Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was snowing.

No—that wasn’t right. It was spring. It couldn’t be snow.

It was ash, maybe. Or spores. Or whatever the hell the Upside Down had loosed on Hawkins—floating down in lazy spirals, settling over everything like rot.

Mike stood alone in an open field, just a few yards from Hopper’s cabin. The one with the flowers—the ones that had started to decay. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. Or why. Everything around him felt soft-edged and distant, like a memory he was already forgetting. 

He wandered up the hill, to the patch where the flowers were still alive. For now. 

Mostly yellow. Some blue. A few scattered red ones, half-wilted. There was no breeze, no birds, no sound at all. The air felt heavy, like the world itself was holding its breath. 

He sat down. 

And then—he heard it. His name. 

Faint and familiar. 

He turned, and— 

Will was there. 

Of course. He was supposed to be there. Why had Mike forgotten that? 

They locked eyes as Will approached, and a sudden breeze brushed through Mike’s hair. He smiled without meaning to, and Will smiled back. He sat down beside him, just to Mike’s left. And for a moment—just a moment—it all felt right. Like the world wasn’t broken. Like Mike wasn’t drowning inside his own head. Like the worst hadn’t already happened. 

There was no one else. No noise. No ruin. Just the two of them, breathing the same air. 

Just him and Will.

They sat in silence, shoulders nearly touching. The flowers swayed, even though the breeze had stopped. Or maybe it had never been there. 

Mike turned to look at Will, but his face was downcast, unreadable. 

Still, Mike said softly, “I missed you.” 

Will didn’t respond. 

That was okay. He didn’t need to. Mike just… wanted to be near him. He reached out, brushing his pinky against Will’s on the grass between them. His skin was cold. Not like “spring evening” cold—wrong cold. Like something that had been pulled from deep underground. 

Mike’s breath hitched. 

But then Will looked up. 

And his eyes were soft. Familiar. His. The breeze returned, warm this time, brushing over the hill like a sigh. The sun cracked through the haze. The flowers stood taller, brighter. 

Will smiled, and it reached his eyes. 

Mike’s chest ached. 

He reached up, cupped Will’s face gently. Felt the skin under his palm—not cold anymore. Warm. Solid. Real. 

Will leaned into the touch. 

And when their lips met, it was soft. Careful. Like they had all the time in the world. Mike kissed him like he’d always wanted to—slowly, with the kind of weight that came from years of almosts and ifs. And Will kissed him back. 

The world felt like it could start again. 

Mike’s hand slid to the back of Will’s neck, pulling him closer— needing him closer—and Will’s fingers found his wrist, holding on like he never wanted to let go. 

But then— 

Will froze. The air shifted again, sharp and wrong. 

He pulled back, but didn’t let go of Mike’s wrist. 

“This isn’t real,” he said quietly. 

Mike blinked. “What?” 

Will looked at him—really looked at him. And it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. It was… tired. 

“This isn’t real, Mike,” he repeated. “But you know that, don't you?” 

Mike’s throat went dry. “No—I—”

“You do,” Will said softly. “You just don’t want to.”

His eyes were dark with something ancient. Sad. Knowing. Far away.

“I’m sorry,” he added.

Mike shook his head, heart thudding. “What—why are you sorry, Will?” 

The question felt too big. Too late. 

Will smiled again—small, sad. “Because this will never happen. Because you’ve already lost me.” 

“No.” Mike’s voice cracked. “No—I got you back. You’re right here, you’re not lost. Will, I— we found you.” 

Will didn’t flinch. He just watched him. 

“Did you?” he asked, tilting his head. “Did I ever really come back?” 

Mike couldn’t answer. 

“And even if I did… What's happened since? Do you really think this—whatever it is you think you’re doing—do you think it’ll last?” 

Mike opened his mouth, but nothing came out. 

Will exhaled like it hurt. 

And then, very quietly, “I wanted it, too. You know. But that wasn’t enough, was it? I wasn’t enough.” 

Mike looked away—just for a second. 

And when he turned back, Will was gone. The field was empty. The flowers were dead. 

“Will?!” Mike scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, breath coming in shallow gasps. “Will—” 

He spun in place, eyes wild. No voice answered him. No sound at all. Just silence. Endless, awful silence. 

