the end is here

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/49955071.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Relationship: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Characters: Will Byers, Mike Wheeler, Eleven | Jane Hopper, Lucas Sinclair, Dustin
Henderson, Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers,
Argyle (Stranger Things), Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley, Erica
Sinclair, Joyce Byers, Jim "Chief" Hopper, Murray Bauman, Dmitri
Antonov, Sam Owens (Stranger Things), Henry Creel | One | Vecna
Additional Tags: Post-Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05 Speculation, Mutual Pining,
Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Apocalypse, Action/Adventure,
Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, heavily inspired by the cave scene in the
hunger games, make of that what you will, hand-wavy plot details, if the
duffers can do it so can i, Flirting, Romantic Tension, Will Byers Has a
Gun, Mike Wheeler Has Issues
Language: English
Series: Part 5 of i know the end
Stats: Published: 2023-09-08 Updated: 2024-01-06 Words: 70,240 Chapters:
10/20
 the end is here
by bookinit

Summary

“We have to kill him,” Mike finishes fiercely, and for a second, Will pictures him in full
paladin gear, making the same speech in a castle, or a magical forest, or a dark dungeon. He’s
every bit the boy Will’s always known, the one who stands up for his friends and his
principles and never, ever backs down. Even when the odds are against them. Even when
they’re impossible.

Will swears that he can feel electricity crackling in the air, Mike’s last sentence settling on the
group like a physical weight. Everyone looks impressed: Jonathan, Hopper, even Owens.
Will knows the look on his own face must be incredibly obvious, incredibly stupid.

He doesn’t care. That’s the Mike he knows. That’s the Party’s leader.

That’s the boy Will fell in love with.

***

Stranger Things re-telling, but make it byler.

(Season 5 of 5)

Notes

hello, wonderful people! if you haven't read my episode 1 script, and you would like to catch
up before reading this chapter, feel free to click here. otherwise, enjoy the first chapter!

content warnings: panic attacks, reality-bending visions, blood, descriptions of drowning.

please read with care.
 Hell in Hawkins
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

It’s a week before Mike’s fifteenth birthday, and Hawkins is falling.

This is it, he thinks grimly, watching the flowers in El’s hand—the same ones he’d picked
her, barely a week ago—dissipate into nothingness. Ash in the wind. Another small death to
add to the pile.

It takes a second, once he stops worrying about all that, to realize what’s happening around
him. Nancy and Jonathan, Hopper and Ms. Byers.

Him and Will.

The space between their hands has never felt so physical before. Never looked so lonely.

He swallows. Reflexively, his fingers twitch, the pads of his fingertips reaching out for Will’s
own.

When he chances a look upwards, though, Will’s not even paying attention. He’s staring out
at El, at the desolation and crumbling flowers, his jaw clenched with tense unhappiness, his
eyes stony, almost gray in the strange apocalyptic light.

Mike opens his mouth—to say what, he doesn’t know—something, anything, but before a
single syllable passes through his lips, a piercing crack of lightning splits the sky in two.
Will’s hand flies away from Mike’s own and up to the nape of his neck, and the moment is
broken. Window of opportunity officially missed.

Mike tries not to be too upset. There’s probably more important stuff to worry about right
now.

Like Will.

“Will, are you okay?” Mike asks, keeping his voice low. Will’s still not looking at him,
though—his eyes are glassy, unfocused. His hands are trembling.

Mike frowns, risking another step closer. He knows, logically, that they aren’t alone—but
right now, he could care less. It feels like him and Will are the only two people in the world.
Like Will is the only person in his world. Everything narrowed down to a single point of
contact.

“Will?”

Will sways on his feet, just a little bit, like he's been struck with a sudden dizzy spell. “He’s
here.”
Fuck.

Mike snaps to attention, frantically searching the clearing, heart pumping and feet grounded,
but—there’s nothing. No one. Everything is still. Unnaturally so, actually. It’s like time itself
has stopped.

Mike’s breath whistles in his ears, reedy and high-pitched, working itself into a strangled
frenzy. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “Will, who’s here?” he blurts. “Is it Vecna? What do you feel?”

But Will doesn’t reply, completely engrossed in his own head, so Mike spins on his heel,
facing the others. “Guys?” he calls. “Hey, we need some help over here!”

That’s when he sees it. They’re frozen, too. Like, literally frozen, chests stilled mid-breath,
limbs held aloft. Faces blank, eyes unseeing.

Mike falters. “Can you—can you hear me?” he yells, even as every synapse in his brain
screams: run, run, RUN. He’s just as paralyzed as they are. Struck dumb with ice-cold fear.

“Guys? Anyone?”

El, Mike realizes, and stumbles out of his stupor, making his way down the dying hillside. If
anyone’s able to fight this, it’ll be—

“El,” Mike gasps, reaching out to shake her shoulder. She moves like molasses: slow, heavy.
He knows, even before he spins her around, that something’s wrong.

“Hey, are you okay?” Mike checks anyway, his voice sounding small and childlike to his own
ears. Scared. Hot, terrified tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “Can you hear me?”

He snaps his fingers in front of her slackened face. She stares vacantly past his shoulder, the
whites of her eyes glazed over.

Slowly, Mike turns around.

Every single person on the hillside is entranced. Everyone except for him.

He’s alone.

He’s completely, entirely alone.

No breathing technique in the world is enough to stop Mike from hyperventilating. He’s
staring straight at Will, desperately cataloguing each scattered mole, each scuff on his beat-up
tennis shoes, trying to rack his brain for some sort of way to snap him out of it, when those
same hand-me-down shoes start to lift off the ground.

It takes Mike’s brain a second to process what he’s seeing. For a second, all he can see is the
limp dangle of Will’s dirty shoelaces, the little kicked-up cloud of dust by his heels. Oh, he
thinks. Then: oh, fuck.
“No,” he whispers, more instinctual than anything, an automatic rejection of what he’s
seeing. This can’t be real. It can’t be happening. Not to Will.

Will.

It’s like all the adrenaline slams into him at once, the delayed force of emotion like a brick to
the face, and the ensuing wave of pain is so physical that Mike almost collapses on the
spot. “No!” Mike shouts, running back up the hill. But it’s already too late—Will’s risen too
high, his legs swinging in mid-air, his arms splayed out on an invisible crucifix, head tilted to
the unforgiving sky. Mike stretches, jumps, tries to grab onto any part of him he can reach—a
pant leg, a shoelace, anything— but it’s no use.

“Will, I’m sorry,” Mike calls, voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—come
back, please, please come back—”

“He can’t hear you, Michael.”

Mike’s blood goes cold.

His head whips to the side, desperately searching for the source of the voice, but the hillside
is just as empty as it was a minute ago. Dead flowers, paralyzed friends. No Vecna.

Distantly, Mike knows he’s still talking—more begging than talking, really, a garbled stream
of nothingness that spills from his mouth almost as quick as his tears flow from his eyes,
leaving a salty trail all down his cheeks. He knows he looks like an idiot. He doesn’t care.

All that matters is Will.

Somehow, he looks beautiful even like this. Like an angel. Like an offering. Little strands of
his hair float around his head, a makeshift halo, and Mike just wants him back. There’s too
much he didn’t do. Too much he didn’t say.

“Will, come back,” Mike sobs, rubbing roughly at his face. “Please, I’ll do anything, please
give him back—”

Will’s eyes snap open.

He looks directly down at Mike, pinning him in place, his expression like nothing Mike’s
ever seen before. He looks—he looks disgusted. Like Mike is nothing but a worm beneath his
shoe.

“This is your fault,” he says.

Mike stares at him—at his beautiful, cruel eyes—and thinks of everything, all at once. Thinks
of nothing at all. “What?” he manages, voice hoarse and scraped-out.

“It’s your fault,” Will repeats, unforgiving, his tone slipping into something low, almost
demonic. As Mike watches, supplicated at Will’s feet, water begins to drip from his skin.
From his clothes. It’s brackish, dark, dirty. Lake water. Quarry water.
Mike’s helpless to do anything, helpless to even move, as the water begins to rain down on
him, soaking both of them from head to toe. Blood trickles from Will’s eyes, turning the
bright whites of his pupils to a deep, violent scarlet. “Save me, Mike,” he says, his voice a
distant memory. Twelve-year-old Will, dying in the barren wasteland of the Upside-Down.
Twelve-year-old Will, drowning in the quarry. “Save me. Save me.”

And Mike tries. He’ll always try.

He stumbles against the slippery grass, blood and water coating his shoes, slicking his palms,
and reaches to the sky. Reaches up for Will. If he were taller, stronger, faster, better— if he
were more of a man, more of a hero—

“Why won’t you save me, Mike?” Will mocks, alongside Vecna’s hateful growl.
“What’s wrong with you?”

In the distance, a Demodog snarls. It sounds like it hasn’t eaten in weeks. Maybe months.

Mike falls to the ground, one knee at a time, thin jeans pressed to the damp earth, and sobs
into his hands. Pathetic, childish, afraid. This is all he’s ever been. All he ever will be.

There’s a sickening crack of bone above his head, then another, and Mike sobs harder, so
forcefully that he thinks that he might choke from it. That he might die, and god, he wants to,
because those are Will’s bones, Will’s blood, and there’s no coming back from this. Will’s
already risen from the dead once. A second time is too much to ask.

He wishes he had told him. Just once.

It echoes in his head, through the stifling air around him, presses against every square inch of
his skin: What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with you—

Then, it all goes silent. His ears ring with the sudden shift, with the inexplicable absence of
sound, and for a split second, he thinks he has died. It’s the only explanation he can think of.

“Mike?” Will says. “What’s wrong?”

His voice is completely normal—nothing to his tone but mild concern, a vague hint of worry.
Slowly, Mike’s eyelids unstick, peeling open, bright light flooding his pupils. He can’t look.
He can’t—

Oh.

Everything is fine.

The hillside is exactly like it was five minutes ago, before the glazed-over eyes and dangling
shoelaces and cracking bones. El’s squinting critically at the dead flowers, everyone else
gathered around at the base of the hill to join the inspection, and Will’s standing by Mike’s
side, a slight frown tugging at his lips, dark eyes boring gently into Mike’s own.

It wasn’t real, Mike realizes, and the thought is so dizzying, so outrageous, that it makes him
nauseous. He stares back at Will, at his downturned lips, at the healthy flush to his skin and
the bright glint to his eyes, and thinks: You’re alive. Thinks: Thank god. Thinks: I love you, I
love you, I love you.

His heels lift off the ground, rocking onto his toes, with the desire to stumble forward and
wrap Will into the biggest hug of all time. To hold him tight and never let him go. To do
something crazy, something reckless, something bold.

Jaw gritted, Mike stays exactly where he is.

At whatever unpleasant expression must be on Mike’s face right now, Will’s frown deepens.
He takes an automatic step forward, swaying slightly, until their hands brush, sending little
electric sparks all up Mike’s arm and into his shoulder. As soon as they make contact, Will
jumps, like he hadn’t meant to do it, and shies away. “Um,” he mumbles, head ducked and
cheeks pink. “Sorry. But… I mean, are you okay?” he tries, and Mike wants, more than
anything, to reach back out. To say: stop apologizing. To run his hands over Will’s body, feel
the seams of his un-broken bones, press a thumb to the thin skin under his clear eyes. His
fingers shake at his sides, and he tells himself: Stop it. Not the time.

“I mean,” Will continues, looking more embarrassed by the second. “I know there’s, like—”
He waves a vague hand, and something aggressively fond blooms in Mike’s ribcage.
“Everything. But still, I just…”

He trails off, the just falling flat into the air between them, an unfulfilled wish. His eyes track
over Mike’s face, searching for something, a question in his expression, but Mike can’t
answer it. He can only see the sharp edges of Will’s sneer, so out of place on his beautiful
face. What’s wrong with you?

Too many things, Mike thinks, desperately, as he imagines how that sneer would feel against
his own lips.

“Hey, guys!” Jonathan calls, completely unapologetic about the conversation that he’s
interrupting. Which is fair—it wasn’t much of one, anyway. “Come look at this!”

For once, Mike welcomes the interruption. It quells the nausea in his gut, brings his feet back
to solid ground. It wasn’t real, he thinks again, and this time, it feels more true. His hand
clenches into a fist at his side, fingernails making half-moon indents on his palms as they dig
in. He won’t reach out. He can be normal. Good.

He forces a smile at Will, and, finally remembering the original question, says: “Never
better.”

Will doesn’t look like he believes that for a second. Which is fair. Still, he returns Mike’s
smile with one of his own, and if it’s a little strained, neither of them mention it.

They walk down the hill to join the others, and even though they’re together, Mike’s never
felt more alone.

He doesn’t look back.

 ***

For all the time they spend staring at dead flowers, none of them are exactly world-renowned
scientists, so they come to the very un-scientific conclusion that poisonous Upside-Down shit
is killing the plants. And them, probably, if they linger outside for too much longer. So, in
what Will thinks is a very rational turn of events, they go back inside.

He kind of thought the apocalypse would feel more apocalyptic. It

definitely looks apocalyptic, what with the smoke and fire everywhere, but as far as
the action—well, nothing’s really happened yet. No Demodogs, no visions, no running for
their lives. It’s slow. Quiet.

But Will knows it won’t be for much longer.

He’s in an oddly familiar position; the sole holder of vital information, the keeper of a secret
that no one else knows. Except Mike. And El, probably. Other than that, no one.

It’s up to him to break the news.

So, after everyone’s back to home base, crowded up in the living room of Hopper’s cabin,
Will clears his throat, says that he needs to tell them something, and takes a seat on top of the
overturned couch, right where he confided in Mike just a few hours ago. It feels lonelier,
without Mike by his side, but when Will glances at him, his eyes are wide and encouraging,
and he gives him a discreet little thumbs-up.

It gives Will the courage he needs to start talking.

“It started as soon as we crossed the county line,” he says. Unable to help himself, he looks at
Mike one last time, and receives a supportive nod in response. Okay. He’s got this. “I didn’t
want to say anything at first,” he continues, a heavy sense of shame rolling through him. “I
mean, everything was so crazy, and I just—I didn’t want it to be true.”

He looks up—at his friends, his family, a few people he hardly knows—and feels his eyes
prickle with heat. “But it is,” he says. “One is alive.”

Nancy makes a reflexive noise of pain, pinching the bridge of her nose and leaning into
Jonathan’s side. Jonathan frowns, too, but rubs soothingly at her shoulder.

Out of the corner of his eye, Will catches Steve’s wince. Then, Dustin’s nudge of solidarity.

It’s too familiar. He’s never, not once, wanted to relate to Steve Harrington.

Not that any of that’s important right now. As it is, Will can barely muster up any emotion
other than a dull squeeze of recognition. A familiar thud of his heart, a quiet pain beneath all
the numbness that’s settled over him in the last few days.
“Are you sure?” Nancy asks him, sounding distressed. “I mean, this… connection has been
wrong before.”

Mike’s head swivels over to her, eyes narrowing in annoyance, but Will can’t find it in
himself to be offended. Not when she’s right.

“I know,” he says, deathly serious. “But this isn’t like that.”

That: Will slipping further and further into the darkest recesses of his mind. That: an
unknowable force, an unbearable evil, taking control of his limbs and his mouth and his
brain, until there was nothing left at all. That: Bob’s terrified screams, Mom’s gut-wrenching
wail. The burning, searing pain that followed.

Yeah. This isn’t like that at all.

“I can feel him,” Will stresses. “The same way I could feel the hive mind, when I was the spy.
It’s not like he’s telling me anything. I just know.”

Well, other than one thing. The steady mantra that’s plagued Will since he went
missing: Come home.

But they don’t need to know that part.

Nancy groans. In her irritation, she looks just like Mike—the wrinkle of her forehead, the
unhappy twist to her mouth. “But I shot him!”

“It will take more than a gun to kill Henry.”

The words are quiet, solemn. They catch the immediate attention of everyone in the room,
and a hush falls over the crowded cabin.

It’s the first time El’s spoken in hours.

Will meets her eye, and she holds his gaze unflinchingly—jaw gritted, eyes cold with
determination. “I will kill him,” she says, without a single trace of doubt. “And this time, I
will not fail.”

Next to her, Lucas nods his agreement. It’s like someone copied El’s expression onto his own
—they have that same fire in their eyes, that same steely perseverance. The exact picture of
two people who love Max Mayfield more than anything else in the world.

Will gets it.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Hopper interrupts, taking a few steps forward. “Hold up, kiddo.”

El rounds on him, that fiery expression only intensifying, and he falters, holding his hands up
in preemptive surrender. “I get it. You’re angry,” he says, deliberate and slow.
“We’re all angry, okay? But you might be jumping the gun a little bit.”
When El doesn’t reply, Hopper turns to address the rest of the room, voice booming with a
natural, easy sort of authority. “I mean, we don’t even know where this guy is right now,” he
points out. “Other than Will, no one’s seen any sign of him, right?”

If Will hadn’t been sneaking a glance at Mike, right as Hopper said that, he wouldn’t have
noticed. But he is, and he does. Something curiously like fear flashes across Mike’s face, just
for a second, before he ducks his chin, eyes fixed on the wooden floorboards. Will stares at
him for one moment longer, trying to make sense of it. Then, no closer to an answer, he
figures he should probably start inspecting the floor, too. Smart choice—it’s pretty much the
safest place to be looking right now.

“Right,” Hopper says, taking the silence as a confirmation. “So—just hang tight for a second,
okay? We need to regroup. Plan.”

El’s head jerks up—but to Will’s surprise, she’s not looking at Hopper. “There is someone
outside,” she says.

Instantly, the room goes tense. Hopper grabs his gun, clicks the safety off, and walks to the
window, a protective arm held out behind him. Mike shifts in front of Will, and El steps in
front of all of them. It happens so fast, all of it, that Will’s left blinking at the back of Mike’s
flannel, trying to catch up.

Outside, a car engine revs, sputters, and dies. A door slams.

Hopper squints out the window, then relaxes. He holsters his gun, apparently deeming their
new visitors harmless. “It’s Owens,” he says.

Owens. Will blinks, still met with a full view of Mike’s tense shoulders, and thinks about the
last time he saw Owens. Hawkins National Lab, 1984. Not the happiest visit.

El doesn’t shift her posture—if anything, she gets more guarded, which leads Will to wonder
what exactly went down in Nevada. Given how tight-lipped she’s been about the whole thing,
he thinks it might not have been the happiest visit for her, either.

Hopper swings the door open, waving. “What’re you doing here?” he calls.

Owens grins back, giving a brisk wave of his own. “I could ask the same of you, Jim,” he
says. “Last I heard, you were in the ground.”

“Ah, you know me,” Hopper jokes. “Takes more than a couple commies to get me down.”

Owens chuckles good-naturedly, making his way up the porch with a tall, dark-haired agent
at his side. The one from California, the one who’d knocked on the door of Will’s house and
turned his life upside-down, for about the millionth time since 1982. Now, here she is at the
door of Hopper’s cabin, doing it again. Go figure.

“I believe most of you have met my associate, Agent Stinson,” Owens says, and Agent
Stinson gives a polite nod of greeting. Will, remembering the sticky-hot sensation of
Unknown Hero Agent Man’s blood running through his fingers, the ache of his arms after
digging an unmarked grave, nods back.

It’s the least he can do.

El lingers near the back of the group, wary and distrustful. Owens catches her eye, then
sobers, taking a tentative step towards her. “Eleven,” he greets, his voice solemn. “I’m… I’m
so sorry—about everything that happened.”

He pronounces it carefully, like each word is prefaced by a capital letter: Everything That
Happened. A muscle jumps in El’s jaw. She doesn’t reply.

Bad, then. Really bad.

Finally, Hopper seems to catch on to the tension, eyes darting back and forth between them.
The smile drops from his face. “What happened?”

No one answers him.

“What happened?” Hopper repeats, with more force, and Owens waves him off, like he’s
swatting away an annoying bug.

“Look, it doesn’t matter right now.” Owens’ arm sweeps outwards, gesturing to the world
beyond the cabin, where everything’s currently going to shit. “You see that? That’s what
happens when Eleven’s not on our side.” He looks at El. “Kiddo, we need you.”

As Will watches, El’s expression shutters with guilt. With conflict. She stares past Owens,
out towards the forest, and Will follows her gaze. Owens isn’t wrong—it already looks far
worse, all scarlet light and toxic spores. Distantly, a white-hot bolt of lightning sparks down
from the sky.

“What she needs is rest,” Mom argues, already prickling on El’s behalf. “She’s been through
a traumatic experience—”

Hopper throws his hands in the air. “Will anyone tell me what the hell happened?”

Mom ignores him. “And she doesn’t need you barging in here asking her to fight, Sam! She’s
been fighting her whole life.”

Turning to El, Hopper pleads: “Kid, just talk to me.”

“This isn’t mommy-daughter daycare, Joyce,” Owens snaps. “The fate of the world is at
stake.”

Mike frowns, shifting uneasily on his feet. “Hey, El, you don’t have to listen to him.”

And finally, with all the voices in the room building to an unintelligible fever-pitch, Will
can sense it—El’s about to pop. He’s seen that look on her face before: at school, at home, at
Rink-O-Mania. Right before Angela got a roller-blade to the face.
He opens his mouth. “El, are you alrigh—”

“Enough!”

With a forceful wave of her hand, El silences the room. The walls rattle; glassware in the
kitchen clinks. Will closes his mouth so fast that his teeth click together.

El glares at Owens, her eyes resolute. “You have to help Max."

Owens blinks at her. After a delayed beat, he says, “Mayfield? She’s in the hospital, isn’t
she?”

“Yes,” El replies gravely. “And you are… a doctor.”

Sheepishly, Owens rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I’m that kind of doctor,
kiddo,” he hedges, and Will remembers the cold steel of the operating table, the pinch of a
needle in his veins, colorful lollipops after every appointment. If Owens isn’t that kind of
doctor, what the hell was he doing with Will?

“If she’s in a—magical coma,” Owens continues, haltingly, “there’s not much I can—”

El’s glare intensifies.

Owens trails off, then clears his throat. Taps his foot. “If I look after Max Mayfield, you’ll
agree to help us? Is that right?”

“Yes.”

Mom and Hopper flinch, but don’t try to argue. This is El’s moment, and hers alone. She’s
the only one who can make this choice.

The cabin is quiet.

“I’ll do my best,” Owens says finally, straightening up to his full height. “We have facilities
down at the lab; I can get her transferred over. They’ll want to evacuate the hospital,
anyway.”

He looks out to the group, composure fully regained, no sign that there was ever a hair out of
place. “That’s actually… part of why I’m here,” he admits. “After that last ‘earthquake,’
they’re evacuating the rest of town. You kids are gonna have to clear out.”

Before he even finishes his sentence, everyone’s shouting their protests—Lucas, chiefly, but
also Jonathan, and Mike, and even Nancy. Without consciously thinking about it, Will joins
in. Not that he particularly wants to stay in Hawkins—but he won’t leave El alone with this,
not again. It’s out of the question.

Apparently, everyone else feels the same way. “If El stays, we all stay,” Dustin says strongly.
“We’re not leaving her.”

Nods of agreement bob around the group.

Owens squints, completely at a loss. “...And you are?”

“Uh, Dustin?” Dustin quips, like this should be completely obvious.

Owens’ stare is blank.

“Henderson?” Dustin prods, his expression slowly shifting to resemble something between
outraged and disbelieving. Will stifles a smile. “...Not ringing a bell?”

“Not particularly,” Owens says dryly. He turns to Lucas. “And you?”

“Oh, hey,” Lucas greets, with a wave. “Lucas.”

“Erica,” Erica supplies, and everyone follows suit: Steve, Robin, Nancy. When it’s Argyle’s
turn, though, he doesn’t seem to notice, too busy staring blissfully off into space.

Jonathan coughs. “Argyle.”

“Yeah, dude?” Argyle says dreamily, not paying an ounce of attention.

Jonathan scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re supposed to say your name,” he says, sounding
pained.

“Oh,” Argyle notes. “Hey, did you guys know there’s a giant hole in this roof? Super bad for
the rain, man. You’d get all wet and shit.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jonathan mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, that’s Argyle.”

Owens sighs in exasperation. “Okay, well, I can’t take all of you,” he says shortly. “I’m sorry,
kids, but you’re gonna have to go home. I’m sure you guys’ parents are gonna be real
worried, anyway.”

Erica’s head snaps up. “So make something up.”

He stares at her. “What?”

Slowly, with no small amount of sarcasm, Erica says: “You’re government, right? And that’s
what government does. Make stuff up.”

“Erica!” Lucas groans.

“Just the facts!” she defends. Then, to Owens: “Tell them we ate radioactive sludge or
something. That we need to quarantine in Hawkins.”

“Why would we be eating it?” Dustin mutters.

“That’s ridiculous,” Owens says. But he doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s ridiculous—he
sounds, actually, like he’s considering it.

Will grins.
And that, of course, is when Hopper steps in. “Yeah, it is,” he says firmly. “You kids have
families. Parents. This isn’t your fight.”

“That’s bullshit!” Mike bursts out, fingers twitching restlessly at his sides.

Will’s smile slides off his face, and he reflexively reaches out a hand, trying to reign Mike in.
To keep him out of trouble. “Mike—”

“No,” Mike tells him, frowning. “It’s bullshit. This is our fight.” He turns to Owens, jaw
gritted and fists clenched. “It’s been our fight, ever since Will went missing. Ever since we
found El in the woods. In fact, I don’t think this is anyone’s fight except for ours.”

When he looks at El, his expression is desperate. Sincere. “El, I know you’re at the heart of
all this,” he says. “Okay? But we are, too. We’ve got your back. I mean—shit, Lucas killed
Demodogs! And Will’s been through more than anyone here.”

At the reminder, Will looks down at the floor, something uncomfortable twisting in his gut.
He knows Mike means well, but honestly, he’s not even sure it’s true. He’s been through a
lot, sure, but so has everyone else. It’s not like it’s a competition. And even if it was, he’d be
losing. Nobody in their right mind could look at Will, then look at El, and conclude that he
has it worse than her.

Mike waves a hand at Steve, Robin, and Dustin, already barreling on with his speech. “And
they intercepted a Russian spy message last year—” Then, to Nancy, “And Nancy shot Vecna
in the face! And Argyle…”

Here, he loses steam, the room going awkwardly silent as everyone turns to look. Argyle, for
his part, seems to be playing a thumb war with himself. And losing.

“Makes… pizza,” Mike finishes, wincing. But, in the next moment, he’s undeterred,
gesturing passionately to Jonathan. “And Jonathan’s always helped us out with this shit, you
know? He drove us across the country! It’s his brother, his family, his life. Our lives. Like it
or not, Doctor, we’ve always been involved in this stuff. And it’s not going to stop now. We
have to finish it.”

He pauses, breathing heavily, sweat beginning to bead at his temple. Will watches it drip
down, and thinks some very selfish things. Mike, thankfully, is oblivious. “We have to kill
him,” he finishes fiercely, and for a second, Will pictures him in full paladin gear, making the
same speech in a castle, or a magical forest, or a dark dungeon. He’s every bit the boy Will’s
always known, the one who stands up for his friends and his principles and never, ever backs
down. Even when the odds are against them. Even when they’re impossible.

Will swears that he can feel electricity crackling in the air, Mike’s last sentence settling on the
group like a physical weight. Everyone looks impressed: Jonathan, Hopper, even Owens.
Will knows the look on his own face must be incredibly obvious, incredibly stupid.

He doesn’t care. That’s the Mike he knows. That’s the Party’s leader.

That’s the boy Will fell in love with.

After what feels like an eternity, Owens sighs. “Look, that may be true,” he says. “I’m not
denying it. And I’m also not denying that your experience would be… useful. But—
you’re kids. I don’t want to drag you into all this.”

Solemnly, Lucas says: “Doctor, the girl I love is in a coma. Mike’s right—we’re already
there.”

Will melts, just a little, at Lucas’s conviction— the girl he loves. It’s sweet. It’s unbearably
sad. Then, almost without thinking, Will imagines those words in Mike’s own mouth. The
boy I love.

He flushes, shifts in place, and immediately forces the image out of his head. Mike would
never—he would never—

But would he?

No, Will tells himself sternly, like he’s scolding a small child. Don’t be stupid.

Erica puts a comforting hand on Lucas’s shoulder, one of the only signs of softness Will’s
ever seen from her, and he leans into the touch. His heart aches even more.

“We could protect them,” Mom tells Hopper, and it’s probably supposed to be quiet, but
Will’s good at making out her whispers. Years of practice.

Hopper furrows his brow. “Are you sure?”

Mom smiles, just a little. “Half these kids are mine already,” she confesses. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Still, Hopper doesn’t look convinced, and Mom softens, moving even closer to him. Maybe it
should be weird, Will thinks, to see her like this—but it makes sense. Her and Hopper fit
together, and to be completely honest, they always have. He’s happy for them. He remembers
the months after the “mall fire,” the way Mom hardly ate, the days she didn’t come out of her
room at all, the wobble in her smile as she tried to keep it together for El, and he thinks—
yeah. She deserves this.

