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If Will Byers was sure of one thing in life, then that's that he hated the desert.
Perhaps that was a somewhat unfair judgment, since his major experience with it was being travelling around it inside a van filled with the smell of cheap weed to find his sister who was possibly in mortal danger.
But still, he hated it.
As the hours went by, the window through which he looked out at the dreary world outside grew more and more cloudy with the same amber color of the sand under the wheels of the van, matching perfectly with how Will's thoughts were also tinged with the tired yellow the landscape exhibited.
And Will, as an artist, had always had the habit to search for beauty in everything, and the ability to find it. But Will, also as an artist, felt nauseous at the thought of looking through that damned window for 5 more minutes.
The sand had that yellow tone devoid of any trace that characterizes this color as cheerful. What was a rough, undernourished version of fertile soil was always spreading out in such a haphazard uniformity, grain after grain, a monotony that gave the exasperating sensation of traveling around in circles.
And it would be common sense that a clear blue sky, with the sun shining proudly in its center, would bring some vitality to any scene. Quite the opposite in this case, because even the great supernova, always looking so confident and bright, making you feel warm just looking at it; seemed depressed too when it landed on this part of the globe. Its glow was growing dull, sickened by the layers of dust it had inhaled. Dust that also dulled the blue of the sky, making it gloomy, accompanying the sun in its mourning.
The desert, lonely and unforgiving, seemed devoid of any trace of life and color, but it also seemed to steal the color of everyone who dared to set foot in it. Therefore it covered with its thin layer of amber sorrow everything around it, including the window, including Will.
His fingers urged to take a brush and paint the desert in a thousand colors, take each grain of sand and color it in a different tone until he wouldn't have to see that yellowish tint once more in his life, turn the landscape into a surrealism mix of Dalí and a kid with his first set of crayons.
This aversion to the bleakness of the landscape had lasted until his foolish eyes decided they had had enough, so they thought it'd be a good idea to look in the other direction.
To his left.
Where the other seat of the van laid.
Where Mike laid.
The sudden contrast, the shift from nothingness to everything, from drowsy monotony to overwhelming diversity, took Will's breath away for a second.
And, yes, maybe he was being dramatic. Perhaps his mind was too dull and needed some overdramatic stimulation. Or maybe it was Mike, who had the hobby of knocking the air out of anyone who dared to look at him.
Mike, with his hair black as night, eyes almost the same ebony color, and skin at the other end of the color wheel, nearly pure white. Mike, who looked wildly but deliberately and beautifully painted with charcoal, or straight out of some black and white movie that aired late at night on TV.
And yet, Will found it impressive how he could radiate so much color, how his eyes held a rainbow of emotions ready to overflow and spread everywhere, revealing his passionate nature.
And so Mike, who was looking absent-mindedly through the window oblivious to the reverie of his (supposed) best friend, managed to color Will's interior as well without even wanting to. And it was so easy to mistake it for something good, having Will been so desperate for color and change and something other than mountains of dry sand.
But he forced himself to look away sharply and back to the bleak landscape outside. It was all preferable to Mike catching him and finding out what kind of colors were the ones that painted Will, and what kind of thoughts they carried with them.
So, he could deal with a bit of sand. It wasn't that bad.
Changing the subject naturally and not deliberately at all, another thing Will didn't like about the desert was the heat. A few years ago, huddled inside a much bleaker version of Castle Byers, trying to get any hint of warmth from his frozen body; he never would have imagined he would complain about the heat again in his life.
But Will had always been selfish like that, always wanting a little more than he could afford. And while El was in danger and they weren't able to find her, his selfish mind would just complain about how boring the desert was and how annoying the heat felt, as if he was on a fucking vacation trip.
But hey, if his mind had the hobby of criticizing every thought he had, it would also allow him to complain about stupid things for a while.
So yeah, the desert's heat was unbearable. While Lenora's good weather was one of his favorite things about the place, the yellowish melancholy that drowsed the color of the sun didn't seem to do the same with its intensity, instead it seemed to double its work as a kind of revenge. He could feel the sun searing his skin and burning his retinas even from inside the van.
The fabric of his shirt kept sticking to the permanent layer of sweat on his skin, making him feel sticky and contagious all the time. And Will knew a bit too well how little fun it was to feel contagious around Mike.
Having him around again after so long was a constant battle between so many feelings that Will didn't even know how many sides were battling to begin with. But there was a massacre inside him every time Mike spoke to him, every time they brushed shoulders, every time he smiled at him, every time Mike had the simple audacity to breathe in his presence.
And- God. Of course, he was thinking about Mike again. Will could be talking about anything, from waffles to the politics of the United States, but it'll always lead him back to Mike.
It was sick, it really was. But he had been sick for so long that it even seemed normal to him that someone could impregnate your thoughts this way. But it wasn't. It wasn't normal. He was sick, but it wasn't that way entirely, because he was born like that. He was the sickness, the disease.
And when Mike was away, it was easier to think about him while drawing him in class, on the walks home, or trying to sleep every night. It seemed almost harmless, not having in mind the consequences that his obsession brought. But having him around was- God. Mike, by his side, working with him, wanting to be a team again, laughing at his jokes, sharing his theories, not knowing everything that went through Will's mind every second of every day. Mike would hate him if he knew the truth. And he would be right.
But coming back to the present:
Positive part? Right now, Will wasn't thinking about Mike or how selfish it was to think about Mike.
Negative part? He perhaps was on the brink of having a panic attack out of the blue in front of his renewed best friend, his brother, and his brother's friend he barely knew.