Mike shot up in bed with a gasp. 

His chest heaved. His shirt clung to his skin with sweat. The room was dim, the air thick and still. His hand instinctively reached out to the left side of the bed— 

But of course, it was empty.

Will was down in his basement. Asleep, probably. Safe.

Probably.

Mike sat still for a moment, heart still thudding in his ears. He had the overwhelming urge to go check—to see him, to make sure —but no. No. He was fine. He had to be fine. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Mike muttered aloud, like saying it might make it true. “He’s fine.” 

But his breath wouldn’t settle. It came shallow and fast, like his lungs were still stuck somewhere back in the dream. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, shaky fingers dragging down over his mouth. The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:48 AM. 

He needed to sleep. He needed to sleep. 

In the morning, he’d forget the details. 

The field, the flowers, the way Will looked at him. 

The way his lips had felt, or the fact that Mike had even felt them at all.

But the ache? That would stay.

____________________

Everything has gone to shit.

There’s no poetic way to put it. No hopeful metaphor to cling to. Hawkins is a ruin, and whatever’s left of the world outside is scrambling to keep from sliding in after it.

Hawkins had split open like a cracked rib cage, torn from the inside out. Roads had ruptured. Houses collapsed in on themselves. There were entire neighborhoods swallowed whole by the earth, and the ones left standing were rotting under skies that hadn’t looked blue in weeks.

And the gates—God, the gates were everywhere now. Not just one breach. Not just a single wound to stitch up and forget. They’d multiplied. Festered. Like infection. Like cancer.

Mike had stopped counting how many people had left. The first wave went after the “earthquake.” More followed in the months after, once it became clear this wasn’t something that would blow over. Families packed up whatever they could carry and got the hell out. The ones who stayed either couldn’t leave—financially, physically—or were too stubborn, too stupid, or too hopeful to let go.

Or they were the only ones who might still be able to help. The only ones who could.

Unfortunately, Mike fell into that category. 

Even worse—so did Will. 

His… connection to the Upside Down was still there. A thread he couldn’t shake. And it scared the absolute shit out of Mike. 

Not because he was scared of Will. No. Never that. 

He was scared for him. The stupid fucking government, in all their wisdom, had decided to “monitor” Will—for “safety reasons.” 

Mike didn’t trust them. Not for one second. What had they ever done that wasn’t destructive? Half of this nightmare was their fault to begin with. 

And what made it worse—what made no sense —was that Will had agreed. He’d been hesitant, sure, but he hadn’t fought them. Not like Mike thought he would. Not with how he had talked about Owens before, when they were still in California and they promised to become a team again. 

And now look at them.

A lot of things about Will didn’t make sense anymore. 

Like how he started pulling away. Not just from Mike—from everyone. 

And Mike… Mike couldn’t shake the dread that had taken root in his chest. It festered there, heavy and familiar. The same feeling he’d had back when he got Will back the first time—only to watch him start slipping away all over again. Back when Will collapsed, screaming, as the government burned the vines. Back when his memories started to fade, piece by piece, until he barely recognized himself. Or his family. 

Or until he barely recognized Mike.

It wasn’t exactly the same as it was before. Not like it was in ‘84, when Will writhed and screamed and couldn’t even hear his own name through the noise in his head. No—this time, it was quieter. Slower. Will could fight it now, somehow, and that almost made it worse. 

Because he now knew what was happening. He could feel it creeping in. 

It wasn’t the Mind Flayer—no. It wasn’t as direct of a connection anymore, not the same sort of control. But it was who it all led back to. One. Henry. Vecna. Whatever name he answered to now, he still had a hold on Will. 

And he just wouldn’t fucking let go. 

It made Mike furious. Sick. 

Will had done everything right. He survived. He kept fighting. He tried to heal. He tried to live. He never asked for any of this, and now—again—he was the one being punished for it. Being treated like a thing. A threat. Something to be monitored. Feared. 

He hadn’t even hurt anyone. Not yet.

But people were scared of what he might do. 

And that? That was all it took. 

Mike could feel it. The tension tightening. The distance growing. Will wasn’t pulling away because he wanted to—he was doing it because he was scared. Of himself. Of what was coming. Of what they might do if they saw too much of what was going on inside him. 