“It won’t be forever, Hop,” she murmurs.

From across the room, Steve clears his throat. “We’ll protect them, too,” he offers. Will wants
to roll his eyes at this—he doesn’t need protecting, and neither does anyone else in the Party,
especially not from Steve— but even he can admit that it’s a sweet gesture, so he refrains.

Nancy quirks an amused eyebrow at Steve, and he just shrugs. “Goddamn babysitter,
right? Someone’s gotta do it.”

El nods decisively, squaring her shoulders as she looks back at Owens. “Max… and my
friends,” she tells him. “That is the deal.”

Owens shares a look with Agent Stinson, who raises an eyebrow back at him. After a long,
stretched-out moment, he groans in defeat.
Score.

The Party, sensing their imminent victory, begins to brighten up. Will exchanges an automatic
grin with Mike, then blushes, ducking his head. Mike just looks so— so—

“Fine,” Owens says. “Fine! This is—it’s completely ridiculous, but fine. If that’s what it
takes. Get me your parents’ numbers, pack your things, and we’ll get this show on the road.”

What things? Will thinks, looking around the dusty cabin. Everything he owns is in his
backpack, or blown to smithereens back in Lenora.

Owens hesitates, looking a little shifty. “And, ah—we’re not exactly sanctioned, for this kind
of thing. Bad blood, you know? So we’re gonna have to lay low.”

Great. Even better.

Murray raises his hand. “I have a bunker,” he offers, and Owens stares back at him, looking
like he’s one more interaction away from losing his mind.

“Who are you?”

“Murray,” Murray says, frowning in offense. “Bauman.”

Will’s not really sure that he’s ever known Murray’s last name, up until this exact second. He
doesn’t even seem like he’d have a last name. He’s just Murray, the same way Bowie is just
Bowie.

“No, Mister Bauman,” Owens says. “Your bunker will not be necessary. Thank you.”

Will shakes his head, grins, and goes off to secure the last of his belongings. Might as well
give himself something to do.

***

After the deal with Owens is worked out, everyone spreads out to grab their stuff and
scrounge up extra supplies from around the cabin. Owens says that once the evacuations are
over, they can go into town for extra gear. Right now, though, it’s slim pickings.

That’s fine. Mike doesn’t need all that much. He’s got a couple pairs of clothes from the last
week and, as long as they’re washed, they’ll do just fine. And he’s got Will’s painting.

He’s sitting on the back porch, conveniently out of view from everyone inside. Argyle and
Robin are smoking nearby—he can hear them, and smell them—but neither of them are
paying the least bit of attention to him. Which is good.
Here, staring at the unrolled canvas of Will’s painting, Mike finally lets himself think about
what happened on Weathertop. The vision. Vecna’s voice. Will.

It couldn’t have been a real vision, right? No one even noticed it happen. Will would’ve said
something, at least—he was right next to him the whole time. That means that Mike’s eyes
weren’t clouded over, he wasn’t frozen, and he definitely wasn’t floating.

So it’s something else.

Mike’s working theory, though it isn’t one he likes very much, is that it’s part of his panic
attack shit that’s been happening recently. All the hyperventilating, and freaking out,
and crying. Fucking humiliating. And now, apparently, it’s extended into whatever this is.
Day terrors, or something.

Cool.

So—that’s why Mike hasn’t said anything, basically. If it was important, he’d bring it up. If
not to Owens, then at least to Will. But until he’s able to tell otherwise, whatever happened
on the hill isn’t related to Vecna. Nancy shot him—he’s definitely not going to have enough
power to send anyone freaky visions. Besides, if he was there, at Weathertop, Will would’ve
been able to tell. He would’ve said something.

The back door’s open, just a crack, and Mike can hear Owens’ voice floating out from it.
He’s calling parents, saying made-up shit about hazardous materials and temporary
quarantines. From the sound of it, whoever’s on the other end of the line isn’t very happy.
Mike wonders what Mom’ll say, when he gets to her. If she’ll be upset.

He doesn’t have to wonder about Dad.

Mike looks back to the painting—the grassy landscape, the gleaming dragon scales, the deep
crimson of the heart on Mike’s shield. There’s still a chance—however slim—that El actually
commissioned it.

But he wants it to be from Will.

God, he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything. It’s selfish, but he wants Will to be the
one who sees him like this. Brave, and strong, and a fearless leader. Someone useful,
someone people rely on. Someone Will relies on.

Even if Mike knows, deep down, that that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Whoever thought up this painting, though—they think he’s a hero. They think he’s the heart.

Mike smiles, just a little, and rolls up the painting, tucking it carefully into his bag.

They’ve got a long day ahead of them.

***
Mike’s backpack strap is digging into his shoulder. He wouldn’t have expected it to be so
heavy, with how few belongings he actually has in there, but the clothes take up more room
than he remembered. He shifts it uncomfortably, trying to look like he’s paying attention to
Owens.

Which he is. Totally.

“Alright, we all set?” Owens asks, clapping his hands together. “Any questions, comments,
concerns?”

Immediately, Nancy’s arm shoots straight up into the air. Mike fights the urge to hide his face
in embarrassment. Rhetorical question, Nance, he thinks at her.

Owens looks a little embarrassed, too. “You don’t need to…”

But her hand stays raised, stubbornly obstinate, like she always is, and Owens sighs in
defeat. “Yes, Miss Wheeler?”

“What about school?”

Honestly, Mike should have seen that coming. A couple people shoot her incredulous
glances, like: What, really? Those people, Mike thinks, obviously don’t know his sister, and
her terrifying passion for higher education.

Nancy crosses her arms defensively. “It’s a fair question,” she says, in response to the looks.
“I’d like to graduate at some point.”

“The high school’s shutting down,” Owens tells her, not unkindly. “Everything’s shutting
down. But, you know, if we make it through this…” He chuckles. “I’m sure I can swing a
diploma or two.”

Nice. Double that for Mike, please. One year of high school was more than enough.

Nancy relaxes, and leans over to whisper something to Jonathan, a satisfied smile on her
face.

Next to him, Will glances over, something uncertain in his expression. Mike nudges him, a
silent question, and he leans a little closer, murmuring: “Are you gonna miss it?”

“School?” Mike clarifies, in a tone that completely gives away his answer. “Do you really
have to ask?”

The corner of Will’s mouth ticks up. “Well, I don’t know,” he says quietly. “It seems
like parts of it were nice.”

At the reminder of Hellfire, Mike’s smile drops. A second later, Will’s does too, like he’s just
realized his mistake. “Sorry,” he whispers, wincing. “I didn’t mean—”
Mike will never know what Will did or didn’t mean, though, because in the next moment,
Owens is cutting them off. “We’ll sort out teams and logistics back at the lab,” he says loudly,
voice booming out from the front porch. “If you’re here, you’re getting to work, okay? We
need everyone we can on this.”

Everyone nods, a serious air falling over the group once again. It’s easy, in the busier
moments, to forget what’s actually going on. The whole Party, plus some, heading off to the
lab, away from their parents, for an indefinite amount of time. Trying to kill Vecna. Trying to
close the gates. Trying to stop the apocalypse.

It feels, all at once, like an insurmountable task. They’re just kids.

But, Mike reminds himself, they’re kids who have killed Demodogs and survived monster
attacks and gone hand-to-hand with gun-toting adults. That’s what he said back in the cabin,
and he stands by it. They deserve to be here just as much as anyone else. They deserve
to finish it.

He just wishes, a little bit, that they didn’t have to.

But El has to, and Will has to, and that’s the only thing that matters. In the same way that
Lucas can’t leave Hawkins because of Max, Mike can’t leave Hawkins because of the Byers.
He wouldn’t even dream of leaving them behind, not after six months of the most agonizing
separation he’s ever experienced. Not for anything in the world.

“And with that said…” Owens makes a sharp chopping motion with his hands, slicing swiftly
through the forest air. “We’re moving out.”

Everyone piles into the various cars pulled into the driveway: Owens’ Mustang, Hopper’s
truck, Argyle’s van. There’s not much discussion—everyone pretty much goes back the way
they came, and Mike’s clambering into the van after Will without a second thought. El hangs
back, though, ducked close towards Hopper in a private-looking conversation. Argyle fiddles
with the radio while they wait for her.

“Hey, man, all they play out here is oldies,” Argyle remarks to Erica, who’s claimed the front
seat. She raises an eyebrow back at him, unmoved.

That’s when Mike sees it, next to him—Will’s looking down at his lap, cradling his Walkman
like it’s something precious. Mike’s tape is already popped in, bright and blaring and ready to
go. The love on the cover shines out like it’s written in neon ink.

Will catches his eye, then looks up. They’re both flushed pink. “I never really thanked you,”
he says softly. “For this.”

Mike blinks back at him, feeling very warm. “You—you did,” he corrects, remembering the
dark motel room, the shifting sheets between them. “You definitely did.”

Will shrugs. “Yeah, but that was before I listened to it,” he says. “I didn’t even know what I
was thanking you for.”
Impossibly, Mike feels himself grow even warmer. He remembers all the songs he burned
onto the tape over the years, all the agonizing he did over the lyrics, trying to decide if it was
too obvious, or not obvious enough. Trying to decide if he wanted it to be obvious.

Now, looking at Will’s red cheeks, it definitely feels obvious.

“So… You like it?” Mike ventures, and he knows it sounds a little desperate, but he doesn’t
know how to say it any other way.

Will ducks his head, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “It’s—um,” he starts, fishing for a word,
and Mike leans a little closer in his eagerness to hear it. “It’s… interesting.”

A harsh breath punches out of Mike’s lungs. “Good interesting?” he asks, his voice quiet and
choked.

Will looks back at him, something curious in his expression. Calculating. “...Yeah,” he says
finally. “Good interesting.”

Then the door’s sliding open, and Will’s scooting back and away from Mike like nothing had
ever happened, letting El take the middle seat. Mike’s left blinking at the side of El’s head,
trying to catch up. Good Vibrations plays tranquilly on the radio, and Argyle nods his head
along to the beat.

“Alright, brochachos!” he cheers, shifting the van into drive. “Hold onto your butts!”

El wipes away lingering tears, obviously trying to be subtle about it, and Dustin makes a
faintly amused noise from the back. “Holding,” he calls, shifting his hands under his thighs.
A second later, Lucas smacks him.

Mike’s not paying attention to any of it. He’s too busy staring off into nothing, replaying
Will’s words over and over again in his head.

Good interesting.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

***

Mike’s forgotten how far of a drive the lab is. He’s only been there the one time, and
it seemed short, with the franticness of the ride, with the paramedics rushing Will onto a
stretcher. It seemed like Mike had just blinked, and then he was in a hospital room, trying to
block out the sound of his best friend’s tortured screams.

This time, it’s much different.

“—and that, my friends, is how I made the best spinach-and-mushroom pizza of all time,”
Argyle declares proudly. “Ohh, man, I still have dreams about that baby. Righteous, dude.”

“Awesome,” Erica deadpans. She glances behind her, holds a finger-gun to her head, and
pretends to shoot her own brains out. Despite himself, Mike snorts.

“I know, right?” Argyle says enthusiastically, not picking up on the sarcasm. “Oh, and this
other time, there was a chicken-and-parmesan…”

Mike stops listening. Instead, he goes back to what he’s been doing for the last ten minutes:
fidgeting with Eddie’s rings. Spin, spin, twist. Off again, on again. They’re too big on him,
just a little bit, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever grow into them.

El watches him. Her tear tracks have long since dried. “I am sorry you lost him,” she says.

Mike swallows. “Me too.”

Will glances over, listening quietly. “He seemed like… a good guy,” he says, his voice soft.
“I wish I had known him.”

Yeah. Mike wishes he had, too. He thinks they would've really gotten along, Will and Eddie.
Maybe Eddie would've helped Will feel less alone, like he did with Mike. Maybe the three of
them, together, could have been friends. Maybe they could have been outcasts together.

Now he'll never know.

From the back, Dustin smiles. “He would’ve loved you, Will.”

Will twists around to look at him, hesitantly returning the smile. “Yeah?”

“Dude, of course,” Dustin says, no doubt in his voice. Then, to Mike’s extreme mortification:
“I mean, with how much Mike talked about you, it’s kind of like he knew you already.”

Mike closes his eyes, sighs, and promptly wishes for death.

When he opens them again, Will’s staring at him, his expression somewhere between curious
and disbelieving. “Really.”

“Oh yeah, man,” Dustin confirms. “For sure. And—I talked you up too, obviously. We all
did. It was hard, playing without you.”

Okay. Okay, that’s a little better. Less Mike is pathetic and more we missed you as a
group. Mike can work with that. He takes a deep breath, nods, and says, “Yeah. It was.”

Will softens. His cheeks are tinged a little pink, just like they were earlier. A traitorous sort of
hope burrows between Mike’s ribs.

“I’ve missed it,” Will confesses, smiling a bit. “D&D.”

Of course he has. Will’s always loved the game more than anyone. It’s always meant the most
to him. Enough that he begged them to care about it, enough that he told Mike he’d never
join another Party. And he didn’t.

It’s Mike’s turn to start picking up the slack.

Hopefully, Mike says, “We could play, sometime. I mean, when we’re not too busy figuring
out all this…” He waves a hand at the window. “Apocalypse stuff.”

Will’s grin widens. “Yeah,” he agrees, without skipping a beat. “Yeah, that would be fun.”

For a second, Mike imagines it—planning a special campaign just for Will, for the look on
his face when he gets a lucky roll, or figures out a difficult challenge. Scooting their chairs
close together, leaning over Will’s shoulder while he shakes his dice, giving him a kiss for
good luck—

Will turns around to face the back. “What do you guys think?” he asks, still beaming. “You
in?”

Oh yeah. And Dustin and Lucas would be there, too. Duh.

Lucas gives a half-hearted smile, clearly not paying much attention. “Sure, man,” he says,
without much spirit. “Sounds good.”

Dustin gives him a sympathetic look, then tells Will, with a lot more enthusiasm: “Definitely!
And we can teach El to play, too.”

El shrugs, not looking much better off than Lucas. “Maybe.” Then, she frowns. “That is the
game with the dice, right?”

Mike jolts. The game with the—

Wait.

Wait, what? El knows about D&D, right? Mike’s sure she knows. And one thing’s for sure—
she would’ve had to have known, at least a little bit, in order to commission Will’s painting.

When Mike looks at Will, he’s frozen, eyes big and caught-out. He won’t look at Mike.

Right.

Okay.

“Uh,” Mike starts, trying to reboot his brain. He's not having much success. “Yeah, El. I’ve
told you about it before, remember?”

El furrows her brows, not looking very convinced. “Oh. Yes,” she says. “And you are… a
knight?”
Again, Mike looks at Will. She commissioned it, basically. She told me what to draw. Those
were his words. And, leading from that statement, you’d assume that El told him to draw
Mike leading the Party, to draw him with his sword and shield, with his heart-shaped coat of
arms.

But none of that makes sense. Because El doesn’t even know what Mike plays as.

Will’s throat bobs unsteadily as he looks down. Apparently, the floor of Argyle’s van is the
most interesting thing in the world.

“A paladin,” Mike corrects, strained. “With… with the shield? And the—the sword?”

Again, El shrugs. It’s clear that the words mean nothing to her. “Cool,” she says easily, then
turns to Dustin. “Do I get a sword?”

Dustin grins at her. “El, you can have whatever you want.”

Lucas rolls his eyes, sitting up a little. “Well, not whatever she wants,” he corrects, finally
making his way into the conversation. “We still have to start her out in character creation, and
then…”

Mike doesn’t hear the rest. He’s too busy staring down at his backpack, at the rolled end of
Will’s painting. Will’s painting. Not El’s. And—really, hasn’t he known that all along? But
it’s one thing to suspect, and another entirely to know.

Will painted that for him. Will sees him like that. Will thinks he’s the heart.

Will needs him. And he always will.

Heat blooms on the side of his face, and Mike instinctively looks up. Will’s already looking
at him, his expression scared, his breathing quick. If she’s going to lose you, Mike remembers
him saying, she’d rather just get it over with. Like ripping off a bandaid.

Mike needs to put the bandaid back on. To take Will’s bleeding heart, wrap it in cloth, and
tuck it back into his ribcage. You’re not losing me, he wants to say. I’m right here. I’m not
going anywhere.

A painting and a mixtape. A heart-shaped coat of arms. Love, Mike.

They’re even.

Whose turn is it now?

Mike’s not sure how long that moment lasts, him and Will looking at each other, refusing to
move, but it feels like an eternity. His eyes dart down to Will’s lips, just for a second, and he
watches as Will’s tongue pokes out to wet them, a familiar nervous tick.

He’s nervous.

Mike forgets how to breathe, for a second.

 “Woahhhh.”

The sound of Argyle’s voice jolts him back to reality, and Mike blinks rapidly, trying to get a
hold of himself. Right. He’s in the van. He’s in the van, with the Party, and Argyle,
and Erica. Definitely not the time for whatever was just happening.

But it was. Happening, that is.

Mike’s about to look back at Will, just so he knows he’s not losing his mind, but as soon as
he sees what Argyle’s looking at, the thought goes up in smoke.

They’ve driven right up to one of the new gates, and it’s huge. Glowing a violent red,
cordoned off with police tape, and splitting the ground right in half. It must be at least fifty
feet across.

“Woah,” Dustin echoes, shifting to the side to get a closer look. Argyle stops the car, and for
a second, they all just stare out the window, taking everything in.

It’s like nothing Mike’s ever seen before.

Off to the right, by Owens’ Mustang, there’s a group of people being rounded up and
handcuffed by military officers, pushed into cars for further detainment. Mike recognizes
them from the drive in: protestors from the church, people who think that the gates were sent
from the devil. That they’re entering the end times.

Well, they’re not entirely wrong.

One lone figure stands out among the rest, someone Mike doesn’t even recognize. He’s
wearing a black bandana to hide his face, but his eyes are squinted and mean. Officers push
him, but he stands strong and proud, holding his sign high in the air.

Written on the sign, in big capital letters: REPENT BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.

Something sour swirls in Mike’s stomach, and he turns away, swallowing hard.

The message isn’t meant for him. If he was going to repent, he should've done it a long time
ago.

Chapter End Notes

thank you to everyone who's reading this! again, if you would like to read the script for
extra context, go ahead and check it out! i really appreciate all the kind feedback i've
received so far. i hope everyone enjoyed the first chapter! the next one, aka part 2 of
episode 1, will be out next friday. see you then!

- H xx
 Over and Over
Chapter Summary

“All the other bunks were taken,” Will starts, which is a lie he had practiced about a
dozen times on the walk over, so that it would sound right when he told it. Of course, it
still comes out like a lie, because they’ve all established that Will is the world’s shittiest
liar.

But is sounds better than the truth: he didn’t want to sleep alone.

Chapter Notes

again, if you’d like to read the script at any point before or after this chapter, here it is!

there are no content warnings for this chapter. enjoy!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The lab is exactly how Will remembers it. It’s also nothing like he remembers it.

He knew, vaguely, that Nancy and Jonathan worked together last summer to get the lab shut
down. It wasn’t something Jonathan ever talked about too much, but he knows it was a
passion project of Nancy’s, knows that it meant something to her, after Barb, to fight back
however she could.

But seeing it is something entirely different. The entire place is dusty and abandoned, like
everyone had just blinked out of existence one day and left their entire livelihoods behind.
The color’s stripped from the walls, leaving faint imprints of rainbows and smiling suns
across the baseboards. White tablecloths are strewn over all the furniture, which is something
Will’s only seen in movies. He didn’t know they did that in real life.

Once he gets over the initial shock of it, the bitter gut-punch of nostalgia, he notices El. She’s
standing statue-still, eyes blank and distant as she looks at the colorless walls, like she’s not
really seeing them at all. Or, rather—seeing what they used to be.

Heart swelling with sympathy, he goes to stand by her side, hesitantly reaching out for her
arm. Almost instantly, the touch jerks her out of her memories—she looks back at Will, eyes
wide with pain she couldn’t quite hide in time, and he smiles back at her. Squeezes her
shoulder. It’s okay. I’m here.

El shoots him a shaky smile in return, then takes a deep breath.

She steps forward.

Owens makes his way to the front of the group, clearing his throat self-importantly. “Settle
in, pick your bunks,” he says, his voice echoing around the large empty space. “Group
meeting’s at seven sharp, West Wing. No stragglers, okay?"

Near Will, Hopper snorts. “Who died and made him king?” he mutters, just low enough that
Owens won’t hear it.

Mom glances over at him. “Brenner,” she mutters back.

Hopper’s eyes widen with shock, and without further prompting, they walk off together,
heads ducked close as they catch up.

Will’s heart aches a little, watching them. They have such an easy partnership, an unspoken
sort of understanding. The kind of bond that only comes when you’ve risked everything for
the other person, and they’ve risked everything for you.

Which reminds him.

He shoots a sideways look at Mike, only to find that Mike’s already looking back, observing
him curiously out of the corner of his eye. Will flushes, then jerks his head away, pretending
to inspect a random piece of machinery. Great, this machine. Lots of buttons. Cool beepy
thingies.

Mike knows, now.

There’s no way he doesn’t. For the last twenty minutes, Will’s been brainstorming ways he
can spin this—maybe he can say that El gave him the sentiment behind the painting, and the
D&D stuff was all him—but honestly, he’s not even sure he wants to. He’s tired. Maybe, for
once, he shouldn’t fight the truth.

Is Mike mad?

There’s no way of telling. He hasn’t said a word since the drive, not to anyone. Will’s
painting is still sticking out of his backpack, glaringly obvious to everybody in a ten-mile
radius. And Mike’s one of the smartest people Will’s ever met. If it wasn’t clear to him
before, it definitely is now.

By the time Will gathers up the courage to look again, Mike’s already wandering off.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed.

Everyone sort of pairs up: Murray and Hopper’s Russian friend, Steve and Robin, Jonathan
and Argyle. Dustin heads in the same direction Mike went, something grimly determined in
his expression, and Lucas corners Owens by the door. Though Will’s not trying to listen in, it
really is a pretty echoey room, and he can hear Lucas’s questions about Max from a mile off.
When she’s getting transferred, where they’ll put her, what kinds of tests Owens is running.

To give them some privacy, Will walks a little further away.

El stands where she is for one minute more, eyes tracking dully over the room, before she
turns on her heel, marching down a hallway with marked purpose. It’s the walk of someone
who knows the terrain by heart; someone who knows exactly where they’re going.

Hopper stares after her, eyebrows drawing together in concern, and Mom places a gentle
hand on his elbow. Give her a minute, that hand says. Let her be.

The advice wasn’t meant for him, but Will follows it anyway.

He looks to the left, which is the direction he always headed on lab days. Down the hall, up
the elevator, and midway through the third floor, Owens’ office lies in wait. Weigh station,
sink, examination table. Cold steel against the knobby ridges of Will’s spine.

He goes to the right.

It’s not much better down here, either. After a short stretch of decorative wall and faculty
bathrooms, and beyond a door that would usually be dead-bolted, but is now entirely defunct,
begins a uniform row of cold, cell-like dormitories. They’re unbelievably small—maybe the
size of a shoe closet—with no warmth or light to be found.

This is where El would’ve slept.

A wave of nausea rises in Will’s stomach, and with a concentrated effort, he swallows it
down. He imagines kids sleeping in these rooms. Little ones, barely reaching his hip, dressed
in blank hospital gowns. Pale faces that never saw the sun. Purple bruises under their sunken
eyes.

He can’t do this.

With another spin on his heel, he goes to look for Mike.

***

Mike isn’t the biggest fan of Hawkins National Lab. Maybe he isn’t the biggest opponent,
either—there’s definitely more qualified people for that—but he’s up there. He’s got a decent
amount of hatred burning away in his heart.

All he can remember, when he looks at these blank gray walls, is the sound of Will’s scream
as it echoed off them. All he can think of, looking at the stretchers and examination tables, is
the way Will’s back arched off them as he spasmed with pain.

He wanders the halls aimlessly, seeing but not really seeing, until he reaches a random room,
moderately-sized with two twin beds, and pushes inside. He sets his backpack on the floor,
flops down on one of the bunks, and kicks his feet up. Pillows his arms under his head. Stares
at the ceiling.
El didn’t commission the painting.

It’s—it’s stupid, obviously, to be thinking about this right now, but it keeps coming back to
him. He knows, now, more solidly than he ever did before. More real than suspicion, more
tangible than guesswork. Will made that painting for him. He said those words for him.

Maybe it’s Mike’s turn to say them back.

There’s a knock at the door, and Mike only has a split-second to hope that it’s Will before
Dustin’s peering at him through the opening. Mike tries to arrange his features in anything
other than disappointment.

He must not do that good of a job, though, because Dustin quirks a knowing eyebrow. “Penny
for your thoughts?”

Mike snorts, no humor to it, and moves to sit up. “I don’t think they’re worth that much.”

Dustin shrugs. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” He goes to sit down next to Mike, then sets his
backpack on the floor by his feet.

There’s a slight pause, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. The lab hums around them, and
distant conversation floats in through the cracked door. Will laughs at something Lucas says,
and the sound blooms behind Mike’s ribs.

Without much thought, he opens his mouth. “This is crazy, man.”

He feels Dustin’s glance, but doesn’t look back at him. He keeps his eyes fixed on the wall
across from them, unnaturally spotless. The kind of unblemished paint that you’d only get
from never once hanging up a decoration. “Fucking— crazy,” he repeats, more strained this
time. “I can’t believe we’re here.”

And by here, he means the lab, but he means everything else, too. Here, in the middle of the
apocalypse. Here, with Max in a coma. Here, with Mike tearing at the seams, on the verge of
something that’s both terrifying and inevitable.

Then again, he can believe it just fine. In some ways, he believes they never would have
ended up anywhere else.

Dustin nods. “I know what you mean,” he says. “It must be really hard for El.”

Shit. Mike hadn’t even thought of that. And that just proves it, right? How selfish he is. How
horrible.

He sobers, looking down at his feet. There’s a dried smudge of blood on the toe of his
Converse, and he knows that it’s from Unknown Hero Agent Man. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly.
“Must be.”

This time, the pause is distinctly more awkward. Dustin’s wavering now, mouth opening and
closing like he’s not sure if he should say anything. Mike wishes he would just spit it out.
Then, because he’s Dustin, he does. “Are you guys… okay?”

Defensiveness coils in Mike’s gut, an age-old reflex. The words fly out, spiked with heat,
before he even has a chance to choose them. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Luckily—or unluckily—Dustin’s far too familiar with Mike’s reflexes. He stares patiently at
Mike, then quirks his mouth in a way that’s very distinctly Dustin, the way that means he’s
not buying a single iota of Mike’s bullshit.

In the face of it, Mike wilts. “No,” he admits, slumping forward. His spine feels like melted
jello. “No, I don’t think we are.”

“Okay,” Dustin says cautiously. “And… how are we feeling about that?”

This is very distinctly un-Dustin-like. Mike squints at him, trying to figure out the new
approach. “What are you, my therapist?”

Predictably, Dustin lets out a loud bark of laughter, holding his hands up in joking surrender.
“No,” he protests. “No, god, can you imagine?”

Weirdly enough, Mike kind of can.

Dustin’s laugh peters out to a warm, genuine smile. “No,” he repeats, softer. “It’s just… you
guys are my friends, you know? I care about you. I want you to be happy. Both of you.”

In that instant, Mike’s viscerally thrown back in time—the two of them biking frantically
through town, looking for a runaway El, back when she was little more than a comic-book
character playing dress-up. Can’t have more than one best friend, Dustin had told him, with
that unerring certainty of his. So sure that Mike cared about Lucas more than him, so sure
that he was the last choice, the runner-up, so sure that Mike was only hanging out with him
because he had to.

Mike swallows, throat suddenly thick with encroaching tears, and looks away. “I don’t
deserve you, man.”

Dustin starts, eyes wide with surprise. “Mike—”

“No, I’m serious,” Mike says firmly. “I’ve been a shitty friend, dude. I think I’ve been a
shitty friend for—a really long time.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then: “You’re wrong.”

Mike blinks rapidly, sure he’s misheard. “What?”

“You’re wrong, Mike,” Dustin repeats, just as fiercely as he’d commanded a call to battle,
back during Eddie’s final campaign. To the death. He shakes his head, momentarily looking
away, eyes fixed somewhere near the door. “God, do you know what I would’ve done last
year, if you weren’t there? If it was just me and Lucas? You stuck by me, man. That’s not
nothing.”
Another memory hits Mike this time, brought on either by the words or the location, or
maybe both: Bob’s hand on his shoulder, his gentle voice in Will’s hospital room. You stuck
with him. That’s the most important thing you can do.

After the fact, Mike had realized that Bob was probably just trying to placate him. He was a
nice guy like that, and he was good with kids. And Mike had been scared. Of course Bob
would say anything he could to cheer him up, to make him feel useful.

