did three seconds ago, before Will uttered the word him.

“He’s right here, Will,” he says. “In that basement. Bringing you soup.”

Will shakes his head. “He loved me,” he admits, barely able to get the words out.

“And he still does,” Jonathan insists. “He still does, Will. Now, I don’t know if it’s… in that way, okay? But that boy was by your bedside every day. Six months. Every fucking day.”

“It’s his bed,” Will stammers, his heart tripping with the additional truth. 

“Sure, but you were in it,” he says. “And that’s all he cared about. And he… he talked to you, Will. I mean, we all did, but he never gave up. He was so desperate, trying to get through to you. To bring you back.”

Will sniffles. A tear drips off his jaw. “Why would he do that?” he whispers.

Jonathan smiles sadly at him, reaching out to wipe his face with his sleeve. “Why don’t you ask him?”

—

Will doesn’t ask. But he does start talking a bit more after that, heart lightened by the unwavering support and affection from Jonathan. Maybe this reality isn’t so bad, he reasons. Maybe there’s people that care about him here, too. Even if it’s not the same.

Dustin brings him an X-Men comic to read, and they flip through it together. 

Lucas sits at Mike’s desk and chats about everything and nothing; about old memories and new ones, ones that Will missed while he was gone.

Mom smothers him with food and hugs and love, so much he could drown in it.

And Mike… Mike keeps bringing him soup.

Will keeps pretending to be asleep.

It’s just too scary. Even after weeks of being awake, Will is terrified of Mike. Of himself, when he’s around him. His own reactions. His own, traitorous heart. 

This Mike doesn’t love him the same. And that’s… that’s okay. It’s always been okay. Will just needs time to re-adjust, to remember how to live like this.

He’ll get there. He’s sure of it. 

The only person left is El. And he’s scared of her, too.

Will’s been prepping his apology to her for ages now. It’s not like there’s much else to do, while he’s bed-ridden and the Upside Down is coming alive outside Mike’s boarded-up window. 

But it has to be perfect, and it’s not. It’s messy, and fumbling, and insincere. It’s overly desperate. In short, it’s horrible.

It’s still all he’s got. So when El walks into Mike’s room the next day, saltine crackers and water in hand, Will starts in right away.

“El,” he starts, and the tone of his voice is already wrong. Too formal. Too scared. El catches it immediately, setting down his snack and glancing up at him with wide eyes.

“Yes?”

“El, can you sit down? Please. I need to talk to you.”

Her expression softens in understanding. “Oh. I was wondering when we would do this.”

She sits.

The phrase, the immediate comprehension, quickens Will’s heart rate. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and lets it out through his mouth. He’s calm. He’s got this. “El, I—”

“Mike and I broke up.”

His words shrivel and die in his throat. “What?”

She waves a hand. “Sorry to interrupt. But I had not told you, and you need to know. I’ve been trying to bring it up.”

“You—you broke up?” he repeats. “When? Why? Are you okay?”

El smiles, then leans forward to squeeze his hand. “I am okay. It was a while ago, Will. At the beginning of your coma.”

Will squeezes back, and tries to breathe. This doesn’t mean anything. It means nothing at all, except that he needs to comfort his sister.

“What happened?” he asks gently. “I thought things were going good.”

“They were,” she says. “As friends. We realized… we do not love each other in that way.”

There’s a heavy pause. Will braces himself.

“The way you love him.”

There it is. That’s the one.

He braced for it, but he flinches back all the same, like he’s been slapped across the face. El’s grip on his hand tightens. “Will. It is okay.”

“It’s not—”

“I am telling you it is!” she bursts out, loud with frustration. They both blink at each other in surprise, and she deflates a little. “Sorry. I’m sorry. But it is… You don’t treat yourself kindly, Will. And it hurts me. I want you to be happy.”

“I’m…”

He can’t even bring himself to say it. It’s not true. 

“You were happy,” El says. “And I took it away from you.”

Will jolts. “No, that’s not—you saved me.”

“Yes,” she allows. “But I have made you very sad. You love him, and that dream was… it was beautiful, Will. It was everything you deserve.”

Will’s eyes burn. Stupid. He can’t cry right now. He can’t.

“How much did you see?” he whispers. The thought of her seeing everything, all his twisted little desires—it nearly makes him sick. Queasy.