Mike wanted to scream. Shake him. Tell him he didn’t care. That he’d take all of it, if it meant Will would stay. That he could be crawling in the shadows and bleeding memories and Mike would still love him. 

But Will wouldn’t let him get close enough to say it. 

And now Mike was terrified he’d never get the chance. 

Because he’d been too stupid—too tangled up in his own head for too long. Too afraid to admit what he felt. To even let himself understand it. 

He’d probably known for longer than he cared to admit. But everything came crashing down after they returned to Hawkins. After he finally talked to El—really talked. After he realized he couldn’t keep pretending. Couldn’t keep shutting down parts of himself like that would save anybody when all it’s done is made everything more complicated—-worse. 

Because when the world is literally ending, being gay doesn’t seem like that big of a deal anymore. 

Well— it still was, kind of. When it was your best friend you were in love with.

It still felt impossible to say it out loud. No, it was impossible to say out loud.

Not because he was ashamed. Not so much anymore. Not when loving Will felt like the most natural, the most normal thing in the world.

But because the words weren’t just words—they were everything. Fragile and heavy and irreversible. The kind of truth you couldn’t walk back from once it was set free.

And Mike had wasted so much time already. 

So he kept trying in other ways. Quiet ones. Gentle ones. He’d sit beside Will even when he didn’t speak. Bring him tea he wouldn’t drink. Hand him stupid little drawings that were worse than Holly’s or broken cassette tapes with "thought this sounded like you" scribbled on the label. 

Will would smile sometimes. Thank him. But his voice never lifted above a whisper, and the distance never closed.

Still, for a little while, things were okay. 

Will was okay. 

And of course, that meant things were only bound to get worse.

____________________

They were at the military base when it happened.

And there were guns pointed at Will.

Not some metaphorical bullshit. Not paranoia. Real guns. Government-issued. Laser-focused.

They were shouting things Mike couldn’t make sense of. 

Code red. Psychic surge. Noncompliant. Subject unstable. 

Everything blurred at the edges—boots hitting pavement, radios crackling, steel doors slamming open—and in the middle of it all stood Will. 

Still. Silent. In the same clothes he had just changed into just that morning. His hands at his sides, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He looked thinner than ever, smaller somehow, like the fabric of him was wearing through—-which was ridiculous, since Will was nothing like the scrawny pre-teen he used to be. 

But still— 

There were guns pointed at him. 

Mike couldn’t move at first. Couldn’t breathe. 

This wasn’t a drill. This wasn’t a test. This was real. 

“No— no, no, no—” the words tore from his throat before he even realized he was moving. He pushed past someone in uniform—didn’t care who—barely registered the warning shouts. 

“Don’t shoot!” he screamed. “He’s not doing anything!” 

Will didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on something far away—inside or beyond or beneath. 

“He’s not a threat!” Mike yelled, struggling as a guard moved to block him. “He’s Will! You don’t understand—he’s not— don’t fucking shoot him!”

Hands grabbed at him. He tore free.

“I said stand down!” an officer barked. 

Mike’s voice cracked. “He hasn’t done anything! You fucking assholes! You don’t get to decide that— you don’t get to kill him just because you’re scared!” 

And the worst part? He wasn’t even sure if it was true. 

Not completely. 

Will had started slipping—subtly at first, then not so much. He’d told Mike, in those quiet, trembling moments when he still let himself be honest, that he could still feel Henry. Could still hear him. Think like him. 

See what he wanted. What he might do next. 

So maybe— maybe —Will had something to do with some recent casualties.

But it wasn’t his fault. Not when he’d been trying to help. Trying to warn them. 

And they hadn’t listened. That was the whole reason he was here in the first place wasn’t it? To be their spy, to keep them safe. To keep everyone safe. So why were the guns still pointed at him? 

So maybe he had done it. 

Maybe the surge of power, the bodies, the fear—they really had come from him. 

Mike could honestly not bring himself care. 

He’d take all of it—the fear, the risk, the blood on his hands—if it meant Will didn’t have to stand there, alone, with ten rifles aimed at his chest.

Mike's lungs burned. His throat was raw. He kept shouting anyway. 