But maybe there was something to it. Maybe being there for someone is useful. It’s just
always seemed like a given, for Mike—of course he’d stick by his friends. That’s his whole
problem. They want to let go, and he wants to cling on. He’ll stay until there’s nothing left.
Until he’s standing all alone, a sad little Party of one.

By the time Mike shakes himself out of his thoughts, Dustin’s shooting him a sympathetic
smile, like he knows exactly what’s going on in his brain—and Mike wouldn’t doubt it, at
this point. Then, he rolls back his shoulders, steeling himself, and reaches down into his bag.

The item he pulls out of it punches Mike straight in the gut. “No,” he blurts, heart hammering
in his chest. “No, I can’t—”

Dustin holds the jacket carefully, like the shiny leather might disintegrate beneath any tighter
of a grip. “He wanted you to have it.” He sniffles, wiping at his eyes, but valiantly continues.
“One of those… If I don’t make it back kinda deals, you know? I thought he was joking.”

In the silence that follows, Dustin glances at Mike’s rings, at the frayed edge of his oversized
t-shirt. “He said, um—that you have enough of his stuff already. Might as well complete the
look.”

Mike aches. And—yes, okay, he wants the jacket. He wants it more than he’s wanted
anything, ever. But still, it’s not fair, and Dustin spent those precious last few days with
Eddie, not Mike. Mike was busy lying to his best friend and his girlfriend and trying not to
throw up in the back of Argyle’s van. So he says, with Herculean effort: “Dustin, you should
have it.”

Dustin looks down at himself—at his funky-patterned Hawaiian shirt, his plain khakis—then
back at Mike. Mike could read his expression from a mile away. “He was right, man,” Dustin
says. “It would look better on you.”

With that, he holds the jacket out—still gentle, still reverent—and offers it to Mike. “Take it.
Seriously.”

After one last moment of self-deprecating hesitation, Mike accepts. Because, well—what else
is there to do? Dustin’s obviously not budging. And if Eddie had really wanted him to have it,
then who is he to say no? Even now, Eddie’s word is law.

Mike holds the fabric just as carefully as Dustin had, if not more. The leather is cool against
his fingertips. Smooth, shiny, well-loved. The denim vest that Eddie usually wore over top is
nowhere to be seen, but that’s okay. Mike wouldn’t feel right taking it, anyway. This is more
than enough.
He turns the jacket over in his hands, eyes roving greedily over every square inch. There’s a
large detailed patch on the back, spanning the collar to the hem, stretching broadly from
shoulder to shoulder. A handmade logo for Eddie’s band, Corroded Coffin, featuring jaggedly
stitched lettering, a scattered array of bats, and a half-open casket. On the other side, near the
breast pocket, Eddie’s got about a dozen pins stuck through the leather—some for bands
Mike’s never heard of, and a couple for ones he knows. A Black Widow spider. A pink
triangle.

All this, hidden away underneath Eddie’s vest. All the parts of Eddie that he’d never known.

Mike presses the jacket to his chest, and tries to choke down his tears. “Thank you.”

Dustin shakes his head, his eyes soft. “Don’t mention it, dude. Thanks for… being here.”

Mike directs a watery smile back at him. “Don’t mention it,” he echoes.

Mission completed, Dustin starts to head for the door. Right before he gets there, though, he
pauses, like there’s something else he wants to say.

Mike waits.

“About El,” Dustin says, finally, and Mike winces.

“...Yeah?”

It seems like Dustin can see right through him. Like he knows every thought Mike’s ever had.
Mike glances down at the pink triangle pin, and holds the jacket a little closer to his chest,
running a protective thumb over the lapel.

Dustin’s eyes follow him, just for a second. When he speaks, his voice is sad, but not
judgmental. “...She deserves the truth, okay? Whatever that is. And so do you.”

Mike’s heart thuds painfully against his ribs, like it’s begging to be let out. Still, he nods,
because Dustin’s right. He always is.

Dustin slings his bag over his shoulder, then twists the doorknob. Mike frowns, his brain
finally catching up to him. “You don’t want the extra bunk?”

He hopes it doesn’t sound too desperate. It’s just—well, it would be a little lonely to stay here
all by himself.

Dustin hesitates, cocking his head to the side. At length, he says: “...I think there’s someone
else who wants it more.”

Mike feels heat rush to his cheeks as he catches Dustin’s meaning. So he does know, then. Or
suspects, at least. But Mike’s not so sure he’s right. He’s not sure Will wants anything to do
with him right now.

Mike wouldn’t blame him.

“Plus,” Dustin continues, oblivious to Mike’s train of thought. “I already found a really great
single. It’s got all this cool science shit in it.”

Mike raises a skeptical eyebrow. He definitely didn’t get any cool science shit. “You know
that was probably Brenner’s, right?”

Dustin pauses, obviously considering the ethical implications of Mike’s claim. “Huh,” he
says thoughtfully, then shrugs. “I’ll graffiti the walls.”

Mike can’t help but smile—it’s just so Dustin. And so is his following statement, said almost
as an afterthought: “You should, too. This place could really use some color.”

Mike snorts, fully grinning now. It’s crazy how one conversation with Dustin can completely
turn his mood around. Dustin shoots a grin back, cheeks dimpling, and heads out the door
without further comment. It’s probably just Mike’s imagination, but the room feels a few
degrees warmer now. More inviting.

But the seconds tick away, and then Mike is just as alone as he was before, nothing but the
ghost of a smile on his face. He looks down at Eddie’s jacket—he can’t bring himself to call
it his— and gently folds it in half. Hangs it over the bedframe, pink-triangle side down. Like
a secret. The same way he can’t claim possession of it, he also can’t put it on. It doesn’t feel
like he deserves it.

On second thought, this room really could use some color.

So, with Eddie’s jacket hung up in its place of honor, Mike sets about his next order of
business. Just as carefully as he handled the leather, he reaches into his bag, pulls out Will’s
painting, and unrolls it.

It would look good on the wall, he thinks, the one right across from him. That way, he’d
always be able to see it. He takes some spare tape from his bag—who even knew that was in
there—and tacks it up, smack dab in the middle. It feels good. It feels like rebellion. Like re-
claiming. The room, the lab, Mike.

He’s making this place his own.

Once the canvas is fixed in place, he takes a couple steps back to appraise it, the backs of his
calves brushing the metal bedframe. He’s no professional decorator, or anything—his posters
at home were all over the place, as Mom liked to point out—but he thinks it looks nice. He
thinks that’s more to do with the painting than Mike’s placement, though. It would probably
still look nice above a dumpster. Not that Mike would ever put it there.

Anyway.

Mike tilts his head, taking in the painting in its full scale. Something’s rising up in him, that
same sort of feeling he’d gotten back at the cabin, right before he made his big speech. It
feels powerful. It feels dangerous.

It feels, in this moment, like he can do anything.

With no real thought to where he’s going, he starts for the door. It doesn’t even feel like a
conscious decision, really—rather like he’s being tugged along by some invisible string,
urged on by a mysterious voice. Go, the voice says. Make it right.

He opens the door.

As soon as he does, though, he’s stopped short. El’s standing an inch away from him, hand
raised mid-knock, blinking in surprise.

“Oh,” Mike says, stupidly.

“We need to talk,” El replies, far less stupidly.

Already recovered from the abrupt moment, El pushes past him, her entire expression set
with fierce determination, her cheeks glossy with recently-shed tears, and sits down on
Mike’s bed.

The powerful feeling in Mike’s chest leaves as quickly as it had come. Now, instead, he has
the sudden and intense desire to scream and run away. We need to talk, historically, is not a
very good phrase.

Then again, they really do.

Mike’s been standing in place for too long. El raises an eyebrow, then pats the mattress next
to her. “Come here, Mike,” she says, like she’s coaxing a stray dog. “I do not bite.”

The joke startles a laugh out of Mike; it loosens up his whole body until it feels like he can
breathe again. He crosses the small room, then sits down next to El, leaving a healthy amount
of space between them. He doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries. They both know what
this is about.

Mike clears his throat. “How’re you holding up?” he asks cautiously. He feels bad, after what
Dustin said, to not even consider El’s feelings about the lab. The amount of trauma she must
have, the intensity of her memories, far outweighs anything Mike has ever been through.

El looks straight ahead of her—right at Will’s painting. Mike wonders if this is the first time
she’s seen it. “I’ve been better,” she says.

“Right, right,” Mike agrees, belatedly realizing how stupid of a question that had been. “Of
course.”

There’s an awkward silence. Mike kind of regrets not screaming and running away while he
had the chance. Maybe it’s not too late.

He shifts against the mattress. Tries to remember the first part of his breakup speech. Of
course, now that it’s actually time to use it, he can’t conjure up a single word. Stupid brain.

But he has to say something.

“I—”
“I heard you,” El blurts.

Mike’s breath catches in his throat; the rest of his words die before they can form. “What?”

El’s still not looking at him. “When I was fighting Henry,” she clarifies, her voice sounding
far-away. “I heard what you said.”

If Mike had any doubt about El’s feelings, after the last few days of frosty silence, the way
she’s talking now would be the final nail in the coffin. He winces. “Right. Um.”

Thankfully, El takes pity on him. “You are not a good liar, Mike.”

Mike knows this. He’s always known it. It’s half the reason why he invented the Party’s most
important rule: Friends don’t lie.

Since then, he’s broken it about a dozen times.

He nods. El’s right, and she knows it, and he knows it. There’s no point in denying anything,
not anymore. Like Dustin said—El deserves the truth. What he can manage of it, anyway.

“It wasn’t all a lie, El,” Mike says, the words cracking down the middle. “I really do…”

Even now, he still can’t say it. Idiot.

El smiles sadly back at him, like she knows exactly what he means. “Me too,” she says, then
swallows. “But… not like that.”

The relief that rushes through Mike is physical. It feels like a glass of ice water after the
world’s hottest day. Like a two-ton weight lifting off his shoulders.

He doesn’t have to break El’s heart. Not anymore.

After a shaky exhale, Mike nods. “Not like that,” he agrees. “I’m… I’m so sorry, El. I really
tried.”

“So did I,” El admits, looking ashamed, and Mike thinks of the entire last year. Of the letters,
of the lies, of Rink-O-Mania. Maybe, he realizes, this was hurting them both. Maybe they
were both trying to be other people, trying to fit into boxes that weren’t made for them.

Forced conformity, Mike hears, and this time he recognizes the voice.

It’s been staring him right in the face, this whole time.

El follows his gaze, looking steadily at Eddie’s jacket. “But I think…” she continues, after a
short pause. “I think love is something we should not have to try at. I think it should just be.”

Unwittingly, Mike feels tears begin to prick at his eyes, and he barks out a watery laugh.
“Does this mean you’re dumping my ass?”
The joke works—El grins back at him, her eyes looking just as glossy as his own. “I think…
We are dumping each other’s asses.”

This time, they both laugh. Mike hesitates, just for a second, then reaches out. El hugs back
easily, sweetly—she’s really not mad, even though she has every right to be. Mike’s so
grateful for her that it burns.

It’s one of the realest hugs they’ve ever shared. It’s the best he’s felt around El in months.

They’re friends. Really friends.

And in that moment, Mike doesn’t even think about it. The words come naturally. Easy as
breathing.

“I love you,” he murmurs, nose tucked into her hair. She smells like lavender. Like saltwater.

El hugs him tighter, squeezing right around the middle. “I love you, too.”

It feels like coming home.

Finally, El pulls away, wiping delicately at her tears. She glances back at Will’s painting, then
attempts a smile. “That is a nice painting,” she tells Mike. “Did Will make it?”

Mike ducks his head, a smile stretching out over his lips. “Yeah,” he tells her, pride bubbling
in his chest. “Yeah, he did.”

Something mischievous crosses El’s expression. Something horrifyingly knowing. “Hm,” she
says.

Mike doesn’t like that hm. He doesn’t like it at all.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, embarrassed at the sudden wave of heat that rises to his cheeks.

If it wasn’t for the twinkle in El’s eyes, she would be the perfect picture of innocence. “I
didn’t say anything.”

Mike rolls his eyes. He doesn’t buy that for a second. “Yeah, yeah.”

And in that moment, everything is good and right in the world. In that moment, Mike feels
more at peace than he ever has. In that moment, he feels like he could take on Vecna and win.

In the next moment afterwards, Will knocks on his door.

***

By the time Will reaches Mike’s room, he’s practically sweating out of his skin. After a brief
detour in the hallway, in which he’d run into Lucas, been nearly bowled over with the gravity
of his grief, then paused to make a few D&D jokes, a newly-cheered-up Lucas had helpfully
directed him to Mike’s room.

It wasn’t much. But it was all he could think to do.

Anyway, now Will’s alone again, and nervous again, and he’s trying to remember why he
thought it had been a good idea to come straight to Mike. Maybe he should have just hidden
in one of the single-bunk cells and never spoken to anyone ever again. No one would have
even noticed, probably.

He’s gotta admit, that seems like a more appealing plan than this one. As it is, he thinks his
heart is about to fall out of his ass.

After knocking, then waiting a few seconds, because Will’s nothing if not polite, he sticks his
head through the door.

Then, his heart really does fall out of his ass.

El’s sitting next to Mike on his bed, their thighs touching, their eyes watery. It’s clear that
Will’s walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see.

“Sorry,” he blurts, already stepping backwards. “Um—am I interrupting something?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to smack himself. Obviously he’s
interrupting.

But, to his surprise, El shakes her head. She stands to her feet, shoots him a smile, and wipes
away a tear. “No,” she says, but doesn’t sound upset about it. “I was just leaving.”

Right when Will’s trying to figure that out, El does something even weirder. She gestures to
Mike (which isn’t the weird part) and says, “All yours.” (Which is.)

Will blinks at her. Then, mortifyingly, turns pink. “Um, okay,” he stammers. “Great. I’ll,
um… I’ll see you later?”

El, the absolute angel that she is, seems unfazed by Will’s stupidity. “Later,” she agrees, and
breezes out of the room.

With a very intimidating click, the door shuts behind her.

Will gulps.

It’s just him and Mike now.

Alone.

Cool.

Will shuffles forward a few more steps, awkwardly holding his backpack in front of him, like
a makeshift shield. For lack of anything else to do—and because he’s scared to look at Mike
—he looks around the room.

Then stops.

“Um,” Will says, staring at his painting.

“Um,” Mike echoes, staring at Will.

For a second, the bedroom is terrifyingly silent. Will wonders if either of them will ever
speak again. It feels strangely infinite, this moment. Like they’ve been plopped into some
horrible kind of limbo, where time doesn’t exist and everything is unbearably embarrassing.

Then, Mike saves them from it. “So,” he starts, sounding flustered and very un-Mike-like.
“What’re you doing here?”

Will jolts, tearing his eyes away from the painting. It’s hung up right in the middle of the
wall, right across from Mike’s bed. Like he wanted to put it on display. Like he wanted to
look at it all the time.

He swallows, shifting his bag from hand to hand. He feels really jumpy. What was he doing
here?

Oh yeah.

“All the other bunks were taken,” Will starts, which is a lie he had practiced about a dozen
times on the walk over, so that it would sound right when he told it. Of course, it still comes
out like a lie, because they’ve all established that Will is the world’s shittiest liar.

But is sounds better than the truth: he didn’t want to sleep alone.

“Um, I hope you don’t…” Mind, Will thinks. Hate me. Want to share with someone else.
Never want to see me again.

He lets the sentence trail off. “I can sleep in the lobby, or something,” he chokes, not looking
at Mike. This was a bad idea. This was such a bad idea. One of the worst he's ever had. “It’s
—”

Will can’t bring himself to say fine.

Mike squints at him, completely bewildered. There’s a tuft of hair sticking straight up out of
his head. Will’s fingers twitch with the desire to smooth it back into place.

“What?” Mike says, sounding completely lost. “Why would I want you to do that? There’s
plenty of room in here.”

Will’s eyes dart back to the painting. He’d been preparing, honestly, for the very real
possibility that Mike might hate him now. He thinks of El’s words back in the car, the way
that she’d ratted him out without even meaning to. Karma, probably, for Will doing the same,
back at Rink-O-Mania. She’s lying to you, Mike. Straight to your face.
And then, like the hypocrite he is, he turned around and did the exact same thing.

“I dunno,” Will mumbles, as Mike follows his gaze. They both stare at the little cartoonish
Party members. At the crimson heart on Mike’s shield. “I thought you might be… upset.”

Mike shifts on the bed, not quite looking at Will. “I’m not,” he says, very carefully. “Upset.”

It takes a minute for the words to make sense in Will’s brain.

It takes another minute for them to fit into the bigger picture, the one that Will is both
exhilarated and terrified to unveil. The one that looks like mixtapes and love, Mike and good
interesting. The one that looks like shared smiles and tangled fingers and a single piece of art
in an otherwise empty room.

“Oh,” Will says, strangled, because that’s all there is to say. Oh.

El, he reminds himself, though it doesn’t have the same effect it usually does. He closes his
eyes, for a brief second, trying to picture her tear-streaked cheeks as he’d walked in. El, El,
El.

He kicks himself into gear, sets his backpack on his new bed, and flops down onto the
mattress. It’s been a while since he was in a bed. Two days, to be exact. The last time had
been at the motel, of course, with…

Will feels his cheeks heat up. He quickly stops thinking about the motel.

After a second, there’s a shifting sound, and out of the corner of his eye, Will sees Mike lay
down, mirroring his own position.

El, he thinks again, as loudly and forcefully as he can.

Then, fighting to keep his voice even, he says: “Is everything okay with El?”

There. He’s doing it. He’s being a good friend. Nice job, Will.

Will shuts his eyes, letting the familiarity of it wash over him. Next, Mike will say something
like: Yeah, everything’s great, or, more likely: She’s having a tough time right now, or, even
more likely—

“We broke up.”

Will’s heart stops beating.

Without even registering the motion, he jerks straight up in bed. The sudden rushing in his
ears is so loud that for a second, he thinks he’s gone deaf. “Mike,” he blurts, and looks over.

Nothing makes sense. It doesn’t make sense, because Mike doesn’t even seem upset. He’s not
crying, or complaining, or even frowning. Instead, he seems perfectly at peace, arms pillowed
behind his head, ankles crossed, and eyes closed. He says it like a fact of the world. Like he’s
reporting the weather on a perfectly average day. We broke up.
“Oh my—oh my god, I’m so sorry,” Will stumbles, hardly aware of what he’s even saying.
“Are you okay? What happened?”

With one hand, Mike waves off Will’s concern. He hasn’t moved a muscle. In fact, he’s
smiling. “It’s fine,” he says. “It was mutual.”

Mutual.

Will wants to ask a thousand questions. Wants to say: But I thought you loved her. Wants to
say: How could anyone ever break up with you? Wants to say, more than anything else: What
does this mean? What does this mean for us?

The sound of Will’s rough breathing fills the room, undeniably obvious in its panic. He
doesn’t say anything at all.

Without looking at him, Mike says, in that same conversational tone: “You’ve never lied to
me before.”

Fuck.

Is this—is this fun for him? What the hell is he playing at? How can he just sit there, looking
like that, saying things like—

Will’s fingers scrabble for purchase against the mattress. He still can’t force any words out.
He’s terrified of what could come out if he opens his mouth.

But he has to try. “I’m—I’m sor—”

Mike shakes his head. “You don’t have to apologize,” he says. “It’s okay.”

Okay, Will thinks incredulously. How could it be okay?

Unless—unless it really is.

Unless it’s part of the big picture.

Will’s heart rate begins to slow. The ringing in his ears begins to quiet. “It is?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, more gently now. “I get it.”

Uh oh. “You… do?” Will asks, his voice pitching up with alarm.

Mike nods, making a small sound of affirmation. He stares thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “I
just… I always felt so useless, being El’s boyfriend,” he says quietly, like a confession. “It
was like—that was my whole job description, you know? She had all these powers, and what
am I? What good am I to her?”

It’s like Will’s been jolted back in time, listening Mike talk about Lois Lane and Superman. A
never-ending cycle. He watches, helpless to change it. He has nothing else to give.
Mike’s head lolls to the side, his eyes setting gently on Will. “It was nice of you to say all that
stuff,” he murmurs. “Even if it wasn’t true.”

It was true, Will thinks, bordering on desperation. It was true to me.

And in that moment, he knows—Mike doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it at all.

He opens his mouth, bursting with unspoken words, wanting to say something, anything,
even if it’s completely insane. Even if it could ruin everything.

Then, someone knocks on the door.

They both look to the front of the room as Lucas pokes his head in, tapping at his watch.
“Five to seven, guys,” he reminds them. “Owens wants us in the West Wing.”

Fuck the West Wing.

Will sighs, then closes his mouth. He shoots Lucas a thumbs-up, which must be good enough,
because he leaves as quickly as he came.

Across the room, Mike sits up, then languidly stretches his arms over his head. “Guess we
better hop to it, huh?”

Will tries not to stare at the sliver of his torso that’s revealed by his lifting t-shirt.

He’s not sure he succeeds.

Still, though, he’s left with the same question he had when he got here. More questions,
actually. But the main one, the most important one, is still: What does this mean for us?

Mike catches his eye, and some of Will’s helplessness must be clear on his face, because he
softens. “We’re okay, Will,” he says softly. “I promise.”

And—well, everyone knows that Mike doesn’t break his promises.

Except for when he does.

Will trusts him, though, despite his better judgment. Despite all the proof that he shouldn't.
So he nods.

We’re okay, he tells himself, and tries to believe it.

He follows Mike to the West Wing.

***

“Music.”
It’s everything Mike can do to not roll his eyes. It’s hitting him, now, that he’s going to have
to spend the foreseeable future in an enclosed space with Steve Harrington.

It’s a bleak future.

Steve finishes off his crisp underline in chalk, then heads back to his chair, looking way too
self-satisfied. Thankfully, Nancy takes it from there.

“Music is one of the most important defenses against Vecna,” she says, looking around the
room. “Now, we haven’t seen any sign of him yet—but as a precaution, everyone should
have their favorite song on hand. Especially the people who have been targeted before. El,
Will, that’s you guys.”

Ms. Byers frowns, and Hopper slings a comforting arm around her shoulders. It’s about time
for that to happen, Mike thinks. Good for them.

Then, like the walking cliche that she is, Nancy pulls out an actual notepad. “We’ll see what
we can find when we go out for supplies,” she says primly, pen poised above the paper. “El,
what’s your favorite song?”

Mike glances over at El. He kind of wants to know, too. He knows El didn't ever really like
any of the songs Mike sang to her, but she must like something.

El takes a moment to think. “Over and Over,” she says, after a second. “By Mad Donna.”

Mike smiles. Of course. A Max song.

It makes sense.

“Madonna,” Jonathan corrects gently.

Nancy pauses, smiles fondly at Jonathan, then writes it down. “Okay. Madonna it is. And
Will?”

Mike wants to know this one, too. Is it still Should I Stay or Should I Go? Is it something
completely different? He hates that he doesn’t know. He should really, really know.

Will colors, just a little bit, and flashes a glance at Mike, so quick that he would’ve missed it
if he wasn’t already looking back. And if they weren’t sitting about an inch away from each
other. Yes, Mike pushed his chair in. No, he’s not ashamed. He would crawl right into Will’s
lap if he could.

Now that’s an idea.

Soon enough, Mike’s blush is almost redder than Will’s. Still, he doesn’t break eye contact.
He doesn’t want to.

“I actually—I’m good,” Will tells Nancy, fumbling over his words in embarrassment. “I have
a mixtape with me. Thanks, though.”
Mike can’t help it—his blush deepens even more. Will likes the mixtape that much? Enough
that it’s his favorite? Enough that he trusts it to save him from Vecna, in the very likely event
of a real emergency?

Maybe Mike is useful, after all. Just a little bit.

Will smiles shyly at him, a smile that Mike feels reflected on his own lips, then looks away.
Mike tries to follow suit. Tries to ignore the frantic, excited pounding of his heart.

Is this what it’s going to be like, from now on? It feels—It feels…

Dangerous.

Good dangerous, though. At least, Mike thinks.

“Alright,” Nancy says, with enviable authority. “Makes it easier on us. Everyone else, write
down your requests, and we’ll see what we can find.”

Does Mike even have a favorite song?

Once it’s his turn, he stares down at the notebook that Will passes to him. After a long
moment, and a sudden recollection of days spent languishing in his basement, playing his
Bronski Beat tape over and over, until he was worried it might wear down from use, he writes
down: Smalltown Boy.

He hopes nobody thinks too hard about it.

He passes it on.

While everyone’s taking turns writing down their songs, Owens stands to his feet, clapping
his hands together. “Now that that’s done, we need to talk strategy,” he says loudly, and Mike
can hear Hopper’s words from earlier in the exaggerated roll of his eyes: Who died and made
him king?

Maybe, just this once, Mike—ugh—agrees with Hopper. Gross.

“Right now, we have a head start,” Owens continues. “Creel’s still on the lam. But it’s only a
matter of time before those creatures start coming up from the gate.” He pauses thoughtfully.
“Who here knows how to shoot?”

A couple hands go up, the same ones Mike was expecting: Hopper, Hopper’s Russian friend,
Nancy, and Jonathan. Then, after a long second—

Will?

Mike stares at his raised hand, at his flushed cheeks, and tries to imagine him holding a gun.
He feels like he might pass out, a little bit.

Owens raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t question it. “Okay,” he says. “And who’s got some
other kind of weaponry experience?”
It takes Mike a second to realize that almost everyone in the room is raising their hands.

Everyone except him.

He swallows, a sudden wave of shame rising up in his throat, and looks down at his lap.
Three years of this shit, and he still can’t fight. Three years of hiding behind El while she
fought his battles for him.

Mike doesn’t know shit about weapons, unless you count candlestick holders. Which he
doesn’t.

“Alright,” Owens acknowledges. “The rest of you—” so just Mike, then— “you’re on basic
training rotation. If you’re good with tech, we could use a team there, too.”

Mike wonders if Dustin will let him join the tech team. He could probably do something, as
long as he was told what to do. He knows stuff about radios, at least. Is that helpful?

He has no idea.

Owens furrows his brow, considering the group. “Harrington, Wheeler, Byers,” he starts, and
Mike jolts in his seat before he realizes that he means Nancy. Duh. “I want you three in
charge of training the kids. Self-defense, basic offensive maneuvers. I want everybody
prepared for whatever the hell might come outta that thing.” He squints critically at them.
“You all know what you’re best at—split up, figure it out. Adults in the room, you’re with
me. And Eleven.”

There’s a flurry of nods and thumbs-ups around the room—even some salutes, from Argyle
and Robin respectively. Owens doesn’t acknowledge them.

“My team, stay here,” he says. “Everyone else, fan out. I need a stock inventory—weapons,
comms, tech. Salvage what you can. We’ll lead a supply run in thirty.”

Silence rings out after his words. Owens goes deathly serious, then, and leans forward to
address them, palms braced against the edge of the conference table. “If you see any sign of
Creel— anything— you report to me immediately. Understood?”

Mike gulps. He can’t bring himself to look up from his lap. This, he thinks, is probably where
he should say something.

He stays quiet.

“Alright,” Owens says. “Good. Meeting dismissed.”

Well—Owens doesn’t mean him, right? He’s not talking about stupid panic attacks, or
whatever that thing on Weathertop was. If it happens again, Mike reasons, he’ll say
something. But it won’t.

At least, he hopes.
Either way, he’s standing up and joining the throng of bodies as they flow out of the room,
jostling up against Will as they cram through the narrow doorway. Mike pushes Weathertop
out of his mind.

“I didn’t know you could shoot,” he says instead.

Will glances over, looking a little embarrassed. “Yeah,” he says. “I, um… I can show you
sometime. If you want.”

Oh, Mike wants. He definitely wants.

“...Yeah,” Mike says, with a crooked smile. “I’d like that.”

Is this flirting? Are they flirting right now? Mike can’t tell.

He kind of hopes they are, though.

And, he realizes, they can actually do that now. Nothing’s stopping them. There’s nothing at
all wrong with Mike flirting with Will, except that a few people might look at him funny for
it. There’s nothing at all wrong with Will flirting back.

Mike really wants him to flirt back.

He wants a lot of things.

Whether or not he’ll get them, though, is a different story entirely.

***

The rest of the day passes quickly. They follow Owens’ instructions, because as much as
Mike resents him, there’s really nothing else to do. Dustin scrounges up a bunch of science
shit, as promised, and begins setting up a home base in one of the spare labs. Lucas and El go
together to check out the weapons, then quickly detour to the hospital wing as soon as Max’s
transfer is complete.

Mike'll go see her. Eventually.

He’s just—waiting for the right time. That’s all.

Anyway, Mike and Will stick pretty close together for the rest of the day, working in a
companionable sort of silence, occasionally talking about benign, casual sort of things.
School. The lab. The impending apocalypse.

You know, normal teenager shit.