“Not all of it,” El assures him, immediately catching onto his train of thought. “Just bits and pieces. And nothing too… private.”

A flush spreads over Will’s neck. He’s suddenly very warm. 

“But the parts that I saw…” She trails off thoughtfully. “You can have that, Will. Family. Love. Romance.”

“I can’t,” he mutters, shaking his head. “El, you’re wrong. Mike’s not… he’s not like me.”

“Have you asked him?” she asks innocently.

And that’s…

El doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She grew up in a lab, for fuck’s sake, she doesn’t know the first thing about being gay in the 80s, or any of the vastly complicated things that come with it. But she does know Mike. Almost as well as Will does.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits, small.

She places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He misses you, Will. He is desperate to talk to you. Just… talk.”

Fuck.

This is such a bad idea.

—

This is such a bad idea, and Will’s doing it anyway. He has the food schedule memorized by now—of course, now he’s nearly well enough to leave the bed, so it’ll be pointless soon anyway. 

But it’s not pointless today, because today… he’s gonna talk to Mike.

Will is terrified. He doesn’t know when talking to his best friend became one of his worst fears. Probably around the time of California. Possibly before that. Somewhere in between it’s not my fault you don’t like girls and we’re friends, Will. 

Somewhere around the time of the painting. The one that’s still on Mike’s wall, right across from his bed. The one that Will’s had to stare at every day and every night, taking in all its imperfections and glaringly obvious metaphors and bruising brushstrokes.

In some small way, it’s been a comfort. The horribleness of it reminds him that he’s awake. That this is real.

He needs a lot of reminders, these days.

Mom took the clock out of his room, after an offhand comment about the constant ticking in his dream world, so Will doesn’t even know what time it is. Doesn’t know how much longer he has to prepare himself.

So he waits, toes tapping and fingers trembling, flipping through an X-Men comic without reading a single word. 

There’s a knock on his door.

Apparently, he has no time at all.

Will clears his throat. “Yeah, come in,” he calls. His voice cracks in the middle.

Already off to a great start. 

Mike pushes his way inside, already beaming. “You’re awake!” he says excitedly. “How are you feeling?”

Will smooths down his hair anxiously, then folds his hands in his lap. “Good,” he manages. “Yeah, good.”

Mike sets his soup down in the usual spot, then perches on the edge of the bed. The space between their bodies is at once too much and not enough.

No. Focus, Will.

“So,” he says. “I didn’t know you kept that painting.”

That’s… that’s not exactly what he wanted to lead off with. But he guesses he’ll roll with it.

Mike’s eyes widen. “Of course I kept it,” he says. “You made it for me.”

Will feels himself blush, high on his cheeks. “I mean… it’s not that good,” he says uncomfortably. “I could probably do a way better one now, if you want.”

Mike’s gaze drifts over to the painting. Stays there for a long second. After what feels like an eternity, he says: “Would El be commissioning this one, too?”

It could be a genuine question. But the way he says it, his tone of voice—Will can tell that it’s not. 

He knows.

Shit.

Fuck, this changes everything. The neatly-made plans in Will’s brain are knocked askew. His neurons are on fire, running and screaming in a blind panic. “Excuse me?” he says disbelievingly, sitting up a bit against the headboard. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the painting?” Mike blurts.

“Why didn’t you tell me you and El broke up?” Will shoots back, rising to the challenge.

Mike narrows his eyes. The tension between them thickens until it’s palpable, until Will’s almost choking on it. “Because you’re asleep every time I come in here, Will. Or pretending to sleep, at least.”

Will flushes. “And why would I do that?”

“Because you’re avoiding me,” Mike whispers, suddenly sincere. “You’re avoiding me, Will, and it hurts.”

Will’s face slackens. “Mike,” he breathes out.

“Do you know how long I waited for you to wake up?” Mike chokes, eyes shiny. “I was here every day, Will. I talked to you, and I—I played your favorite song, and I kept hoping… but you never woke up. And now you’re pretending to be asleep, just so you don’t have to talk to me.” He sniffles, a little broken hitch of breath. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing!” Will says, growing panicked. “Nothing, Mike, I swear, I—shit, I’m fucking this all up.”

Just like the painting, though, it’s a distant reassurance. He and Mike never fought in his dreams. Mike was never upset with him.