“Don’t touch him!” he screamed as two soldiers closed in, flanking Will like he was a bomb about to go off. 

Will still hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on something distant—some point Mike couldn’t see. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was holding something invisible. Or trying not to. 

“Will!” Mike shouted. “Please —look at me! Just—just look at me!” 

And then— Will’s head turned. Slow and mechanical. 

His eyes met Mike’s. And for a single, excruciating second, Mike thought he saw something. Something real. Something familiar. 

But then the lights flickered. The overhead bulbs popped like gunfire. Sparks burst from the wall panels. Static screamed through the radios. A metal locker a few feet away buckled inward, like it had been crushed by invisible hands. 

The soldiers shouted, some falling back, some still holding their aim. 

Will’s body remained perfectly still. But his nose was bleeding. 

“He’s destabilizing!” someone yelled. 

“Fireteam—” 

“No!” Mike shouted. “Don’t you fucking touch him!”  

He lunged forward again, only to be grabbed and restrained by two guards from behind. He kicked, struggled, thrashed—but it was useless. 

“Will, please!” he screamed. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re right here. Just breathe. Just— look at me! Remember me!” 

Will’s breath hitched. 

Then— 

A single, hoarse word: 

“…Mike.” 

The room dropped into silence. And for the first time in minutes, Will’s expression changed. 

His face crumpled—brow furrowing, lips parting like he didn’t know how to breathe. His knees buckled. He swayed forward. 

And then he screamed. 

It wasn’t a human sound. It cracked the air like glass shattering. The light above exploded outright. Wind— wind, indoors —rushed through the corridor, howling like it had a voice of its own. 

And Mike watched as one of the guards near Will lifted clear off the floor— lifted, like a puppet on strings—and was flung back against the wall hard enough to dent the concrete. 

Someone shouted, “Contain him!” 

But Mike wasn’t looking at them anymore. He was watching Will. 

And Will was crying.

Mike didn’t remember how he got loose. 

Later, someone could probably tell him he elbowed one of the guards in the face and slipped the grip of the second in the chaos, but right now all he knew was that he had to get to Will. 

“Mike—don’t—” someone shouted behind him. 

Too late. He was already running. 

Will was on his knees now, doubled over, one hand clawing at the floor, the other pressed tight over his mouth like he was trying to choke the scream down. His body was trembling, shoulders shaking like he was holding something inside that wanted out. 

“Will!” Mike dropped down in front of him, gripping his arms. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. I’m here, it’s okay—” 

Will jerked away, panic flashing in his eyes. “Don’t— get back, Mike!” 

His voice was rough. Terrified. 

“I can’t control it—” 

“I don’t care,” Mike said, voice shaking. “You don’t scare me. I’m not leaving you.” 

Will’s hands were shaking violently now, fingers twitching like they were being pulled by wires. 

“I said GO!” he screamed. 

But Mike didn’t move. 

He leaned in closer, hands cupping Will’s face, ignoring the sparks overhead, the electricity that bit at the air, the low, unnatural growl rattling the walls. Blood was spilling freely now—not just from Will’s nose, but from a deep, angry split that had opened between his eyebrows, trailing down the bridge of his nose in a jagged line.

“Look at me,” Mike said, soft but firm. “You’re still here. You’re still you. I know you are.” 

Will whimpered. A deep, unnatural crack split the concrete behind them. Mike didn’t flinch. 

“You’re okay,” he whispered, forehead pressed to Will’s. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” 

Will let out a broken sob—and then collapsed. 

His whole body went slack in Mike’s arms, like whatever force had been holding him up was suddenly gone. His breathing was shallow. His skin ice cold. And everything went quiet. 

The wind stopped. The lights steadied. 

And somewhere behind him, someone said, barely audible over the ringing in Mike’s ears: 

“…stand down.” 

Mike barely noticed. He was already lowering Will gently to the ground, arms around his chest, cradling him tight. 

“Will,” he whispered. “Will, come back to me.” 

Nothing.

His own voice broke. “God—fuck—please, I’m right here. I’m here , just—just stay with me, okay? Please—” 

And then— 

A twitch. Small. Barely perceptible. 

Will’s fingers shifted against Mike’s chest, curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt. 