It thrums between them, though, all the words they’re leaving unsaid. Mike wonders if Will
feels it as strongly as he does. He has to. The tension is so intense that it’s nearly stifling,
nearly physical.

A painting. A mixtape.

Mike’s single now.

All unrelated statements, of course. Completely harmless. Completely meaningless.

Unless Will wants it to mean something.

By the end of the day, though, Mike’s still too chicken to say anything, despite drafting about
three million conversation starters in his head. Nothing sounds right. He doesn’t know how to
do this.

He’s not even sure if Will wants him to do this.

He’s not even sure what this is.

He’s pretty sure. Like, seventy percent sure. But there’s still the whole other thirty percent to
worry about.

It’s possible, Mike thinks, that he might be a little bit of a coward.

Anyway, come nightfall, they’re both lying in their shared room, which is still completely
blank except for Eddie’s jacket and Will’s painting, and trying their best to go to sleep.

He doesn’t know about Will. But Mike, personally, has never felt more awake in his entire
life.

Old habits die hard, and even though Mike thinks they’re safe in here, he can’t help but keep
an eye on the bedroom door. He feels more useful, this way. Less like a sitting duck, and
more like the paladin from Will’s painting.

It’s only after about an hour of this, laying silently in the dark, eyes burning as he stares at the
doorknob, that he picks up on the pattern of Will’s breathing. How uneven it is.

He’s awake.

Mike swallows. His throat feels unbearably dry. “Will?”

There’s a long silence. Then, sheepishly: “Yeah?”

Mike turns on his side. His eyes are mostly adjusted to the dark by now, but he still can’t see
anything except the faint outline of Will’s body. “Can’t sleep?”

The outline shifts, and Mike knows that Will’s turning to face him, too. An exhilarated thrill
zips down his spine. Jesus, he tells himself. Calm down, dumbass.
Needless to say, he doesn’t calm down.

“Can’t sleep,” Will confirms, his voice soft and rumpled in a way that makes Mike’s heart
skip an extra beat. “Bad memories.”

Mike winces. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

Another pause, this time so long that Mike wonders if Will’s fallen asleep. Then, finally:
“Why did you and El break up?”

Somehow, Mike wasn’t expecting the question. He blinks into the darkness, trying to adjust.
“Um,” he says.

“I just—I thought you loved her,” Will says, so quietly that it’s barely audible. It sounds like
an apology. “You said you loved her.”

Mike winces again. There’s so much pain in Will’s voice. He can’t stand it. “Yeah,” he
repeats. “Yeah, I did. And I—I do.”

“Oh.”

“But not like that!” Mike blurts, hastily realizing his mistake. Man, he really has to start
thinking before he talks. “Like—like a friend. Like Lucas, or Dustin.”

This time, the pause feels infinite. Like Will’s waiting for him to say something else.

Mike exhales shakily into the darkness. He doesn’t have any words left. That’s all he’s got.

“Oh,” Will says, after a while, and it’s barely intelligible. More of a choked-out sound than a
word. “Okay.”

Mike squints at him. Tries to make out his blurry features. “Okay?”

“Mhm.”

Mike waits, but there’s nothing else.

Damnnit.

For once, he’s actually kind of glad for the knock on the door. Gladder still for the person
behind it. “Hey, Nance,” he greets, holding up a hand against the sudden influx of fluorescent
light from the hallway. “What’s up?”

“Sorry,” she says, in a low whisper. “Didn’t mean to wake you guys up. Mom’s on the phone,
though.”

Oh. Right.

“Okay,” Mike whispers back. “One sec.”

 She nods, still wincing with apology, and gingerly shuts the door behind her. Mike stumbles
out of bed, reaching out a hand to feel for his bedframe, and slips his shoes on. During this
entire process, Will is suspiciously silent.

“Um,” Mike says, once he’s ready to go. “Did you—are you asleep?”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s not the truth. Knows that there’s no way Will could be
sleeping right now, because there’s no way Mike could be sleeping right now.

“Almost,” Will mumbles, after a second. And, just as Mike suspected, he sounds very, very
awake.

Still, Mike lets him off the hook. “Okay,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Heart pounding, Mike slips out the door, careful to keep the opening as slim as possible, body
flush to the wall. He doesn’t want the light to bother Will.

Something’s happening, right? This isn’t—they aren’t usually like this.

Something’s changed.

But Mike can’t think about that right now. He has other things to worry about. Like the
apocalypse. Like Weathertop. Like his family.

Like Will.

He finds Nancy, right down the hall, and accepts the phone that she holds out for him. Sighs
into the receiver.

“Hey, Mom.”

Chapter End Notes

that’s it for now!! i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter—it’s a big one!! i really enjoyed
expanding this half of the script into fic format, because it had so many important scenes
that i wanted to write! the next installment in this series will be my episode 2 script,
which will be posted this sunday, 9/24, on my tumblr. luckily for all of us, it is already
finished. i have gotten great feedback from the lovely suni astrobi, aka things like “i
hate you and i want you dead and you need to die in a hole.” so i think you guys will
like it! after that, there will be two fic chapters on the following two fridays, exactly
how this episode was posted. if there’s any delays, i’ll keep you updated!

feel free to pop by in the comments—i love hearing from you guys! thank you so much
for reading

- H xx
 The Root of All Evil
Chapter Summary

You’re Mike, Will wants to say, but it doesn’t seem like enough. He doesn’t know how
to express everything he wants to say. He doesn’t know how to get it through Mike’s
thick skull, just how much he means to people. How much he means to Will. It doesn’t
matter if he can’t ever throw a punch. If he can’t shoot a gun. He’s been making Will
feel safe since before Will even knew he had anything to be afraid of.

Chapter Notes

if you haven’t read the script yet, and you would like to, click here!

content warnings: period-typical homophobia, homophobic slurs, and use of guns.

enjoy! 💗
See the end of the chapter for more notes

Will thinks a lot of embarrassing things in the privacy of his own mind. The main one, at this
moment, is how nice Steve Harrington looks without a shirt on. How nice his biceps look,
flexing and contracting like that.

Come to think of it, maybe nice isn’t exactly the right word.

It’s clear that Steve’s been working out. The punching bag jostles easily, swaying like a
piñata, like it’s filled with feathers instead of sawdust. With a final punch, and a low grunt of
exertion, Steve knocks it off the hinges. A bead of sweat rolls down his cheek, dripping onto
the floor below.

Will gulps.

With an approving nod, eyes glinting with admiration, Owens begins to clap. “Now that’s
how you do it,” he says. “Give him a hand, everyone.”

Trying to get his brain back online, Will gives a few clumsy claps. Next to him, Mike rolls
his eyes, his expression distinctly unimpressed. He glances over, then nudges Will, like: Can
you believe this guy?

Embarrassingly, Will giggles. Actually giggles. And he tries to hide it, he really does, but the
next thing he knows, Steve’s head is swiveling over in their direction, eyes narrowed with
suspicion. Mike’s always been blamed for his and Will’s combined antics, though, and
Steve’s gaze zips entirely to him. Will, for his part, stands up a little straighter and tries to
look as innocent as possible.

“You laughing, Wheeler?” Steve calls. “Let’s see you do it.”

Mike’s face drains of color. He takes a fumbling step backwards. “Uh—I—”

Steve scoffs, but there’s no heat to it. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he murmurs. Then,
terrifyingly, he turns to Will. “Byers, what about you? You wanna give a demonstration?”

It’s half-hearted. A peacocking sort of threat, which is the only kind Steve knows how to
make. Still, Will thinks about how he looked as he punched that bag. Hot, yeah, but also
capable. Steve Harrington is the kind of guy that you need in the apocalypse. He’s the
muscle. The brawn. The protector.

Will wants, more than anything, to be that kind of guy.

And it’s this want that pushes up through his belly and out through his throat, forming the
words: “Sure. I’ll give it a go.”

A ripple of surprise rolls around the room. That’s the last thing anyone had expected Will to
say, and it shows.

He pretends not to notice. Stares straight ahead. Rolls his shoulders back.

Steve goggles at him, then blinks a few times as he processes Will’s offer. “Well—alright
then!” he stammers, with a surprised half-laugh. “Let’s hear it for Will, guys!”

As Will walks to the middle of the room, trying to keep his shoulders from hunching back
down to their usual self-conscious position, the group begins to clap. The Party’s applause is
very pointedly enthusiastic, especially Dustin’s. There may or may not be some hollering
involved.

When Will risks a glance back at Mike, he looks a little stunned. There’s a pretty blush
dusting the tops of his cheekbones.

But he’s clapping, too.

Will feels an answering blush on his own cheeks, and he turns to watch Steve re-hook the
fallen punching bag. He’s pretty sure that his smile looks a little stupid, but he can’t wrangle
it. He’s not sure he wants to.

After a squinty moment of consideration, Steve gestures over to Jonathan. “Alright, Byers
and Byers,” he proclaims, like some sort of grand marshal of boxing. “Some B-and-B action.
Let’s see it!”

He steps back from the punching bag, giving a little bow. “All yours, gentlemen.”
Jonathan makes a big show of rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning when he looks back at Will.
It’s been a long time since they did anything like this. Jonathan always made self-defense
days fun, inventing little games and contests for Will to try his hand at. Play-wrestling,
sparring with wooden swords, boxing in the backyard with Dad’s old gloves. Neither of them
were exactly the sportiest kids, but on those days, Will always had a blast.

Neither of them ever mentioned the real reason for it. Neither of them ever mentioned that
when it came to fighting back against a two-hundred pound drunkard, wooden swords and
old boxing gloves meant nothing.

It was sweet of Jonathan to try, though.

Will wraps up his hands, thick around the knuckles, tight around his thumb. Maybe this was a
stupid idea, but he’s really feeling it. He’s got all this restless energy under his skin, and he’d
usually let it out by painting, but—

Sometimes he just wants to hit something. Sometimes he just wants to scream.

He’ll try and keep the screaming to a minimum, though. That probably wouldn’t be very
polite.

Jonathan eyes him carefully, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. “You ready?”

Will shakes out his hands. Exhales. Then, remembering Jonathan’s age-old advice—and
Lonnie’s, before that—he raises his fists. Tucks his thumbs.

He nods.

He starts off slow. Eases into it, like getting back onto a bike after a year of slumming rides in
Argyle’s van. Left hook, right hook, breathe. Dad’s not-so-gentle cuff on his shoulder. Plant
your feet, boy.

He plants his feet.

As the bag starts to swing, helplessly bowed by the force of Will’s attack, Jonathan takes a
step backwards, his expression unreadable. Somewhere between impressed and sad. Will
doesn’t have the energy to figure out what way the scale is tipping.

He keeps punching, solid rubber against his taped knuckles, and the heat of it is almost a
relief. He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to go around knocking people to the ground
with rollerskates and punching through glass windows. Will is quiet. Calm. He stays in his
room and paints. Nobody at school really knows his name, and most people don’t care to.

Something buzzes under his skin, hot and quick and electric. He hardly even registers the
movement of his arms—just thinks, just feels, lets it all press down on him and add to that
angry heat. Lonnie. Troy. James. All the nameless faces that sneered at him in the hallway, all
the whispering voices, fag and zombie boy. Dad shouting in the kitchen, no son of mine is a
queer, Joyce.
El and Mike’s swinging hands, their foreheads pressed close together, the bright bundle of
flowers he’d brought to the airport. My life started that day I met you in the woods. Love
letters like clockwork, bright smiles and sweet kisses, Mike’s eyes lighting up as he unrolled
Will’s painting.

A hand curling around his in the desert. A finger tapping out messages onto his skin. Dark
eyes across the dancefloor. I miss being a kid with you. A fight that feels like drowning. A
hug that feels like salvation. We’ll go crazy together.

The buzzing builds to a roar. Will knocks the bag off its hinges.

He feels—strange. Weird. Like someone else is wearing his skin—or maybe just that no
one’s wearing it at all. Like he’s floating somewhere around the ceiling, watching a stranger
catch his breath.

It comes back in pieces. Dustin’s cheers, Mike’s stunned expression. A slap on the shoulder, a
hand in his hair. Steve’s boyish nod of approval.

Slowly, Will grins. His ears pop, and his eyes focus, and everything’s fine again. Will, for
once, did something cool.

Who would’ve thought?

He accepts the praise, stopping Dustin just short of trying to lift him into the air. He’s pretty
sure that wouldn’t go well for any of them.

Across the room, Owens smiles. “Not bad, Will,” he says, through the chaos. “Not bad at
all.”

The approval lodges somewhere between Will’s ribs. Sticks in his throat. Somehow, he’s not
so sure he deserves it.

There’s a loud slapping sound as Owens claps his hands together, turning to address the
group. “Good work, everyone. Keep at it—I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”

He pauses, looking faintly pained. “Try not to need me.”

In the moment that follows, Will’s jostled by a firm hand on his shoulder, then arrested by the
blinding white of Steve’s proud smile. “Jeez, man, what happened to you?” Steve asks, the
words forming around a grin. “Hit the gym in California?”

Will shrugs, heat stinging at his cheeks. Honestly, he doesn’t know what happened. He just
knows that it did.

Steve laughs, apparently entertained by his non-answer. “You’ll get all the babes like that,
dude, I’m telling you.”

Will’s smile fades a little. Right. The babes.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jonathan glaring at Steve. He appreciates the sentiment,
really, but he wishes he were a little less obvious about it. He looks like he wants to melt him
out of existence.

“I’ll tell you what,” Steve continues, in that same amiable tone. “Teach Wheeler, would’ja?
He could use it.”

It’s weirdly powerful, that voice—it’s like Will’s on equal footing with Steve, suddenly, just
another one of the guys. Like a teammate, or a brother. It makes Will feel all squirmy and
warm inside. He wonders if that’s how Dustin feels, being friends with an older, cooler guy.
He wonders if that’s the whole appeal of it.

Probably not.

A few seconds pass, in which Will feels a little like he might faint from the warm pressure of
Steve’s hand, and then he realizes that he’s been given instructions. A mission, even.

Teach Mike how to throw a punch.

Oh, god.

Steve might as well have sent him to the gallows.

***

Is it hot in here? Mike feels like it’s hot in here. Very, very… hot.

Will accepts Steve’s slap on the back and veiled command with grace, as he accepts
everything else. Mike tugs the collar of his shirt away from his neck, trying to increase his
airflow.

He’s not sure it’s working.

“Pair up, dipshits!” Steve yells, spinning on his heel. “No one’s leaving until you can punch
as good as Byers.” He hesitates, squinting up at the clock on the wall. “Or until dinner,” he
amends. “Whichever comes first.”

Mike snorts. Then, as Will walks over, starts to wrap his hands. He’s never done this before,
but he tries to mimic the way Will did it—thick around the knuckles, tight around the thumbs.
He feels a little like a poorly-wrapped mummy by the time he’s done. But hopefully it’ll hold.

Will lingers close by, watching in silence, eyes catching on the clumsy movements of Mike’s
fingers. Mike feels very… observed. And hot. Did he say that already?

He clears his throat, desperate to break through the tension. “Where’d you learn to throw a
punch?”
It’s a fair question, he thinks. It’s rare to see something about Will that he doesn’t already
know. Or—it was, at least. It’s happening more and more, since California.

But where was this Will all throughout school? Where was he when Troy hurled insults at
him, or James spit on him in the hallway? Where was he when he got pushed to the ground?

If Will could do this the whole time, why didn’t he ever push back?

At the same time, though, Mike knows exactly why. It’s Will.

Will inspects his knuckles, flexing his fingers, his gaze torn away from Mike. “My dad,” he
mutters, and suddenly, it all makes sense.

Mike gets a sudden flash of an image: little Will standing in his dirt-patch of a backyard,
trembling in terror, fists raised as Lonnie tried to beat him into a man. Mike aches.

A strand of Will’s hair flops across his forehead as he glances up, eyes worriedly tracking
over Mike’s face. “Then, Jonathan,” he corrects, with a forcibly light-hearted note. “Gotta
protect ourselves against the shitheads of the world, right?”

Except he wouldn’t. He’d never even lift a finger.

Mike smiles back at him, fingers twitching with the desire to smooth that strand of hair back
into place. “Right.” Then, realizing he should probably say something else: “So—you gonna
teach me how?”

Will flushes, then mirrors his earlier stance. “Alright, so you wanna plant your feet,” he
starts, with a quick look to make sure Mike’s watching. “That’s important. If you’re not
grounded when you swing, you’re gonna fall right over.”

Mike doesn’t feel very grounded right now.

Still, he nods.

“Great,” Will says, with a smile, and the praise does something funny to Mike’s stomach.
“Alright, now watch me, okay? Watch my arms.”

Oh, Mike’s definitely watching his arms. No problem there.

“And then,” Will says, showing Mike his tucked thumbs, “you swing.”

Will’s biceps gleam in the low gymnasium light, muscles rippling as he punches. Mike’s
throat feels very dry. He tugs at his shirt collar again.

Will smiles back at him, hair flopping even further into his face, directly over his eyes. He
blows at it uselessly, grinning even wider. “See? Easy.”

Mike gulps.

It’s gonna be a long day.

 ***

After about half an hour, and a suspicious incident of Jonathan “accidentally” knocking Steve
to the ground, Will decides that it’s probably time for Mike to try and throw a punch.

Will is deeply regretting this decision.

He doesn’t know how close is too close. He doesn’t know if Mike wants him close. Either
way, though, they’re definitely not leaving room for Jesus. Will hovers a few inches behind
Mike’s back, hands fluttering nervously around his wrists. “And then you just…”

He swallows. Buck up, Byers. “Um, is it okay if I—”

“Yeah,” Mike stutters, sounding strangely out of breath. “Of course.”

Will gently lays his hands on top of Mike’s, curling his fingers into fists. It feels wrong,
taking him from relaxed to violent like this. Readying him for a fight.

But Mike needs to know how to protect himself. God forbid, if anything comes for him—if
Henry comes for him—

Will swallows again, for an entirely different reason this time. He takes an abrupt step
backwards, ripping his hands away from Mike’s like he’s been burned. In the wake of his
absence, Mike stumbles, nearly toppling over into the space that Will left behind.

Will almost reaches right back out, but he stops himself just in time.

For lack of anything else to do with them, Will shoves his hands into his back pockets.
Control yourself. “And then you just—” He nods at the punching bag. “Ya’ know, go for it.”

Mike blinks a couple times, lashes fluttering prettily. “Oh.”

Will takes another step backwards. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

After a couple seconds of adjustment, Mike returns to the task at hand. He does exactly what
Will told him to—he plants his feet, tucks his thumbs, and raises his fists. But Will can tell
right away that something’s not right. Mike’s practically shaking.

For a minute, Mike just shifts his stance back and forth, nervously sizing up the bag. Then,
all at once, he gives up—with a dramatic slump of movement, like he’s unfolding out of a
cocoon. “Will, I don’t think I can do this,” he mumbles, and he sounds so upset that Will feels
his heart breaking, just a little.

“That’s okay,” Will says, as softly as he can manage. Which is easy, because when he talks to
Mike, his voice is always soft. Except when it’s not. “We’ll find something else you’re good
at.”
Mike doesn’t look too convinced.

“Yeah,” he says, not meeting Will’s eye. “Yeah, right.”

Will’s lips tug into a frown. He might not be a mind-reader, but Mike’s thoughts are loud.
He’s got that same expression on that he had in the van, that he had a few nights ago in their
room. I always felt so useless, being El’s boyfriend. She’s got all these powers, and what am
I?

You’re Mike, Will wants to say, but it doesn’t seem like enough. He doesn’t know how to
express everything he wants to say. He doesn’t know how to get it through Mike’s thick skull,
just how much he means to people. How much he means to Will. It doesn’t matter if he can’t
ever throw a punch. If he can’t shoot a gun. He’s been making Will feel safe since before Will
even knew he had anything to be afraid of.

There’s a sharp crack of air, and Steve clears his throat to address the room. Apparently, he’s
recovered from his ass-kicking. Jonathan is pointedly absent from the room, and Will makes
a mental note to go check on him later. Something’s going on there.

“Good work, kiddos!” Steve says cheerfully, though it sounds a little put-on. “Punches
thrown, no limbs lost, etcetera etcetera. I, for one, am starving. So—vamonos! Scatter!”

The Party stares back at him.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Go,” he emphasizes, waving an impatient hand. “You’re done.
Dismissed.”

Still, no one moves.

He sighs. “Ms. Byers made brownies.”

“Ooh!” Dustin says, perking up. And with that, the strange spell over the room is broken, the
silence popping like bubbles. Everyone starts packing up, chatting amongst themselves, and
everything Will wanted to say evaporates into the busy fog of his mind.

Mike’s still looking at him.

Will exhales, that faint buzzing sensation simmering beneath his skin. “Mike, I—”

“Byers!” Steve shouts, catching his eye. “Owens wants you in his office. Bring your stuff.”

Will swallows, then nods. A little helplessly, he looks back at Mike. “I’ll… see you after
dinner,” he says weakly. It’s nowhere near what he wanted to say.

It’ll have to be enough.

Mike nods mutely, giving him a tight smile in return. “See ya.”

Cool.
Great.

Okay.

Will heads to the wall, then slings his backpack over his shoulder, fiddling in the side pocket
for his Walkman. He hasn’t accumulated much stuff, in the last few days, but he’s proud of
what he has. A couple flannels that Robin scrounged up from the shelter bins, some spare
paper and colored pencils that El found for him, and Mike’s mixtape. Each of them is a
precious commodity. He hoards them jealously, keeps them fiercely.

It’s all he has in the world.

Dustin’s laughter echoes down the hall, Lucas and El close behind. They seem to be in pretty
good spirits, for once, but Will can’t bring himself to echo the same mood. To block out the
sound, he pops an earbud in, then presses play.

That was too close, with Mike.

He’s been slipping up recently. No matter what he sees, no matter what he feels, there’s no
guarantee that Mike feels the same way. There’s no guarantee of anything at all. It’s the end
of the world, and Will doesn’t expect anything. He knows better than to get his hopes up.

Or, at least—he should.

Secrets, share with another girl, Robert Smith croons, through the crackling static of Will’s
earbuds. Everything slowing down—I wish I was yours.

What the hell was Mike thinking, when he picked this song? What the hell is he trying to
say?

Will remembers when he and Mike were little, before they knew how close was too close.
Before people started paying attention. They’d touch all the time, and it had never been a big
deal. It made Will feel a little fluttery, sometimes, when Mike would grab his hand on the
playground or give him an extra-long goodbye hug. But it was normal.

Until it wasn’t.

Will remembers this one time, on the playground—him and Mike were swinging, as they
tended to do, and Mike had convinced him to jump off. It was stupid, and Will had been
terrified—half-convinced that he’d fall and break his elbow, and then no one would sign his
cast except Mike and Jonathan and his mom —but Mike had caught him.

He always caught him.

Later, Troy and James had caught up with him. It was during lunch, when Mike had gone
inside to grab his bag, and Will was waiting for him outside. Alone, vulnerable, with his ratty
tennis shoes and dollar-store snacks.

It was the first time he ever heard the word fag.

They’d pushed him to the ground, knocked his lunch everywhere, called him names until he
cried. By the time they walked away, Will had bloody palms and a broken heart. Mike had
tried his best to fix both of them.

But there’s only so much a person can do.

I fell, Will had told him. It wasn’t technically a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. And that,
unbeknownst to Will, was exactly how he’d speak to Mike for the rest of his life. Half-truths.
Lies of omission. Entire worlds created from silence, from stolen looks and tapping fingers.

The thing is—he’s been lying for so long, he’s not sure he knows how to stop.

“Will?”

Will straightens up, taking out his earbuds, the song cutting out right in the middle of:
Nobody knows we love. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he tells Owens, clearing his throat. “I got it.”

Does he, though?

Still, Owens must not care enough to see through the lie, because he just nods. “Good. So
you understand that this… connection, between you and Henry Creel, is absolutely vital to
our success here. You and El are the best leads we’ve got, kiddo.”

Will almost laughs. It’s horrible, yeah, but—if he’s the best shot they’ve got, then they’re all
fucking doomed. Owens would be far better off with just El, and he probably knows it.

To be polite, though, Will smiles back at him. “Right. Of course.”

Owens leans forward. “So if you see anything, hear anything, feel anything—you report to
me, got it? We’re not taking any chances here. You get—I dunno, a chill on the back of your
neck—I want to hear about it. Nothing’s too small.”

Something slithers around in his brain. It sounds like laughter. Like cruelty.

Will swallows down his guilt. “Okay,” he tells Owens, and it’s just another lie to add to the
pile.

Owens quirks a skeptical eyebrow.

Must not be convincing enough, then. Will raises his voice, just a little, in an effort to sound
more authoritative. “Yeah, I got it,” he says. “Straight to you.”

“Good kid,” Owens replies, smiling, and the irony of it all almost bowls Will over. Not good,
he wants to correct. Not a kid.

Not that Owens cares. Not that he’d believe him, if he told him.

It’s like Will told Mike, back in Lenora—Owens didn’t save him. Mike did. The Party did.
His family did.
Dismissively, Owens waves him off. “Alright, get outta here. Go get your strength up.”

Will starts to stand, forearms brushing against the chair. Thank god.

“Will?”

He pauses mid-movement. His heart jolts in his chest. “Yeah?”

Owens hesitates, looking a little lost for words. Finally, he says, “What you did in there
today… That took guts. You’ve grown up.”

Will blinks back at him. His stomach feels—weird. Really weird. Like he might throw up.

“I’m… proud of you,” Owens finishes, with an uncertain expression. The words fit
awkwardly in his mouth, like he’s not used to saying them.

Similarly, Will’s not used to hearing them. Except from Mom, maybe, and sometimes
Jonathan. “Oh,” he blurts, before he can think better of it. “Um. Thanks?”

Then, realizing he’s still weirdly hovering over his chair, he stands all the way up. “Thank
you, Doctor Owens,” he repeats, more calmly. “Um—I’m just gonna—” He jerks a thumb at
the door.

“Yes,” Owens says, looking relieved. “Yes, of course. Go.”

Gladly.

Will walks out of the room at what he hopes is a normal pace, but might look more like a
panicked sort of shuffle. It might just be his imagination, but it seems like the walls are—
getting closer. Pressing in on him.

It seems like they’re speaking.

He stumbles through the nearest bathroom door, then braces his palms against the sink’s
edge, gasping for breath. Something’s happening. Someone’s here. Here, in his fucking
brain.

And he knows exactly who it is.

When he meets his eyes in the mirror, Henry Creel stares back at him.

Will’s lips twist into a wicked smile, his muscles moving without his consent. His reflection
tilts his head, sizing him up, eyes glittering with malice. “You didn’t tell him.”

To block out the image, Will squeezes his eyes shut, desperately shaking his head. “You’re
not real,” he mutters. It’s a hallucination. It has to be.

There’s a loud bang, like a gunshot, then a flashing carousel of images: vines slithering,
demodogs chittering, scarlet smoke swirling. The sound of Bob’s screams. A glimpse of red
hair, there and then gone.
The hive mind. After all these years, it still feels exactly like how he remembered it.

“That real enough for you, Will?”

Will opens his eyes, glaring out at Henry. His hands shake against the ceramic ledge. Fine.
Fine, it’s real. Still doesn’t mean he has to take it lying down.

He’s not that scared little kid anymore. He’s changed.

“Leave me alone,” Will spits.

Instantly, he regrets it—if only because the hive mind screams, pushing in on his brain,
crawling at the back of his neck, lancing barbed shoots of pain down his spine. Come home,
Will. Come home, come home, come HOME—

The bathroom door flies open with a slam , then there’s a blur of motion as a frazzled Mike
pushes through it. He looks around, then rushes over to Will with wide, worried eyes. “Will!
Hey, what’s wrong?”

Will sways on his feet. Everything feels far away. Warm. Fuzzy.

Mike’s here.

“How did you…”

Will never finishes his sentence, though, because without another word, Mike’s slinging an
arm around him, easy as breathing, and resting his head on top of Will’s temple. His hair falls
in soft ringlets, tickling Will’s cheeks, and his chest moves solidly against Will’s side.

Will tries to mimic the pattern of his breathing. In, out. In, out.

For a second, it feels like they’re kids again.

I miss it, Mike had said, up on top of the van. Being a kid with you.

Did he mean it?

By the time Mike talks, Will’s almost forgotten that he ever asked him a question. But he
answers it anyway, explaining: “Lucas saw you in the hallway. Said you didn’t look too
good.”

Great. Like Lucas doesn’t have enough to worry about already, without Will’s shit added to
the mix.

Will glances away, shame roiling through his gut. He’s feeling a little more clear-headed,
now, and Henry is nowhere to be seen. Or heard.

It’s quiet.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Headache.”

Everything’s still. Mike makes a soft humming noise, a little dissatisfied, and the lab’s
plumbing whooshes through pipes.

“You can tell me the truth, you know,” Mike murmurs, after a while. He doesn’t sound angry,
either—just sad. Disappointed.

That’s almost worse.