Not until the very end.

Stay with me. You said you’d stay.

Will’s tearing up a little now, too. But he keeps it together. “Mike,” he says, more calmly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? I did.”

He pauses, then tries to recall snatches of his planned-out speech. It’s all going to shit, anyway, but it doesn’t hurt to try. “Mike, my dream was… you were a big part of it,” he says finally. “And when I woke up, it—it hurt. Because I remembered that we weren’t—” He trips over his words, breath stuttering unevenly. “We, um. We weren’t like that, in real life. And it was just… it was too hard to see you, for a little while. But I’m okay now. I think. And… I want to be friends again. Best friends. If you want to, that is.”

Will waits nervously, chewing at his bottom lip.

Mike’s eyes track the movement. He’s quiet for a long time. 

“Like what, Will?”

“Huh?” Will says breathlessly. Without meaning to, they’ve inched closer to each other, leaning forward the tiniest bit. The proximity feels familiar, in the sense that it doesn’t feel real. It feels like a dream.

“We weren’t like what?” Mike repeats, and it’s almost teasing, now. Shyly flirtatious. Testing the waters.

The tone flips a switch in Will’s brain, and for a second, he’s back there: in his old bedroom, sunlight streaming through the window, trading kisses and homework answers and I love yous. 

“Like this,” he whispers, and leans forward.

The kiss is familiar and unfamiliar all at once, a mixture of remembered sensations and new surprises. Will remembers the smell of cedar. He wasn’t expecting the chicken noodle soup. The wetness on Mike’s cheeks. The heat, because god, it’s so hot, he’s burning up.

Then Will remembers. 

This is real, this is Mike, what is he doing?

He’s ruined everything. They were supposed to talk.

Will pulls back, banging his spine against the headboard with a sharp burst of pain. “Sorry!” he blurts, eyes flicking all over Mike’s dazed expression. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t know why I—”

“Shut up,” Mike whispers, and kisses him again. He curls a hand over Will’s back, soothing his hurt. His fingers trail across the ridges of his spine, up and down and up again. 

Mike kisses like he talks. Fast and sure. Confident. 

Gentle. Loving. Affectionate.

He pulls on Will’s back a little, nudging him closer, until he’s half-splayed in Mike’s lap. Will lifts a shaking hand to frame Mike’s jaw, then moves it back to tangle his fingers in his hair.

It’s perfect. 

It’s so perfect that Will begins to panic, breath speeding up in his chest. “Mike,” he mumbles, the word muffled between their lips. “Mike.”

“Will,” Mike returns softly, and tries to kiss him again. But Will stops him, a firm hand on his chest.

“Mike, what are we doing? What is this?” he asks nervously.

He doesn’t know what answer he’s expecting: an experiment? A bit of fun? Some awful sort of mind-fuck, sent from Henry himself?

But what he gets is this: the softening of Mike’s eyes. A hand in his own, fingers locking together.

“I love you, Will,” Mike says. The words are steady, like he’s been practicing them in his head. “I love you. This is whatever you want it to be. Whatever you’re willing to give me.”

Finally, Will starts to cry. His tears are silent, warm trails of saltwater down his skin. Mike holds him through it, gently wiping his face with his thumb.

When Will can speak again, there’s only one thing left to say.

“Everything. I want to give you everything, Mike.”

—

Not everything is perfect. Will has bad days. Mike has bad days. They fight a lot. Mike doesn’t call Will baby half as much as he did in the dream. He bites when he kisses, and it stings Will’s lips.

Will loves it. He loves him. 

They have their first date in Mike’s bedroom. Pretty much everything is done from inside of the Wheeler’s house, now. It serves as the home base of Hawkins, one of the last places still standing amidst all the darkness and chaos.

Will learns lots of things. Things that happened while he was out.

Mrs. Wheeler and Holly left the state. Mike’s eighteen now, and as much as they didn’t want to leave him, Mike insisted. He wanted them to be safe, more than anything. Things were getting worse.

And he refused to leave Will. 

Ted Wheeler’s long since fucked off. That happened when Will was awake. Who knows where he is—but honestly, no one really cares. Least of all Mike.

Nancy and Jonathan are working with the military, going out into the fray and fighting back where they can. They don’t see much of them, most days.

