Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At the moment, Mike's biggest concern probably should have been the planet-sized fireball burning a hole in his bedroom.

Somehow, he was still more worried over accidentally brushing his palm against Will Byers' shoulder. Seems like the impending doom of the apocalypse had one hell of a way with screwing up his priorities.

Really, his number one priority shouldn't have been the scorched remains of his bed, or the alarming lack of distance between his and Will's hands. If he still held any capacity to think clearly in the slightest, his first priority should have been the bubbling burn would stretching across his shoulder and carving a hot gash all the way up his neck, because that was clearly the most pressing concern at the moment. To anyone thinking straight, at least.

But, in spite of the blood trailing down his arm, the wound tearing his shoulder in two felt practically painless, like he could dip his fingers in his flesh and feel nothing at all. The only part of his body that hurt was his pounding heart, caught like a fluttering bird in his sternum— but Will had said, when Mike had laughed half-delirious and insisted It didn't even hurt, Will, come on, I'm fine, that adrenaline dulled pain, and his wound was deep, and he needed to get that bandaged now. And Mike trusted Will, even if he couldn't bring himself to put a hand on Will's shoulder or look him in the eye, like, at all anymore— but he found it hard to move when he was watching the last vestiges of his childhood bedroom burn to cinders in front of his eyes.

Oh, right— there was a Demogorgon corpse on his bed, too. In this current haze of chaos, he’d almost found it not worth mentioning.

If Mike squinted, he could almost imagine himself there in its place. It was a relief to close his eyes for a moment and dream of peaceful sleep, even if he couldn’t escape the flash of Demogorgon teeth imprinted on his eyelids.

Obviously, it wasn't enough for Hopper to shoot a fireball through his window and carve a hot, pulsating gash from his shoulder blade to his neck. No, he also had to wake up to hot, horrible Demogorgon breath as the monster panted right in his face, and have his heart rate spike from sixty to two hundred as he scrambled for the pistol hidden under his pillow, and fire fifteen rounds of steel bullets straight into its gaping maw as he thought repeatedly I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die.

Thankfully, before his face could get peeled off by an interdimensional monster, Mike's saving grace came crashing through the window— and though he thought of Hopper as more of a sworn enemy, Mike had never been more grateful for the Chief’s existence as he turned said Demogorgon into a shriveled corpse at the foot of his bed. Hopper had also turned Mike’s actual bed into a shriveled husk, but, well. At least he was alive, and at least Mike had held enough sense in his half-asleep brain to scramble out of reach from his bed-turned-matchstick, and at least Will was here with him, standing so close Mike could feel the chill of his hands. And at least Will was alive, too.

As Mike watched his mom sprint up the stairs and douse the flames with three different buckets of water, one of which she held onto by her teeth, he thought about Will. What would he have done, woken up in the dead of night, all alone in the dark basement where he could hardly see the light glinting off that monster's teeth? What would have happened if the Demogorgon had decided to crash its way down the basement stairs instead?

The thought of Will cornered by a Demogorgon couldn't exist for long in his mind, because he wouldn't let it happen. If their roles were switched, Mike would have woken up in a cold sweat, and he would've known Will was in danger, and he would have shot that Demogorgon dead and protected Will no matter the cost.

Did Will wake up like that, too? Shivering, sweating, horrified, a sinking feeling deep in his stomach with the knowledge something bad was happening. Was that why he had rushed in with Karen, instead of staying fast asleep?

He stopped that train of thought in his tracks. The more he thought about Will, the more nauseous he felt— but while the whole Will thing was an everyday occurrence by now, any thoughts in general were a strain at the moment for him. It was an effort to even stand up straight, even though he felt fine, seriously. Ignoring the dizziness, and the nausea, and the bile spilling from his lips no matter how tightly he kept them shut, he was fine. He could fall asleep here, really.

Before Mike could curl up and drift off on the ash-covered floor, the ground began to slip out from under him, slick under his feet like the hot blood coating his shoulder. Mike couldn't get his bearings in any sense of the word; his vision was hazy, his limbs were dead to the world, and his mind was fuzzily blank. Honestly, he thought it might be easier to just pass out in his charred room and wake up when the world wasn't spinning like a carousel. But someone caught him just before he tumbled to the floor, firm hands wrapped around his chest and kept carefully away from his sliced-open shoulder.

"Come on, honey," Karen whispered as she held him tight, soft and sweet. The sort of voice she once used with baby Holly, when everyone else was asleep but her. "You can stand up, it's okay, just keep your eyes open. Keep them open, okay?"

Mike nodded, a vague shake of his head that his mom might've seen as more of a seizured twitch. She pushed him upright, keeping a steadying hand on his uninjured shoulder. "We're gonna go downstairs and get you bandaged up. Just put one foot in front of the other. That's all you have to do."

Two hurried pairs of footsteps followed them as he stumbled through the door. He resisted the urge to turn around just to see Will's face, partially because he might pass out if he spun himself like that, and partially because— well. Generally, Will's face made him a little dizzy. And— okay, that sentence sounded really bad, but Mike didn't mean it in a bad way!

He wasn't sure how he meant it, honestly. And he wasn't sure if he'd ever find out, because every time he tried to think about the why behind that statement, he came to some weird wall in his mind, sectioning off his conscious thought and unconscious feelings. It was like some metaphorical dam walled off his mind, covered in spikes and clearly labeled DO NOT TOUCH. Mike wasn't usually one for obeying the rules, but when something was covered in spikes and literally labeled 'DO NOT TOUCH', he knew touching said spiky dam generally wasn't a great idea. And if he had to impale himself, he'd rather do it when he wasn't already bleeding out from someplace else, anyway.

So, as his mom guided him down the stairs, Mike kept his mind carefully blank. He kept his mouth shut, too, because he wasn't sure on his current capability to make any other noise than a choked sob at the moment. If he made sure not to think, he wouldn't see petal-shaped maws blurring behind his eyes, and if he made sure not to speak, he wouldn't say something stupid like I'm scared, or I don't think we're making it out alive this time.

He was silent all the way to the kitchen. He made no noise of protest when his mom gently instructed him to sit on the table, and take his scorched shirt off, and hold out his arm even if it hurt like hell. He couldn't stop his face from going a bit red when he realized Will was still there, and he was still shirtless, and— it shouldn't have been weird, but it was, and Mike wasn't sure why.

Joyce's voice drifted out from somewhere behind him. Mike honestly hadn't seen her until now, though she must've been around somewhere, since she was the one currently rubbing some sort of freezing ointment around his burn. "I know it's cold, honey. Just— stay still."

Mike hadn't even noticed he was moving. "Uh— sorry." Maybe he stuttered a little, but at least the word came out as an actual word instead of a pained whine, so Mike thought he was doing pretty well, all things considered.

Then Joyce pulled her hand away, and all the pain he had suppressed came rushing in, turning his vision blurry as he doubled over. Now he was definitely sobbing, loud and pathetic even to his own ears. So much for being able to to speak just a few seconds ago.

Mike watched through bleary eyes as Will stepped forwards. Will seemed tentative, like he was reaching out to a wild animal, some mangy creature that may or may not have rabies. But Mike could feel a bit of bile spilling from the corner of his mouth, so maybe Will was right to be concerned. "Hey, it— it's okay," said Will, voice soft. He looked a bit like an angel, backlit by a blurry halo of kitchen light in Mike's wavering vision. "You're gonna be all right, okay?"

"Doesn't—" Mike choked, struggling to get words out from behind his gritted teeth, "doesn't feel like it."

"You shot that Demodog straight in the face, Mike," said Will— and, slowly, he lowered a hand over Mike's own, the one connected to his uninjured arm that currently had a death grip on the kitchen counter. "It didn't even get a claw on you, you'll be fine, I promise."

Mike wasn't sure if Will was speaking to comfort Mike or Will himself, but he welcomed it all the same. Especially when Will had cared enough to initiate this gentle touch between them— and in Mike's weird, nonsensical mind, if Will initiated a touch, Mike's no-physical-contact-with-Will-ever rule remained unbroken.

He— okay, Mike would explain that later. He was too exhausted from bleeding buckets to think about much of anything, okay? He’d elaborate on the whole I-can’t-touch-Will-or-I-feel-like-dying thing later.

It was hard to think about anything when his shoulder felt like it was still on fire, so Mike wasn’t going think at all. "Almost— forgot about that— ow. Do we have painkillers? I think— ow, fuck— painkillers are sort of important, in a deadly apocalypse— ah, shit."

"Stay still a bit longer," said Joyce, setting a hand on Mike's uninjured shoulder and stilling his thrashing body— weird, Mike hadn't even noticed he was moving, "and your mom will go find some ibuprofen. You're lucky Mrs. Wheeler is a coupon fiend," she finished, laughing awkwardly in the stale air.