Mike froze. 

“Will?” he said again, quieter this time. Hope and fear warring in his throat. 

Will’s eyelids fluttered. 

He didn’t open them all the way, but his mouth parted just slightly, and he rasped, so softly Mike almost didn’t hear: 

“...hurts…” 

Mike let out a sob of relief, bending over him, hand cradling the back of his head. 

“I know,” he whispered. “I know, I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re safe.” 

Will didn’t respond. His body went limp again, but his breathing was steadier now—shallow, but present. 

Alive . 

Mike nearly collapsed with relief. 

But it only lasted a second. Because then came the panic. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

They weren’t safe. Not yet. Not here. 

Mike’s eyes darted upward—at the shattered lights, the stunned soldiers still holding their weapons, the gash in the wall where a locker had folded in on itself like paper. 

Will couldn’t stay here. 

He couldn’t be dragged back into a cell. Pumped full of meds. Hooked up to wires. Treated like a threat when he was barely even awake. 

He needed to move. Now. 

Mike shifted, looping one arm under Will’s knees and the other behind his back. He was heavier than he looked—dead weight in Mike’s arms—but that didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. 

“I’m taking him,” Mike said, standing. 

Someone in uniform stepped toward him. “Sir—” 

Mike snapped his head up, eyes blazing. “Get the fuck out of my way.” 

The soldier hesitated. 

Good. He didn’t have time to explain. Didn’t have time to beg. 

Will groaned softly in his arms, head falling against Mike’s shoulder. 

“I’ve got you,” Mike murmured again, quieter this time. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.” 

He pushed through the corridor—through stunned silence and flickering lights and the bitter stink of ozone. His heart thundered with every step. 

He didn’t know where he was taking Will yet. Only that it had to be away. 

Somewhere the government wouldn’t reach. Somewhere Henry wouldn’t follow. 

Somewhere Mike could finally keep him safe.

____________________

Mike had no fucking clue where he was going. 

He was just driving. 

The car was a busted old government van he’d swiped amidst all the chaos, keys still miraculously in the ignition, gas gauge hovering just above empty. The roads were mostly clear—evacuated or deserted, cracked and crawling with vines in some stretches—but that didn’t matter. 

Nothing mattered except getting away. 

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His pulse still hadn’t slowed. The inside of the van smelled like blood and smoke and cold metal. The radio crackled with static he’d already smashed off. 

Will was in the backseat, lying across a nest of scavenged blankets and jackets Mike had thrown down in a panic. He hadn’t made a sound since they left the base. His face was pale, lips cracked, skin littered with blood—some dry, some still wet—and bruises. But his chest rose and fell. Barely. But it did.

Mike glanced at him again in the rearview mirror. 

Still breathing. 

He had no idea what direction he was headed. North? East? 

They’d already passed a broken mile marker, but he hadn’t looked. Couldn’t. 

Just— away. From them. From everything. 

He’d figure out the rest later. 

Then, behind him, a soft noise. A shift of fabric. A breath, rasping like gravel. 

“...Mike?” 

Mike nearly swerved off the road. “Jesus— Will?” 

He pulled over without thinking, tires skidding against the shoulder, slamming the van into park as he scrambled into the back. 

Will blinked up at him through blood-crusted lashes, dazed and unfocused. 

“ Hey— hey, I’m here,” Mike said, dropping to his knees beside him, brushing sweaty curls back from his forehead. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Stay with me.” 

Will’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky breath. His hand fumbled at the air until Mike caught it, held it tight. 

“You passed out. You—you scared the shit out of me,” Mike said, his voice breaking on a laugh. “Not that that’s new, but. Y’know. Just keeping with tradition, I guess.” 

Will didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. 

Then his fingers curled tighter around Mike’s. 

“…where are we?” he croaked. 

Mike exhaled. “I don’t know. The middle of nowhere. Doesn’t matter. We’re out.” 

Will nodded, just barely. 

And then: “Did I hurt anyone else?” 

Mike hesitated. 

Then: “Not the way they think you did.” 

Will’s eyes closed again, like that answer was enough. 

Or maybe like it wasn’t, but he didn’t have the strength to argue.

“Hey,” Mike said, gently but firm. “Look at me.” 