Max is still asleep.

No one’s sure when she’ll wake up.

(If she’ll wake up.)

But Will’s recovery gave them hope. Gave the Party something to fight for. If he can do it, so can she.

Will has to believe that. He tries to believe it. One day, Max will be awake. Braiding El’s hair, playing D&D, skateboarding down the cracked streets of Hawkins.

Right now, though, she’s gone.

So no, things are not perfect. They’re flawed. Broken. None of them are okay.

Mike and Will are broken together, though. So that has to count for something.

“So what did we do after that?” Mike says eagerly, tucking himself closer to Will’s side. “After the vodka.”

Will blushes. “I don’t know. We… cuddled.”

“Ha!” Mike says triumphantly. “We’re already doing that.”

“It’s not a competition,” Will reminds him, for the millionth time. But he’s smiling, too. Mike’s been living vicariously through Will’s re-telling of his dream world, taking every little thing as a challenge. Will thinks that, absurdly, Mike is somehow jealous of his dream self. He’s already been badgering Lucas and Dustin to start a comic club in the basement, despite Will’s repeated insistence that that is absolutely not necessary, Mike.

“What did we do then?” Mike asks, kissing Will’s cheek. 

They don’t have any vodka, but they agreed that it was okay. Being together was the important part, anyway. Not the alcohol.

“We stargazed,” Will says wistfully. There’s no stars in Hawkins anymore—just a red fog. An ominous ooze. Demobats.

Besides, Mike’s window is boarded up; extra protection against intruders and creatures of the night. So stargazing is a moot point.

Mike seems to sense this, too, slumping disappointedly against Will’s side. “Oh.”

“It’s okay,” Will assures him. “This is enough. All I need is you.”

Predictably, Mike melts at the words. He’s such a sap. 

Then, after a few comfortable moments, Mike perks up, jerking upright on the bed. “Oh!”

He slides to the floor, getting on his hands and knees to dig for something under the bed. Will furrows his brows, staring at his feet, just barely poking out from the baseboard. “Mike?”

“One second!” Mike calls, muffled by the mattress. There’s some rummaging noises and soft grunting before he says, “Aha!” and pulls out a small cardboard box.

“Do I even want to know what’s in there?” 

Mike ignores him, opening the lid. “I still have these,” he says, pulling out Will’s glow-in-the-dark stars. “And—um, now that I think of it, this is probably kind of stupid, and lame, but—”

Will’s jaw drops, just a little. “Mike… where did you get those?” he says disbelievingly. “Those were in my donation box. Like, from when I moved.”

“I know,” Mike squeaks, flushing bright red. “I know, it’s just—these reminded me of you, and I couldn’t believe you were just gonna give them away!”

“So you stole them?” Will teases, crawling across the bed and flopping over the edge to look at him. “Michael, I can’t believe you.”

Mike flushes even harder. “Shut up, I hate you.”

“No, you dooooon’t,” Will sing-songs, leaning forward to kiss him on the nose. 

It’s an interesting dynamic, Will being the more confident one. The more experienced one, technically, because he was in their relationship for longer than Mike was. Even if it wasn’t exactly the same, it’s similar enough that he found his footing fairly quickly, falling back into their new-slash-old dynamic with ease.

Mike insists on putting all the stars up by himself, but Will insists on holding the chair steady so Mike doesn’t slip and brain himself on the carpet. Teamwork, or whatever. 

Once the stars are up, Mike’s beaming with pride, and Will’s brimming with affection. He loves this boy. He loves him so fucking much. 

They lie back on the bed together, and Will cuddles close to Mike’s chest. Their legs are intertwined, and they’re not drunk but they’re happy and in love, which is even better.

“I love you,” Will whispers, because it’s been a while since he’s said it, and Mike just spent twenty minutes sticking glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling for him.

“Love you more,” Mike murmurs, stroking through his hair.

“Not possible.”

Mike frowns thoughtfully. “Let’s just love each other… as much as we can. And we’ll go from there.”

Charmed and amused and wholly in love, Will giggles back at him. “Okay,” he agrees. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Perfect,” Mike says, and kisses him.

And, in its own way, it is.

The plastic stars twinkle down at them, and Will and Mike are blissfully, incandescently happy.

In that moment, all is well.