"Told you buy-one-get-three-free painkillers would be useful in the apocalypse," Karen said, heels clicking on tile floor as she sped away to the medicine cabinet, taking her quiet chuckle as she went. Mike wasn't sure why his mom was wearing heels when she hadn't left the house in four days. An impending apocalypse made everyone act a bit weird, though— and out of anyone, Mike knew that best.

Ever since the sky had gone permanently gray, Mike's mind had gone permanently insane— well, not completely insane. He only went crazy around Will— but since he'd been confined to his house for the past few weeks while the 'competent adults' (whose problem-solving skills were about as questionable as their teenaged children) sorted out how to stop everyone's likely and painful deaths, Mike had also been confined to being around Will just about twenty-four seven.

Will was his best friend, so that shouldn't have been a problem. If anything, it should have been fine— fun, even like the weeks-long sleepovers they'd begged for as kids— but nothing really went as planned in an apocalypse. Instead, Will's presence acted as more of a constant sleep-paralysis shadow figure, making Mike's heart race and turning his palms sweaty just by standing there, soft and warm and beautiful in the dim lightbulb glow.

(Beautiful— okay, he was too tired to think about that either.)

Anyways. Mike was staring off into space, decidedly not looking at Will even though he could feel Will's eyes flick from Mike's downturned face, to the gash in his shoulder, then away to the wall, then back to Mike again. It was a bit annoying, honestly, especially with the way Will's staring made Mike's face feel so hot, but he didn't have the energy to tell Will off. So he stayed sat, quiet and (hopefully) still, as Joyce wrapped gauze around his shoulder and placed thick bandages on the edges the gauze couldn't reach, stinging crevices that crept up to his neck and curled down his back.

"I'm almost done, Mike, just stop— squirming." Joyce stroked a soft hand into Mike's hair. Mike wondered if all the Byers' had that magic touch, the kind he could melt into from even the slightest brush. Though, to prove that theory true, he'd have to test it with Jonathan, and— well, Mike had nothing against Jonathan. He just wasn't sure whether Jonathan had nothing against him.

Shit, he was still flinching, involuntary hisses escaping his mouth every time Joyce's fingers brushed over his wound. Mike forced himself to stay still, keeping a death grip on the kitchen counter. "Sorry. It— ah—" he stopped talking for a moment to hiss out a whine when Joyce placed the last bandage over his neck— "hurts. Sorry."

"Come on, don't be sorry. It's not your fault," Ms. Byers said, setting a hand to the small of Mike's back as she gently pushed him off the counter. His vision went hazy again when his arm swung forward, stretching the wound against his skin— and then his mom came rushing back into the kitchen, his guardian angel holding divine gifts in the form of painkillers that were probably the appropriate size for a horse dosage, but he wasn’t complaining.

Mike lunged forward, snatching the pills from her grasp and twisting the childproof cap open so hard it splintered in his grasp. He swallowed three pills dry in rapid succession, wincing as every movement of his arm sent jolts of pain coursing through his body.

"Thanks," Mike rasped, throat dry. "Can I go back to bed now?”

His mom, Joyce, and Will all gave him a blank stare, brows upturned in what Mike hated to think was pity.

Oh. Right. He didn't have a fucking bed.

"You can, uh," Will started, staring into some space behind Mike instead of looking at Mike himself, "sleep in mine? If that's okay—"

Will offered the connection. Will waved the olive branch right under his nose, so why couldn't he take it? Even if his heart started racing faster, somehow, and his head started to spin a little at the thought— that was the blood loss, probably. "Sure. Sorry if I get blood all over your sheets."

Mike started to walk, tottering unsteadily in the vague direction of wherever Will had been sleeping in his house— funny, he couldn't really remember. That was definitely the blood loss, because when had he ever forgotten anything about Will?

"Other way," Will said, a low laugh in his voice that made the tense air dissipate like the cigarette smoke curling from his mom's trembling fingers. Will set his hand to the small of Mike's back, and— well, he loved Joyce, but Will's hands were something else. Soft and gentle, inescapably warm like the warmth of a heavy blanket on a cold morning. And firm, and strong, and—

Jesus Christ, was he still bleeding out or something?

Will brought his other hand to Mike's shoulder as they took careful steps down the basement stairs, Will supporting Mike with every shaky movement. "You're the strong one here," he murmured, so quiet Mike almost missed Will's words entirely. "Brave, too."

"Did I say that out loud?" Mike said, more like a tired murmur as he cleared the last perilous step of the basement stairs.

Will looked him up and down with an incredulous stare. "Seriously? I think you're a little delirious."

"No shit. I just lost four fucking pints of blood, probably," Mike responded, wasting no time to collapse on the air mattress he vaguely remembered dragging down the basement stairs a few weeks prior.

As Mike stared up at Will— no, the ceiling, look at the ceiling, idiot— he saw something dark flash in Will's eyes, a momentary downcast gaze replaced in an instant by a quick shake of his head. "Not too far off on that. Do you, uh— need anything before I go to bed?"

"No," Mike said simply, a little slurred as he felt the side effects of a mild painkiller overdose begin to kick in. His eyes drooped shut, vision going blurry in his rapidly fading sight until—

Will was walking towards the couch, pulling a blanket over the threadbare cushions, and, well. Mike couldn't stand for that.

He was definitely a little delirious— whether from blood loss or potentially being high as a kite off dodgy painkiller medicine, he wasn't sure— but right now, Mike couldn't stand to think of Will Byers not sleeping next to him on a shitty, half-deflated air mattress. So, already half-asleep, he called out, "Will. Will, c'mere."

"What?" Will turned around, slow like a cornered animal.

"Don't sleep on that nasty couch," Mike said, yawning, "I think there's, like— at least an inch-thick layer of Holly's spilled juice on it, probably. It's gross. Sleep here." He patted the empty side of the mattress, and tried not to grimace when it deflated under his hand.

Will considered Mike's proposition for a moment, standing scarily still— maybe he wasn't too off, comparing Will to a sleep-paralysis monster. Then, finally, after a painfully long pause, Will conceded, gathering his blanket with a soft sigh. "Sure."

Mike watched through bleary eyes as Will sat down next to him, and tried not to let out an undignified squeak when the air in the mattress redistributed under Will's weight and left Mike nearly touching the floor through said mattress. For a while, Will just sat there, staring off into space as the mattress slowly sunk to the floor.

"You can't sleep standing up," Mike said, reaching out a wobbly hand to tug on Will's shirtsleeve.

Will startled, flinching away from his touch— fuck, Mike broke the rule.

Okay, he was still fucking exhausted, but after mentioning this rule so many times, Mike should probably bother to explain it.

The rule, as he so affectionately called it, was this; don't touch Will. More specifically; keep at least six inches of distance between him and Will, stare no longer than three seconds at Will before looking away, and, most importantly, keep his hands off Will.

This rule existed for the sake of Mike's sanity, and for his general health. If he did any of the above, or even thought about doing any of the above, he'd usually get dizzy, or his face would turn freakishly warm, or his heartbeat would race like a rabbit had entangled itself in his chest, somehow. And, if he actually was touching Will instead of just thinking about it, he'd probably stutter out some stupid, half-formed sentence or just go completely silent, and Will would look at Mike like he'd grown a second head, and Mike would want to die. It had already happened a few times in the past few weeks, and Mike would prefer it not happen at all, so he had established the rule in his mind to keep his sanity intact.

It was like drawing a chalk line and asking politely for no one to step over it. Stupid, pointless, and likely to only cause him more distress. But, for the moment, his useless internal rule kept him at ease. Usually.

Definitely not now, when he had his hand tangled in Will's sleeve. He was stuck like glue, adhered to Will's shoulder no matter how much he told himself to pull away, what are you doing?

Before Mike could even try to snatch his hand away, Will pushed himself forwards, breaking the contact between Mike's hand and his sleeve. As Will moved, Mike considered checking his hand to see if it had melted, or something. What were the consequences of breaking this nonsensical rule again?

"Oh, uh. Sorry." Painfully slow, Will twisted his way onto the mattress, stopping when his arm just barely hung over the edge. Mike watched as Will wrapped himself in a too-small blanket, pulling most of the fabric over the side of his body turned towards Mike. "I— goodnight."

Will turned to face away from Mike, and Mike remained still. As his eyes traced the back of Will's neck, blanketed by faint curls of hair, he murmured a quiet Night, Will into his pillow.

Well. Mike wasn't sure about most of his no-physical-contact-with-Will rule, but he knew one thing for sure.

Will didn't want to be touched.

Why the fuck did Will not want to be touched?

They were always physical as kids. Mike felt no worry when he was ten years old, slinging an arm over Will's shoulder as they walked home without a care in the world. Will had held no qualms over holding Mike's hand during horror movie nights, or leaning into Mike's side under the same blanket.

So what changed?

Well— Will himself had changed, obviously. Puberty and three years of torment from interdimensional monsters could do that to a guy. But Will hadn't just changed, he'd grown. Matured. Grown into his skin, filled out once baggy t-shirts, turned weirdly athletic with strangely strong arms— okay, not the point.