Um. Will wasn't sure if this was really that great of a deal.
As if the sun had spent all its strength boiling the desert during the day, at night the temperature dropped to the opposite extreme. And Will knew this. It was general knowledge, to begin with. But he was a science nerd on top of that. Of course, he knew this. But even so, he hadn't thought about the small detail of how the cold brought back the worst of his nightmares.
A traitorous shiver began tentatively in the lower part of his back and climbed its way up to his nape, awakening with each vertebra it passed through such an animal fear in Will that he didn't know if he wanted to shiver with cold or terror.
But it's one thing to want to shiver and another thing to be able to, and he couldn't. Because he was okay, everything was okay, he wasn't even remotely close to Hawkins and its horrors, and he was just being stupid and he couldn't worry anyone anymore. He couldn't see Mike's worried frown, always trying to rescue everyone no matter how much he had already done, couldn't see Jonathan biting his lip anxiously, haunted by the guilt of needing to protect Will. He couldn't see them like that, because there was nothing wrong, he was fine, he was just being stupid.
So he crossed his arms and dug his nails into his arms so hard he was sure it would leave a mark, and he bit his lip until he tasted blood.
The pain helped, in a way. It would be logical to want to escape it after what happened a couple years ago. But being able to control what hurt him, being able to bring his hand up to his arm and squeeze until the skin gave up, was comforting. Morbidly comforting.
Why did it matter anyway? Will had always suspected that a bit of that monster had never quite left him. Or maybe he was already born a bit of a monster. He was his father's son, right?
But, that was not the point. The point was that he was fine, even if it was getting a little hard to breathe and he feared that after every blink he was going to wake up back in the Upside Down. Even if he could almost feel the ghost of a black vine creeping down his throat. Even if all his senses were alert and asked him to run, escape, hide, now. But it was fine.
He was fine.
He was fine.
Suddenly, it wasn't fine, nothing was fine, because something had touched his shoulder, Will had felt it, it wasn't a hallucination, something had touched his shoulder and oh God everything was so dark and why was it so cold? And he was there again and it had found him, it had found him, he had to run-
Will turned his head in the direction of the touch, prepared for anything, prepared for nothing. But instead of monsters with a thousand fangs or shadows creeping under his skin, Mike's face was watching him intently.
"Hey." He said, and suddenly, everything went soft. The warm presence of Mike's hand on his shoulder spread through his entire body, his sweet voice cutting through nightmares, the welcoming night in his dark eyes contrasting with the fierceness of the night outside. "Are you ok?"
And just as quickly as it came, Mike's hand fled from his shoulder like it suddenly burned. But it did the opposite of burning, it was freezing, cold again without his touch, and for one delusional, insane, stupid second, Will wondered if it would really be such a crime to take Mike's hand and put it back in its place. But it would be a crime. Because it was not its place. Of course it wasn't.
Instead, Will focused on the question. On the way Mike had noticed that he wasn't okay—and he was ok, but he wasn't, and no one could know. So he swallowed forcefully, begging his voice to come out, and gathered the courage he'd never had to articulate an answer.
"Yeah- yes, of course."
Will knew he hadn't been very convincing when Mike's gaze remained on his, brows knitted with concern. Out of habit, Will looked away only to stumble with the rearview mirror, from which he could see Jonathan looking back at him.
Will wanted to get out of his skin and hide under the van. He wanted to disappear out of nowhere and never be heard from again. He felt so stupid, and so little, and so transparent, as though everyone in that van could see right into his soul.
This time, it was Jonathan who spoke up.
"Why don't we stop at a motel? I think there's one nearby. I could use some sleep."
Will wanted to say no. Because El was still out there, and they had to find her, and if something happened to her because of him, he would never forgive himself. But, pretext or not, Jonathan did look like he could use some sleep.
"Yeah, okay." He said, doing his best to keep the quavering out of his voice, nails religiously digging into his skin.
____________________________________________________
The hotel wasn't in great condition, completely understandable if you run a business in an almost inhabited and environmentally disadvantaged location, so Will wasn't going to judge.
All he knew was that it was warm inside. It wasn't a sauna by any means, but as soon as the reception door closed behind him, Will felt like he could breathe for the first time in the last hour. He didn't care if they had a heating system or if the walls collected the heat of the day or if it was built on top of a furnace that was boiling them alive. He only knew that it was warm, and that was all that mattered.
Although perhaps the sudden warmness also had something to do with the money only being enough for two rooms. Will was infinitely grateful for the weak orange light in the lobby so that no one —so that Mike—wouldn't see the color his face turned when Jonathan told them they'd have to share a room.
And as they were entering the room, Will repeated to himself that it was fine. It would all be alright. Everything was great! They were just two best friends sharing a hotel room.
And if he had been able to hide his feelings for years, he could hide them for one more night. No matter how well the long hair suited Mike or how charmingly his features had accentuated since the last time he'd seen him.
After all, what was the worst that could happen? That they somehow ended up in another fight and Mike ended up ignoring him again while Will didn't even know what he'd done wrong?
Or worse, that he knew too well what he had done wrong?
Everything was fine.
Everything was great.
He repeated this over and over while taking a shower. Water hot enough to be a bit painful ran down his back, hoping to wash away the cold and his thoughts down the drain. The satisfaction of the hot water touching his skin did make him partially forget about his worries.
As he had already stated, everything was going to be fine.
By the time Mike got out of the shower too, Will had already prepared his bed and was finishing packing his things up. Glancing at him once, he forbade himself from doing that again and watching the way little drops of water fell down his neck from his slightly damp hair. Prohibition was the best for both Mike and him.