Will shuts his eyes, shaking his head against Mike’s shoulder. It’s too much. It’s too much for
him. “You’ll think I’m crazy,” he mumbles.

Mike hesitates, then holds out his hand in offer. His fingers curl upwards, waiting to be linked
with Will’s own. “Together, right?”

Maybe Will really has gone crazy. It’s everything he’s ever wanted—Mike, like this, holding
his hand and wanting them to face the world together.

And he can’t do it.

Troy’s laughter echoes in the back of his head—then Vecna’s. Will doesn’t know if he’s
imagining it or not. He doesn’t know if it even matters, at this point.

Will gives Mike’s arm a clumsy pat, stands up, and moves away. Every inch of separation
feels like a loss. He immediately misses the contact.

But—he can’t do this.

Besides, Mike’s one to talk about truth. Will knows he’s hiding something. It’s obvious.

“Yeah, totally,” Will forces himself to say. “But I’m just tired, Mike. Everything’s fine, I
promise.”

A stunned sort of hurt ripples across Mike’s face. He looks searchingly at Will. Will can’t
bring himself to look back.

“…Okay,” Mike says eventually, voice quiet and stung. “But if that changes—you’ll tell me,
right?”

You first, Will thinks. He takes another step backwards, just to be safe, then smiles tightly at
Mike. “Right.”

And, because he can’t bear to see that wounded look anymore, he leaves the bathroom.

It’s probably for the best, anyway. The farther away Mike is from Will, the safer he’ll be.

***
Mike can feel the last of his dignity slipping away, shattering into a million little pieces on the
bathroom tile. What just happened?

Well, he knows what happened. Will had some sort of panic attack, or vision, and then when
Mike tried to ask him about it, he lied straight to his face.

He just can’t believe it.

He thought they were good now! Or— better, at least. Does Will still not trust him? Does he
think Mike’s not good enough to protect him?

Right. Of course. Mike can’t even throw a punch. What use is he against Vecna?

Without turning around, Will says, “I’m going to the gun range. Don’t wait up.” His steps
quicken, like he’s trying to run away. Like he’s succeeding at running away.

Mike frowns. “I—”

“Great. See you later.”

Oh. Okay, then. Mike blinks at Will’s quickly-retreating back, then gets a flash of green
jacket as Lucas bursts into the hallway, eyes shining with held-back tears. He stops in his
tracks. “Lucas, what—”

“Not now, man,” Lucas says shortly, his voice strained. He bustles down the hallway, in the
direction of the hospital wing, and the connecting door slams shut behind him.

Mike stands stock-still in the middle of the floor, suddenly and abruptly alone. It’s like he can
see the little clouds of dust his friends left behind.

Cool. That’s—good. Mike will just… go to dinner.

It’s like walking into the middle of a funeral. Steve, Dustin, and El are all dead silent—which
is normal enough for El, but weird for Dustin and Steve. Mike grabs a plate of pizza, then
hesitantly sits down. “Um,” he starts, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Dustin mutters, then throws a piece of broccoli at Steve’s head. “Steve said some
stupid shit.”

“Hey!” Steve yelps, rubbing at his temple. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh,” Mike says, processing this. “So—nothing new, then.”

Steve flips him off.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to flip off children,” Mike says, just to piss him off, and Steve
just rolls his eyes and repeats the sentence in a mockingly high-pitched voice.

“Real mature,” Dustin mutters.

Mike takes a bite of his pizza. “What’d he say?”

“I’m right here.”

“Okay.” Mike raises an eyebrow at Steve, turning a little in his seat. “What’d you say, then?”

Steve sighs, looking down at the table. “I just—I don’t think Max would want us to be sitting
around moping, man. That’s all.”

Mike blinks at him. “Wow,” he says. “That is insensitive.”

Dustin nods, widening his eyes in a way that screams: Do you see what I have to deal with?

Mike sees. He really does.

“I mean, she’s not dead, dude,” Mike mutters, swallowing his bite of pizza. He reaches for
his soda, then makes eye contact with El, who’s busy tracing little patterns onto the table. He
shoots her a smile, and she attempts one in return.

“Yeah, that’s what Lucas said,” Dustin sighs, resting his head on his palm. “Anyway.”

“Anyway,” Mike echoes, then falls silent. He’s got nothing.

Steve narrows his eyes, looking around the table like he’s seeing it for the first time.
“Where’s Will?” he asks, directing the question to Mike. “I feel like you guys usually come
as, like—” He crosses his fingers in explanation. “A pair.”

Mike flushes. “He went to the gun range,” he tells them. “I don’t think he’s feeling too good.”

Dustin frowns, then leans forward, lowering his voice. “Like— Vecna, not feeling too good?
Or just regular?”

“Um,” Mike says, hesitating. “I don’t… Just regular, I think.”

Honestly, he’s not sure. He’s not sure about anything anymore. But he does know that Will
wouldn’t want him talking about it behind his back.

Sometimes, it feels like the last time things were good between them was that one Halloween
in Mike’s basement. Don’t tell the others, Will had said, his expression wholly trusting. They
wouldn’t get it.

Now, though, Mike’s just one of the others. He’s the one who doesn’t get it.

Crazy together. Yeah, right.

Across the table, El nods. “I will talk to him,” she says, with no trace of uncertainty in her
voice.

That, ridiculously, makes Mike feel even worse. He bets El will get to know what’s wrong.
Her and Will have that weird sibling thing going on now. And that, apparently, trumps best-
friendship.

“Okay,” he says, then snatches a brownie from the plate. “Good.”

“Good,” she repeats.

And, with that, the table falls silent once again.

***

Will skips lunch to go to the shooting range. If he’s one of Vecna’s targets—and, more
importantly, if Mike’s one of Vecna’s targets—he’s gonna have to get a lot better with a gun.

He got lucky, when he was little. That doesn’t happen twice. If he ends up in the Upside-
Down again—or in any sort of combat at all—he needs to be prepared. He doesn’t know
what he’s been thinking, fucking around in California like it wouldn’t come back to bite him.

It always comes back.

Hopper and his Russian friend—Will really has to learn his name—are already inside when
Will gets there. He’s not surprised to see them. If anyone’s going to be here, it’s Hopper. And
maybe Nancy.

As Will makes his way inside, Hopper looks up, eyes widening in surprise. “Will? What are
you doing here?”

All at once, Will feels wrong-footed. It’s a little intimidating, walking in here. Hopper’s a
literal veteran, and a police chief, and he’s just been back from a Russian prison. And Will
doesn’t know his friend’s qualifications, but he’d guess they’re pretty similar. Enough that he
knows his way around a gun, at least.

And who is Will, to come in here and join them? Like they’re equals? It’s a fucking joke.

But he needs to practice. He needs to get better.

So he pushes past his fear and walks over to the weapons rack, selecting a gun that looks
close enough to what Dad had when he was younger. He loads it, picks up a pair of earmuffs,
then sets up at the empty station next to Hopper. They’ve already got the targets set up, the
ones Will drew a couple days ago. They’re shaped like life-sized Demogorgons, and
Hopper’s already has several bullet holes around the heart, punched-through and smoking.

Will takes a deep breath. He looks over. “Mind if I join you?”

Hopper, still seeming stunned, blinks back at him. “I—sure, kid. Knock yourself out.”
Will feels a little prickly at the obvious surprise on Hopper’s face. It’s the same way everyone
had looked at him earlier, when he knocked that bag across the room. Poor, fragile little Will.
Helpless, defenseless. Surely he can’t throw a punch. Surely he can’t shoot a gun.

Fuck that.

Then, to make matters worse, Hopper nods at his gun. “You know how to use that?”

Well, he wouldn’t be in here if he didn’t, would he?

Will takes a deep, calming breath. He shrugs. “It’s been a while.”

Breathe, he reminds himself. He turns the gun over in his hands, feels the cool metal against
his skin. Remembers.

“I thought paintbrushes were more your speed,” Hopper says.

“I’m not gonna kill anything with a paintbrush,” Will snaps, and Hopper’s eyes widen even
further.

“Woah, woah, woah. Who said anything about killing?”

Breathe, breathe, breathe. Come on, Will.

He shrugs again. “It’s the apocalypse, Hopper. What good am I gonna be if I can’t protect
anyone? If I can’t protect myself?”

Hopper lets out a harsh exhale. “You don’t have to protect anyone, Will. That’s my job.” He
hesitates, then continues, “Besides, I heard about that punching bag you took out earlier.
Seems like you’re doing just fine.”

Vecna’s a lot more powerful than a stupid punching bag.

Will shakes his head, then readies his gun. “I need to be doing better.”

He aims. Remembers. Hold it steady. Aim for the middle.

Bang.

He’s forgotten how much the recoil hurts his shoulder. But it’s not a bad shot—just left of the
Demogorgon’s heart. Will lets out a small sigh of relief, then rubs at his smarting arm.

“Not bad, kid,” Hopper says, though the sound is muffled through Will’s headphones. “Who
taught you to shoot?”

Annoyingly, Will can’t tell if the praise is genuine or not. He lifts one side of his earmuffs off
as he replies, warily: “My dad.”

Hopper huffs out a laugh. “Well, that explains it. Your stance is all wrong. You’ll tear up your
shoulder, if you keep going like that.”
 Whatever confidence Will had built up in the last few minutes drains out of his body, all at
once. He slumps, eyes lowering to the ground in embarrassment. “Oh.”

Right. Of course. Dad couldn’t even teach him how to shoot properly.

Hesitantly, Hopper moves a little closer, making a vague gesture with his hands, and Will
straightens up in surprise.

“Can I—”

“Oh—yeah,” Will fumbles. “Sure.”

He’s not entirely sure what he just agreed to.

But Hopper’s gentle, hands firm and careful as he fixes Will’s stance, giving him instructions
as he goes. It’s so entirely different from how Dad taught him. Will didn’t—he didn’t know
that it could be like this.

It feels nice.

It feels, a little, like what having a dad is supposed to feel like.

Will shoots again. This time, he doesn’t even flinch.

Chapter End Notes

i hope you guys don’t mind the shorter chapter today!! busy week. also, i couldn’t think
of much more to add. i know this is mostly will-centric, and if you’ve read the script,
you know that the next chapter will be all mike😉 good stuff coming up!

i hope you all enjoyed! again, if you’d like to read the script, the link is here. let me
know what you thought!

and with that, i am off to the bar happy friday!! 🥳

- H xx
 Smalltown Boy
Chapter Summary

Based on the luck of Mike’s previous conversations, this is right when someone would
interrupt them. Like a soap opera, left on the world’s most annoying cliffhanger: More
after this commercial break! Just about now, someone’s going to knock on the door, or
Will will choose this exact moment to stop avoiding Mike, or a fucking asteroid will fall
from the sky and kill them all. For once, Mike’s ready for it. Anything, anything at all,
to save him from this conversation.

But nothing comes. It’s just him, Nancy, and the words Mike can’t say.

Chapter Notes

if you haven’t read the script yet, and you would like to, click here!

content warnings: homophobia, mention of AIDS, mention of conversion therapy, brief

implication of child abuse, & panic attacks. read with care!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Mike spends the rest of his day, as one would assume, doing absolutely nothing.

Fine—not nothing. He’s wallowing, okay? God. Whatever. Not even a big deal, really.

It just kinda sucks here. That’s all. And—the last few weeks have sucked, and the last few
months have sucked, and when you really really think about it, everything has kind of sucked
since the day Will went missing. And maybe even before that. So—Mike’s whole life,
basically. Fourteen years of suckage.

And Eddie is dead.

Eddie is dead, and they’re back at the lab, which is a place Mike never wanted to go back to,
ever, and his family has left Hawkins without him, which is good and bad, and—oh yeah, the
stupid world is ending. Being a teenager, Mike has realized, is a whole load of bullshit.

Everyone else is doing something useful. Will’s at the shooting range, Dustin’s scoping out
tech equipment, and Lucas is with Max. Nancy and Robin are out on a supply run. El is off
training. Everyone’s doing something, and Mike is laying in his bed, staring across the room
at Will’s empty bunk. At the painting on the wall.
Will’s lying to him.

It’s stupid, honestly, that Mike thought a breakup would fix things. He and El broke up
before, and it led to one of the worst fights he and Will had ever had.

Why should Will trust him?

What reason would he have to believe him? To let him in? Mike’s hurt him so many times,
over and over, failed him in every way imaginable, let him down every time he got the
chance.

Mike blinks, and Will’s glazed-over eyes blink back at him.

He blinks again. It’s still there, though—the flickering outline of Will’s body, waterlogged
and bloody, standing silently in the corner of the room. Like a ghost. Like a corpse.

Mike closes his eyes, heart in his throat. “You’re not real,” he whispers. “I’m seeing things.”

When he opens his eyes, Will’s right in front of him.

He can’t help it—he screams. Less of a scream and more of a shout, wordless and shocked
and terrified, but a scream nonetheless. He scrambles backwards in his bed, his back hitting
the headboard with a harsh thunk, and instinctively flings his hands up to cover his face.
“Please,” he gasps, hardly even aware of what he’s asking for. Forgiveness. Absolution. A
quick and merciful death.

A few seconds pass like that, Mike shaking with fear up against his rickety headboard, before
he realizes the room is silent. Cautiously, he peeks out from behind his hands.

Nothing.

I’m going crazy, he thinks, heart pounding against his ribs. This is it. Fourteen years of
bullshit, and I’m finally going crazy.

Well—almost fifteen. If that counts for anything.

There’s a knock at the door.

Quickly, Mike tries to straighten himself out, tugging at his wrinkled shirt and rearranging
himself into as normal a position as possible. He folds his hands. Then unfolds them.

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, come in!” he calls, and is proud that his voice only shakes a
little bit.

He doesn’t know who he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t Ms. Byers.

“Oh,” Mike says, stupidly, blinking at her. “Hi. Did you—did you need something?”

She smiles back at him, as though this is all perfectly normal, and crosses the room to sit on
Will’s bed. She looks around, leisurely, eyes catching on the small bits of decoration—Will’s
painting, Eddie’s jacket.

Self-consciously, Mike eyes the jacket. He’d moved the pink triangle pin to the inside pocket
almost as soon as Dustin left the room. He may not know exactly what it means, but he has
an idea, and that’s enough for him to keep it hidden. Still, he feels like Ms. Byers can see
right through it. Through him.

“Did Will paint this?” she asks, not answering Mike’s question. She half-turns on the bed,
neck twisted to look up at the wall. “It’s nice.”

“Um—yeah,” Mike answers, still feeling wrong-footed. “Sorry, were you—were you looking
for him? He’s at the shooting range, I’m pretty sure.”

“Oh, I know,” she replies, looking back over. Her eyebrows are lifted in a gentle sort of
concern, the kind that always makes Mike ache right behind the ribs. “I was looking for you.”

Mike swallows. He shifts on the bed, looking down at the messy sheets. Nancy got him a
blanket from the Hawkins donation bin a few days ago. It’s tattered, but it keeps him warm.
“Why?”

“I heard—a noise,” Ms. Byers says delicately. “From your room. I wanted to make sure you
were okay.”

Mike exhales, long and hard. “I’m fine,” he says, but his voice is too thin. He hears it almost
as soon as he speaks. So he amends, trying to think on his feet: “I just—had a nightmare.”

Immediately, a fierce heat scorches his cheeks. A nightmare? What is he, five?

But Ms. Byers just hums in understanding, nodding as if that makes perfect sense. “A little
early to be sleeping,” she notes, after a moment. “But it’s been a long day.”

“Yeah,” Mike mumbles, looking down at his striped socks. “I guess.”

A long silence follows his words, and Mike feels like his skin is translucent, like Ms. Byers
can see right through his chest to the core of his pounding heart. Doesn’t it skip a beat when
you lie? Mike thinks he read that somewhere. He doesn’t know if it’s true or not.

There’s a lot of things he doesn’t know.

“Are you doing okay, honey?” Ms. Byers asks, finally, and her voice is so soft that it feels
violent. Like a punch. Like a bruise. “I know it must be hard for you, without your parents
here.”

Humiliatingly, Mike’s eyes prick with tears. He squeezes them shut, trying to force it away.
“I’m—I’m fine,” he chokes. “I was the one who wanted this, I volunteered to come here—”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be okay.” The interruption is gentle, just like everything else
about Ms. Byers, but something about it has Mike burning, aching, tasting salt as his tears
begin to fall.
Ms. Byers’ face crumples with sympathy, and she stands to her feet, crossing the room to sit
next to Mike. Silently, she lifts an arm, and Mike burrows under it, feeling like a child. His
throat works with soft sobs, and he presses his face into his tears, feeling warm all over. “I’m
sorry,” he sniffles, trying to rub the pain away.

“Oh, Mike,” Ms. Byers croons, rubbing up and down his arm. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart.
It’s okay. You’re alright now.”

While Mike appreciates the sentiment, he’s not so sure she’s right.

But she’s not done. “You’re so brave,” she continues, a sentence that’s so surprising that
Mike almost stops crying entirely, breath catching on an inhale. Ms. Byers isn’t looking at
him—she’s staring off at the wall across from them, at Will’s tacked-up painting. “You’re one
of the bravest kids I know, Mike. All of you are.”

And—Mike doesn’t know about that. He thinks he’s a bit of a coward, actually. There’s
something about the way she says it, though—so sure, so certain— that has Mike
reconsidering, just a little.

He’s not a brave person. But maybe he could be.

And that, more than anything, is the thought that carries him into the night.

***

Will stays at the shooting range until sundown. There’s something really nice about being
around people who don’t expect him to talk. There’s something calming about comfortable
silences, about a firm hand on his shoulder, about the predictable recoil of a gun.

It’s nice, not to feel so scared for once.

Will almost feels, once he finishes up with Hopper and Dmitri (whose name he’d finally
learned), like he could take on Vecna. Or maybe a demodog, at least. A small one.

It’s a start.

He has a long way to go, but that’s okay. He’ll work on it. He’ll get better. He’ll sharpen his
reflexes, strengthen his muscles, hone his instincts. Henry would be stupid to come for him.

But, if he’s being honest, that’s not really what he’s worried about.

He knows Mike can handle himself. Even if Mike doesn’t think so, Will’s seen him in action
—he’s quick, decisive, clever. Protective. In the heat of the moment, he always pulls through.
He’s a paladin, through and through. He always has been.

That doesn’t mean, though, that Henry can’t catch him off guard.
There’s something brewing in the Hive Mind. In the sinister whispers behind Will’s eyes. As
much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Vecna is planning something. Something big.

And it involves Mike.

There’s a chance it could just be a fakeout—a bluff, to keep Will on his toes. An empty threat
of violence against the person Will cares about the most. But he can’t take that chance. He
can’t afford to.

He has to stop Henry before he’s strong enough to carry it out.

Exactly how Will’s going to do that, he has no idea. He doesn’t have powers like El, and he
can’t wander around in some dark void until he bumps into Vecna’s secret lair. He’ll have to
think of something else.

In doing that, though, he bumps straight into El. She’s not a secret lair, but that’s probably a
good thing.

“El,” Will blurts, blinking at her. “What are you doing up?”

She’s dressed in plain pajamas—one of Jonathan’s old shirts, and a large pair of plaid
sweatpants. Her hot-pink socks pop against the stark white of the lab’s linoleum floor.

“Come with me,” she says, then grabs Will’s hand. She darts a look around the hallway—
covert, like she’s scared of being seen—and drags him along to her room.

“Oh,” Will stammers, stumbling after her. “I—okay.”

Like many things, Will’s learned that the best way to deal with El is just to go along with her.
It always makes sense eventually. Even if she can be weirdly cryptic sometimes.

El’s room is threadbare. Cold. Will shivers as soon as he crosses the threshold, then pulls a
spare blanket from the bed across from El’s to warm himself up. El stares at the bed for a
moment, eerily silent.

“I was thinking,” she starts haltingly, as Will sits down. “That maybe Max could have that
bed. When she wakes up.”

Will splays a hand across the mattress, pressing his fingertips into the cotton. Breathes. “That
sounds nice,” he says softly, in agreement. “I’m sure she’d like that.”

Unspoken fear rings out into the silence. Neither of them need to voice it.

Eventually, Will says: “Why’d you bring me in here, El?”

She looks at him, steady. Always, always steady. Will envies that about her. “You said,” she
begins, “that you felt Henry. When we crossed into Hawkins.”

Will nods, because he did. Because he does.

El takes a deep breath, not breaking eye contact. “Do you still?”

Almost immediately, Will knows that he can’t lie to her. Not only because she’d see right
through it—he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly, and nods again. “I do.”

El doesn’t look remotely surprised. Her gaze is far-away, her expression hunted. “Me too,”
she says, just as quiet, and Will finds that he’s not surprised either.

“Have you told Owens?” Will asks.

El’s shaking her head before the question is even fully out. “I don’t—I don’t trust him,” she
says, with some difficulty. “Not after Nina.”

Will swallows, his throat thick and hoarse. “I’m not sure I do either,” he confesses.

Again, it’s silent.

When El speaks again, her voice is nearly a whisper. “What will we do?”

Will thinks about it. “We trust each other,” he suggests, gently. “And go from there.”

El takes a deep breath, nodding. “Okay,” she says, almost to herself. “Okay.”

Though he doesn’t mean to, Will finds his thoughts wandering, as they tend to do, to Mike.
Before he even realizes it, he’s opening his mouth. “I’m sorry you and Mike broke up.”

He winces, ashamed at his own tactlessness, but El just shrugs. “I am not.”

Will blinks at her. “You’re not?”

“No,” she tells him. “We were not… right for each other.”

Will’s stomach jolts sideways. “…You weren’t?”

There’s a shift of blankets as El turns to look at him more fully, her expression calm and
patient. “No,” she repeats. “We were always trying—very hard. To be boyfriend and
girlfriend. And it made us into people… we are not.”

Unwittingly, Will thinks back to the airport, to El’s snappy dismissals, her painted-on lies, her
pointed ignorance of anyone but Mike. Then, of Mike’s stuttering voice, his faltering hug, his
wildly gesturing hands as he shouted at Will across the Rink-O-Mania floor. What about us?

We’re friends.

Will can’t think of anything to say, other than: “I’m sorry.” He hugs his knees to his chest,
sets his chin on his folded arms. They share the space, just like that, Will occupying the place
meant for Max. He stares at the faint imprint of a thumbtack on the wall, like something had
been hung up next to El’s bed, a long time ago.
And he is. He is sorry.

He’s sorry about all of it.

***

It’s past nightfall by the time Nancy knocks on Mike’s door. Ms. Byers left ages ago, with the
gentle reminder for Mike to take care of himself, and the promise of a good meal the next
day, depending on what the girls bring back from the supply store. Mike appreciates it, really.

Nancy’s face, when it peeks out from behind the door, is blotchy and reddened. Like she’s
been crying.

But that can’t be right. Nancy never cries.

Mike frowns at her. “What is it?”

“Mom’s on the phone,” she answers, and the crack in her voice only confirms Mike’s
impossible theory. She nudges her head towards the hallway, a silent urging to hurry up and
get out of bed already. “Come on.”

With a hefty sigh, Mike follows after her. Last time they talked to Mom, it was a total
shitshow. So much crying. And Mike had struggled to remember their cover story, something
about an encounter with radioactive material near the gate, so Nancy had to carry the entire
conversation. They did get to talk to Holly, though, which was nice. And Dad, which was less
nice.

Mike braces himself.

The hallway phone is an unobtrusive thing, designed to blend into the wall for purposes of
secrecy and discretion. Nancy plucks it off the receiver, hands it to Mike—and, with another
long-suffering sigh, Mike takes it.

“Hey, Mom.”

There’s a bit of muffled noise on the other end, like Mom’s sitting down somewhere.
“Michael,” she greets, sounding relieved. “How are you?”

Mike doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settles, finally, on a quiet huff of a laugh,
more exhausted than amused. “Same as the last time you asked.”

AKA, absolute shit.

There’s an awkward beat of silence.

Mike clears his throat, shifting against the wall. Nancy shoots him a watery look of pity, and
Mike very maturely does not flip her off, because she looks too fragile for that right now.
Instead, he turns back to the phone. “Is Holly there?”

At the sound of her name, Holly gasps in excitement. “Hi, Mike!”

This time, Mike’s laugh is a real one. Something soft. “Holly!” he greets, mimicking her
tone. “What’s up? How’s the hotel?”

Mike’s family is staying in a three-star hotel just outside Hawkins—as Dad said, ‘until this
whole thing blows over.’ Mike thinks they might be waiting a while.

Luckily, Holly seems to like it. “It’s so cool!” she enthuses, and Mike can practically see her
bouncing on the bed as she speaks. “There’s a pool, and free breakfast, with pancakes, and
people that come to your door to bring you food, and a playground, and…”

The list goes on for quite a while. In fact, Holly talks for long enough that Nancy breaks her
self-imposed silence, crowding around the phone to intermittently supply her own thoughts
and questions. They talk like that, the three of them, until the tightness in Mike’s chest starts
to loosen a little bit.

Then, Mom calls for Dad.

All three of them go quiet, waiting in a tense sort of purgatory, until Dad speaks. “I’m
coming, I’m coming,” he grumbles, his voice slurred and far-off. “I was just seeing if they
were holding a funeral for that Munson boy.”

Mike’s heart stops beating. Nancy’s head whips up to stare at him, wide-eyed and worried.
Mike can’t look back at her. He can’t.

“Ted,” Mom hisses, in a voice that’s probably supposed to be a lot quieter than it actually is.

Dad ignores her. If anything, he gets louder. “They aren’t, of course. Good on them.”

Mike imagines him stumbling around, shirt half-buttoned, beer bottle in hand. He imagines
Holly watching him from the foot of the bed. Imagines Mom’s familiar look of
disappointment, like she’s trying to remember why she ever married him in the first place.

It does nothing to dull the sting of his words.

“Nothing but bad blood, that kid—and everyone knew who he was running around with, too.
Drugs, gangs, queers—hell, he probably gave half the town AIDS—”

“Ted, that’s enough.”

Mike can’t hear anything past the rushing in his ears. His chest rises and falls like the
pounding beat of a rock song, on and on and on. He can’t breathe, and Nancy’s still looking
at him, and Dad said—he said—

“I thought you wanted me to talk to the kids.”

Mom tsks unhappily. “Not like this.”

Dad groans, long and dramatic, in that way that always means he’s about to pitch a fit. “Talk
to the kids, don’t talk to the kids—can’t do anything right in this family, I swear to God—”

Mike braces himself. Sometimes, when Dad’s like this, things can escalate. Especially if he’s
drunk. And Mike’s not even there, but Mom and Holly are, and they’re alone—

But nothing happens. The line goes silent once more, this time with a distinctly
uncomfortable undertone. Mom clears her throat delicately. “I’m sorry, Michael,” she says. “I
know he was your—”

All at once, Mike can’t take it anymore. Can’t listen to her finish the sentence, can’t hear
about Eddie as a was, as bad blood, as just another drug-addicted queer without a funeral. He
passes the phone to Nancy, almost shoves it, distantly aware that his hands are shaking. “I
think I’m gonna go to bed now,” he says, too loudly, and his voice doesn’t even sound like
his own. It sounds like someone else. Someone scared.

“Oh—okay, honey,” Mom replies, disappointed. “Goodni—”

Nancy tries to hand the phone back to him, but Mike swats it away, annoyed. I’m going, he
mouths, then turns on his heel. He doesn’t wait for her reply.

Instead, tears burning in his eyes, he goes back to his room. His and Will’s room, except
Will’s not there, because Mike’s fucked everything up. Will probably didn’t even want to
room with him. Who would?

Probably gave half the town AIDS.

By the time Mike sits back down on his bed, he feels exhausted. Which is ridiculous, because
he hasn’t even done anything. The last time he even came close to exertion was before
dinner, where he’d tried and failed to throw a punch. He’s been doing nothing all day. Like he
always does.

And he’s tired.

Eddie’s jacket is still hanging over his bedframe. Mocking him. Mike knows the triangle pin
is there, tucked away on the inside lapel, because Mike had been too much of a coward to
display it, like Eddie had done.

Would Eddie be disappointed in him?

Probably not. At least, not in a mean way, because though Eddie could be blunt as hell, he
was never mean. Just honest. Honest enough that everyone knew exactly who he was. They
hated him for it, and he still didn’t hide. He lived loudly. Boldly.

Maybe Eddie wouldn’t be disappointed in him, but Mike’s disappointed in himself.

He thought, stupidly, that he could be better than this. That he could break up with El, confess
to Will, and turn everything around. That he could be the person he’s always wanted to be—
the person he used to be.

But he’s still too scared.

Mike presses his face into his pillow, breathes through his tears, and tries to remember that
it’s not the end of the world.

Except, of course, it is.

***

So maybe Will hadn’t been completely honest with El. Maybe he hadn’t told her about the
visions, or the voices, or the Hive Mind. Maybe he doesn’t want to worry her.

Maybe he doesn’t want her to think he’s a monster.