The point was this. Will had grown muscles where Mike had grown skin and bone. Will had grown a fucking brain, while the cavern where Mike's was supposed to be had grown increasingly cobwebbed. Will had matured. Mike had not.

As Mike slowly sunk to the floor on a long-dead air mattress, he began to wonder whether Will had grown up without him. He reached out, dragging a finger through an early-morning patch of sunlight and wincing when the bandage on his shoulder stretched tight across his skin. Will still lay asleep beside him, chest rising and falling in time with the faint flutter of his eyelids. He had long eyelashes, brushing against his cheeks and casting shadows on his face in the dawn's gentle glow. Mike wanted to reach out and touch those shadows, watch them slip through his fingers.

That was another reason why he couldn't touch Will; he was just fucking weird about it. He couldn't just want to give Will a short, three-second hug, or a quick pat on the shoulder. His brain just had to conjure up dreamlike scenarios of giving Will a hug so tight his lungs burst, or cupping Will's face soft in his hands, or— yeah, he could probably go down that train of thought for days. And even though he had all the (likely limited) time in the world to do so, with the whole apocalypse and all, Mike didn't feel like torturing himself for the rest of his potentially short life with that never-ending list. Instead, he slipped off the mattress and began tip-toeing up the stairs, to do— something distracting, hopefully. Something that kept him away from Will, and away from Will-related thoughts.

Every few steps, he looked back to make sure Will was still sleeping. Just because he had gotten four short hours of uninterrupted sleep didn't mean Will had to suffer, too, so he made sure to stay quiet as he cleared the last step and slid on his socked heels into the kitchen.

As he stepped from wood linoleum to kitchen tile, something thick stuck to the pad of his foot. Confused, he glanced down, and— God, that was a lot of blood. Dried puddles from as small as his thumb to larger than his too-long legs lay scattered across the floor, dark and tacky against bright kitchen tile. It took a few moments for him to register how that strange, thick substance soaked into the floor was his blood.

Maybe Mike was still somewhat delirious, because he bent down to look closer at the blood in front of him. He swiped a finger through the substance, grimacing when it stuck to his hand and slunk under his fingernail. It was strange, thinking about how that blood had been inside him just a few hours ago, and now, it held no use except to dye his mom's pristine floors dark red.

When he tried to stand back up from his awkward, semi-crouching position, Mike realized that maybe he was still a little wobbly despite his solid four hours of sleep. As his vision swam, Mike braced himself against the kitchen counter, trembling when a newfound bolt of pain coursed through his shoulder— fuck, where did his mom keep the painkillers—

Before he could even consider stumbling through every kitchen cabinet, a dark figure appeared in front of him— or, more accurately, below him. There was a slight woman— maybe, Mike wasn't too sure with the black starbursts crowding his vision— crouched below him, scrubbing a bloodstain from the tile with fierce swipes of a dark pink rag. For a moment, Mike just stood there, trying not to pass out from pain and fall straight on the woman as he balanced his palms on the counter. He didn't really have the brain capacity to figure out who she was at the moment, so when she spoke, Mike was more than grateful to have recognized her by voice.

"Hey, honey," Joyce said, standing up to face Mike, dark towel dripping pink rivulets back onto the floor. He vaguely recalled how that towel was white, once. "Feeling okay?"

"Feel like I got run over," he responded, voice still thick with sleep. "Do you, uh—" he paused, trying not to let the pain he felt seep into his words, "know where my mom put the painkillers?"

Joyce gestured vaguely over to the dishwasher with the hand holding her bloodied towel, flinging little droplets of blood-slash-water across the room. "There's a baggie over there, with the pills from the bottle you destroyed last night— crap, I should put this down." She set the rag in the sink and turned the tap on. Mike wondered how much longer they'd have running water for. He imagined, with vague disgust, watching the world fall to pieces around him, and smelling like shit because the pipes burst a week ago. Definitely not a great way to go out.

"What else did I do last night?" Mike asked as he made his way over to the dishwasher. With the throbbing pain in his shoulder, it was a little hard to control his finer motor skills— but he managed to tear open the plastic baggie and down another three pills without shredding the bag to bits, so that was a point for him. "After watching my room, uh— you know— I don't remember much, honestly."

Other than excruciating pain and terror, Mike really recalled nothing. Just staring death in the face, firing fifteen bullets straight into its gaping maw. It was a regular Tuesday, at this point.

"Well," Joyce started, handing Mike a glass of water— which he accepted gratefully, downing the whole thing in one gulp, "other than being a pain to patch up? Nothing, really."

MIke was about to respond when he heard footsteps, light but quick as their noise echoed up the stairs. Since he knew there was no one else in the basement but Will, Mike spun around, eagerly awaiting his appearance.

When Will stepped out into the kitchen, Mike just stared, trapped in his presence by some inexplicable force— until Will said, quite bluntly, "You were staring at me a lot. And you had, like— more pupil than iris, almost. It was creepy."

"Come on, Will," said Joyce, reaching for another towel from the top cabinet. "Mike's still not feeling too well."

"I was not staring at you," Mike huffed, crossing his arms— and then immediately uncrossing them, because that fucking hurt, "you were staring at me. I remember enough to know that."

Will shrugged as he followed his mom's lead, grabbing a towel and dousing it in warm water. "You were also shaking so bad I was worried you'd fall off the counter entirely. I kept my eye on you because there had to be someone to catch you."

Mike watched Will crouch down to scrub at one of his more football-sized bloodstains, vaguely distracted by the way Will's hair curled against his jawline until he wondered whether he should maybe try to help clean his own blood off the floor. "Ms. Byers could've caught me," he grumbled, tottering over to the cabinet and fishing for a towel somewhere in the back. He found some moth-eaten cloth in the corner, covered in dust, and wondered how many rags Joyce had used so far to mop up his blood.

"No offense," Joyce said, from somewhere next to his knee, "but I really couldn't. You have an entire foot on me, almost."

Sometimes, Mike forgot he wasn't the stubby, prepubescence-skinny kid he used to be. He had the bruises to prove it; on his elbows from constantly running into table edges, on his knees from tripping over his own feet, on his heart from every stupid teenage mistake he'd ever made. Those hurt the most, usually.

"I forget sometimes," said Mike as he began to crouch down beside Will, careful to keep at least half a foot of distance between their shoulders as they scrubbed at matching bloodstains.

Will shoved at his uninjured shoulder— lightly, of course, because when would Will ever touch to harm? "Get off the floor. You should be resting."

"It's my blood," he muttered, scrubbing viciously at a particularly stubborn stain. His fingertips had gone pink already, matching the color of the once-pristine towel.

"And it's your injury," Will responded, circling a hand around Mike's arm and hoisting him up. Why was Will so strong now? He spent most of his waking hours sitting around, and Mike knew that, because he spent most of his waking hours watching Will— okay, not intentionally, he wasn't a creep. He just— happened to be around Will a lot. It was a small house, okay?

(Mike knew he could have hidden from Will, if he wanted to; that was what Will had tried, in their early days of confinement. Mike had been the one to seek him out in the first place, so he wasn't even fooling himself by claiming his house was 'small'.)

"Yeah, okay." He went limp in Will's touch, almost. It was hard not to, when his hand was so warm and soft and— why would he have such detailed thoughts about Will's hand?

(In his mind, Mike bumped up against that big mental wall— remember, the one with spikes labeled 'DO NOT TOUCH'— and backed away from the answer. Maybe he'd rather impalement by night, to avoid seeing the blood.)

He followed Will without question, sinking down on the couch when Will pointed to the cushions with his free hand. Will watched him like a hawk even as he backed away to the kitchen, making sure Mike stayed put as he began scrubbing out what was hopefully the last bloodstain, because Mike wasn't sure he could stand having Will's eyes on him any longer. It wasn't uncomfortable, per se— it was just weird, weird in a way that made Mike's face flush hot and turned his legs jittery as they bounced up and down in a mildly anxious rhythm.

What the hell did he have to be anxious about? He was just sitting here, staring at a static television, waiting for Will's eyes to stop boring into the back of his skull, waiting for Will to walk over and fill the absence of space next to him on the couch.

Waiting. He did that a lot, nowadays. Waiting for the sky to clear over, waiting for Vecna to fall dead at his feet, waiting for Will to talk to him, waiting for the weird feeling that fluttered in his chest whenever Will looked at him to disappear.

Three out of four hadn't happened yet, so maybe waiting wouldn't always work. "Stop staring at me," Mike muttered, hoping he could inject enough whininess into his voice to drag Will to the couch. Preferably pressed up next to him with some cheesy horror flick playing in the VCR, tangled together for hours even after the film flickered into television static— okay, that was a little weird. "I can feel your eyes in the back of my head, seriously."

"Well, does it stop you from doing something stupid like getting up and tearing your shoulder open again?" said Will, tossing his towel in the sink and walking back over to the living rom.

"I guess."

Instead of sinking down on the couch beside Mike, Will crouched down by the television and pulled open the cupboard below it. "Have we watched Poltergeist yet? Since the world went to shit, I mean."