A couple of minutes passed by, accompanied only by the sound of clothes being folded and hair brushing against a towel. Will could feel Mike's gaze digging into the back of his neck, and he could sense the concerned frown between his brows even without looking at him.
Will didn't want Mike to feel sorry for him. He didn't want his pity. He wondered if that was what that conversation in the room earlier had been, sheer pity.
And- Maybe it was a bit unfair to think of Mike that way. But Will just didn't understand. He couldn't understand how someone could go from ignoring a person all day and making it clear that they had no interest in continuing to be their friend; to saying that they had been a jerk and wanted to be a team again. That Hawkins wasn't the same without him. Mike had said that Hawkins wasn't the same without him. Not without Eleven, but without him, Will Byers.
And excuse him if Will was having a hard time buying that. He remembered how he had felt when Mike said that to him, the most alive he had been in months. He was almost floating out of his skin. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. And hours later, with his feet more on the ground, that was the key. He couldn't believe it.
After all, Mike had seemed to survive a summer without him just fine. Perhaps it had been pity, or charity, or philanthropy; easier explanations for Will being so important to him out of the blue.
Maybe he was overthinking all of this. Because there was nothing in the world that made him as happy as Mike wanting to be his friend — best friend — again (well, maybe there was, but he had already accepted that that possibility was no more than a fairy tale). But still, he was reluctant to believe it. It almost felt like stealing something that didn't belong to him, something too pretty to be real. Too pretty to deserve it.
Again, Mike's gaze traveled to Will, and this time the silence was broken by his voice.
"Are you gonna go to bed now?"
Will pondered for a moment. Although he was exhausted, there was no way he was going to sleep after a day like this, with so many things on his mind and the possibility of El being in danger never leaving his thoughts. But spending a couple of hours staring at the wall under layers of warm sheets seemed like the best plan he had for the night.
The best plan to ignore that he was sleeping in the same room as Mike after their relationship had gone through 5 roller coasters in the last 48 hours, without a doubt.
"Yeah, I think so."
Mike nodded beside him.
"Okay."
Will put his backpack on the floor and started to walk toward his bed.
Out of nowhere, a hand was on his wrist, and it stole the air from Will's lungs. He turned around abruptly, hoping to get it back, and- Bad idea. Because Mike was there, too close to let Will's heart beat in any logical way, and suddenly breathing wasn't that important.
Mike's hand was still on his wrist, firm but always delicate, giving Will a chance to let go if he wanted to. And if Will knew one thing, it's that he didn't want to. Maybe he should. He definitely should. But he was selfish like that, so he basked in the tickling electricity that Mike's palm arose in his skin.
Will wondered for a moment if Mike had already said something and he hadn't heard it because of his reverie, but he kept looking at him silently. Mike's eyes studied Will's thoughtfully, before falling somewhere on Will's face, seeming distracted. Traveling to his eyes again, Mike pursed his lips, a habit he'd had since he was a little kid when he was thinking about what to say.
Will had to force himself to stop looking at his mouth and back to his eyes. That habit of Mike's had become quite distracting since that moment when the boundaries of what friendship meant began to blur, and now it was even more distracting, so close and all alone.
Mike sighed and finally spoke up.
"Will- are you okay?"
Though he'd expected such a question, considering the puppy eyes Mike had been looking at him with since he'd asked the same question back in the van, Will wasn't prepared to hear Mike worrying about him again.
Definitely not while standing that close to him, with his hand on his wrist and his lips so tentatively near.
Will cleared his throat, torn between seeming fine in front of him (because he was, he was fine), and not doing anything stupid with having Mike so close.
"Yes- Yeah, I'm fine."
Mike opened his mouth and closed it again. His eyes dropped once more to that spot on Will's face and traveled back up to his gaze. Will didn't know if he was being delusional, but the bleak gleam in them reminded him of the same look he'd give him when they were little and Will would scrap his knee, or show up with a new bruise on his face, or wake up from a nightmare. Those times when Will thought that he and Mike had something that no one and nothing could break, he saw it reflected in his pupil as though nothing had changed.
Will still didn't understand him.
"I… I know I've been a shitty friend. But I want you to know that you can tell me anything whenever you want, ok? I'm here."
Mike seemed nervous, even, taking deep breaths as if trying to calm himself down. And Will could completely relate to that because, God, he wondered how his heart hadn't cracked a rib with the intensity it was beating at.
He wanted to escape his grasp like a frightened vermin and hide in the darkest corner he could find. He wanted to touch more, irresistible greed that longed to trace the course of his freckles in the dark as if trying to read in Braille the secrets they held. But, as selfish as he was, he had always been a coward. Hiding would always be his greatest talent.
So he took a small step back, causing Mike to immediately let go of him. And he could have sworn he had seen a little reflection of pain in his eyes, although Will no longer knew what came from Mike and what from his stupid imagination.
It was all too confusing. Maybe he could actually use some sleep.
"Yeah, of course. But I'm fine. Don't worry."
Mike nodded slightly, and- God. Will hated how stupid this all was. Because Mike shouldn't care so much. He shouldn't be there for him whenever Will wanted, because Will didn't deserve it . It wasn't worth all the trouble for a man-child who was doomed anyway. And he thought Mike knew that too, but apparently not.
Will felt somewhat guilty, taking something so beautiful he didn't deserve, so he continued:
"I- I'm here too for you, if you need me."
Mike smiled slightly, pausing.
"I know."
Will held eye contact for a second, something magical floating in the air between them. As it had happened back in his room, in those little moments Will had the illusion that maybe Mike wasn't just pretending out of pity. That maybe there was something worth preserving between them, something Mike was willing to fight for. To fight for Will.