The thing about being vaguely connected to an evil alternate dimension is that—well, it’s
vague. Will can talk about his feelings all day, about the sinister prickling at the back of his
neck, and no one will press him for details. They believe him, because Will’s a trustworthy
guy. Because he’s not a liar.

The guilt of it feels like an anchor. Like a weight around his ankles, dragging him through
each day, morning to night, then back again. Will feels heavy. He feels like a bad person.

Maybe he deserves whatever’s coming to him.

On his way back from El’s room, he stops to talk to Mom.

He almost changes his mind three separate times. Mom and Hopper are sharing a room, and
Hopper just got back from prison, and a year of being presumed dead, and Will doesn’t really
want to… interrupt them. Or risk interrupting them.

But things had been kind of nice earlier, with Hopper. And Will misses Mom, somehow, even
though she’s literally right here. So it’s worth a shot.

Will knocks, of course, just to be safe. He’s not about to scar his eyes.

Luckily, Mom calls for him to come in, sounding cheerful and unoccupied, and when Will
steps inside the room, she and Hopper are doing nothing but holding hands. Which is—kind
of sweet, actually. Whatever. Will’s a romantic, okay? Sue him.

And it’s nice to see Mom so happy.

“What’s up, honey?” she greets, making space next to her on the bed. “Hop was just telling
me about how well you did in training.”
Hopper smiles over at him, and Will weakly returns it.

As he comes closer, though, he realizes that Mom’s not entirely happy. Which is to be
expected, obviously—they’re in the middle of the apocalypse, in the lab, where—where lots
of things happened—and everyone’s in pretty imminent danger. But when she looks at Will,
her eyes are worried. Concerned. Like maybe him doing well in training isn’t an entirely
good thing, and she knows it.

When Will sits down, on the other side of her as Hopper, she covers his hand with their own.
They’re linked, then, by Mom’s hands. A little dysfunctional trio.

A family.

Will lets out a shaky exhale, looking down at his lap. “Yeah,” he says, belatedly, after
remembering what Mom had said. “Yeah, I haven’t shot anything in a while. I was a little
rusty.”

Hopper tsks, waving away Will’s self-deprecation. “Don’t sell yourself short, kid. You’re a
great shot.”

Mom looks at him more closely, something deeply troubled in her eyes. Her fingers run
smoothly across the back of his hand, grounding him. “Will—are you feeling okay?”

It could mean a million things. She could be talking about Vecna, about the lab, about Owens,
about Mike. About all of those things, or none of them. But the answer is so solidly no, to all
of it, that Will feels his eyes begin to well up with tears. Mortified, he shakes his head. “I–”

He can’t say any more than that. His voice cuts off in a choked sob, and Mom coos in
sympathy, pulling him snugly against her side. Will breathes her in, pressing his nose to her t-
shirt. She smells like lavender. “M’sorry,” he mumbles.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs, resting her head on top of his. “It’s okay.” She laughs, just a little,
and rocks him back and forth. “You know, you’re not even the first person to cry on me
today.”

Will scrunches his forehead. “El?” he guesses, and she shakes her head.

“I think,” she says, lightly, “that you and Mike should have a talk.”

“Oh,” Will says, realizing. He slumps. “We’re not that great at talking, Mom. We—we kinda
just make things worse.”

“First of all,” she starts, “I don’t think that’s true. And second of all—he really needs
someone, honey. I think you both do.” With that, she elbows Hopper, and there’s a low oof of
pain. “Right, Hop?”

“Right,” Hopper stammers. “Uh—yeah, definitely. Talking.”

Mom rolls her eyes, sharing an amused look with Will.

“Maybe,” Will allows, just to placate her. And—if he’s catching her drift, that means Mike
cried today, which isn’t good at all. Maybe he really will have to talk to him. Then, thinking
of the room he just came from, he adds: “Have you guys talked to El recently? Since we got
here, I mean?”

“Yeah,” Hopper answers, seeming surprised. He exchanges a worried glance with Mom.
“Yeah, of course. Why?”

“I think she needs someone, too,” Will says quietly, rubbing at his face. “I just talked to her,
but—I mean, it would mean a lot coming from you guys.”

“Of course,” Mom answers, immediate and sure. “Of course, sweetheart. We’ll go first thing
tomorrow, okay?”

Will nods, suddenly exhausted down to his bones. “Okay,” he agrees, and slouches back
against Mom’s side. “Can I… Can I stay here, for a little bit?”

Mom kisses the side of his head. “You can stay as long as you want,” she promises him.

So he does.

***

Nancy follows Mike to his room, because of course she does. To Mike’s surprise, though, she
doesn’t pressure him to talk—just waits, back to the wall, legs splayed out across Will’s bed.
The room is dark. Quiet.

Mike stares up at the ceiling. He can feel Nancy’s eyes on him.

Finally, she says, “You okay?”

Annoyance snaps like a whip in Mike’s brain. Why does he always have to talk about things?
Can’t people just leave him alone? Can’t a guy wallow in peace?

“What do you think?” he counters. And really, Nancy should know better than to ask stupid
questions. She’s a journalist, for fuck’s sake.

She sighs, a familiar long-suffering exhale that always seems to work its way into
conversations with Mike. He just has that effect on people, he guesses. “Right,” Nancy says.
“Sorry.”

There’s a pause. Mike doesn’t particularly want to say anything else.

But Nancy, as usual, is determined. “Where’s Will?”

“Shooting range,” Mike says dully. Which probably isn’t even true—it’s been hours, after all,
since Will ran away from him at dinner. He’s probably just avoiding him.

“Really,” Nancy says, clearly impressed. “Well—good for him.”

That stings, too. Everything seems to sting right now. But the fact that Nancy’s impressed
with Will, because why wouldn’t she be—that she approves of him, that she thinks he’s doing
something worthwhile with his time, unlike Mike—

She probably wishes Will was her brother instead.

Mike doesn’t blame her.

He rolls onto his shoulder, staring blankly at the wall. This way, he can’t see Nancy’s
disappointment in him, even peripherally. “Yeah,” he says shortly. “Good for him.”

Even Nancy’s silence is inquisitive.

Mike focuses on the wall so hard that his vision blurs around the edges. But it feels easier to
breathe, like this. Like maybe he’s not talking to Nancy at all. Maybe he’s just talking to
himself. Maybe, for once, no one’s there to judge him. Just the wall.

“I just…” Mike swallows. His throat is really dry. “At least he’s doing something, you know?
Like, what am I doing? Just sitting here.” He blinks back tears, mortified. “I can’t even throw
a punch.”

This was stupid of him. He’s not talking to the wall—he’s talking to Nancy, who makes
molotov cocktails and keeps guns in her bedroom and shot Vecna in the face. He’s talking to
his perfect, badass older sister, who he’ll never live up to, ever, in his entire life. She’s
untouchable. He’s not even sure she’s related to him.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Nancy says, and her voice is kind, but Mike registers it as pity
anyway, and winces. “You’ll get better.”

He won’t, though. That’s the thing. Every year, Mike just gets worse and worse. Like a
disease. Like rot. He barely even recognizes himself anymore.

There’s a split second of hesitation, before Nancy offers: “Do you want me to teach you?”

Mike rolls over to his other side, so that he can look at her. She seems a little fumbling, but
genuine. He remembers her words, right when Mike had returned to Hawkins: I should’ve
been there for you.

She’s trying. She’s really, really trying, and Mike can’t find it in himself to fault her for that.

He considers her question. “How to punch, or how to shoot?”

Nancy shrugs, unconcerned. “Either. Both.”

It’s a nice offer. Really, it is. But Mike thinks of the punching bag, of the pound of his heart
as he watched Steve knock it to the ground, and he thinks—maybe not. Maybe he just doesn’t
have it in him.

“I dunno,” he tells her. “I just—I don’t think guns are my thing.”

“That’s okay,” Nancy says, and she doesn’t sound disappointed at all. Mike relaxes, just a
fraction. “They don’t have to be.”

And, almost for the first time, Mike really sees her. Her worn-down expression, her blotchy
cheeks, the bags under her eyes. She looks how Mike feels. And that, for Nancy, is extremely
alarming.

“...Are you okay?” Mike ventures, when it becomes clear that she isn’t going to say anything
else.

Nancy looks down at him—tired, sad, aching—and lets out a long breath. Then, she shakes
her head. “Jonathan broke up with me.”

What.

“What?” Mike yelps, scrambling to sit up. It’s more energy than he’s had all night, but he
can’t help it. What does she mean Jonathan broke up with her? She loves him. He loves her.
And Mike knows they’ve had their issues, especially recently, but—a break up? Really?

Nancy nods absently, her gaze far-off and distant. “Or—we’re taking a break, I guess,” she
corrects, without much spirit. She snorts humorlessly. “Everyone knows how that ends.”

Mike leans on his hands, rattled, trying to adjust to the idea. Nancy and Jonathan can’t just
not be together. Who else is she gonna be with? Steve? Yeah, over his dead fucking body. He
shakes his head, eyes wide. “Jeez. Neither of us have been too lucky in that department,
huh?”

It’s meant to be a joke, something to lighten the air a little, but he’d forgotten, up until this
exact second, that the break-up isn’t exactly open news. Nancy goggles at him, looking just
as shocked as he had a moment ago. “Eleven?”

Mike shrugs, not really wanting to explain it. “Broke up with me,” he says, as an abridged
version of events. “Not a break.”

Nancy frowns at him, in a kind of way that makes Mike feel like he should be sadder than he
really is. He thinks she’s sadder for him than he is in general. About the break-up, at least.
There’s plenty of other things that he’s sad about. Obviously.

“Oh, Mike,” she says, on a sigh. “I’m so sorry.”

Mike shrugs again. “It’s okay,” he tells her, just so she doesn’t waste any more time feeling
bad for him. “It was mutual.”
Nancy’s frown deepens—and now she just looks more confused than anything, which Mike
doesn’t think is an improvement. “Really?” she says. “But you always seemed so… I dunno.
You just seemed like you really loved her.”

Mike blinks at her, a little surprised. “I did,” he says. “I do. Just… not like that.”

Somehow, he thought Nancy would understand this. Maybe it was stupid, but—it always
kind of seems like Nancy knows things about him even before he knows them. He didn’t
really think he would have to explain.

Apparently, though, he does.

Nancy stares up at the ceiling, oddly thoughtful. Mike doesn’t think he said anything
particularly groundbreaking, but what does he know? The way Nancy looks, you’d think he
just asked her the meaning of life itself.

Finally, she says, a little tentatively: “...How do you know?”

Oh. Good question.

There’s a lot of things Mike could say. He could talk about that tight feeling in his chest
whenever he tried to be romantic with El, or when he tried to fit the mold of a “good
boyfriend.” He could talk about how unsure he was all the time, how difficult everything felt,
and how it all slid back into place when they broke up. Maybe he could even talk about Will.

His eyes, though, end up falling to Eddie’s jacket.

He could tell her the truth.

It’s a half-wild thought, brought on from a long day of tears and delirious exhaustion, but—
god, he actually could. And, presuming they all live through the end of the world, he’ll have
to tell her at some point, anyway.

Why not tonight?

Mike takes a deep, long breath through his nose. Then lets it out. It’s okay, he tells himself,
trying his absolute hardest to believe it. Nancy won’t be mad.

You can talk to me, she’d said. Anything at all.

“You know that thing dad said,” Mike starts, trying to keep his voice from cracking. “About
Eddie?”

Nancy’s expression softens. “Oh, Mike—don’t listen to him, really. Eddie was a great guy,
we all know he was—”

An encouraging start. But she’s not hearing him.

“No, no,” Mike interjects, holding up a hand. “I know that. I meant…”

What did he mean? As Nancy stares at him, completely in the dark, Mike casts around for
something else to say. For some reason, he didn’t think it would be so hard.

I’m gay. I’m queer. That’s all he needs to say. Two words, tops.

They die in his throat.

“Um,” he says, strangled. Then, horrifyingly: “Well, you know how Will is—how he’s
probably—”

He cuts himself off. Don’t talk about Will. Whether Nancy knows anything or not, it’s not
Mike’s place to bring it up. It’s just—he can’t help it, sometimes, when Will is always the
first thing on his mind.

Thankfully, Nancy doesn’t seem to catch the implication. Which, okay, for someone so
intelligent, this really isn’t one of her best moments. Mike feels like he’s trying to chop down
a tree with a butter knife—no progress in the slightest.

“What does Will have to do with this?” Nancy asks, completely lost now.

Everything, Mike thinks, desperately. He feels—insane. He feels insane. A high-pitched keen

of frustration wrenches out of his throat. He doesn’t know how to do this.

I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m—

“Nancy,” Mike pleads. Don’t make me say it.

Nancy’s eyebrows furrow in a bewildered sort of concern, like she can sense Mike’s growing
insanity. She sits up on the bed, leaning forward to look at him. “Mike, I don’t… What are
you trying to tell me?”

Based on the luck of Mike’s previous conversations, this is right when someone would
interrupt them. Like a soap opera, left on the world’s most annoying cliffhanger: More after
this commercial break! Just about now, someone’s going to knock on the door, or Will will
choose this exact moment to stop avoiding Mike, or a fucking asteroid will fall from the sky
and kill them all. For once, Mike’s ready for it. Anything, anything at all, to save him from
this conversation.

But nothing comes. It’s just him, Nancy, and the words Mike can’t say.

His hands fidget restlessly in his lap, spinning Eddie’s rings around until they’re about to fall
off. His eyes sting with unshed tears.

Eddie would want him to be brave.

“Nancy,” Mike starts, voice trembling. “What if I was—” He swallows, looking at Eddie’s
jacket. At the spot where he knows the pin is, hidden beneath creased folds of leather. “What
if I was like them?”

It’s not exactly what he wanted to say. But it’s all he has.
Like them. Like Eddie, like Will, like every man on the news that Dad’s made scoffing
remarks about. Like those men in the Bible, the ones who were struck down for their sins.
Like those men that people steer clear of on the street, that they won’t touch for fear of
disease.

And what if he was?

What then?

For a horrible second, he can tell that Nancy still doesn’t understand. The one time for her to
be dense, really, and it’s about the worst moment she ever could have picked. Mike thinks
he’s going to die of a heart attack, waiting here like this, watching the confused furrow of his
sister’s brow—and he hopes he does. Otherwise, he doesn’t know what comes next. There’s
no script for this. Mike hasn’t ever planned this far.

Nancy stares at Eddie’s jacket for a very long moment. So long, in fact, that Mike starts to
wonder if the pin is showing somewhere, if he didn’t hide it well enough. But then again—
maybe it doesn’t matter. Eddie wore that jacket all the time. People knew what it looked like.
They knew what was on it.

Nancy would know.

There’s no grace to it—one second, Mike’s trying his best not to hyperventilate, and the next,
Nancy’s diving across the room, tackling him in one of the biggest hugs he’s ever received.
It’s so forceful, so desperate, that they fall right to the ground in-between their beds, sunk to
their knees against the cool tile. Mike’s sobbing, now—he’s not sure when he started—but
Nancy is, too. She shushes him, stroking a hand through his hair. “Mike.”

Mike cries harder.

It’s been so long since anyone held him like this. Like they’re cocooning him, enveloping
him, trying to shield him from the whole entire world. For the first time since they arrived at
the lab, Mike feels safe.

Nancy rubs gently down his back, nails snagging on the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “Mike—
god, I love you so much. You know that, right?”

The words hit like a blow. Mike didn’t know that. Not really. Even now, he can barely wrap
his head around it—Nancy loves him, even though he can’t throw a punch or shoot a gun,
even though he’s rude and quick-tempered and close-lipped, even though he likes boys. She
loves him through all of it. Enough that she’s still here, holding him on the floor of Hawkins
National Lab, the place she tried to have burned to the ground.

Mike doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t know how he could ever make it up to her, how he
could even begin to be as good a brother as she’s been a sister.

But damn if he won’t spend the rest of his life trying.

A choked noise escapes Mike’s throat, and he buries it into Nancy’s shoulder. He’s crying too
hard to talk. He’s crying too hard to breathe.

“Don’t ever listen to anyone who tells you you’re not enough,” Nancy says fiercely, through
tears. “Don’t listen to—Dad’s bullshit, or the news, or the pastors… You’re perfect, Mike.
Okay? You’re the best brother I could have asked for.”

Perfect. Him.

It’s about the biggest lie she’s ever told. But it’s a really nice thing to say.

“And you’re—” Mike chokes, trying to force himself to talk, to return the compliment.
“You’re the best sister—”

“Shh, shh,” Nancy murmurs, hugging him tighter. “It’s alright.”

And, for once, it actually is.

***

The light in Mike’s room is strange. Predatory. Nancy sits across from him—staring, staring,
staring. Her gaze is judgemental. Wrong.

Something doesn’t feel right.

Heart in his throat, Mike poses the question. “Nancy, what if I was—what if I was like
them?”

He waits for her reply. Surely, it’ll be alright. Surely, she won’t leave him for this. Surely,
she’ll still—

Nancy’s jaw drops, her eyes widening with a scandalized sort of shock. “Mike, that’s
disgusting.”

No. No, this isn’t—this isn’t right, what’s happening—

Nancy stands to her feet, heading for the hallway phone. Somehow, the hallway stretches,
warping and elongating until the phone is right in the middle of their room, conveniently
placed for Nancy to use. Mike watches in a numb sort of horror, powerless to move.
Powerless to do anything. He feels heavy—like he’s chained down to the floor.

“We need to call Mom,” Nancy says, clipped and business-like. Like Mike’s a disobedient
child. “We need to get you better. We can send you away for a while—”

“No,” Mike says—or thinks he says. His voice sounds muffled, far away. “Stop it, stop it—”
Nancy begins to dial the hotel’s number. The buttons are shockingly loud, reverberating
menacingly off the lab’s walls. She looks back at him, raising a disinterested eyebrow. “And
you said Will, too? I’ll have to talk to Ms. Byers. We can get you two on the same treatment
plan.”

Fuck. Mike knew he shouldn’t have said Will’s name. What was he thinking, he’s screwed
them both, Will won’t ever forgive him now—

Then, for the real kicker, Dad walks into the room. Mike blinks at him, vision swimming,
head throbbing. How is he here?

He doesn’t have time to think about that, though, because almost as soon as he appears, Dad
starts lecturing him. He’s dressed like he’s come straight from work—buttoned-up, straight-
laced. A businessman, through and through. The type of man that Mike will never be. The
type of man that he never wants to be.

“I’m disappointed in you, son,” Dad says, with a severe frown. “You know, AIDS is a real
crisis. Goddamn queers running all over the place, spreading their diseases to kingdom come.
Let me tell you right now, I’m not having that in my house. No, sir.”

His hands go to his belt. It’s been years since Mike’s gotten punished—he’s not a little kid
anymore—but he still flinches, echoes of pain thrumming over his skin. And it doesn’t stop,
either—as soon as Dad’s done talking, dozens more people flood into the bedroom. James,
Troy, even fucking Jason. Shouting slurs, calling him names, crowding around him, pressing
in and in, he can’t fucking breathe—

“No, no, stop,” Mike gasps, curling up into a ball. He slams his hands over his ears,
squeezing his eyes shut. “Please, stop—”

“Mike!”

When Mike comes to, he’s trembling. At first, he doesn’t know what he’s seeing, whether it’s
real or not—Will’s face swimming into view, the worried crease between his brows. So
familiar, so sweet, so perfect. Will.

Mike frantically looks around the room, wheezing for air—there’s no phone, or Nancy, or
warped hallway. No dad. No bullies. Just the dark of his and Will’s room, silent and still.

It was a dream.

Jesus.

“Oh my god,” Will says, one hand lingering on his shoulder. He must have shaken him
awake. “Oh my god, Mike, are you—”

Already prickling with embarrassment, Mike pushes himself away. “N-nightmare,” he

manages, his teeth still chattering. Fuck, it’s cold. “It’s—it’s nothing, I’m fine—”

Will shakes his head, looking upset. “You’re not fine, Mike, let me help you!”
And Mike can’t help it—he snaps. “I don’t need your help!” He wrenches away from Will,
heart pounding, feeling too heavy and too light all at once. Feeling nothing at all. Like a
ghost.

A shocked, wounded silence follows Mike’s words. Will’s mouth has fallen open, lips gently
parted with hurt, and his eyes— god, Mike can’t even look at him.

He scoots to the edge of the bed, then reaches down to pull his shoes on, averting his eyes the
whole time. Then, because he never knows when to quit, he adds, mostly to the floor: “Now
you know how it feels.”

It’s bitter, but it’s true. Will doesn’t need Mike. Fine. Mike doesn’t need him, either. He’s—
fine. He’s fine on his own. He always has been.

Without waiting for a reply, Mike stands to his feet, snatches Eddie’s jacket from the
bedframe, and rushes out of the room. He’s not sure why he takes it—he just knows that he
clutches it like a lifeline, the soft leather all that feels real in the night. Real in his hands.
Real, real, real.

This is real. He’s awake. He’s not dreaming.

Mike thinks, desperately, that he might be going off the deep end.

He’s well aware that he’s crying—not sure that he ever stopped, really, after his talk with
Nancy. He probably cried himself to sleep. Cried in his sleep. Like a baby. Cried and cried,
until Will slipped into the room, until he heard him, until he woke him up.

Mike had waited up for him. He never came back.

It’s fine. Mike gets it. He wouldn’t want to be around himself right now, either.

Finally, after stalking aimlessly down the lab’s hallways for a couple minutes, leaking tears
onto the linoleum, Mike ducks into a random doorway.

The training room.

It’s darker at night. The room’s lit by faint moonlight, seeping in through large glass
windows. Punching bags litter the room like ghosts.

Mike slumps back against the wall, sinks to the ground, and buries his head between his
knees. Tries to breathe. Eddie’s jacket falls to a crumpled pile by his legs—just one more
thing he couldn’t take care of.

Probably gave half the town AIDS.

Will’s in fairyland now—all happy and gay—

You want something, freak?

Mike turns his head, resting his temple on his knee. He stares out at the room through tear-
filled eyes, wondering if anything will ever be okay again.

Then he sees it.

Steve’s nail bat sits in a bin on miscellaneous weapons, sticking out like a beacon. Calling to
him.

Maybe guns aren’t his thing. Maybe he can’t throw a punch.

But he doesn’t have to be helpless.

It’s just him in here. If he’s bad at this, no one’s here to witness it. It’ll be alright. He can just
—try. There’s no harm in trying.

Slowly, Mike rises to his feet, then walks over to the bin. He picks up the bat, handle-first,
testing the weight of it in his hands. It’s heavier than he expected—but not heavy enough that
he can’t lift it.

It feels good.

He lets out a long breath through his mouth. Sets his shoulders.

He swings.

The bat slices cleanly through the air, making a little whooshing sound as it goes. It feels
natural in Mike’s hands, feels almost like the wooden swords that he and Will used to play-
fight with. Tentatively, Mike smiles.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Mike swings again and again, getting used to the motion, enjoying the way the bat displaces
the air. He can almost imagine a demodog, or Vecna, at the other end of it. Something he’d
really like to give a piece of his mind. To hurt just as badly as they’ve hurt him.

Eventually, once he’s confident enough, he moves on to one of the punching bags. It’s harder,
like this—he has to put more force into his swings, and the bag is heavy, it barely moves—
but he doesn’t care. He’s fucking angry. He doesn’t want to be useless anymore. He doesn’t
want to live in El’s shadow.

He wants to fight.

He’s not even sure when he drops the bat. Distantly, he hears a clatter on the floor, and then
he’s hitting the bag with his bare fists, rubber against skin, over and over until he’s dizzy with
it, until his knuckles ache and his arms tremble. He barely even dents the bag, and he knows
he must look pathetic, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. He wants to hit something. He wants to
scream.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when the ache gets to be too much. He slumps
wearily against the bag, breathing hard, hands burning. He’s sluggish, spent, wrung dry.
 There’s nothing left. He’s exhausted.

Someone clears their throat.

Mike glances up, cheeks heating, to meet Will’s eye. He’s watching Mike with an unreadable
expression—something in-between sympathy and admiration, maybe. Mike might just be
imagining that last part—he doesn’t think there’s much about him to admire. Especially right
now.

He’s been an idiot.

“Will, I…” Mike trails off, uncertain of what to say. I’m sorry, somehow, doesn’t seem like
enough. I love you seems like too much.

Instead, he just waits.

Kindly, Will shakes his head, saving him from saying anything else. He holds out a dark
bundle in his hands—Eddie’s jacket. Mike stares at it for a long moment, at the contrast of
dark leather against Will’s pale skin.

“You forgot something,” Will says.

It’s an offering. An apology. An unspoken truth: I see you. It’s okay.

Slowly, Mike reaches out to accept it.

Will smiles, pleased, then turns on his heel, starting for the door. “Come on,” he calls. “Let’s
get outta here.”

For a second, Mike doesn’t move. He just stares at Will’s retreating back, clutching Eddie’s
jacket in his hand like it might disappear any minute.

Eddie would want him to be brave.

Eddie would want him to be unafraid.

Mike tugs the jacket on, one arm at a time, feeling the warmth of its lining against his skin,
the weight of the pink triangle against his heart. Just like the bat, it feels right on him. Like it
belongs. Like it’s his.

He follows after Will.

Chapter End Notes

and that’s all for now! i know this chapter was an angsty one, but it was one of my
favorites to write—i feel like adding the extra scenes and fleshing everything out like
this really gave me the opportunity to fully express episode 2 byler exactly how i wanted
to!! it’s really nice to get the chance to add in deleted scenes/bonus scenes that i may not
have had the chance to write in the script.

important announcement here: i will be taking a one-week break after this to catch up on
writing & schoolwork—this semester is genuinely one of the busiest of my entire
college career, and october in particular is a shitshow. that means my episode 3 script
will be out on sunday, october 22nd, and the first corresponding chapter will be out the
friday afterwards. you guys are always very sweet to me, so i don’t anticipate this being
an issue, but i hope no one’s too disappointed! use the extra time to catch up, read fic, do
stuff with your friends, etc

as a related announcement, i’ve decided to implement these one-week breaks every two
episodes, so that i don’t rush myself too much in writing. every two episodes are meant
to be paired together, anyway, so it fits! you’ll see what i mean when episode 3 releases,
bc it is definitely Very different than these first two episodes😉

thank you all for your wonderful feedback so far!! i have honestly been so touched and
honored to read your kind comments. if i haven’t replied to you yet, please don’t worry
—i’ll get to it!!

💗
that’s about all i can think of, so one more time, the episode 2 script is linked here for
anyone who would like to read! i’ll see you guys in two weeks 🫂

- H xx
 The First to Die
Chapter Summary

His entire body’s at war with itself, tugging in a million different directions. One one
hand—it’s dangerous to be outside, and it’s even more dangerous to be outside with
Mike. On the other hand, though… Outside. With Mike. Alone.

Will’s patrolling beforehand, anyway. If there’s any threats, he’ll see them. Besides,
Steve had a point, earlier—it’s only one dead dog. How bad could it really be?

Chapter Notes

if you haven’t read the episode 3 script yet, and you would like to, click here!

content warnings: guns, gore & horror elements

enjoy! 💗
See the end of the chapter for more notes

October, 1986

Six months later

Mike is fifteen, and these stupid fucking batteries won’t go in right. He’s been tinkering with
them all morning, which is a ridiculously embarrassing thing to admit, especially given how
easy of a fix it is. Broken Walkman. Dead batteries. A goddamn pre-schooler could solve this
problem.

When he’s honest with himself, he knows it’s more frustration than incompetence. He gets
like this sometimes—his emotions bottleneck, leaving him all jittery and on-edge, unable to
complete even the simplest of tasks. He can’t focus.

Here’s the thing.

It’s October.

It’s October— six goddamn months since the most disastrous spring break trip in history—
and nothing has changed. Like, literally nothing. Owens won’t even put Mike on the patrol
rotation, because he’s “not experienced enough.” It’s whatever, though, because there’s
nothing to patrol. Other than crumbling plants and creepy glowing gates, Hawkins has been a
complete dead zone for months. No Demodogs, no Vecna, no nothing.

Except for Mike’s visions. His—attacks. Whatever you want to call them. Because those are
still happening, too.

And Will still won’t let him in.

They’ve definitely gotten— closer, over the last several months. They’ve talked a lot: about
Lenora, about Hawkins, about Eddie, about the Party, about D&D. There’s two subjects that
they’ve managed to skirt around, though, and they’re always the same. The first is Vecna.
The second, though, which is the main one Mike cares about, is whatever the fuck is
happening between the two of them.

And there’s definitely something.

“You should really be wearing a lab coat, you know.”

Without tearing his eyes from the Walkman, Mike lifts a hand to flip Dustin off. He grabs a
spare screwdriver, attempting to pry the back panel off by force. “As long as this shit doesn’t
explode, I think I’m fine,” he says dryly.

Dustin clicks his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head as he comes to sit across from
Mike. “Famous last words, man.”