"Don't think so," Mike said. Will shrugged, popped the tape in, and collapsed on the couch beside Mike.

They were only a few careful feet away. Mike could scoot closer, lean his head on Will's shoulder. Mike could get just close enough to feel the heat from Will's skin, and no further. Mike could spread one leg, touch their knees together—

What he could do, and should do, was focus on the fucking movie.

Every day so far had gone something like this. Wake up, eat possibly-stale cereal, watch a movie (or three) from the rapidly dwindling stack of unwatched films, retreat to his room, pop out every hour or so to bother Will, or Nancy, or anyone, really, sleep for a few fitful hours, repeat. And this day was no different, except for his torn-apart shoulder, and for the fact that he didn't really have his own room anymore.

And, maybe, for the fact that Joyce was suddenly leaning over him and Will, and giving Will some weird, sympathetic smile that made Mike a little worried, and saying Will? Mike? in a tone that could only imply something horrible was about to happen.

"Yes?" said Will, glancing up to face his mom. God, Will was just so polite. Always saying yes and please and thank youwhen Mike usually couldn't bother with more than a halfhearted yeah— though for Ms. Byers, he'd at least turn around and make eye contact so she knew he was listening.

"Mike," she started, "your mom and I have to go out this afternoon for groceries— well, if there's any left." She laughed, an awkward noise that hovered above them like a suffocating fog. "And, well— Mike, you bled a lot last night, so those bandages will need to be changed. Nancy's out with Jonathan for supplies, so they'll be back later if you want them to help you, but it might be better if Will just fixed them up now. Don't want you getting sepsis."

Well. The idea of Will changing his bandages wasn't outwardly horrible. So why did he suddenly feel hot all over, sweating, flushed with fever— fuck, maybe he already had sepsis. "No, that— that's fine. Will can do it—" his voice broke halfway through Will's name, and he tried not to leave the room then and there— "if he wants to. He, uh— doesn't have to, though—"

Mike looked to Will, halfway hoping for Will to go Ew, no, I'm not touching the gaping hole in his shoulder just so the weird sickness fluttering in his stomach would go away. Instead, Will stared back at him for one long, agonizing moment, his vacant stare only making Mike's forehead turn warmer. Fever was a symptom of infection, right? Maybe he wasdying.

Mike was about to take Will's silence as an answer and— leave the house forever, or something— when Will spoke, dispelling the ominous cloud Joyce's laugh had hung in the air. "I— uh." Great way to make Mike feel better. No, stuttering and going silent for another minute didn't make him more nervous at all. "No, I'll do it, sure."

The trembling nausea crept up into his throat. "Where'd you learn how to bandage cuts, anyway— oh, god. Do you even know how?"

Mike would probably trust Will if he was bandaging him up with a paper bag, so he wasn't too concerned, but— okay, the sixth-grade health unit on wound infections scared the shit out of him, and he did not want to experience that in real life. Sue a guy for wanting to keep his arm around for the foreseeable future.

"My mom taught me a while back," Will responded, shrugging. "It's not too hard— I mean, you could do it yourself. It'd just be a struggle to reach, probably."

"No, you— uh. You can do it. If that's okay." The words felt like glue in his mouth, like he was confirming his own death sentence.

He needed to calm down. It was just a few bandages. And five likely-awkward minutes of his life he could never get back, but he'd live. He would be fine. He would be fine.

"After the movie," Will said, before turning back to the screen. Mike conceded and nestled himself into the corner of the couch, listening to the soft pad of Joyce's fading footsteps and sort of hoping some horrible accident would happen right in front of the door— not to Joyce, obviously! Like— a fallen tree, or maybe the house would suddenly float away into the air, or something. Something to get him out of this mess that didn't involve Mike telling Will Hey, I don't want you changing my bandages, it would feel weird, and Will looking at him with that puppy-dog sort of sad stare— something Mike had seen far too often, as of late— and saying I'm your friend, why can't I help you? and Mike having no answer at all.

The rest of the movie passed in one long blur, drawn out and intensely, fleetingly short all at once. His palms were slick with sweat by the time the ending credits rolled. Vaguely, Mike was reminded of the blood slicking his hands the night before, and quickly glanced down to make sure he wasn't bleeding out from someplace new.

The screen had gone dark by now, and the only sound in the living room was a faint static hum. Mike couldn't stand silence on a good day, so he rushed to fill the stale air. "So," he started, and— okay, now everything just felt more awkward. And he had no idea how to continue that sentence anyway. Great.

"Come on," Will said, pushing himself off the couch. For a moment, Will just stood there, idling in front of Mike with a weirdly blank expression— until he reached out a hand, holding it open in front of Mike with a tentative smile. "Are the painkillers wearing off?"

Mike had tried his hardest to keep his face normal and stop himself from wincing. He couldn't get anything past Will, it seemed. "A bit." He stared at Will's hand, momentarily wondering what he was supposed to do with said hand. Something that didn't involve physical contact, preferably, because his hands were sort of disgustingly sweaty and Mike didn't want to torture Will with that.

He must have waited for too long, because Will withdrew his hand. "Sorry." He stared down at his shoes. "I thought it might hurt less if you had help getting up, but I, uh— shouldn't have assumed. Sorry."

"No, it's—" fuck, Will was holding out his hand so Mike could hold it. Did the Demogorgon take his brain in the night, too? "That would help, yeah. I just— zoned out a bit. Sorry."

Will held out his hand again, and this time, Mike grabbed on. Without warning, Will tugged him upright, keeping a steady grip on Mike's hand even when his legs wobbled under him and threatened to collapse back onto the couch.

"Thanks," Mike said, trying hard to keep his eyes focused anywhere except their interlaced hands. For a lingering second after Mike had fully stood up, they stayed twined together. Mike felt an odd urge to keep them that way all the way to the kitchen, and maybe a little after.

"Your hands are sweaty," Will said, wrinkling his nose and withdrawing his hand with a slow slide that made Mike feel a little faint.

Mike shrugged. "I think I have sepsis." He could still feel Will's hand in his, like the opposite of a phantom pain— phantom embrace, maybe? It was making him dizzy. Maybe the infection had spread to his brain already.

"Oh my god, don't—" Will said, choking back a laugh as he walked to the kitchen— "don't joke about that. I'd do a lot for you, but infected wounds. . ." He trailed off with a vague noise of disgust.

"Hope you're good with regular wounds, then," Mike responded, trailing behind Will, "because I'm pretty sure mine is a gaping hole right now."

Will stopped next to a cabinet, standing on his tip-toes to reach for the first aid kit on the top shelf. "I've seen enough of those to the point where they don't make me feel like vomiting anymore." The way Will spoke so casually made Mike feel like wrapping him up in his arms and staying there until he was sure Will would never have to see blood again. Then again, even the thought of a one-armed hug involving Will made Mike a little queasy.

Maybe Will was causing his could-be-sepsis, somehow. Was that why Mike's stomach turned inside-out whenever he thought about Will?

At the moment, though, Will was more silly-looking than deadly-infection-looking; standing tall on his tiptoes, struggling to even get his hand on the top cabinet shelf. Mike wasn't much taller than Will, but he probably could've stuck his arm to the back of the cabinet without even stretching, so it was a little funny to watch Will strain to reach the edge.

After finally snatching the kit from the shelf, Will turned around and gave Mike a sharp glare. "Stop laughing at me. Someof us don't have pool noodles for arms."

"Pool noodles?" Mike snorted, waving his arms around— okay, they were a little long, but pool noodles? Really?

"You look like one of those inflatable things outside of car dealerships." Will rolled his eyes, then set the first-aid kit down on the counter. He patted the edge, gesturing for Mike to come over; currently, Mike was idling at the spot where wood linoleum met kitchen tile, hoping if he stayed there long enough he could skip over this moment entirely like pressing fast-forward on a tape. "Sit over here, uh— if you want. And take your shirt off? I mean— you don't have to. It'd just be easier to—"

Something stirred in the back of his mind, reminding him how waiting had never done him any good, or whatever. So, pushing down the hesitation creeping through his limbs, Mike hopped on the counter, swinging his legs as he went and almost kicking Will in the shin.

Without even noticing, Mike had perched himself on the edge of the kitchen counter, back facing Will— and, strangely, he felt vulnerable. Exposed. He resisted the urge to turn around and face Will, or run away, or whatever it was that kicked in him like a trapped rabbit— and, unceremoniously, pulled his shirt clean off.

Mike couldn't see Will, so he'd never know whether the small inhale behind him was a Demogorgon drawing its final breath before tearing him to shreds or a gasp of disgust from Will at the sepsis-crusted gash in his shoulder. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, anyway.

"Okay. Uhm." The words coming from Will did not sound very confident. Mike trusted Will with his life, obviously, but—

But what? It wasn't that he didn't trust Will. Will could probably shove his fist straight into Mike's gaping wound, and Mike would lean back on his hand. Whatever felt so wrong in this moment was something much worse, something that boiled just under his skin like thick syrup, hot and slick and nauseating. For a moment, he was twelve years old again, maple syrup running down his wrists, broken air conditioning baking sweet viscosity straight into his skin.