Will broke eye contact and went to his bed, taking the one closest to the window, wanting to be closer to the only source of light in the room.
Within a few minutes, Mike lay down as well, whispering a "Good night" that Will reciprocated. Still, he kept cautiously laying with his back towards Mike.
_______________________________________
A good while later, Will's back was starting to ache from being in the same position, and- Maybe he shouldn't turn. He tried to resist as much as possible, shifting his posture slightly and concentrating on the sweet moonlight streaming in through the window. But, that was his problem, right? He was unable to control a desire that tugged at his insides, tempting him to succumb.
So he turned, feeling somewhat criminal, and tried to keep his eyes closed. But that promise had never lasted for long, even as a child. Will opened his eyes and there was Mike, breathing calmly next to him. It was somewhat nostalgic to feel that again, that feeling between adrenaline, guilt, and something else (it was always that something else with Mike) when at their sleepovers Will would open his eyes and watch Mike sleep until he fell asleep too.
Will knew it was weird. He knew it at the age of 9, 12, and 15. But there he was once again.
Will's gaze traced over Mike's calm face, making a mental portrait of each new freckle and enhanced feature on his face, wanting to memorize it before Mike figured he wasn't worth it and walked away again.
Will snuggled slightly between the sheets, the last traces of cold leaving his bloodstream. Which wasn't entirely thanks to them. Whenever Mike was close, he caused in Will that feeling similar to the soft touch of the sun itself, filling his chest with a warm and honeyed emotion that slipped easily through the blood in his veins. The warmth it gave off was so pleasant that it was too easy to forget how you could get burned if you got too close to the sun.
And he could still feel it. After so many years, after so many months without seeing each other, and after so many fights, he still felt it. Of course he felt it. Will wondered if he would ever stop feeling that way about Mike. Deep down he felt like he already knew the answer to that question.
Perhaps this was his own personalized hell, the one he had to be subjected to after he had escaped hell itself and moved on with his life, pretending he shouldn't have died that night in 1983.
Spending the rest of his life watching his loved ones redo theirs without him, being able to move on while he remains that scared kid paralyzed in a dark shed. Spend the rest of his life watching Mike drift further and further away until Will became a mere anecdote, while he clung to their memories together like a spoiled brat unable to let go.
It didn't sound ideal, really. But that's what hell it's all about, isn't it? If you go there, it means you deserve it, and Will had gone there and had dared to come back as if nothing had happened. Fate wasn't going to just ignore that.
On the other hand, to be honest… Will was glad it was Mike. He would do anything to be different from who he is. To be normal . But if he was doomed to live this way, he was glad Mike was the one. And perhaps that was selfish too, though Will was already used to that.
But he really couldn't imagine loving someone other than Mike. Because how could he not? It was Mike . His best friend, his partner in combat, his confidant, his knight, his heart .
Of course it was Mike. Of course, it always had been and always will be Mike. How could he not fall in love? The only thing that surprised him was that everyone in Hawkins wasn't head over heels for him.
Even sometimes, just sometimes, Will wondered how something that felt so beautiful could really be so bad. Sometimes, the feeling seemed even... Beautiful. It was horrendous, it was evil, it was wrong, it was disgusting. But it seemed beautiful to Will in a way, in the same way that a sin could seem beautiful to its sinner.
Because if you stripped away everything he'd been taught, all morals and understanding of right and wrong…you were left with the most gorgeous thing Will would ever experience in his life. After all, what could be more natural than loving Mike?
Will closed his eyes, and resignedly gloating in his selfish heart, he allowed himself to let the feeling run wild through his chest as if it weren't the fruit of his perversity. And with Mike's smile in mind, he fell asleep.
___________________________________________________
Will was going to die.
He was going to die, and he knew it. And it was all he knew, because he couldn't recognize where he was, or why he was there, or could barely remember who he was to begin with. He couldn't even remember why it would it be worth not to die, but it didn't matter, because he was going to die anyway.
He didn't even know if his eyes were open or closed, because all he could see was the most painful and agonizing and terrifying darkness and- Will didn't even know if darkness could hurt, but it did; it stabbed into his skin like needles ripping its way towards his insides. Or maybe that was the cold, the icy air that formed stalactites along his throat and clutched his lungs in a way that he couldn't, didn't know how to, wasn't able to breathe, and-
Will was going to die.
He was going to die because he couldn't breathe; and the mere air cut through skin, flesh, and muscle; and the darkness was making him wonder if perhaps his eyes had been removed from their sockets, leaving him like a rag doll abandoned in the hard ground, left there to die. He was going to die .
Will was going to die because memories of rows of sharp teeth and bloody claws and long, narrow limbs plagued his mind like a virus. And the monster from his nightmares was going to catch him, it was going to kill him, Will was going to die, he had to escape, but he couldn't even make out his legs in the tangle of pain his body had become.
And suddenly, a blinding light pierced through him (and it hurt, oh God, it all hurt so much) and Will could see everything .
He could see blood, blood that wasn't his, blood coming out of motionless bodies attached to the walls as if caught in spiderwebs. He could see a black tentacle creep into his mouth and down his throat, infecting his lungs until Will was breathing tar. He could see thick black smoke entering his nose, his mouth, his eyes, his soul; an evil as black as coal and as red as blood, his blood, someone else's blood, blood. He could see monsters made of shadows, made of rotten meat, made of fear and terror and death inhabiting his surroundings, stalking him, inhabiting his mind, making him one of them. He could see the teeth, the claws, the bones digging, not into his skin (perhaps also into his skin, everything hurt) but into his mind, making it red, like blood, like pain, like rage.