Will’s eyes cracked open, dull and glassy, but Mike still searched them like he could anchor him there with just a look. 

“None of this was your fault,” he said. “We’re gonna figure this out, okay? I promise.” 

Will flinched—just slightly. His face twisted like the words physically hurt. Like he didn’t believe them. Didn’t believe him. 

Mike swallowed hard. “Will—” 

“I felt him,” Will rasped. “Inside me. Like I wasn’t… me. Like I was watching from somewhere else.” 

His voice was barely there, raw and frayed at the edges. 

“And I couldn’t stop it.” 

Mike’s heart cracked open in his chest. He reached out, thumb trailing over the blood on Will’s cheek—still warm, still fresh—staining his own hand like it belonged there now.

“You did stop it,” he said. “You pulled back. You came back.” To me went unspoken. “That was you. Not him.” 

Will shook his head. “You didn’t see what I saw.” 

“Then show me,” Mike said, not even hesitating. “Tell me. Whatever it is. I want to know.” 

Will looked at him like that was the cruelest thing anyone could offer. 

And then—quietly, hollowly: 

“I killed them.” 

The words landed like a stone in the pit of Mike’s stomach. 

Silence followed, thick and suffocating. 

Mike’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go of Will’s hand. 

“That wasn’t really you. And they… They were going to kill you,” he said, voice low, steady despite the crack running through it. 

“But I didn’t choose to,” Will whispered. “I would never have—” 

“I know,” Mike said quickly. Too quickly. 

Will looked away. 

Mike swallowed hard, forcing himself to say it slower this time. Truer. 

“I would’ve,” he admitted. “If it meant keeping you alive—I would’ve done it.” 

He shook his head, eyes starting to sting. “They had their guns on you—so many—and I was trying to reach you and I couldn’t. And I thought— God, I thought I was too late. Again.” 

He blinked hard. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was so fucking scared.” 

The silence pressed back in. Mike took a breath that shook on the way out. 

“But now,” he said, “I’m just… I’m so glad you’re here. I never want to lose you. Not like that. Not ever.” 

He finally opened his eyes again—and found Will already looking back at him. Still glassy, still pale, but focused now. Present. 

Here. 

Mike smiled, just a little. 

And Will, slowly, lifted the hand still tangled with Mike’s—and pressed it to his chest. Right over his heart. 

“You didn’t,” he said. “Lose me.” 

Mike’s breath caught. 

“I’m still here.” 

And it didn’t fix anything. 

But it meant everything.

Mike would never be able to say what came over him. 

Maybe it was the way their bodies were already pressed so close. Maybe it was the end of the world breathing down their necks. Maybe it was the panic, still clawing at his ribs from almost losing him. Or maybe it was just instinct—crazy, exhausted instinct. 

But whatever the reason, Mike leaned in and pressed his lips to Will’s. 

It wasn’t tentative. 

It was hungry—desperate, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into that single moment. His hand cupped Will’s jaw, thumb brushing the bruised skin beneath his eye, holding him like he might vanish if he let go. Mike kissed him like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. 

But— Will didn’t kiss him back. Not really. His lips parted slightly, like he was caught off guard, like he couldn’t breathe—but he didn’t move. Didn’t respond. 

And that’s when Mike heard it—Will’s breath, sharp and panicked, catching in his throat like he’d just been plunged underwater. 

Mike froze. 

He pulled back instantly, eyes wide, heart thudding hard in his chest. 

Will was staring at him. Pale. Glassy-eyed. Still trembling. 

“Shit,” Mike whispered, already shifting back, hands retreating. “Shit—I’m sorry, I—fuck, I didn’t—” 

Will said nothing. Just blinked, stunned, breath hitching again. 

Mike ran a hand through his hair, trying to breathe. “I shouldn’t have— I thought—God, I don’t know what I thought—”

And then Will kissed him. 

Hard. 

No warning. No hesitation. 

Just a blur of motion—his hand fisting the front of Mike’s shirt, dragging him back down, and then his mouth on Mike’s like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Mike made a sound—something between surprise and relief—and kissed him back just as fiercely. The hunger returned, sharper now, but grounded in something real this time. Will's fingers curled into his collar, like he needed to hold on , like he didn’t trust the moment to last. 