The syrup bubbled under his hands. He could almost feel the stickiness, solid like sap in his veins. God, he needed to take a shower. Hot enough to turn his skin red and raw. Hot enough to scrape the syrupy shame straight from his body.

He was really, really nauseous. Like he had downed the entirety of said metaphorical syrup bottle in one go— fuck, he needed to stop thinking about syrup. He was going to throw up at this rate. "Do I actually have sepsis? Is that why you're so quiet?"

"Uhm." Will stayed quiet for another long moment, and Mike resisted the urge to scream. "No! No, sorry, you don't have sepsis, I was getting bandages. Sorry."

"Stop saying sorry," Mike said. "Just rip the band-aid off already. And do it fast. It hurts worse when it's slow."

Will laughed behind him, like he was in on some joke Mike couldn't seem to get. "Got it. Just— tell me if it hurts too much, all right?"

Mike nodded, just barely. Will's fingers were on his back now, creeping up his shoulder, ghosting his skin with delicate grace. Mike's skin burned with every brush, and he was beginning to doubt Will on the whole sepsis thing. Or, maybe, this was why his no-touching-Will rule existed in the first place; one touch, and he'd burst into feverish flames. Maybe Will had poisonous hands— or, more likely, Mike had poisonous skin.

"I'm going to take the bandages off now," Will said, a low whisper in Mike's ear. Mike flinched a little at the sudden noise, and Will withdrew his hands as if he'd been burned. Maybe Mike really was on fire. "Sorry, I— did I hurt you?"

Mike shook his head vehemently. "No! No, you just— startled me, that's all. Go ahead. Rip the band-aid off."

Will laughed into Mike's ear; this time, Mike just barely kept himself still. "Try not to move."

And then Will yanked the bandages off, tugging with what felt to Mike like pent-up viciousness. An undignified noise escaped his lips— and it was not a squeak, or a whine, or anything of the sort, no matter what Will had to say about it— and immediately, Mike bit down on his tongue, keeping his mouth carefully shut.

"Sorry, sorry," said Will, tracing his hand over the edges of Mike's wound. Will's touch didn't take the pain away entirely,but his hands had this soothing quality, like the cool balm of aloe vera gel (something Mike was all too familiar with, given his hatred of slimy sunscreen and sheet-pale skin). Almost instinctually, Mike leaned into the touch, pushing Will's hand flush to the side of his shoulder, a hairs breadth away from his gaping wound.

Will's hand was soft. Soft like kitten fur, or the smooth down of dove feathers. Soft like a blanket, something Mike wanted to bundle himself up in and never leave. He could get addicted to this touch, probably.

That was also another reason why he wouldn't let himself touch Will. Give him an inch, he'd take a fucking mile. Mike could turn a handshake into a month-long hug, if Will would let him.

"Mike, what—" Will paused for a moment before pulling his hand away, and Mike stifled a complaining whine. "Keep leaning on me, and I'll end up sticking my finger in your wound."

"On purpose?" Mike gasped, feigning offense. With Will's aloe vera touch gone, the cut began to sting again, sending starbursts of pain up his shoulder and into his neck. He grit his teeth together, and wondered whether they'd turn to white dust in his mouth before his wound healed up.

Will went quiet for a moment. Mike could hear him rummaging for something in the first-aid kit behind him. He resisted the urge to turn around like he resisted the urge to beg Will to lay a hand on his shoulder again; quietly, and with a painful amount of determination. The longer Will stayed quiet, the thicker the air became, silence so tangible Mike could almost hold it in his hands. Thick like syrup. Did aloe vera count as syrup?

"The more you squirm, the more I'm considering it," Will muttered once the rustling noise behind him ceased.

Mike rolled his eyes. "I'm not squirming."

"Seriously?" From behind him, Mike could hear Will ripping off the plastic covering of a bandage. He braced himself for the impact of Will's hand on his shoulder, keeping his mouth sealed shut to avoid doing something stupid, like sighing or leaning into Will’s aloe vera hands. "You're swinging your legs off the counter, tapping your hands on the counter, moving your head around— should I go on?"

"No thanks." Mike straightened his spine, stilled his legs, and curled his fingers around the edge of the counter. He grit his teeth together as he felt the heat from Will's hand slowly edge closer, grazing his shoulder, and then—

"Am I hurting you?" Will pulled his hand away. Mike tried his best not to lean back and chase his warmth, but he could still feel himself instinctively tilt backwards, searching for Will's touch.

Mike shook his head and pushed himself back upright. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Will's hand hovering just above his shoulder, bandage dangling from limp fingers. If Mike leaned back just so, Will's hand would curve around his shoulder— and right above his wound, but would he even hurt if it was Will's hand under his skin? "No, I— it's fine. I'm fine. Just put the bandage back on before I start bleeding out again, or something."

"You sure?" Will pulled his hand back slightly. "You just look— uh. Pained. Or constipated, I don't know."

"Constipated— oh my god, shut up," said Mike, his words dissolving into laughter.

Will threw his hands up in the air, a blur in the corner of Mike's eye. "I don't know! You were just— grimacing. Shit, didn't you say you needed more painkillers— sorry, I'll go get those, sorry—"

"Taking painkillers from a poor, injured boy," Mike said, leaning into dramatics as he pulled a hand up to his head— shit, that was his injured arm, ow— "William, what has become of you?"

The tension in the air dissipated, just a bit. Will disappeared, then returned just as quickly, holding out the baggie of ibuprofen like a peace offering. "Take these, and put your arm down. You're turning pale."

"I think that's just my default state," Mike responded, snatching the bag away and tearing it open.

The pills were halfway to his mouth when Will held up a glass of water, inches from Mike's lips. Consequently, Will's hands were also inches away from Mike's lips. Mike's mind did not linger on this fact at all. "Please don't dry-swallow them again, it makes me nervous just watching you— oh. You're— uh. Not pale anymore."

So the feverish, scalding flush in Mike's face was visible, and he had no way to prevent it. Great. "I don't think that's possible without, like— peeling my skin off, or something." He took the glass from Will's hands, tried not to mourn when Will's hands returned to his sides, and gulped down half the glass with two oversized pills.

"No, I mean—" Will cut himself off with a sigh. "Nevermind." He moved behind Mike again, and the tension that had been slowly evaporating doubled in intensity. A slow pour of friction, syrup dripping down a table and pooling in a thick puddle at his feet.

This time, Will set his hand down on Mike's shoulder without hesitation. Mike leaned into the touch, a sigh escaping his lips unbidden at the cool brush of Will's fingertips against his feverish skin. "You have nice hands."

Okay, that was not what he wanted to say. He didn't want to say anything at all, actually, and if he was going to say something, it wouldn't have been something as weird as that. Could he add no weird compliments to his quickly-growing list of internal rules? He probably should.

"What?" At least Will kept his hand where it was; faintly, Mike could hear him picking up a bandage, slowly bringing his other hand to Mike's shoulder. And Mike couldn't see Will's face, but he could feel Will's stare on the back of his neck, vacant and confused and boring holes into his skin.

"Like—" Mike paused, wondering how exactly he could dig himself out of this hole, "they're, uh. Soft. And cool. It's nice."

"My hands," said Will, deadpan, "are cool."

Mike groaned, resisting the urge to hunch over and facepalm. "Temperature cool, not awesome cool. It makes the pain go away, a bit."

With one hand, Will spread the first bandage over Mike's wound— the bottom half, stretching from the side of his torso to his upper arm— and spread his other hand entirely flat over the point where Mike's shoulder met his neck. "Does that make it feel better?" His voice sounded small, even spoken directly into Mike's ear.

Will's hand was better than any aloe vera, better than any dose of painkillers. Mike wanted to ask Will if he could set his other hand on Mike's shoulder and leave them there for a few hours, or a few months, maybe. "Yeah." His shoulders were blissfully cool while the rest of his body burned alive, like he had live wires sparking underneath his skin. His veins had gone haywire.

Will brushed his fingers downwards, tracing over Mike's collarbone before going still. "Sorry," he said, more like an exhalation than an actual word. His free hand disappeared from Mike's wound, reaching for another bandage instead of lingering on his shoulder.

"Don't be." Mike hoped Will could see his smile, despite how obviously strained it appeared even to Mike himself— though, to be fair, he was really trying his best to not freak out and run away and stand under a cold shower until his skin turned from boiling to freezing, so making his face look 'normal' wasn't really at the top of his priority list right now. "Just hurry up, because it's cold as hell in here, and having my shirt off isn't helping."

If anything, it was sweltering in the kitchen, but Mike would make up as many white lies as he could if it meant escaping this mortifying situation as quickly as possible. He needed to run away and stare at a wall for three hours, or sit in an empty bathtub and twist the faucet on and off, just— something to take his mind off the sparks sputtering under his skin. He needed to go someplace quiet, where he could sit and stare and think, and maybe break past that mental wall in his mind and figure out what was wrong with him.