He still couldn't move, he still couldn't distinguish fingers from kidneys in the puddle of pain that was his being, but now something moved him against his will. The fangs, the smoke, the shadow, the anger; the monster that inhabited his mind and made him one, moved what seemed to be his hands upwards.
And Will couldn't see, couldn't see, until he saw , saw his mother, and saw his hands wrap around her neck, squeezing. He saw her screams, he saw her pain, red, blood red, someone else's blood, her mother's blood.
Now he just wished he could actually poke his eyes out and never have to look at anything again.
And suddenly, everything started to burn. There was no cold anymore, only flames, red flames, blood red, his mother's blood covering his hands, blood gushing from his eardrums, from his nose, from his corneas, blood coming from his organs. He was burning , he was being burned alive, his skin and muscle and bone roasting with the force of hell itself.
And he was so small, so tiny, but he didn't disappear. He didn't die. Why didn't he die? Will had to die, because he couldn't deal with it anymore, because everything ached so agonizingly Will didn't know what he was going to do if he took one more breath—was he even breathing? Will didn't remember what clean air was like in his lungs, but if he wasn't breathing, how come he hadn't died? Why didn't they let him die?
Die, die, die . Will was going to die. Will had to die.
Suddenly, around him there was darkness again, but—It was strange. Everything was strange. Where was he?
There was something under him, there was something around him and Will wanted to remove it, wanted to remove it but he couldn't move and—He could move. He had actually moved. He had risen up. Risen where? Where was he? Why was everything dark again?
Will looked—He could look. He wasn't blind. It wasn't dark, not entirely. He looked down, and—He had a body. He had a body and he could move his hands and he could move his legs and there was no fire, just blankets covering him. There were no blankets in hell.
Where was he?
Then Will felt it, so sudden and foreign that it frightened him. It was air . It was air in his lungs, cool and refreshing, making them crash against his chest and heart (if that thunderous drum pounding against his ribs was a heart). Will felt like he couldn't get enough of it, trying to suck up all the air in the room and failing.
He wasn't dead. He wasn't going to die. Where was he?
He was breathing. That was good, breathing. But it wasn't, because he wasn't able to get enough air, and it meant he was alive, and if he was alive it meant it could get him, it meant the monster could come back and with it the pain would come back too and—Will didn't want any more pain, no, he couldn't, it couldn't come back because Will would hurt again, Will would hurt others again, Will would be the monster he had to kill again.
He looked around, blurry vision trying to find something—something, he didn't know what—Air! Yes, he wanted to find air, but how do you find air by seeing?—until his eyes bumped into something in the next bed. Someone.
Mike.
Of course , he was sleeping in a hotel room, with Mike. And he had had a nightmare. And now he was having a panic attack. Perfect.
Will brought a hand to his mouth, trying to still his messy breathing.
It was fine. Everything was going to be okay, because he wasn't in the Upside Down, and he wasn't possessed, and he was just a baby who couldn't survive a nightmare without mommy snuggling him afterward.
He was fine. He just had to get to the bathroom and hide there until the panic of the nightmare went away. He had done this before a bunch of times, when El would stay in his bed and he didn't want to worry her. He just had to sit on the floor for a few hours and let the flashbacks pass by until his brain decided to calm down.
It was fine. He was fine .
He got up and tried to move quietly, fighting the dizziness that clouded his brain. He reached the bathroom, closed the latch as coordinatedly as he could, and crashed into a corner.
The bright bathroom light burned his corneas, pressing his headache against them, but he'd take anything as long as he didn't have to sit alone in the dark. He brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them, digging his nails into his skin.
Will tried to do the breathing exercises Dr. Owens had taught him years ago. He tried very hard to remember the relaxation techniques—5 objects. 5 objects of his favorite color. (Favorite color? What was his favorite color? Where was he, again? ...Who was he?)
Yellow. Right, yellow.
But when he lifted his head from its hiding place against his knees, all he could see was white- the white of the tiles, the floor, and the bathroom light. Or what should have been a bathroom, but now Will could almost smell the distinct smell of bleach and cleanness that made him want to gag.
A hospital.
Out of nowhere, Will could feel the brush of cold suction cups against his face, and the next second an unforgiving coldness was spreading through his insides as his skin began to burn on the outside.
His chest ached, and Will could feel it- He could feel the evil inside him squirming and worming, wanting to claw at his brain and invade it again.
Will couldn't breathe. He wanted to breathe, and he couldn't. The bathroom, or the hospital, or the white hell he was trapped in was devoid of oxygen, stale, as if emptiness entered his lungs each time Will took a breath.
Will closed his eyes so tightly it hurt. But, foolish of him, fangs and claws and blood and pain and death and hunger and cold and hell filled the darkness behind his eyelids so overwhelmingly Will thought they would engulf him with them.
He opened his eyes again but the nightmares were still there, everything was still there, because it was inside him, he could feel it, Will could feel it.
He wanted to vomit his guts out until he got the monster out of him, slit open his veins until the darkness inside them left them empty, empty as the room devoted to air,- where was the air? Will was choking and he needed air, choking because the monster clung to the walls of his throat and scratched it, scratched, and it hurt, it all hurt again and-
And Will was going to die. He had to die.
Bang .
Out of nowhere, a noise. A noise that didn't come from his head. A hit.
Bang .
Another hit.
And- A voice? Was that a voice?