Their teeth scraped. Their breaths tangled. There was nothing graceful about it. 

Just desperate. Real.

Mike could taste the blood on Will’s mouth— his blood. Metallic and bitter, smeared over his lips and caught in the corners of his mouth. It should’ve been sickening. It was sickening. 

But Mike didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. 

He kissed him deeper, chasing every trembling exhale, every shuddered breath like it might be the last. The dried blood on Will’s nose cracked, flaking under the pressure—but he didn’t pull away. He just held on tighter, fingers twisting into Mike’s collar like he could anchor himself there, like he needed to disappear into him.

It was kind of gross, honestly. Messy and wet and stained in red. 

But Mike took everything Will gave him—every stuttered breath, every soft, wounded sound, every part of him that hadn’t been stolen away by fear or whatever thing still clung to the edges of his mind. 

He pressed closer, hands framing Will’s jaw like something sacred, like something claimed. 

Will’s hand moved from Mike’s shirt to the nape of his neck, the other grasping onto his wrist. The feeling of Will practically cradling his head sent shivers down his spine.

If this was all he’d ever have—this broken, blood-slicked version of a kiss—then fine. He’d take it. He’d take all of it. 

Because it was Will. 

Because Will was still here, still kissing him back, even if his hands were shaking and his body still hadn’t stopped trembling. 

And Mike— 

Mike would always choose him. 

They finally pulled apart, breathing hard, air catching between them like they hadn’t realized how close they’d been to drowning. 

Mike’s eyes scanned Will’s face—his wild hazel eyes, the bruise just above his brow, the blood-slick cut down the bridge of his nose. Then lower, to the mole just above his lip, half-hidden beneath dried blood. 

God, he was beautiful. Even now. Especially now. 

“Are…” Mike’s voice was hoarse. “Are you okay? Is this—okay?” 

Will swallowed, chest rising and falling like he still wasn’t convinced it was real. Then he nodded, breathless. “Yeah—yeah.” 

He blinked, dazed, then squinted at Mike’s wrist, his sweater, the smear of red across his throat.

“Are you okay?” Will asked. 

He licked his lips experimentally and tasted the metallic tang still there. Blood and something else. Something undeniably Will.  

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Yeah, totally.”

Will cringed. “Mike, that’s disgusting.” 

Mike raised an eyebrow, faux-offended. “Oh. Well then I guess we don’t have to keep kissing…” 

Will let out a laugh—tired, surprised, real. “That’s not what I meant—” 

Mike grinned, the sound of Will’s laughter already making his chest feel lighter. “Mmhm. Too late. You said it.” 

Will shook his head, still smiling. “You’re impossible.” 

“And you’re still bleeding,” Mike said, gentler now, thumb brushing just beneath Will’s jaw. “So maybe let me worry about disgusting later.” 

Will’s breath caught. Just barely. “...Okay.” 

Mike’s gaze didn’t waver. “Okay,” he echoed, just as soft. 

For a moment, neither of them moved. The van was silent except for the hum of the engine and the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing. Outside, the world was still wrecked. Cracked open. Burning at the edges. 

But in here, in this narrow space barely big enough for two, there was calm. There was Will. 

Mike let his hand linger for a second longer before shifting up toward the front seat, muttering something about a first-aid kit. He rifled through the glove compartment and, thankfully, found one—still sealed. 

He climbed back over the seats, settling beside Will again. His knees bumped Will’s, and neither of them moved away. 

Mike opened the kit and sorted through it quickly—gauze, alcohol wipes, a small tube of antibiotic cream. All still in good condition. 

Will gave him a tired, half-smirk. “You know how to use that stuff?” 

Mike shot him a look. “I’ve picked up a few things. Watching people better than me use them.” 

“Comforting.” 

“I try.” 

Will smiled again—small, crooked, a little worn down, but real. Mike’s chest ached with how much he’d missed it, even with it right in front of him. 

“Hold still,” he murmured, reaching out, hand steady now. He started gently dabbing at the dried blood between Will’s brows and along the bridge of his nose. “I’m not exactly a doctor.” 

“You don’t say,” Will whispered, eyes fluttering shut—but he didn’t move away.