Not now, though. Not when Will was still bandaging his wounds, carefully wrapping gauze around his shoulder and up his neck with a tender touch that made Mike want to scream, or something equally deranged. "Maybe you have a fever," Will remarked, twisting the last of the gauze around Mike's upper arm, "because you're pretty warm. And it's definitely a normal temperature in here."

"Or maybe you're just freakishly cold," said Mike, and even though he couldn't see Will's face, he could feel Will rolling his eyes like a weight pressing in on the back of his skull.

Instead of responding, Will removed his hand from Mike's shoulder. Mike was about to complain— or just grab Will's hand and drag it back to his skin, until he remembered the rule— when Will placed a final bandage over Mike's neck, dancing his gentle fingers over where his hair curled just above his shoulder. A shiver ran through his spine, unbidden and unwelcome as it stoked the sparking fires under Mike's skin.

"Done," Will said, smoothing the bandage over and pulling his hands away one last time.

Mike was about to hop off the counter and turn around when something soft hit the back of his head and fell behind his back. He twisted around, reaching for the object, and grabbed a fistful of his shirt just as his eyes connected with Will's grin. "Warm yourself up."

"Throwing things at an injured boy." Mike pulled the shirt over his head, grateful for the barrier it rebuilt between him and Will. "Your cruelty knows no bounds."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm the spawn of all evil, whatever," said Will, only grinning more. "So, uh. Are the bandages okay? Are they too tight, or do they hurt, or—"

Mike shook his head. "They're fine, Will, seriously. Don't worry. You were good— uh, I mean— your hands— uhm." What the fuck was he trying to say? And why did he keep bringing up Will's hands, that was not a good look, what if Will thought— something, he wasn't sure. What if Will thought he was weird— no, Will already knew he was weird— or gross, or disgusting, or—

Why would Will think that, though? And why did he think that about himself?

The answer tickled the back of his mind; when he tried to reach for it, every coherent thought in his mind evaporated at once like scattering a cloud of dust.

"Maybe I have superpowers, too," Will said offhandedly, glancing at his hands. "Magic healing hands."

"Yeah," Mike said, with a strained laugh, "maybe. I, uhm. Have to take a shower. I'm pretty sure there's still dried blood on my back somewhere."

Will raised an eyebrow. Obviously Will would've known whether there was blood on his back, he had literally stared at Mike's back for the past five minutes, Jesus. That Demogorgon really did take his brain. "O-kay," he said, drawn-out in disbelief. "Just don't stay in there too long, and don't let the water hit your shoulder, or you'll undo all my hard work."

He'd soak his shoulder in scalding water for hours if Will would put his hand there again, but— that wasn't the point. The point was this; he needed to get away from Will so his mind would stop buzzing. He needed to sit in a secluded bathroom and stare at the wall, turn the shower on and let the white noise of water drown out the absurdity swirling around in his mind. He needed some peace and quiet, for God's sake, and while that was next to impossible to find in an apocalypse, he'd dig his own grave and sleep in it if it meant his thoughts would just calm down.

"Yeah, sure," Mike said, already halfway up the stairs. He caught a glimpse of Will before he turned the corner, staring at him with a confused expression Mike could see from a full floor away. Will started to open his mouth, but Mike sped down the hallway and raced for the bathroom before he could hear a single word.

He paused halfway down the hallway, right in front of his bedroom door— or, what was his bedroom door. In the dark of the night, Mike hadn't noticed the extent of destruction that had raged through his room; now, in the morning light, Mike could see everything. The charred remnants of his bedroom door reached out to taunt him, posters peeling from the blackened wood and dripping melted plastic in a dark, disgusting puddle on the floor. The plastic congealed right in front of the doorframe, shaped almost like a little arrow, beckoning him to come in and look what he had lost dead in the eye.

Carefully, Mike stepped through the doorframe, keeping his steps light like he'd fall through the floor if he moved too quickly. Hell, he probably could, judging by the state of said floor; carpet turned to dust, foam underlayment curling up in the corners. He avoided the thinner spots, almost hopping as he moved through the room, keeping his eyes on the floor mostly because he was afraid to look up.

A paper rustled under his foot, so scorched Mike couldn't tell whether it had been math homework or book pages. He twisted his ankle, grinding the remnants of the paper to ash, then far beyond ash as his knees began to wobble— and, before he knew it, he was sat on the floor, shaking.

He couldn't remember caring about his room this much, or at all. Now, sitting in its wasted husk, all Mike wanted was to travel back in time just a day, just enough to pierce through the Demogorgon's heart before it broke through his window.

His room had been the last connection he had to any sense of normalcy. It was the only place he could go to truly be alone in his overcrowded house, and now that it was gone, Mike had nowhere to escape to. He had nowhere to run. All he could do was collapse in its ashes, sit and shake and let every feeling he'd been pushing away wash over him in waves of dark cinders, sparking under his skin and laying blankets in his lungs.

And, considering cinders and lungs— breathing in all this ash probably wasn't a good idea, but Mike couldn't bring himself to care. He continued to grind the ash that had once been paper under his foot, and thought with vague relief about his binder of Will's drawings, still safely hidden away in the basement. He had been thinking about moving the binder to his room now that Will was sleeping in the basement, but he kept putting it off for one reason or another— mostly because Will was almost always in the basement, so Mike couldn't go sneaking around— but now, he had never been more glad to be a chronic procrastinator.

A sliver of sunlight peeked out from the roof; the fire must have reached high enough to scorch the shingles. A small hole let the light filter in, shining golden sparkles over the ashes around him. If he squinted, they could be gold dust, instead of the physical proof of his ruined childhood— but, even with the comforting silence, Mike struggled to consider that for more than a moment. So he let the idea linger, picking up glinting ashes and letting them fall through the gaps in his fingers.

And, despite promising himself he would think about why he felt so weird around Will, and what exactly was wrong about him in general, Mike thought about nothing at all.

Mike wasn't sure exactly when he left his room, but by the time he stumbled back downstairs, his stomach was churning and the holes in his roof had gone dark. He was more nauseous than hungry, but he hadn't eaten all day, so maybe food would fix that. Or maybe he'd actually throw up this time. Who knew.

He was vaguely disappointed that Will hadn't come to check up on him, but why would he? Unlike Mike, Will could function perfectly fine without his best friend; he had spent a year without Mike in California without calling once, after all. Mike was the problem here. Now that Will was back home, Mike couldn't go a day without seeing him, and he could hardly go a minute without thinking about him.

He ambled towards the kitchen, half-hoping Will would be there and half-hoping he'd never see Will again, so he could recover from the embarrassment of whatever bullshit he had done a few hours ago. As he drew closer, the low chatter of talking crossed his ears, and— well, he was going to just walk in, but he recognized those voices instantly. He needed a moment to mentally prepare himself to talk to both Jonathan and Will, so Mike leaned against the wall and crossed his fingers, hoping Jonathan wouldn't spy out what was wrong with him before Mike could figure it out himself.

Snippets of conversation drifted through his ears. "He's just—" that was Will, pausing to let put a groan. Mike could visualize him easily; head in his hands, mouth turned in a frown, bunny teeth poking out from his lips. "He's been so weird."

"He's always weird," Jonathan said. There was this disdain in his voice usually reserved for the topic of Mike himself. Mike wondered, vaguely, whether the him in this conversation was— well, him.

"No, he's confusing weird. I don't know how to explain it, but it's like— he just malfunctions when we're together, or something. I don't know—"

Okay, yeah, this was definitely about him. So, before Will could spill all Mike's embarrassing actions to his older brother (who would also definitely hang said embarrassing things over his head forever, because Jonathan could hold a grudge for multiple lifetimes, probably), Mike walked into the kitchen, putting the Byers' conversation at a standstill.

"Hey, Will—and, uh. Hi, Jonathan," Mike said, trying his best to look friendly and unassuming and not weird, whatever that meant. "Do we have any food?"

Jonathan just stared at him. "Where have you been all day?"

Will moved to interrupt, gesturing to a pot on the stove. "There's some soup in here. Mrs. Wheeler made it—" and before he could finish, Mike made a beeline for the stove, snatching up a bowl and a ladle with alarming speed. "Jesus, did you not eat at all today?"

"Don't think so," Mike said, spoon halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the slow drip from Mike's spoon as soup spilled back into the bowl. Will opened his mouth to respond, and Mike leaned forward to hear his voice— and then, out of thin air, Nancy walked into the kitchen and gave Mike a disapproving look.

"I haven't seen you in hours," she said, looking him up and down. "How you can sleep through the entire day and night never fails to confuse me. Anyways, Will—" Will tilted his head, and a weird fluttering feeling appeared in Mike's heart at the sight— "your mom wants to see you."

Will glanced over at Jonathan; he shrugged, and Will stepped forward. "Did she tell you why?"