And also out of nowhere, Will was small, tiny, and he was curled up in the bathtub of his house, and there was knocking on the door-
His dad.
His dad was angry, very angry, because Will was a bad son and a crybaby and words that he didn't even know what they meant and- He was going to come in. He was going to break down the door and come in, and Will was going to die, and he couldn't breathe, and since when was there so little air in his bathroom?
The bangs stopped. Did dad get tired? Perhaps he was already sleeping on the sofa, surrounded by empty bottles and the smell of the alcohol Mom used to treat Will's wounds with.
But there was another noise again, a metallic sound against the lock, and after a few seconds, a click.
The door opened. The door opened, and Will was going to die, because dad was angry, because of him, his fault, and it was so cold and everything hurt so much and there was a monster inside him and dad was going to be even angrier and-
Will was going to die.
Footsteps came closer, and Will tried to be very quiet, very still despite feeling as though he was shaking violently (or was it the room that was shaking?) in hope of disappearing and never being found again. But it didn't happen, he was still there, and the footsteps too, and they had stopped in front of him and Will was going to die .
Will opened his mouth and tried to ask for forgiveness, mercy, or whatever and to whoever would hear, to ease what was about to come; but he was no longer sure if the words were coming from his voice or from somewhere else, or if he even had a voice left to say them.
He stopped distinguishing one syllable from another broken by sobs- Were they sobs? They seemed like sobs, but Will still couldn't breathe and he didn't know how to sob without breathing and he still didn't know where his body began and ended and- he just shrank more and more into himself, because he was going to die, because he had to die, and everything hurt so much and-
There was something on his shoulders. Something (Fingers. Were they fingers? It seemed so) was pressing firmly but gently against his skin and-
Wait. Gently?
The hands (what seemed like hands) on his shoulders didn't shake him, or hit him, or hurt him. Everything ached, everything ached, but the hands just held him gently .
A voice. There was a voice. And this time it wasn't coming from himself, Will was pretty sure. But it wasn't aggressive or yelling or drunk, it was sweet. Will liked it. Yeah, he liked it, and he wanted to hear it, because it was familiar and a little nostalgic, in a way that reminded him of something else than fangs and blood and pain.
Will tried to look, but his vision was still blurry, and the bright light caused another wave of pain to shake his head and- Pain . Pain, again, because everything hurt. Everything still hurt.
What if it was a trick? A hallucination of his delusional mind? He couldn't get distracted, no, he had to run away from the monster and it was going to catch him if he didn't keep moving, but he couldn't escape, he couldn't escape and he wasn't breathing and there was no air- Where was the air? The voice hadn't brought any air and Will couldn't breathe and-
The voice's hands moved to his face and cradled it gently, holding it in place, making Will realize he had been shaking his head frantically.
The voice was telling him something. Will concentrated very hard on the sound, because something told him it was right, and he liked the voice and it didn't hurt, so he tried. Bit by bit, the words became tangible, as if Will could brush his hand over them and read them like braille.
"-Breathe. Hey, Will, look at me, it's okay. Everything will be ok. You just have to try to breathe, yeah?"
Breathe? Yeah, it was easier said than done. How was he going to breathe if there was no air in the room and his lungs were full of that horrible black shadow that hurt so much? The voice should have brought air with it if it wanted him to breathe so badly.
But the voice touched with its hand some part of Will's body - some part, because Will wasn't quite sure what was his body and what wasn't, but Will had felt skin against skin. A part he realized was his own hand, as the voice lifted it up and guided it gently- always gently, and Will liked it, because it didn't hurt- to a hard surface.
"Will, breathe. I know you can do it, okay? Breathe with me, like this." The surface rose and fell against Will's palm, and did it again, and again.
How was he supposed to breathe, if there was no air in the room? Will didn't understand. He didn't understand, but he tried to follow the voice that had lost its mind, if it had one.
He tried to breathe, and it hurt (oh no, it hurt, everything hurt, everything hurt and Will was going to die), but focusing hard, something was going into his lungs. Something that didn't taste like coal, or blood, or alcohol.
Was it... air?
Air.
Air!
Will kept trying, and it was messy, and everything kept hurting, and he was sure he was still shaking, but he was breathing. He breathed along with the voice, the voice with hands, the voice with chest, the voice that breathed. The voice that was beating, apparently, because Will could feel under his hand a somewhat fast but constant rhythm that seemed to be a heart.
Will liked it, too, because it didn't hurt either, and it was calming, in a way. It felt real.
"That's it. That's it, you're doing great. Keep breathing with me, okay?"
And Will kept breathing with the voice, which now began to make more sense in his not-so-blurry vision, managing to make out a familiar silhouette. But before he could continue his investigation, the voice was no longer in front of him, but had moved.
No, it couldn't leave, because it would take the air with it and Will couldn't breathe and he didn't want to be alone because the monster would come back and-
"Hey, don't worry, I'm here. Just keep breathing."
The voice settled next to him and pulled Will closer to it. Now, instead of resting against the cold wall, Will was resting on something warm and, although firm, soft.
A shoulder . It was a shoulder. And something -an arm- was lightly wrapping Will's body.
It was another body, it was someone, someone who breathed and who was gentle and who had a soft voice and kind hands. Someone who had a heart that beat rhythmically and felt real , as if it wouldn't disappear under Will's touch; and someone who didn't hurt. The person didn't hurt. They didn't hurt, and Will couldn't really remember what was it that hurt so badly before.
He closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of air entering his chest and the whispers of the voice against his ear.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Will wasn't quite sure if it had been minutes or days since he'd practically passed out, but to be honest, he wasn't sure about anything at the moment. Opening his eyes, he cursed under his breath at the intense light. But it wasn't daylight, it was a led lightbulb that made a small sound similar to that of a mosquito on a summer night.
He rubbed his eyes against his fist several times, trying to open them or remember something or whatever, just trying to get a clue as to where he was.
His first guess was that he had fallen asleep again in the bathroom at home after a bad night, judging by the hard floor under him and the feeling that he hadn't slept in weeks.
But instead of resting against the cold wall, half leaning on top of the toilet and with contractures even in his eyelids, he rested against something soft and warm. If he wasn't so intrigued, Will would fall asleep again on the smooth surface.
He made one more effort to open his eyes, straightening up slightly. After a couple of seconds, he finally looked up and-
"Hi."
Oh.
Oh.
Oh!?
Will rose from resting on top of Mike so quickly that he was almost certain he had pulled something on his neck. Mike was saying something, probably trying to reassure him judging by his worried and somewhat frantic expression, but Will couldn't hear anything over his own thoughts.
What the fuck was he doing sleeping on top of Mike?
"Sorry! Sorry," Will said instinctively, though he didn't quite know what he was apologizing for.
Well, maybe he did know, because he had tried so hard to restrain himself from even brushing Mike so as not to make him uncomfortable or take advantage of him as a- pervert , just to literally fall asleep on top of him.
Yeah, great job, Will.
But, again. He was very confused.
Until he examined his surroundings and realized that he wasn't in his bathroom back at home (and it was a bit relaxing knowing Mike hadn't come from Hawkins to sneak into his house late at night) and remembered where he was at the second time that night.
"No! You don't have to apologize, Will."
But now Will did have a reason to apologize, at least one he could say out loud since didn't have to do with what went through his head when he touched Mike.
"Sorry… for waking you up. You should be sleeping." Will felt sour and heavy guilt tug at his stomach as he noticed the dark circles under Mike's eyes.
But he shook his head and looked stranged at Will as if he was speaking Japanese.
"Will, seriously, forget about it. I don't mind." A small pause, then, "Are you okay?"
He was ok. Yes, he was fine. Though now it didn't feel so much like a mantra repeated until the words stopped making sense so he wouldn't burst into tears out of nowhere. Now, it felt true. All things considered, he was fine.
His chest still ached a bit, his neck and back were a tad sore from the awkward posture, he was sure he had left nail marks on his legs, he could feel the dried tears staining his cheeks, and shame sat horrendously on his stomach when he thought of the state Mike had seen him in and had to put up with.
And despite that, he was fine. Genuinely this time. Because it was all over and Mike was there to prevent Will from being swallowed up again by memories. It had been a long time since he had woken up from an anxiety attack without being alone, and Will could get used to this.
Selfish, as always, for liking the way he was stealing Mike's hours of sleep to go to save him from his own mind; but Will didn't have much time to condemn himself for it when Mike was so close and Will felt so safe.
"Yeah, yes. I'm fine." Will felt a bit embarrassed when he realized the shaky tone of his voice.
"Are you sure?"
Mike's eyes did the thing where they traveled down and back up on Will's face, and Will- He swore he could melt right there. With Mike so close, speaking so sweetly, caring for him.
Instead, he spoke again.
"Yeah."
Not feeling brave enough to keep looking at him, Will leaned his head against the wall behind him, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
He could feel Mike's gaze on his profile. Will wondered what he was thinking. If he was looking at something he didn't like. If he was seeing in Will the shadow of what he saw in the hospital and the shed, an empty vessel of what had been the puppet of a murderer. If he was seeing in Will the aberration and anomaly of him, the deformity underlined with a fluorescent highlighter that marked him as different. Just having Mike looking at his side profile made him a little embarrassed. He guessed his face wasn't very pretty to look at under the harsh neon light, pores eroded by dry tears, and puffy red eyes. Maybe he didn't like the bump of his nose, or the big mole on his neck, or the shape of his jaw.
Feeling somewhat self-conscious, Will turned his head and looked at Mike. He didn't know what he expected to find, but- definitely not what he saw.
Mike was looking at him with an expression so sweet, so tender, so sincere, so full of- love? He felt like that word was too big, too important and too beautiful to go around linking it to any expression. But it was the only word he could think of when seeing the way Mike was looking at him.
He looked a bit nervous the moment Will turned his head, but soon his expression broke into a smile, wide and bright and captivating and glittering, and suddenly- Will couldn't breathe. And he was going to die. But he was going to die in the best sense of the word. In the sense a good christian would die knowing paradise awaits him.
Ironic, right?
He couldn't help but smile back at him before looking away sheepishly. Suddenly, he was all too aware of the places where his shoulder and Mike's touched, radiating a pleasant and warm sensation next to him. Will liked it. Maybe a little more than he should. Always a little more than he should.
Turning his attention to something else -anything else- Will's eyes traveled through the floor, through the counter, through the wide-open door in front of him. And- Um... Didn't Will lock the door when he came in?
"How did you get inside?" He ignored the current of electricity as he met Mike's eyes again.
Mike shrugged casually.
"I forced the lock"
Against his will, a half-laugh half-cough came from Will's throat. That was not exactly the answer he expected. It made sense though, he supposed. More sense than Mike kicking the door down for sure.
"Really?" He said incredulously, laughter still in his voice. "With what?"
With exaggerated drama, Mike reached into his pocket, and for a moment Will felt that adrenaline rush of old DnD campaigns before Mike revealed the big plot twist. Mischievous look on his face, he took a stretched paper clip out of his pocket.