As he usually does, Dustin starts setting up the slides for his microscope sample. Out of
everyone, he’s the one who’s adjusted to lab life the best—Mike thinks it’s probably a
fucked-up kind of heaven for him, with all the high-tech gadgets and shit. He’s taken to it like
a fish to water, strolling around like he practically owns the place. Which, given how much
pull he has around here, he might as well.

Mike, on the other hand.

Yeah, he’s not doing so hot. Whatever. It’s fine.

Once he’s pried the panel off, Mike holds the screwdriver between his teeth, squinting at the
new batteries. They really should be working. He’s not sure why they’re not. Batteries are a
little hard to come by, at this point—he promised Erica that he’d take over her cleaning shifts
for the next month in exchange for these two. In his opinion, it’s a bit of a ripoff, seeing as
how she has a whole stash in her room, but—whatever. He can appreciate the hustle. And it’s
for Will, anyway, so it’s worth it.

“How’s Suzie?” he remembers to ask, his voice muffled. It’s technically a secret, but Dustin’s
been radioing her basically every day. She gets him news from the outside world, and in
return, he reassures her that he’s still alive. Fair trade, pretty much. As long as Owens doesn’t
find out.
Dustin shrugs, adjusting the strap on his goggles. “She’s Suzie,” he answers, which is fair
enough. “How’s Will?”

Mike freezes. The parallel could be unintentional, sure. But nothing Dustin says is ever
unintentional. The screwdriver nearly falls from his teeth, and he makes a hasty grab for it
with his free hand, squinting at Dustin the whole while. It’s a suspicious sort of squint. The
kind that asks, without any words: What are you playing at?

But Dustin just stares calmly back at him, the perfect picture of innocence. Nothing, his look
replies. Just asking a question.

Bull shit.

Mike obviously can’t call him out on it, though, unless he wants to open up a whole different
can of worms, so he just shrugs, returning to the Walkman as nonchalantly as he can. “...He’s
Will,” he responds, in exactly the same tone Dustin had used.

Checkmate.

He doesn’t let the silence settle. “Any news from the outside world?”

Dustin nods, carefully adjusting a sample of Upside-Down spores. “They’re sending soldiers
into the gates.”

Mike snorts. “About time,” he mutters. By they, Dustin means the government goons that
have been occupying Hawkins for the last half-year. With nothing to show for it, to Mike’s
knowledge. He resents them more than anyone—they’re the reason they can’t leave this
stupid lab. They’re the reason they have to sneak out for supplies, instead of just taking free
reign of Hawkins. They’re the reason Mike’s trapped here, and they aren’t even doing
anything.

“And?” he prods, after a second. “Any luck?”

Predictably, Dustin shakes his head. “None of them came back.”

“Of course,” Mike mutters. Finally, the mistake in the Walkman’s rear compartment pops out
at him: an upside-down battery, a negative end where there should be a positive one. God, he
really is losing it. He sighs, flips it, and pops the cover back on. More sleep would be nice.

“Is that Will’s Walkman?”

There’s a definite note of something in Dustin’s voice, which Mike absolutely does not
appreciate. “It needed new batteries,” he retorts, a little testily.

“Right.”

Mike feels hot under the collar, suddenly, for completely mysterious and unknowable
reasons. He fidgets in place, doing his best to both avoid Dustin’s eye and glare at him at the
same time, which probably just results in him looking constipated. It makes him feel better,
though. “Don’t you have some—radioactive bacteria to look at, or something?”
Dustin rolls his eyes. “Spores, actually,” he corrects. “And they’re not radioactive.”

“Exactly,” Mike says, very maturely resisting the urge to stick his tongue out. “Go look at
your spores.”

Looking at his spores, Dustin says: “You know, Mike, there’s this crazy little thing called
multitasking.”

“Never heard of it,” Mike replies. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—” He starts to stand to his feet.

“Will’s on patrol,” Dustin supplies, whip-quick, forehead still pressed to his microscope.

“I know,” Mike says automatically, because he does. He’d said goodbye this morning, in the
early dawn hours of his and Will’s room, when everything felt soft and fuzzy and warm. Will
had quirked that little half-smile of his as he walked out the door, and Mike had fallen back
asleep to a very pleasant dream. As soon as he’d woken up, he came over here.

He’s beginning to think that was a mistake.

Dustin lifts his head to raise an eyebrow at him, a judgment that’s both silent and very loud at
the same time. Mike feels his flush deepen, and he tugs his shirt collar away from his neck. “I
wasn’t—I—” he blusters, before settling on: “I’m going to the training room.”

“Uh huh.”

Honestly, fuck Dustin. Fuck him and his stupid spores, and his eyebrows, and his annoying
fucking goggles. Mike wants to flip that cap right off his head. He wasn’t even looking for
Will, anyway. It’s only been a few hours. It’s not like he misses him, or anything. That would
be dumb.

“You—” Mike starts, before stopping again. On second thought, maybe he should quit while
he’s ahead. Because he is ahead, obviously. He’s totally winning this. “See you later.”

“Later,” Dustin replies absently. That little fucker’s not even paying attention. Typical.

Whatever.

Mike cradles Will’s Walkman in his palms, then walks out into the hallway. It should work
now. It should work, and now Will can continue listening to his favorite songs—the songs
Mike picked out for him—and he can keep being protected from Vecna. Win-win.

Carefully, Mike tucks the Walkman into his jacket pocket, then heads off to the training
room.

It’s the kind of day that could really use a good punch.

***
Will never feels more like prey than when he’s patrolling. From an outside perspective, it
might look like he’s in charge: darkly dressed, armed to the teeth, quick on his feet. But
appearances don’t fool Will.

They don’t fool Henry, either.

The last six months have been the most excruciatingly torturous of Will’s life. He knows
Henry’s planning something—he can feel it, building up steam in the far reaches of his mind.
But he can’t access it. All he ever gets are snatches, quick and fleeting, that fade like mist
when he tries to examine them closer. In the end, he doesn’t know any more about Henry’s
plan than he does about quantum physics.

He’s been trying to brainstorm with El—they talk often, trying to put their collective fucked-
up heads together, but it hasn’t really amounted to much. El only knows things if Henry
wants her to. She can’t find Max, and she can’t find him. The void is silent.

And they’re running out of time.

Lately, Will swears he’s seen things in these woods. Rustling bushes, shifting leaves. It might
just be paranoia—or it might not.

Knowing Hawkins, and knowing Henry, it’s probably not.

In front of him, Nancy comes to an abrupt stop, yanking everyone up short behind her. She
holds a hand up: sharp, authoritative. “Break here. Jonathan, Will, go east.” Her braids shift
over her shoulder as she looks to her left. “Steve and I will cover the west side.”

Jonathan snorts, his expression petulant. “Of course you will,” he mutters.

Nancy’s eyes find him in seconds, narrowing to a dangerous degree. “What was that?”

More loudly, and with a healthy degree of sarcasm, Jonathan replies: “Got it, boss.” He
nudges Will, then jerks his head off to the right. “Come on.”

Without comment, Will follows. He doesn’t have time for whatever drama of the day
Jonathan and Nancy are having. You would think it would be nice, qualifying for the elite
patrol—but when that patrol is made up of the most dramatic love triangle in history, you get
sick of it real quick. At this point, Will almost wishes he had a Demodog to shoot. At least
then, everybody would be too distracted to argue.

He scans the woods. Like always, he wonders if this is the day Henry will break his silence.

What are you planning? he thinks, knowing that his question will be heard.

There’s no reply.

Finally, a huffy sigh breaks his concentration, and when Will looks over, his brother is
practically pouting, swinging his bat around aimlessly, no focus to speak of.
Will takes pity on him. “It’s been six months, you know.”

If anything, Jonathan pouts even more. “Yeah, I know how time works,” he retorts.

Will rolls his eyes. Maybe he does have time for drama today, after all. Not like there’s
anything else to do.

He steps a little closer, hand relaxing on his gun, and nudges Jonathan’s side. “I’m just
saying,” he points out. “You broke up with her.”

This doesn’t seem to make Jonathan feel any better. Instead, his childish expression melts
into something softer, more genuine. Something a lot like regret. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and
kicks at a hard patch of dirt. “I know that, too.”

They walk in silence for a few more minutes, Jonathan’s last sentence hanging thickly in the
air. Fall leaves crunch under Will’s feet. It’s a small comfort, at least, that Hawkins still gets
seasons.

“I mean,” Jonathan says, after a while, like he’d never stopped talking at all. “It’s just—
Steve? Really?”

Will sighs. “Uh-huh.”

“Like— Steve. With the—with the hair, and the attitude—”

Oh, god.

“Mhm,” Will offers.

“The most arrogant, self-centered, idiotic, boneheaded—”

“Are you done?”

Jonathan stops. Squints at him. “No,” he decides. “Selfish, stuck-up—not even that good
looking—”

Will quirks an eyebrow. Now that’s going a little too far. “Seriously?”

There’s a loud, dramatic groan, accompanied by a crush of dead leaves. Jonathan comes to a
complete standstill, looking imploringly at Will. “Will, no.”

Really, he can be such a drama queen sometimes. Inadvertently, Will feels the corner of his
mouth tugging up. “No what?”

“My own brother,” Jonathan bemoans. “Shocked and betrayed—”

Will can’t help but laugh. “He’s a good-looking guy!” he defends, through giggles. “Okay,
I’m sorry I have eyes.”
It’s nice, he thinks, that they can do this now. Granted, Jonathan’s probably always known,
but now he really knows, and Will knows that he knows, and it’s… fine. Good, even. He
doesn’t have to hide so much anymore.

Jonathan snorts dismissively. “Yeah, well, it would be nice if you also had taste.”

Ouch. “My taste is fine,” Will says.

This time, Jonathan’s the one to raise an eyebrow. It’s so pointed, so ridiculous, that Will
feels heat rising to his cheeks. “It is!” he repeats, and hopes to god that Jonathan doesn’t
comment on his cracking voice. He’s already embarrassed enough as it is.

But all Jonathan says is: “Mhm.” There’s a knowing gleam in his eye, though, mischievous
and happy. As much as he pretends to disapprove of Mike, Will knows the truth. Mike’s
almost as much a brother to Jonathan as he is.

Will tries not to think about the implications of that.

After a while, Jonathan looks back over at Will. “You know, I…”

Will glances over in question.

“I don’t know,” Jonathan continues, a little hesitantly. “I feel like it’s been a while since we
talked.”

Oh. This again.

Will forces out a laugh. “We’re talking right now,” he says.

It doesn’t fool Jonathan one bit. He shakes his head, clearly disappointed. “Come on, Will,”
he prods. “Really talked.”

By really talk, he means that he wants Will to open up. To talk about Vecna, about Mike,
about the end of the world. But he doesn’t get it. Just because Will’s ready to share one secret
doesn’t mean he’s ready to share all of them. It’s his burden to carry. It’s too much.

“We should be patrolling,” Will manages, after a few seconds. And he’s right—they should.
Vecna may be silent, but the woods aren’t.

Jonathan frowns, posture tensing back up in response. “Why?” he asks, nervously looking
around. “Do you feel something? Do you feel… him?”

A complicated question. Will falters, trying to figure out what exactly he is feeling. “I
don’t…”

Something winds around his heart, pulling tight, and images splash through his mind:
growling demodogs, slithering vines, chiming clocks. Static pounds in his ears, rendering him
nearly deaf, except for the calamitous noise of the Hive Mind. Except for a familiar, bone-
chilling voice.
Come home, Will.

And then it’s over.

“It’s nothing,” Will says, careful to keep his tone even. He forces down the lingering nausea
in his stomach, then spends a second trying to subtly un-pop his ears. It would be really nice
to have his Walkman back. “I just think we should—be careful.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrow. Bullshit, his expression says, clear as day. “Right.”

“Right.”

The squint intensifies.

But Will’s not breaking any time soon, not when he’s an expert in the art of hiding pain, so
finally Jonathan heaves out a defeated sigh, waving Will on past the tree line. “Come on,
then,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Jonathan’s a good brother. He always has been.

Will lets out a long, relieved breath, and follows after him—right up until Jonathan glances
sideways, with a wicked grin, eyes sparkling.

“So, how’s Mike?”

Scratch that—Will takes it all back. Jonathan’s the worst.

***

Left, right, dodge. Duck, swing, roll.

“Come on, Wheeler!” Steve calls, grinning up at him from the mat. “You can do better than
that!”

Hot fury pounds through Mike’s veins. That’s the one good thing about training with Steve—
he’s such an asshole that Mike has no trouble staying motivated.

Besides, he’s right. Mike can do better.

“Just warming up,” he retorts, as Steve clambers back to his feet. “What’s your excuse?”

Steve winks, which does strange things to Mike’s circulatory system. “Goin’ easy on you.”

Ugh. Asshole.

Steve lets him get out a few quick taps, contact without any real force, before taking him
down in a single, effortless move. Mike’s left blinking up at the ceiling, stomach swooping
and head spinning, before he’s even caught his breath.

“Told you,” Steve says, blinking at him from above. His hair dangles down into his eyes as
he reaches a hand out for Mike to take. “Easy.”

Mike rolls his eyes, then firmly clasps Steve’s hand, pulling himself to his feet. “Best two
outta three?”

Steve pulls a face, already unwrapping his hands as he heads for his water bottle. “Nah,” he
says, taking a few long chugs. “I’m beat.”

As he tilts his head back, his hair falls away from his neck, revealing a dark hickey right by
his ear. Mike grimaces at the sight of it. “Yeah, I bet,” he mutters.

It’s no secret that Nancy and Steve have been hooking up. Everyone knows. Like, everyone.
Mike just tries not to think about it, for his own sanity. He’s not going to judge Nancy’s poor
decisions. She can do whatever she wants, as long as he doesn’t have to hear about it. Or see
it. Right now, she’s in violation of at least one of those rules, at least by association.

Without looking, Steve flips him off. “Heard that.”

“You were supposed to,” Mike calls back, before getting some of his own water. The first few
drops are like ice on his tongue, and he greedily gulps down more. One nice thing about the
lab: its infinite reservoir of fresh water. Every other water source in town is contaminated.

Mike’s been training with Steve for about four months now. It’s nothing official—it just kind
of happened. He still goes to group training, obviously, and he’s practiced hand-to-hand with
just about everyone at the lab—except Will, because he doesn’t think he would survive that—
but Steve, weirdly enough, just kind of… clicked. He’s tough on Mike, without being too
tough. He’s surprisingly helpful, and patient enough to be a good teacher. They piss each
other off, to be sure, but they’re also—friends. Maybe. A little bit.

Whatever. It’s not a big deal or anything. Mike doesn’t even care.

The problem is, though, that after six months of training, Mike’s still the weakest in the
group. Multiple people have offered to give him firearm lessons, from Hopper to Nancy to
Will, but he just doesn’t feel right about it. Something about guns just scares him, and he
feels absolutely pathetic for it, but he can’t shake it. And he’s getting better with a bat, thanks
to Steve, but he’s still got a long way to go. If a Demodog showed up, right now, and Mike
had to fight it off—well, he’s not too hopeful about his chances.

He’s not sure how much longer he’ll have to improve.

“Hey, is that Will’s?”

When Mike whips his head over, eyes wide, Steve’s messing with the pocket of Mike’s
jacket, where part of Will’s Walkman is sticking out. “Don’t touch that!” Mike snaps, quickly
walking over to collect the jacket. He gathers it in his arms defensively, tucking the Walkman
back into place. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”
Steve holds his hands up, eyebrows raised to his temple. “Jeez,” he mutters, staring at Mike
like he’s some sort of rabid animal. “Just making conversation, man.”

Huffily, Mike folds his arms even tighter. “Yeah, well—make it about something else,” he
stammers, feeling a little lame all of a sudden. Hell if he’s backing down, though.

Of course, because Steve is Steve, he ignores him. “You fix it up for him? He’s been
complaining all week.”

Mike shifts from foot to foot. The door’s cracked open on the other side of the gym—he
could probably still make a break for it, if he ran fast enough. “I guess,” he mutters. Steve
doesn’t need to know about the rest of it. About his plan. That’s just a Mike thing. A Mike-
and-Will thing, if all goes well.

God, he’s nervous.

“Nice of you,” Steve comments, one eyebrow still raised, and Mike has to physically restrain
himself from flipping him off. He gets it, now, why Steve and Dustin are such good friends.
They’re both jerks.

“I’m always nice,” Mike says, nicely. Steve’s eyebrow disappears behind his bangs. It’s not a
very good look on him.

“To Will, maybe,” Steve replies, after what feels like a full minute. “The rest of us, not so
much.”

This time, Mike does flip him off. “Maybe it’s just you, you ever think of that?”

“What, you mean you don’t like me?” Steve asks, grinning. Dick. “But I’m such a delight,
Wheeler.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, is what you are,” Mike retorts, rolling his eyes. He shrugs his jacket
on, shoves one hand into his pocket, feeling for the familiar buttons of Will’s Walkman, and
takes a step backwards. “Thanks for letting me beat you up.”

Steve smiles sunnily, shooting him a thumbs-up. “Same time tomorrow?”

In response, Mike turns on his heel. Before he makes it to the door, though, Dustin’s poking
his head in, panting heavily, like he ran to reach them. “Guys,” he says, through labored
breaths. “Guys, Owens called a meeting. There’s—Jonathan found—” He pauses, bending
double with his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

Finally, he looks up, eyes big and worried. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

***
Detachment. If Will had to use one word to sum up this moment, that would be it. His mind
detached from his heart. His head detached from his body. The demodog’s ribs detached from
its chest. God, that’s a lot of blood.

He doesn’t feel anything, looking at it. He’s not sure what that means.

There’s a loud thwack as Owens taps his pointer to the projector screen. The picture that
Jonathan took, right at the tail-end of his patrol, is displayed in its full technicolor glory.
Unmistakable. A dead Demodog, its insides splayed out across the dead grass, a bloody-
muzzled fox snarling up at the camera.

“Six months,” Owens says. “Six months— of planning, of waiting, of careful diligence—and
Creel has finally shown his hand.”

Will thinks he might be sick.

Cautiously, Steve raises his hand. “No offense, sir,” he says. “But don’t you think we could
be… overreacting? It’s just a dead dog.”

Just a dead dog. A dog that was alive a few hours ago. A dog that belongs to a pack, to the
Hive Mind. A dog that could’ve eaten Jonathan whole, because Will left him there alone, like
an idiot.

Fuck. He could’ve died.

“It starts with one dead dog, Harrington,” Owens says gravely.

After a second, he frowns, clearly realizing something. “And where were you and Wheeler?
It was your shift, too. You didn’t see anything?”

Nancy and Steve squirm in their seats, cheeks flushing, not looking at each other. It doesn’t
take a genius to figure out what they were up to.

Next to Will, Jonathan sighs. “We’d split up,” he offers. “And the patrol was already over. I
just noticed it on a smoke break.”

At the words smoke break, Mom turns to give Jonathan a narrow-eyed glare. Hopper, in turn,
gives him a wink and a thumbs-up. Mom then turns to glare at him instead.

Jonathan sighs again, scrubs a hand over his face, and ignores them both. Will can relate.
Mom’s been smothering them, a little bit. Not as bad as she used to, of course, and Hopper’s
a big part of that—but enough for it to be noticeable. She and Jonathan keep fighting over his
smoking habit, but Jonathan keeps making the argument that she can’t technically do
anything about it, because he’s an adult now. Will’s gotta hand it to him—he’s not wrong.
Besides, what would she do, anyway? Ground him?

It’s different with Will. It’s always different with him. For one thing, he’s not eighteen. For
another, he’s in a lot more danger than his brother is. Or—that’s what everyone thinks,
anyway, what with the way they’ve been treating him. Delicately, like he’s a bomb that’ll go
off at any second. When his Walkman broke earlier this week, everyone freaked. Like he’s
going to float up into the air as soon as his songs stop playing, or something. And yeah, Will
was a little annoyed, but only because he likes his music. Not because he’s fragile.

So—yeah. He’s sick of Mom coddling him. Story of his life, basically.

“We need to be proactive,” Owens says, and Will obediently tunes back in. “Where there’s
one dog, there’ll be more. I want doubled-up patrols, around-the-clock watch.”

Makes sense. Will nods decisively, accepting the instructions without complaint. Across the
table, he sees Nancy do the same.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Jonathan and Steve glaring at each other. Typical.

“Eleven, Joyce, Hopper,” Owens continues. “Stay here. Everyone else, spread out. Stay
alert.”

Will freezes. El, Mom, and Hopper. That’s—basically everyone except for him. And
Jonathan.

Also typical.

He gets up to follow the crowd out the door, but lingers by the exit, something stopping him
from leaving. He just—he wishes he could do something. They always have these little secret
meetings, the four of them: strategy talks, battle plans, logistics. Will could be helpful. He
could be a part of it.

Of course, he knows exactly why he’s not. They don’t trust him.

And they’re right not to.

No, instead of an active player, Will is just another problem. He’s Zombie Boy. He’s the Spy.
He’s the boy who wasn’t supposed to come back, but he did, and he’s just been making things
harder for everyone ever since.

He’ll never be one of the good guys, no matter how hard he tries.

Finally, when he notices that Will’s still here, Owens glances over at him. “Did you need
something, Will?”

Will looks around the table. Mom, Hop, El. His family. Actual good people, useful people,
people that actually have a chance of stopping this thing.

Will was stupid to think he could join them.

“I…” he chokes, casting a glance back out the door. The hallway’s cleared out, but Mike’s
waiting for him, hands in his jacket pockets, gentle concern in his expression.

It’s time for Will to go.

He swallows down the rest of his words. Squares his shoulders. “I just wanted to know when
my extra patrol will be,” he tells Owens.

Owens lifts an eyebrow, in a way that clearly means: That’s all?

Will shrinks a little bit, embarrassment creeping in, and Owens waves a dismissive hand,
already over it. “How about you start tonight?”

Will nods. “Great. Thank you, sir.”

Leaving. He should really be leaving now.

His feet, mysteriously, are glued to the floor.

Mom’s eyes soften with pity. And that does it—that familiar look on her face, that familiar
atmosphere in the room. They feel sorry for him. They’re not going to invite them to join
their planning session. They never were.

Obviously.

“Okay,” Will blurts, forcing his feet to move again. One in front of the other. That’s it. “Um
—bye.”

El gives him a sad little wave goodbye, which he returns. At least someone’s sad to see him
go. God, could he be any more embarrassing?

He hot-foots it out of the room, automatically falling into step with Mike. It’s sweet, that he
waited for him. He’s always sweet, these days.

“Everything okay?” Mike asks gently, which further proves his point. Time’s been good to
him—his hair is long and curly, his leather jacket worn with use. He’s almost always got tape
on his knuckles from his sparring sessions with Steve. There’s a blue bandaid plastered
across his cheekbone.

He’s never looked more beautiful.

Will, on the other hand, is suddenly acutely aware of how badly he needs to shower. He runs
a hand through his messy hair, sighing a little. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” he says. Then,
because he doesn’t want to lie: “I mean, not fine fine, but… you know. It’s Hawkins.”

If it’s a little bit of an understatement, so what? At least he’s being honest.

Mike huffs out a small laugh, ducking his chin. His freckles splay across his cheeks, and
Will’s fingers flex with the urge to reach out and touch them. They’re so close, right now, that
he could almost do it.

Jesus. Get a grip.

“It’s Hawkins,” Mike agrees, with a soft grin. It fades almost as quickly as it bloomed,
though, replaced by a hesitant sort of worry. “And—you’d tell me, right?” he presses. “If you
started feeling stuff again?”

Will scrunches his face up, like the very thought of lying to Mike is ridiculous. That sick
feeling in his stomach returns, stronger this time. “Of course,” he says. “You know I would.”

It’s for Mike’s own good. He has to remember that.

Besides, it’s not like he’s the only one lying.

Just to test, he says: “And… you would tell me too, right? If you felt anything?”

Mike looks down at the ground, throat bobbing. He’s such an obvious liar. He always has
been. He’s just so good, down to his core, that the very act of lying clashes with everything
else about him. “You know I would,” he murmurs.

Silence falls thick between them.

There it is, then. Fair and square. They’ve both got their secrets.

Will just hopes he can figure his out before Mike does. Henry’s got his eye on him, to be
sure. Mike tosses and turns almost every night, whimpering and crying in his sleep. Will’s
tried just about everything he can think of to soothe him—extra blankets, whispered
reassurances, a gentle hand on his shoulder—but nothing ever works. Mike’s nightmares are
supernaturally strong.

If he doesn’t want to talk about them, then—whatever. Fine. As long as Will gets to Henry
before Henry gets to Mike. That’s all he needs to focus on.

Suddenly, Mike stops walking. Will stops, too—not that they’d been walking very fast to
begin with—and turns to look at him in question. Mike’s still looking down at the floor,
cheeks dusted pink with embarrassment. “Um,” he starts, then clears his throat. “I have
something for you.”

Will’s heart skips a beat. He swallows thickly, trying to regain control of his body. “You do?”

Calm down, he tells himself sternly. It’s probably nothing. Mike does this sort of thing all the
time, now. It’s normal. Casual. Friendly.

At least, Will thinks.

Then, like magic, Mike pulls Will’s Walkman from his jacket pocket.

Excitement sparks through Will’s veins, quick and sweet. He reaches out to grab the
Walkman, turning it over in his hands and experimentally pressing some random buttons. It
works like a charm.

He looks up at Mike, beaming. “You fixed it!”

Sheepishly, Mike rubs at the back of his neck. His face is very red. “It was nothing, really,”
he dismisses. “It just needed new batteries, and—”
Will knows exactly how hard batteries are to come by, six months into the apocalypse. It’s the
only reason he didn’t fix it himself. “Thank you,” he says, softening.

A small smile tugs at Mike’s lips. “Of course.”

There’s no of course about it. For Mike, though, there is. That’s just how he is, and Will,
without fail, loses his entire mind over it every single time.

It takes Will a second to realize that neither of them have said anything else. And that Mike’s
eyes are wandering downwards. To Will’s—chin area. Chin-to-mouth. The general zone of
Will’s lips, not that that’s important.

Unless it is.

Will feels his breath catch in his throat, and now he’s looking at Mike’s lips, which was
completely accidental. Mike’s throat bobs with nervousness. “I wanted to ask you
something,” he says, hoarse and low, and Will can hardly pull his eyes away from the shifting
curve of his Adam’s apple.

“Yeah?”

If Will stepped a little closer—not even a step, really, more of a shuffle—their shoes would
be touching. Mike’s beat-up Converse to Will’s dirty Vans. Like a greeting. Like a kiss.

Mike’s still looking at Will’s mouth.

“I was wondering…” he starts, then trails off.

Will exhales shakily. “Yeah?” he manages, again, and it’s hardly above a whisper.

“If you’d—um.”

Finally, his eyes drag upwards, searching out Will’s own. There’s something unreadable in
his expression. Unreadable, but undeniably nervous. Breathlessly, he says, “Do you want to
have dinner with me tonight?”

Oh.

Oh.

Like… like a date? He can’t mean it like that, right? Is Will just reading too much into
things? Or is he not reading far enough?

Objectively. Objectively, it looks like Mike is asking him out. The looks, the touches, the
entirety of the last six months, and maybe even before that—most impartial observers would
agree that it’s all been leading up to this.

Will isn’t impartial. He can’t afford to be.

So he tamps down on the excited fluttering in his stomach, takes a deep breath, and controls
his expression. As Mike begins to fidget, spinning his rings and tapping his toes, Will
clarifies: “Like… in the cafeteria?” He forces out a small huff of a laugh. “Mike, we do that
every day.”

That’s probably what he meant, anyway. What else could he be talking about? Will’s just—
saving him the trouble, and saving both of them the embarrassment of a misunderstanding.
That’s all.

But Mike frowns, like Will’s being difficult, and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I meant,
like—I don’t know, somewhere else. Up on the roof, maybe.”

This time, the implication is unmistakable.

Will freezes, every cell in his body coming to a complete standstill. Will and Mike. Will and
Mike, eating dinner together. Alone. On the roof. At night.

Oh, shit.

Reasonable, he reminds himself, fighting valiantly to continue breathing. Be reasonable

about this.

The Demodogs. Vecna.

Cautiously, Will says, “Won’t that be… dangerous?”

“I’ll keep watch,” Mike replies. Instant, earnest, like he’d never dream of doing anything
else.

Will feels his resolve start to cave. “…Just us?” he checks, in case he’s still misunderstanding
somehow.

Slowly, Mike nods. His expression is… intense. Deliberate.

Will gulps.

Is he actually going to… Are they actually going to do this? After all this time? Is this all
some sort of dream, or vision? Maybe Henry’s already captured Will, and he’s been in some
sort of trance the whole time. Honestly, that would make a lot more sense than Mike asking
Will on a date.

If that’s even what he’s doing.

—Fuck. The patrol.