"Pretty sure she just wanted to tell you to do the dishes," said Nancy, "but she specifically said for you to see her in the garage, so I don't know. And— Jonathan?"

"Yeah?" he said, looking down at Nancy with this shine in his eye that made Mike want to leave the room, immediately.

Nancy shifted on her heels, glancing away. "Just— come to bed soon, okay?" And she walked away, shoes clicking on tile as she disappeared behind a corner. As she left, Mike could physically see Jonathan deflate, shoulders shrinking like a popped balloon. For a moment, he had the urge to do something crazy, like ask Jonathan what was bothering him, until his common sense came back to him and he swallowed whatever words of concern lingered in his mouth with another spoonful of soup.

Then Will followed Nancy, and Mike was alone.

Well, he was with Jonathan, but that felt about the same as sitting in an empty room. A very, very tense empty room.

"You know," Jonathan said, turning his terrifying gaze on Mike, "you can talk to Will."

Mike whirled around. A bit of soup sloshed over his hand, and he hurriedly set the bowl on the counter. "What?"

Jonathan took a deep breath, whistling air through his teeth. "You've just been— off, lately. He— well, we are just a little worried. And I know it can't help, not having your own room anymore."

Jonathan, being nice to him. What alternate timeline was this? "'Off'? How would you know?"

He shrugged, decidedly not meeting Mike's eye. "I basically live here, you know. Even if I don't see you, I feel you. Like a stormcloud, or something." Fuck Jonathan. Fuck Jonathan for being so vague, and acting weirder than Mike, and worrying about him. What the hell? "Will sees you, though. And he tells me things."

"What things?" Okay, now Mike was a bit scared. "There's nothing to tell."

Jonathan snorted, finally looking Mike in the eye. He looked too smart for his own good. Like he knew something Mike didn't. "Oh. Really?"

The way he voiced it was weird; genuinely curious instead of patronizing. Like he cared, or something. Mike was in the middle of wondering whether this was all some fevered dream when Jonathan continued, saying, "You don't have to tell me— actually, no, I don't think I want to know. But Will does. He still wants to be your friend, okay?" Mike must've been looking at him weird— not his fault he could hardly control his facial expressions— because Jonathan added to his statement after a long pause, continuing with "And I don't— you're, uh. Confusing, sometimes. But I know you want to be his best friend, just like you two always were. I'm just not sure whether you realize Will still does, too. No matter what's happened."

"Of course we're friends," Mike said, anger seeping into his voice no matter how hard he tried to keep it at bay. "We're— we're friends."

"Hm." Jonathan began to walk out of the kitchen. "Keep telling yourself that."

Fuck Jonathan.

Mike scrubbed the remaining soup from his bowl with a vicious fire, turning the bowl spotless with ruthless precision before gently setting it on the counter to dry, because his mom would kill him if he shattered a bowl when there were literally none left to buy within twenty miles of Hawkins. Keep telling yourself that. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Why did Jonathan feel he had any right to question and criticize his and Will's friendship? They were friends. They were friends.

They were just friends.

Mike crept down into the basement much later, closer to midnight than afternoon. He hadn't seen Will since that nightmare in the kitchen, and honestly, he was scared to look him in the eye after what Jonathan had said, because Jonathan was right.

He wasn't sure what tethered him to Will, but it wasn't friendship. Not anymore, at least. That had been washed away in the rain just shy of a year ago, split in half by the knife Mike had thrown. We're not kids anymore. I mean, what did you think, really?

Right now, Mike would do anything to be a kid again. To be ten and carefree, seeing how high he could swing on the swingset with Will, jumping off when the swing reached its peak, landing with Will in a tangled heap and laughing until his stomach hurt. He'd do anything for life to be that easy. Now, the easiest thing in his life was dish duty in the conjoined Byers-Wheeler household, and that was already a nightmare of a task.

But even if only a fraying thread held him and Will together, he would cling to it until it snapped. And if that sent him falling to his death, so be it.

When he cleared the last stair and stepped into the basement, Will was sat on the couch, already staring at him. "Has anyone ever told you how loud you walk?"

"Nancy yells at me for it daily," Mike responded, moving to sit down next to Will on the couch before he wondered whether Will would want that at all. "At this point, I do it on purpose to piss her off."

"Is that how you two bond?" Will raised an eyebrow.

Mike shrugged, slowly moving closer to the couch in the hopes that he could sit down next to Will without him even noticing. "Basically."

Will looked him up and down, eyebrow somehow moving even higher up his forehead. Obviously, Mike wasn't being very subtle in his movements, because Will patted the space next to him and said, "Come on. You can have the couch— I mean, unless you want the mattress. It's, like, super deflated though. I think you need the couch."

"You need sleep, too," Mike countered. "Take the couch. I'll be fine."

Will was silent for a moment, looking through Mike with a narrowed stare. Then, with a little shake of his head that could have been an involuntarily twitch, he grabbed onto Mike's wrist and yanked him down; Mike moved with Will's tug without protest, landing ass-first on the couch with one leg swung onto the cushions and— just barely— brushing Will's knee. With just a glancing contact, the sparks started under his skin again, and the cool that had sunk under his flesh in the hours he'd spent away from Will started to dissipate.

Friends didn't feel dizzy after one brief touch. Maybe Mike had become so distant from Will to the point where he wasn't even sure where to draw the line with physical touch, so he drew the line with barbed wire at none.

(He knew that wasn't really the right answer. It sat like a misplaced puzzle piece in his brain, a center piece in place of an edge; problem was, half the puzzle pieces were missing, and he was working in the dark, and puzzles were stupid and pointless. In general, Mike had hated puzzles for most of his life, but this was the worst puzzle he'd ever had the displeasure of doing.)

"I guess I'll take the couch," Mike said, a nervous laugh cutting off the end of his sentence. His calf was still flush against Will's knee, which was probably more important to him than it should've been.

"Good." Will stood up, breaking the contact between them. Mike tried not to feel disappointed, and failed miserably, if the short flutter in his chest was any indication.

Will wandered over to the lightswitch. "I was going to go to bed, but if you're not tired, I—"

"No, I—" Mike was wide awake, yet bone tired at the same time. He wasn't sure if he'd end up lying awake for hours, staring at the popcorn ceiling, or blacking out in the blink of an eye. "I'm tired. We can sleep."

So, without another word, Will flicked the switch, and they were plunged into darkness. Faintly, Mike could hear Will's footsteps draw closer and then further as he walked over to the mattress— but, at the moment, Mike was more focused on finding the blanket he swore had been hanging off the edge of the couch just a minute ago.

"Where is it," Mike huffed to himself as he fumbled around in the dark.

Something hit his face, soft and worn. "Do you just like throwing things at me?"

"Maybe," Will said from somewhere on the floor. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Mike could see Will's shoulders shrug, and he could even catch the glint of his teeth, his smirk obvious even in pure darkness. And even if Mike couldn't see his smile, he could feel it, warmer than the thickest blanket around his shoulders. Will had that effect, generally. He could turn a room warm with just his presence— hell, Will could melt a Siberian forest with his smile, probably.

Mike peeled the blanket from his face and wrapped it tight around his body. He sort of wished he was held by tight by a person, preferably Will— okay, if he wanted to sleep at all, he needed to stop thinking about Will. "I— g'night, Will."

"Night, Mike."

Mike buried his face in a pillow and tried very hard to think about nothing at all.

With a (forcefully) empty mind, sleep came easy. Nightmares, however, also came quite easily.

Mike had suffered through near-daily nightmares since that fateful day Will went missing. During the lulls in general chaos, they would, sometimes, become less frequent— but they were always there. Demogorgon maws blurring in his vision, Mindflayer tendrils ripping him apart, Mindflayer tendrils ripping his friends apart, Mindflayer tendrils in general, honestly. If he viewed the Demogorgon as a fantasy creature, something entirely separate from his unfortunate life, Mike could almost see it as cool, in a scary sort of way— but, fictional or not, the Mindflayer had always terrified him. Mostly because of the way it possessed Will, snuck so easily into his skin, wore his clothes and his face and became him, almost. Not entirely, because no one could ever come close to the radiance Will held. Especially not a monster masquerading as him.

More recently, his nightmares had both doubled in intensity and featured a new subject; Vecna. And since Mike had never actually seen him, Vecna-slash-One-slash-Henry usually appeared as a red mist in his mind, or some writhing mass of tendrils, or an unseen force snapping limbs at will. Usually snapping Will's limbs, but— god, he didn't want to think about that at all. Even the thought made him start to shake.

But right now, he was just slipping into a nightmare; a years-old horror, coming back to haunt him.

Petal Demogorgon maws, ripping open at the seams. Not in front of Mike but somewhere next to him, not focused on him but on someone small and cowering, tiny and afraid. Mouths open, teeth bared, each needle-like fang glinting in the dark. Mike couldn't tell how many there were— but whether there were dozens or hundreds didn't matter, because all he could do was watch, frozen stiff as they raised their claws, the movement syrupy slow in his sleep-addled mind.