Will couldn't help but laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. Mike in his pajamas and barefoot sitting on a bathroom floor revealing that he had forced the lock with a paper clip, dramatizing it like a scene straight out of Escape from Alcatraz .
Definitely not how he expected to spend his spring break, and definitely not what he expected Mike to have learned in the past year.
"What have I missed?" Will continued between laughs.
Jokingly trying to act like a badass from a John Travolta movie (although the pajamas weren't helping the performance), Mike rested his arm on his knee and spoke cockily.
"High school is kinda crazy, you know? That's what you get for going to art school. Full of pacifists." He drew a hand through his hair smugly and Will laughed again "I mean, it wasn't that hard anyway. The lock was really old, this place sucks."
Even through the performance, the little disgusted expression on Mike's face was the most Mike thing Will had seen in ages, which made it even funnier.
Will raised an eyebrow incredulously, and Mike looked at him falsely offended.
"You don't believe me?"
Another laugh escaped Will's mouth, and he could tell Mike was suppressing his laughter too.
"No."
Mike rolled his eyes, dropping the bad guy performance.
"Okaaaay, maybe I got stuck in my bathroom and Nancy taught me how to force the lock so it wouldn't happen again."
"Pfft-" A loud snort came from Will without much elegance or manners, followed by a laugh that he had to cover with his hand to avoid waking the entire hotel up.
Mike nudged him in the ribs lightly, though he didn't manage to silence Will's laughter. Will would almost feel bad, almost, if it wasn't so fucking funny.
"Oh, shut up." Mike said covering his face in his hands, though even that couldn't stop Will from noticing both the blush covering his whole face and how he also found it funny. Just a little. "Ok, but admit it's still cool."
"Oh, sure, cool guy. Did Nancy also teach you how to put hair gel on, Travolta?"
Mike looked at Will with raised eyebrows unimpressed. He knew it was his comeback look.
" Grease references? Really, Will? Is this how you plan on refuting my obvious coolness?"
"We literally watched it together, Mike, and you also pretended to not like it back then while humming the songs under your breath."
Mike held up his arms defensively, and Will had to fight the urge of laughing again.
"I was 7, okay?"
"And you're still pretending you don't like it?"
Mike opened his mouth and closed it again after a couple of seconds, finally rolling his eyes and flipping Will off. Will couldn't help but laugh again, feeling a little cruel. But Mike was smiling too against his will, so not so much.
Will felt as though he could start floating at any moment soon, as if he was sitting above a fluffy cloud and had swallowed butterflies that were now fluttering in his stomach.
It wasn't a scene out of Grease , precisely. Nor out of any other romantic comedy or Shakespearean play. Lying on a dirty hotel bathroom floor after Will had had a panic attack and while on a mission searching for his sister that might be in danger. And yet, Will couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so alive.
He had missed this terribly. He and Mike just forgetting about the world for a moment and laughing together. Playfully teasing each other and joking as if they were the last two people on earth. That easiness, that closeness, that certainty, that feeling of familiarity yet thrilling adrenaline. Something he never thought he could lose, and something he never imagined how bad would it hurt to lose. And yet, something he hadn't had any hope of earning back lately.
So, maybe not everything was all that bad, right? Perhaps there was still something to save between them, even if it would never be enough to sate his greed. But just having Mike as a friend was more than he could ask for, or deserve. At the end of the day, he felt that as long as he could have him by his side, everything would be fine. It was the Mike Wheeler effect, right?
Will felt as though he could never thank him enough for saving him so many times, in so many different ways.
"Mike?"
Mike, who had closed his eyes calmly next to him, opened them again and looked at Will. Will fought not to look away and run to hide under the covers.
"Hmh?" he muttered.
Will swallowed forcefully and took a moment to think of what to say.
"Thanks." A pause. This was harder than he thought. How could he express everything he was thankful for with just words? "For... Y'know."
Ok, maybe that hadn't been very eloquent, but Mike seemed to understand. He always seemed to understand him. He slightly shook his head next to him.
"It's nothing."
He said, as though he really believed it. But it wasn't nothing. It was everything. To Will, it was everything. That Mike was still there, after all this time, after Will believed that he had lost him forever. That maybe, just maybe, it was true that Hawkins wasn't the same without him, at least a little. That it hadn't been charity or pity. Just maybe.
Will wanted to say something else, because it wasn't enough, nothing would ever be enough to express everything that Mike had done for him and everything he made him feel.
"...It is kinda cool. That you know how to force locks."
It was a silly joke, really. And definitely not enough for Mike to understand how much he meant to him. But suddenly it wasn't so dumb as Mike's expression broke into a grin, eyes shining with a mix of pride and mischief.
"See?"
It was Will's turn to roll his eyes this time, and they both laughed. Will froze the moment in his mind, froze the smile on Mike's face, froze the light, sweet feeling that spread through his body; and stored them in a place deep down inside his chest. The hidden place between lungs, arteries, and fears, the place that should never see the light of day where he kept all those horrible and unspeakable things that flooded his mind way too often.
Though this was one of those moments, a moment forever frozen inside his soul, where they didn't seem so horrible. How could they be so hideous, if it was Mike? If it was Mike who caused them, if his smile and eyes and jokes and soul were engraved in all those memories and feelings that he so secretly imprisoned.
It was Mike. Mike was there, by his side, despite all the reasons why he shouldn't be. But he was still there, smiling sweetly and joking as if he too felt that everything would be okay because Will was at his side, as if Will could give him a fraction of the things and feelings Mike gave him.
So maybe, just maybe, it was true.
Maybe everything would be fine.