Mike kept working in quiet concentration, carefully wiping away dried blood, trying not to press too hard. The cut on Will’s forehead had mostly stopped bleeding, but it still looked raw, angry. The bruise underneath his eye was darker now, settling in like it planned to stay a while. 

He worked gently, patching him up as best he could. A clumsy job, maybe, but careful. Honest. 

When he was finally done, he let his hand hover for a moment, then ghosted his thumb lightly over the bridge of Will’s nose—slow, reverent. Will sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, and Mike instantly drew his hand back. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, throat thick. He glanced down, then added quietly, “I think it might scar.” 

Will didn’t answer right away. His eyes wandered over Mike’s face, soft and searching. Then, with a touch just as tentative, he reached out and traced the faint line that still cut through Mike’s cheek—his own scar, the one from the summer of ’85. Faded, but still there. 

“I don’t really mind,” Will said. 

His fingers lingered. 

Mike didn’t breathe.

Will’s hand dropped slowly, but his gaze stayed fixed on Mike’s. There was something unspoken in it—quiet and steady and true, like the echo of something that had always been there, just waiting to be said aloud. 

Will looked down, then back up, eyes glossy and golden in the low light. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mike.”

“You won’t,” Mike said immediately. “You haven’t.” 

Will didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree either. He just looked tired again. 

So Mike leaned forward, gently, resting his forehead against Will’s. Not kissing. Just there. Breathing the same air. 

“I’m… a lot,” Will murmured after a moment, as if it were some dangerous truth. Like it might change everything. 

Mike huffed softly, pulling back just enough to see his face. “You say that like I’m not a lot, too.” 

“Yeah, but—” Will started, then stopped. His mouth opened, closed again. “It’s different.”

Mike only shrugged. “Don’t care. Doesn’t matter.”

Will huffed—somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—and rolled his eyes.

But then Mike caught his gaze again. And this time, he didn’t look away. 

Something flickered there. Not the hollow fear or the quiet retreat. Not the weight of everything Will had been carrying. Just—want. 

He looked at Mike like he was trying to memorize him. Like he didn’t know how long he’d get to keep him. 

Mike didn’t wait. 

He surged forward and kissed him again—slower this time, but no less desperate. Will met him halfway, hand fisting in the front of Mike’s sweater, pulling him in like he needed it—needed him —more than he needed air. 

There was no hesitation now. No awkward angle or stumble. Just mouths open and heat rising and the quiet gasp that left Will’s throat when Mike’s hand slid up to cradle his jaw again. 

It wasn’t clean. Wasn’t pretty. 

It was teeth and tongues and breath hitching in broken sync. Will’s fingers dug into Mike’s side, holding on like he was afraid the van might tilt and fling them into some other reality, one where this wasn’t allowed to happen. Mike shifted, kneeling more squarely between Will’s legs, and Will leaned back against the blankets with him, dragging him down with a force that didn’t match how worn-out his body looked. 

But his mouth said otherwise. His mouth was alive. 

Mike kissed him like it might fix something. Like it might keep him grounded. Like it might be the last real thing either of them had left. And Will—God, Will kissed back like he’d been starving for this. Like he’d been waiting too long. Holding it in too long.

Mike pulled back just barely, breathing hard, and dragged his thumb along Will’s cheekbone, where the bruise had started to bloom. “Is this okay?” he asked again, voice wrecked and quiet. 

Will didn’t speak. He just nodded once and used both hands to pull Mike back down. 

Their mouths collided again, and Mike groaned into it this time—soft, shaky, stunned. Will caught it and swallowed it like a promise. And then Will’s legs shifted, knees brushing up to cradle Mike’s hips, and Mike froze—not because he wanted to stop, but because it was too much, all at once. The press of Will’s body, the way he moved like he needed this, like he’d break apart without it. 

And yet, it was still not enough.

“Fuck,” Mike whispered, against his mouth. “I—God, I love you.” 

Will’s breath stuttered. He stilled for a moment—but didn’t let go. 

Then—softly, hoarsely—he whispered back, “I know.” 

Mike’s heart cracked open. Wide and raw and stupidly, irreparably his. 

He kissed him again like he was trying to say it better. 

And Will let him.