For an instant, a gap in the horde of monsters appeared, leaving the face of the poor thing they were torturing visible for one horrible moment— and the poor thing was Will, because of course it was.

Will was always in his dreams, good or (more often) terrifying, so he shouldn't have felt scared, or even surprised; after all, this was likely the hundredth time he'd seen Will die in his sleep. But his heart still beat against his chest like it could escape and save Will if it tried hard enough, and his pulse still crawled its way into his throat and forced a scream out of his mouth, and the tears still fell from his eyes in hot trails because no matter how many times he watched Will die, it would always hurt the same.

He wasn't sure when the dream disappeared from his eyes, but, ever so slowly, each Demogorgon faded away into the dark ceiling, and Will's cowering body disappeared with them. And even when he was finally awake, sat ramrod straight and staring holes into the wall, Mike still shook. Even alone, with a— hopefully— living Will asleep at his side, Mike still trembled as the afterimage of those hulking monsters wavered in his mind's eye. Even with the fear of waking Will up, mixed with the lingering nightmare-induced terror in his veins, he still cried and screamed and heaved muffled sobs into his pillow, biting down on the fabric and tasting the metallic tang of blood when his teeth grazed his tongue instead.

The dream was long gone by now, but Mike could still see Will like a burnt-out pixel in his eye, small and shaking and seconds from death. If they had swapped places last night, would Mike have had the same dream, or would it have become real?

A choked sob rose from his throat, some strangled noise likely too loud to smother away with a pillow. Frantic, Mike whirled around, hoping to God Will was still asleep, but—

Will's eyes glinted in the darkness, wide open and staring right at Mike, fuck. "Mike?" His voice was rough, scratchy with sleep.

"I— yeah." Mike's voice was rough, too— scraped raw from crying, obvious in the way his voice caught in his throat before he even spoke.

Will said nothing. For a long moment, the silence stayed heavy and thick between them. Mike was more than prepared to stare at the ceiling for the next few hours and pretend nothing had happened, until he heard a faint rustling sound from somewhere next to him, followed by the faint pad of footsteps falling on the floor.

Oh, God. Will was walking over to the couch— walking over to Mike. Will was going to sit down next to him, and Mike would have to pretend like Will's proximity didn't make him insane, and he'd have to pretend he hadn't just watched Will die in his sleep. While Mike had been pretending to not fall apart for a while now, that didn't mean he'd gotten any better at making his act believable.

A weight sunk down on the couch next to him; the only reason Mike knew it was Will at all was the faint outline of his strangely broad shoulders, and for the fact that there was no one else in the room. "Are you— okay?" Will's voice came out stilted, strained. Like he wasn't sure what to say— and Mike could sympathize, since he wasn't quite sure what to say either.

"Never been better, I think," said Mike with a dry laugh as he slowly scooted to the corner of the couch, trying to put as much space between him and Will before Will could spy his red-rimmed eyes through the darkness. "I— sorry I woke you. I think I talk in my sleep, or something, just— go back to bed."

The only part of Will that Mike could really see were his eyes, narrowed with concern. Will could always see right through him, no matter how much Mike hid himself away. He had always loved their silent communication, how he could speak entire sentences to Will with a simple smile— but now, he had never wanted anything less. His hands itched to pull the blanket over his head and bury himself into the couch, put another barrier between him and Will and pretend everything was fine for a little longer.

"Mike," Will said, soft as ever, "come on. You know— you can talk to me, right?"

Mike bit his bottom lip to stop it from trembling, swallowing a sob before he spoke. "No. I can't." And before Will could respond, Mike did something that his fully-awake brain would have considered very, very stupid.

He didn't even realize he was throwing himself into Will's arms until his face collided with Will's worn tee-shirt, soaking up the tears still streaming down his cheeks.

In an instant, all his worries turned to background noise. All he could hear was Will's faint breath, shocked to a standstill at Mike's sudden display of— well, he wouldn't call it affection. It was something more like desperation; the all-consuming urge to make his heart stop racing and make his breaths come slower and make his hands stop shaking. God, they were still shaking. He was trembling even harder in Will's arms, like a leaf caught in the gusts of a hurricane. But with Will holding him, Mike stood in the eye of the storm, a brief respite he could only find in Will's embrace— was this why he'd felt so lost for so long? Because he could only find relief in the one person he couldn't stand to see?

Will, thankfully, was quick to comfort Mike; he held Mike tight against his chest, stroking a soothing hand up and down his back like this was the hundredth time Mike had collapsed in Will's arms. It seemed to Mike like this was no big deal for Will, and Mike— he just couldn't understand that. Hugging Will had signaled the end of the world to Mike's irrational brain since freshman year, honestly, so how could Will not feel the same? Why was Will hugging him back, and how could Will think Mike ever deserved that?

"I— fuck, sorry," Mike mumbled into Will's shirt, sticky against his chest from the tears Mike had poured into the fabric.

Will tugged Mike closer, if that was even possible, pulling Mike's head into the crook of his shoulder. "It's okay."

And, for a long while, they stayed quiet. The silence was something Mike could sink into, a warm comfort instead of their new normal of awkward, wordless silence. But, though they'd never needed words to understand each other, something about this night was different. For the first time, Mike couldn't understand why Will held him so tight, like he needed Mike as much as Mike needed him— because that wasn't how it worked. Mike's life just wasn't like that. Whoever he needed would never need him. He thought he had needed El, and, well. How had that turned out for him?

Mike could feel something forming in the back of his mind, a hazy idea like a dark storm cloud on the horizon. It started like this; he needed Will. He needed Will's voice, his friendship, his touch, his love—

What?

Just as quickly as it came, the thought slipped out of his reach, as slippery as a fish in a river. But it stayed as an unconscious imprint on his mind, and, unintentionally, Mike stiffened in Will's touch.

Will pulled away, ever so slightly. The hand he had been stroking up and down Mike's back ceased, hovering above his spine. "Sorry," he said, shaky like he was the one who had watched his best friend die, "did I—"

"You keep dying in my dreams." Well, that wasn't what Mike thought he was going to say, but it could have been worse. He could have told Will he loved— seriously, what?

"I'm not dead," Will said, hovering his hand over Mike's shoulder in a way that reminded Mike of a ghost.

Mike pushed his face deeper into Will's shoulder. "Promise me. Promise me that you— you won't die. It's bad enough dreaming about it."

"I promise," Will said, and Mike found it hard to believe him. But he was too tired to think about that now, not with the dozens of other problems vying for space in his mind, so he let it go. "Do you, uh— want me to let go?"

Mike shook his head vehemently, and noted with a sinking feeling in his stomach how Will shivered at his touch. "Don't. Please."

Will shifted around, slowly laying down on his side with Mike still tangled in his arms. "Sorry, I— just thought you'd want to go back to sleep, so."

Mike hadn't thought falling back asleep would be possible, but Will's warm presence was already lulling him to sleep. "No, this is, uh. Nice." And he was going to say something else, and then Will's hand wandered into his hair, and Mike lost all cognitive train of thought. Instinctively, he leaned back into Will's hand, and made no attempt to hide his smile when Will's fingers tangled deeper into his curls. Will couldn't see him in the dark, so what did his smile matter? He could have this little scrap of happiness, as long as the room stayed black— and if he couldn't see his own shame, did it even exist?

Will might have said something else, but Mike was already sinking back into sleep. With Will's hand carefully scratching against his scalp, Mike's mind stayed blissfully quiet, dreamless and peaceful for the few hours his body let him remain unconscious.

Even in sleep, Mike could still feel Will pressed against him. If he could feel this way forever, Mike was fine with never waking up.

Of course, Mike woke up far too early, because his body hated him and everything he stood for (see; a solid eight hours of sleep.)

In the morning, he could see his shame quite clearly. Curled into his side, hands still pressed into his hair. And he wasn't ashamed of Will, obviously. He couldn't even dream of feeling anything negative towards Will, much less holding onto that feeling for longer than a minute at a time, so that just— wasn't it.

And then, all at once, the realization hit him. He wasn't ashamed of Will, he was ashamed of himself. He was ashamed of himself because Will was everything he would never be. Will was kind, and careful, and smart and loving and good, so good— and Mike? Mike was nothing at all, compared to Will. Even asleep, hair frizzed around his head like a halo, Will was beautiful; doe-brown hair illuminated in the early morning glow, moles scattered around his face and neck like a smattering of stars. Will was beautiful and Mike was nothing, dingy and dirty in comparison.

Will deserved someone who could match him in every way, someone that could do more than latch to him like a leech. And, at the very least, Will deserved someone he could confidently call his friend, someone who knew better than to avoid his so-called 'best friend' like the plague just because their heart started to twist and turn around him. Will deserved someone who could love him confidently.

Mike wanted to be that someone so badly, bad enough to make his heart split at the seams with longing. He wanted Will to need him like he needed Will. He wanted Will to love him—

Oh, fuck.