“I can’t,” Will realizes, slumping in disappointment. “I have an extra patrol tonight.” Stupid
Will, volunteering for extra shifts, trying to be helpful. Of course, he hadn’t known that Mike
would be asking him out immediately afterwards. He wouldn’t have seen that coming in a
million years.
But, in characteristic fashion, Mike is undeterred. After a second of thought, he perks up,
smile widening. “After, then,” he proposes. “I’m sure you’ll be hungry. And—I can bring you
some food.”

Will feels his cheeks heat. He rocks back on his heels, trying to hold onto the last remaining
dregs of his willpower. He’s sure he had more, at some point. “Mike,” he says, with extreme
reluctance. “You don’t have to do that.”

You don’t have to take care of me, is what he means.

Deliberately, Mike takes a step closer. His intense expression returns, transforming his
features into sharp lines and dangerous angles. Will’s fingers itch for a pencil.

“I want to,” Mike whispers.

And Will can’t help it—his eyes drift down to Mike’s lips. It’s dangerous, what they’re doing.
Doesn’t Mike know that? Doesn’t he know that if he gives Will an inch, he’ll take a mile?

His entire body’s at war with itself, tugging in a million different directions. On one hand—
it’s dangerous to be outside, and it’s even more dangerous to be outside with Mike. On the
other hand, though… Outside. With Mike. Alone.

Will’s patrolling beforehand, anyway. If there’s any threats, he’ll see them. Besides, Steve
had a point, earlier—it’s only one dead dog. How bad could it really be?

Maybe, just for tonight, Will could enjoy himself. He could do something for him.

What if this is the only chance he ever gets?

“Okay,” Will whispers back.

At Will’s reply, Mike breaks out into a bright smile: lopsided, charming, devastatingly
attractive. Will feels a little lightheaded at the sight of it.

“Okay,” Mike replies, sounding happier than Will’s ever heard him. He takes a step
backwards, and his excitement is contagious—Will feels it filling up his entire body, popping
and fizzing like champagne bubbles, washing away the bad feelings until all Will can think
about is Mike.

Mike walks backwards down the hallway, like he can’t bear to turn away from Will just yet.
“I’ll see you tonight!” he calls, then spins on his heel, practically skipping away. For once, he
seems light. Like he’s not weighed down by all the same shit that he usually is. Will gazes
after him, watching until he’s nothing but a speck of black leather and curls.

“Tonight,” he repeats, dazed. Alone in the hallway, he looks down at his fixed Walkman. At
the tape neatly slid into the front cover, signed big and bold: Love, Mike.

Slowly, a smile stretches over his face.

It’s a date.
Chapter End Notes

that’s it for now! if you couldn’t tell, i really loved adding the scene w/ mike and steve
haha. i hope that this clarified some of the parts in the script, for the people who said
they were waiting for a more in-depth explanation of their perspectives! :) next chapter
will have a bit more mike pov as well. if you have any comments on the script, or this

🥳🥳
chapter, feel free to leave them below!! i’m getting pretty close to catching up on my
inbox

happy halloween, if you celebrate!! have fun and be safe next chapter will be up in
a week!

again, episode 3 script is linked here. thanks for reading!💗

- H xx
 Head Over Heels
Chapter Summary

He straightens up. Takes a deep breath. It’s okay if it’s not a date. Him and Mike hang
out all the time. They share a room. He knows how to talk to Mike, and he knows how
to act normal around Mike. If it’s not a date, then it’s just another night, and Will will
look a little bit nicer than usual. That’s all.

And if it is a date…

He’ll cross that bridge if he comes to it.

Chapter Notes

if you haven’t read the episode 3 script yet, and you would like to, click here!

content warnings: violence, injuries, blood, homophobic slurs.

enjoy! 💗
See the end of the chapter for more notes

Will’s never been so aware of his own appearance before. Half the time, to be completely
honest, he kind of forgets what he looks like. He’s just a guy with a bowl cut. Nothing
special, nothing fancy. He doesn’t stand out in a crowd. He’s not someone you’d remember.

But tonight, all that goes out the window.

Fuck, he’s nervous. He borrowed some hair gel from Steve, though he refused to tell him
why, and now his hair feels all crunchy and weird. Does it look weird? Is it too much? What
if Mike didn’t make any sort of effort at all, and then he gets super freaked out? What if this
is just—a totally casual, super normal, friendly sort of thing? What if it’s not a date at all?

Will swallows over the lump in his throat, glances down at his reflection in a dirty puddle,
and starts messing with his hair again. A stiff strand falls down into his eyes, and he huffs in
annoyance, brushing it away. Uselessly, he fidgets with the collar of his shirt. He catches his
own eye, and a glint of panic flashes back at him.

Breathe.
He straightens up. Takes a deep breath. It’s okay if it’s not a date. Him and Mike hang out all
the time. They share a room. He knows how to talk to Mike, and he knows how to act normal
around Mike. If it’s not a date, then it’s just another night, and Will will look a little bit nicer
than usual. That’s all.

And if it is a date…

He’ll cross that bridge if he comes to it. Otherwise, he thinks he might stop breathing.

Something snickers in his head, cruel and cold. Who’d want to date you?

It sounds like Troy. Like Lonnie. Like Henry. All of them and none of them at the same time.

Will ignores it.

To his right, there’s a loud crunch of leaves.

“Hot date tonight?”

Jesus. Will nearly jumps out of his skin, pivoting sharply on instinct, but stands down almost
immediately. It’s just Lucas. Lucas, with his dark bomber jacket, his dark bandana, his dark
circles under his dark eyes. His hair is tightly braided. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

Then, Will processes his words. “What?” He laughs nervously, rubbing at the back of his
neck. “No! No, definitely not.”

Does Will look like he’s dressed for a date? Will Mike think he’s dressed for a date? What if
Mike thinks that Will thinks this is a date, and then he laughs at him right on the roof of the
lab, and then Will would pass out, probably, toppling right over the edge and down through
the gate, and then Vecna would capture him, and—

Lucas chuckles good-naturedly, holding his hands up in innocence. “Kidding, man,” he says.
“I’m just here to take over your patrol.”

“Oh,” Will says. His entire body relaxes in relief. “Oh, right. Duh.”

Finally, Lucas seems to realize that something’s up. His eyes narrow into a squint, tracking
over every inch of Will’s expression, and Will tenses right back up again in response. Shit.
Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool.

“What’s up with you?” Lucas asks, still squinting.

“Nothing,” Will blurts, his voice a lot wobblier than he would like it to be. “Nothing’s up.
Why would you—why would you think something was up?”

Fuck. Very not-cool of him.

The squint intensifies. After a second, Lucas gestures vaguely at Will’s chest. “That’s your
nice shirt,” he points out. “And—did you gel your hair?”
First of all, Will resents that. He has plenty of nice shirts. Nice for the middle of the
apocalypse, at least, which basically just means that they have a collar and a few working
buttons. This one just happens to bring out his eyes. So what? Doesn’t mean it’s special.

“Man,” Lucas says, with a bemused smile. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you do have
a date.”

But Will’s already preoccupied. He looks back into the dingy puddle, running a hand over his
spiky hair. “It’s not a date,” he says distractedly. “And this is a normal shirt. But—do you
think my hair looks weird? Should I fix it?”

He looks down, checking his watch—it’s nearly ten. Mike will be getting to the roof soon.
“Shit, I don’t know if there’s time.”

God, Will thinks he might throw up. Like, he’s not exaggerating. That’s a genuine concern.
He’s beginning to think he should’ve eaten more today.

There’s a stunned silence. Lucas blinks at him once, then again, then a third time. “...With
who?” he asks finally, tone bordering on amazement. “I mean, the only girls here are your
sister, and—”

The forest goes silent. Max. He was going to say Max.

Setting aside the fact that Lucas thinks he’d be going out with a girl, Will focuses his
attention back to the conversation. Lucas deserves that much, at least. Max deserves that
much.

“It’s really not a date,” Will says, more gently. “I’m just grabbing a late dinner with Mike.”

Something shifts on Lucas’s face, something that looks dangerously close to understanding.
His mouth parts into a little o-shape, like he might be about to say something else, but Will
doesn’t let him. He rushes ahead, speed-running past the imminent conversation, because he’s
too scared to hear what Lucas has to say. He’s too scared to face up to it.

“How’s Max?” he asks, even though he knows exactly how she is. He just wants to change
the subject.

Lucas shrugs, brow furrowing with discomfort. His hands flex around his rifle, restless, and
he darts an automatic look around the perimeter. “The same,” he replies, after a minute.
“None of Owens’ tests have done shit.” He sighs, running a hand down his face. “Her mom
calls all the time,” he continues, more quietly. “The feds won’t let her past the town border.”

Inwardly, Will winces. Sometimes it hits him, how incredibly lucky he is compared to the
others. His mom’s here with him, and she knows the entire truth. His whole family’s been by
his side from start to finish. Mike isn’t the one lying on a hospital bed, facing the terrible
possibility of an endless sleep. And still, Will spends half his time feeling sorry for himself.
Really, what is he even worried about right now? That his mom is smothering him? That
Mike might have asked him out? Aren’t those good things?
He needs to pull it together.

Will takes a step forward, reaching out to put a hand on Lucas’s shoulder. “She’s tough,
Lucas,” he says softly. Lucas looks up, eyes full of pain, and Will attempts to smile back.
“And—I know she’s still out there, somewhere. I can feel it.”

Technically, that’s not a lie. Will thinks he would know if Max was really gone. And he
doesn’t feel like she is, so she isn’t. She can’t be. The thing is, though, he’s not sure if that
feeling has anything to do with his connection to the Hive Mind, or if it’s just a regular,
desperate sort of hope. Most days, he’s leaning towards the latter. But Lucas doesn’t need to
know that.

The look in his eyes tells Will that he knows anyway. “Yeah,” Lucas mumbles, forcing a
tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, me too.”

This time, the silence is easier. Wind whistles through the trees. Hawkins holds its breath.

Lucas looks at Will, and his entire face goes soft. Gently, he reaches out to adjust Will’s shirt
collar. “You look great,” he says, all earnest and genuine in that way that makes Will’s
stomach flip a little bit. Seven-year-old Will would be flipping his shit. Fifteen-year-old Will,
not that he would ever admit it, is also flipping his shit. Just a tiny bit.

“Tell Mike I’ll kick his ass if he hurts you again.”

For a second, Will can’t focus on anything but the rushing in his ears. Then, Lucas’s words
reach their target, and Will’s cheeks heat in a panicked sort of embarrassment. He takes a step
back, muscles twitching. He can’t help it; it’s reflexive. Will’s always tended towards flight.

“It’s not—it’s not like that,” he stutters. Fuck, his heart is pounding. All the times he’s
imagined something like this, with Lucas or Dustin or Max, and it might finally be
happening. They might finally be talking about it, and Will’s drafted a million versions of
this conversation in his head, but he’s suddenly out of things to say. He wants to run. He
wants to hide.

But Lucas doesn’t back down. He stays right where he is—hesitant, maybe, but unafraid.
Accepting. There’s not a single trace of anything negative—no disgust, no fear, no hatred. He
just looks at Will like he always has. Like he’s his best friend.

His thumb smooths over Will’s shoulder. Relax, he’s saying, and despite himself, Will does.

It’s just Lucas. It’s okay.

“It’s okay if it is,” Lucas says. “You know that, right? You’re my best friend, man. I love
you.”

Automatically, tears spring to Will’s eyes, hot and overwhelmed. Noticing, Lucas softens
even more, until he looks more like the Lucas of Will’s childhood than the one he’s been
lately, and tugs Will in for a hug. “C’mere,” he murmurs, impossibly gentle. His jacket smells
like pine and antiseptic. His arms feel like home.
Thank you, Will thinks, and returns the hug. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

He’s not sure who he’s thanking. The universe, maybe. God, if he exists. Mostly just Lucas,
though, who Will thinks is more worthy of it than anything or anyone else.

Will wipes the tears from his cheeks. They feel icy in the cold. “Love you too, Lucas,” he
manages, muffled into the shoulder of Lucas’s jacket. He thinks the message gets across,
though.

As they separate, Lucas pats Will on the shoulder. He doesn’t look at him any differently than
he did ten minutes ago, or six months ago, or ten years ago. He just looks fond. “I’m serious,
alright?” he says, bending a bit to look Will in the eye. “I’ve got your back.”

Will nods, rubbing the rest of the moisture from his face. God, he probably looks like a
wreck. But he believes Lucas. He always believes Lucas.

Lucas grins, sharp and affectionate. “Go on,” he says, waving a hand. “I’ll keep watch.”

Will nods again, feeling a lot like a sappy bobblehead, and begins heading back to the lab.
There’s an extra bounce in his step—one that he can’t stamp out, but doesn’t even want to try
to. He’s just happy.

“Tell Mike he’s getting the shovel talk!” Lucas calls after him, a smile evident in his voice.
Without turning around, Will raises his hand high in the air and flips him the bird. Shovel
talk. God, he’s ridiculous. Will loves him.

As Will heads off to his maybe-kind-of-sort-of date, the bright sound of Lucas’s laughter
echoes through the trees.

***

Picnic basket. Check. Blanket. Check. Ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Check. Chips. Check.
Two cans of Coke—Original, obviously— check. And…

Ah. Carefully, Mike sets down Will’s packet of Reese’s Pieces. He’d fliched them off Robin
earlier, even though she was super annoying about it, but it’s not like Mike has super-useful
top-secret connections outside the lab, so it is what it is. It’s worth it, for Will.

Tonight is going to be perfect.

It has to be.

Frowning, Mike tilts the packet of candy so that it’s precisely centered in the basket, offset
against a neatly-folded plaid blanket. There. Now it’s perfect.
Anxiety races through his bloodstream. His heart clatters against his ribs. He never really
knew, before today, that the whole “butterflies in your stomach” thing was real. But it
definitely is, because he’s been feeling it for the last several hours, and it’s only gotten
stronger with every passing minute. He’s scared, yeah, but he’s also excited. It feels like he’s
on a whole different plane of existence right now, like every second is heightened with a
buzzing sort of clarity. Every atom in his body is fucking vibrating. And that’s not even a
metaphor. It’s, like, a thing that’s actually happening. It feels really fucking weird—but kind
of cool, too.

He’s going on a date. With Will.

Will knows it’s a date, right?

Yeah. Yeah, he has to. There’s no way he doesn’t. And—okay, maybe Mike didn’t say it in
those exact words, but he and Will are usually on the same page about this sort of stuff. And
even if they aren’t—Mike will catch him up. He’ll romance the shit outta him.

Theoretically.

Mike stares at the picnic basket for so long that the shape of it burns into his retinas. He can
do this. He can do this. This is what they’ve been building up to this whole time, for a really
long time, and Mike finally has the balls to make a move. Will’s been waiting around forever,
and it’s up to Mike to not disappoint him.

Unless. Unless Mike’s read this whole thing wrong, or maybe Will waited around so long he
got bored, or he thinks that Mike’s nothing but a scrawny asshole who messes everything up,
and—

Mike takes a deep breath. Positive thoughts, he reminds himself. Glass half-full, and all that
shit. He’s totally got this.

All he has to do is show up. And they’ll go from there.

Speaking of—Mike glances down, absentmindedly checking his watch. His eyes nearly pop
out of his head. “Shit!”

Ten-fucking- fifteen. God, Will’s probably already up there. Mike’s gonna be late.

Off to a great start.

He shuts the basket, adrenaline zipping through his veins. Okay. Okay, okay, oka—

In the corner of the room, Will’s corpse stares back at him.

It’s a silent day, then. Sometimes, Will doesn’t say anything. He just looks, and looks, and
looks, a decade worth of pain in his eyes. His skin is pale and bloodless. His limbs are twisted
and warped. His clothes drip with a muddy mixture of water and blood.

Like always, it feels like a slap in the face. Mike swallows down a sudden wave of nausea,
takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “Not now,” he mutters.
Just ignore it. Ignore it, and it’ll go away. It would really help if he had his music, but he left
his tape back in the room. He’s not as high-priority for Vecna, so he splits a used Walkman
between Lucas and Dustin. Somehow, he always gets the short end of the stick. This is why
he hates sharing. Always has, always will.

Pointedly, he grabs the picnic basket and spins on his heel, frog-marching himself out of the
kitchen. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back don’t look back don’tlookba—

He looks back.

Silently, Will returns his gaze. He hasn’t moved from the corner of the room. He’s just
standing there. Watching.

Mike turns away.

He’s pretty sure this isn’t Vecna. That’s the thing. If it was Vecna, he’d be doing something.
He’d be, like, sending zombies with spike hands and needle teeth that try to rip Mike apart.
He’d be sending monsters and demons and paralyzing nightmares, like the kind everyone else
got. Long-term psychological torture doesn’t really seem like his style. Not without action to
back it up, at least. The visions might suck, but they don’t hurt him. Not physically.

It’s all in his head.

It’s survivable.

Mike squeezes his eyes shut, lets out a harsh breath, and leaves the kitchen.

***

He’s not here yet. Why the fuck isn’t he here yet?

Will takes another look at his watch, exhales nervously, and paces to the other side of the
roof. Fuck, if Mike forgot, or if he’s not coming, or if this is all some kind of fucked-up
practical joke—

He swallows. He’ll be here, he reminds himself. Mike’s late to everything. Besides, they
never agreed on a specific time. After patrol is pretty general. It could mean anything. Mike
might not even be here for another hour.

God, Will hopes not. It’s really fucking cold.

He tugs at his shirt, at his jacket, messing with the zipper a few times. He runs a hand through
his hair. Relax, he thinks, a little harshly. Breathe. Be normal.

Ha. Good one.

Just as he starts to pace back in the other direction, sneakers slapping the roof pavement, a
grandfather clock chimes. Loud, bold, ominous. Undeniable.

Fuck.

The nape of his neck flares, an all-too familiar feeling, and Will reaches up to rub at the skin.
“Not now,” he whispers, already sinking into despair. Really, couldn’t they do this another
time? Another night? Literally, any other time would be better than right now.

Okay. Okay. Shake it off, Will. Come on. Ignore it.

He looks back to the stairwell, to the gleaming metal door of the lab’s rooftop elevator,
meaning to check his reflection one more time. Maybe he can at least try to look presentable
before Mike gets here.

Encased in silver, Henry Creel smirks back at him.

***

Mike jams the elevator button approximately one-million-and-three times, bounces

impatiently on his toes, and shoots a panicked glance over his shoulder. No Will, which is
good. But there’s a very real Will on the roof, waiting for him, which is not good. And also
good. But the waiting part is bad.

Fuck, could this thing go any slower?

“Come on, come on, come onn,” Mike whines, jamming the button a million more times for
good measure. Nothing happens. It’s like the elevator’s sentient, and it wants Mike to be as
inconvenienced and tortured as humanly possible.

Fine. Whatever. Score one for the creaking hunk of metal. Mike didn’t even want to ride in
that thing, anyway. He doesn’t have a death wish.

He’ll just—take the stairs. Yeah.

Good plan.

With another quick check of his watch, it’s settled. “Shit,” he mutters, his only admittance of
defeat, before half-jogging over to the stairwell. He pushes through the door, then looks up.

And up.

And up.

That’s gotta be at least thirty flights.

Mike shakes his head, grits his teeth, and allows himself one more, very emphatic: “Shit!”

Then, he starts up the stairs.

Jesus fucking Christ. The things he does for love.

***

Startled, Will stumbles backwards. He shuts his eyes, hoping that the vision of Henry is just
that—a vision. A trick of the light.

Somehow, he knows it’s not.

“Not now, not now, not now,” he mutters. Really, Mike could be here any second. And Will’s
going to look—insane. He’s going to look insane. Worse yet, if Mike actually sees Henry,
he’ll know Will’s been lying to him.

Then, there’s the worst possibility of all: Henry seeing Mike. Will doesn’t want to know what
happens after that.

Will opens his eyes, and Henry peers back at him. His silvery reflection cocks its head, eyes
narrowing with a detached sort of curiosity. The same way you’d study a bug under a
microscope. “The time is now, Will,” he says. His voice echoes—not around the roof, but
within Will’s own body. It reflects off his bones, reverberates behind his teeth. All at once, he
knows that Henry’s not speaking out loud. He’s speaking through Will.

Tentatively, Will takes a step forward. It’s not entirely voluntary.

Henry smiles, and it looks wrong. The corners are too sharp, the curve too steep. A deep
shudder tingles over Will’s skin.

“Can’t you feel it?” Henry asks. And the thing is—he can. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t
want any part of this at all.

As his breath speeds up in his chests, whistling thinly through his lungs and out his mouth,
Will shuts his eyes once more. It’s not real, he lies to himself. It’s all in your head. It’s just a
bad dream.

He can feel Henry’s eyes on him. In him. Henry is everywhere, inside and outside all at once,
in his head, in his throat, he can’t fucking breathe—

“All of it… building,” Henry continues, and his voice purrs like a cat. Curls up inside Will’s
ribcage, tender and smoky. Lazily stretches, scratches at the walls. Let me out.

A gust of wind brushes Will’s cheek. For a second, he swears he hears someone breathing.
Not the panicked fever-pitch of his own respiration—something different. Calmer. Slower.
More deliberate.

He closes his eyes even tighter.

There’s a dull pressure at his cheekbone: pointed, like the end of a pencil. Somehow, Will can
tell that it’s incredibly sharp. That if it pressed in with even a touch more force, his skin
would be sliced open.

Slowly, it drags down his cheek. Down, down, down, all the way to his jawline. It rests there,
deliberating. Waiting.

Will whimpers in fear. He hardly recognizes the sound of his own voice. He sounds terrified.

“All of it… for you.”

Finally, with a heightened burst of adrenaline, Will opens his eyes.

The roof is empty.

The reflection in the elevator is his own.

Will’s brain is quiet. Uncomprehending. He blinks at the shiny surface of his reflection,
trying to reconcile what he just saw. What he just felt. What, if he’s completely honest, he
still feels.

There’s a loud bang, and Will jumps about a half-foot in the air. A disheveled-looking Mike
stumbles out into the open, bracing his hands on his knees as he gasps for breath. A wicker
picnic basket is slung around one of his wrists, and he holds it up like a hard-won prize.
“Sorry—sorry I’m late,” he pants. “So—so many stairs.”

Slowly, the hollowed-out feeling from Henry’s appearance starts to wane. In its place is
something familiar, something warm. Something that feels an awful lot like love.

Will looks at Mike Wheeler, and forgets why he was ever scared in the first place.

Idiot, he thinks fondly, watching Mike try and fail to catch his breath. He must’ve ran up all
thirty-six flights of stairs to get here. And, once Will files away that fact, he’s able to register
that Mike looks good. Like, really good. He’s wearing Eddie’s leather jacket, like he always
is, but he’s put on one of his favorite t-shirts, a soft gray Metallica one, and his hair falls in
soft curls around his shoulders. His jeans are ripped at the knee, and his left shoelace is
untied.

God, Will wants him.

As Mike starts to return Will’s look, though, his brow furrows. There must still be a trace of
fear somewhere in Will’s expression, because Mike goes from distracted to concerned in
seconds flat, taking a few steps closer. “Are you okay?”

Will falters. His smile feels frozen in place. Haltingly, he nods. “Yeah,” he says, his voice
sounding faint and far away. It doesn’t sound like his own. “Yeah, of course. Just…”
His head goes blank again. The rush of seeing Mike fades to gray, and the darkness returns.
He feels cloudy. He feels distant. Reality has a shiny film to it, like he’s watching himself
through a movie screen.

Can’t you feel it?

Mike’s frown deepens, and he takes another step forward. His fingers flex by his side, and he
spins one of Eddie’s rings. Will didn’t realize he’d gotten so close.

“Will?”

All of it… for you.

Will forces out a quiet laugh, then shakes his head. He can’t quite meet Mike’s eye anymore.
“Just thinking, I guess,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

He gestures to Mike’s picnic basket. “Did you bring food?”

It’s a clear change of subject, but Mike doesn’t fight it. His expression shutters, like he’s
processing, and then he moves on. They both know something happened, but they don’t need
to talk about it.

Good.

Mike’s mouth tilts in the beginning of a smile. “No, I just like carrying this around,” he
deadpans. “Thought it would look cool.”

Will looks at him again—all of him, head-to-toe—and smiles back. A real one, this time.
“You make it work,” he replies, and if it’s a little flirty, neither of them mention it.

He can still salvage this.

It’s just one night. One night, where he can pretend. He can pretend that Mike loves him. He
can pretend that he’s someone different, someone more comfortable in their own skin,
someone who hasn’t seen dead bodies and run from flesh-eating monsters. He can pretend
that the voices in his head aren’t real, and that his brother didn’t find a dead Demodog today,
and that more won’t be coming soon.

Tonight, he can just be a boy on a date.

With rosy cheeks, Mike lays out a plaid blanket on the roof, sets the basket on top of it, and
lowers himself to the ground. He turns his face up to Will, expression painfully earnest.
Hopeful, even. “You coming?”

Will takes a deep, steadying breath. He nods, then moves to join Mike. “Yeah,” he says.
“Yeah. Let’s eat.”

***
Not to brag, but Mike is killing this date. Like, he’s got this in the bag. He and Will have been
talking all night, lightning-quick and electric, finishing each other’s sentences, reading each
other’s minds. It feels incredible. It’s exactly like how they used to be, but better, and Mike
didn’t even realize how much he missed this.

Will’s been laughing at all his jokes. Will’s been enjoying the food he packed. Will looks—
really fucking good, actually. Which was never in question, obviously, but he gelled his hair,
and he’s wearing one of his best shirts, one that brings out his eyes, with a nice corduroy
jacket over top, and Mike’s never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his entire life.

He just—he didn’t know it could feel like this. He knew, but he didn’t know. Not really. Not
until tonight, with his knee pressing against Will’s, laughing close and low, the possibility of
touching him more within reach than it ever has been before. Tonight could be the night.
Tonight could change everything.

“So then you—oh my god, what did you say?”

Will’s laughing so hard that it turns into a snort half-way through, and Mike grins impossibly
wide. He waves his bag of chips in the air, really playing it up. “I told her that—”

Will’s eyes light up as he remembers. “She could stick her homework assignments right up
her ass!” he finishes, dissolving into another round of giggles. He shakes his head in mock-
disapproval, but his delighted expression gives him away. “Mike, she was our teacher!”

“Yeah, and she was a dick,” Mike counters. Which is totally true. She was. Miss White was
always telling him to stop talking and pay attention, which isn’t fair, because he can pay
attention and talk at the same time. Even if he wasn’t. And her homework assignments were
boring. They were all on fractions, and Mike had already moved onto long division. Is it a
crime to want at least a little bit of a challenge? Mike doesn’t think so.

Will wipes tears of laughter from the corner of his eyes, then pops a piece of candy into his
mouth. He hasn’t stopped smiling for at least five minutes. “Man, you had detention for
weeks.”

Mike shrugs, not bothering to look away from Will. He looks nice, when he’s this happy.
Sweet. Handsome. “Worth it,” he says, and all the softness he’s feeling spills right into his
voice.

Will smiles, but doesn’t reply, and the energy between them shifts into something a little
calmer. Quieter. Wind dances over an exposed strip of skin on Mike’s ankle.

There were a lot of things that could’ve gone wrong, picking the roof. It’s not always safe
outside, especially now that the dogs might be back. But—Mike just wanted to get away.
Away from the lab, away from prying eyes, away from the millions of security cameras.
Steve was right, earlier—it’s just one dead dog. There’s been no signs of the rest of its pack,
and the group’s been patrolling all day. Besides, if Will thought it was a bad idea, he
would’ve said so. Worst comes to worst, they’ll just figure it out together. Between the two of
them, Mike thinks they can take down a couple dogs. Or run from them, at least.

But the night is quiet.

And—maybe Mike thought it would be romantic. Maybe he’s always wanted to have a picnic
on the roof, deep down. Sue him.

It’s starting to look like it was a good decision. One of his best, actually. Other than the vision
from earlier, which is fairly run-of-the-mill at this point, and Will’s weird mood, which is
also run-of-the-mill, things have been going good. Really good.

It feels the way a date is supposed to feel. The way Mike always imagined a date would feel.

He and El didn’t really go on dates. They kinda just made out in her room and then got
traumatized a bunch of times. This is, objectively, a lot nicer than either of those things.

Will shifts against the blanket, glancing quickly over at Mike, and Mike immediately zones
back in. Will’s got that look on that face—the kind where he’s itching to say something, but
doesn’t know how to start.

Is this it?

Maybe this is finally their moment. Maybe, after six excruciating months, one of them will
address this tugging thread between them, this unspoken truth that neither of them are brave
enough to put words to.

Mike holds his breath.

“Mike,” Will starts, after a minute, with another flash of a glance. “It was—um. It was really
nice of you to do all this.” He gestures broadly at the picnic blanket.

Flushing, Mike waves him off. “It was nothing,” he says, which isn’t true. Then, “I wanted
to,” which is.

Will’s eyes narrow, just a little bit. Calculating. Cautious. Even after all this, he still doesn’t
want to get it wrong. And Mike can’t blame him.

Come on, he reminds himself, and inches his hand just a bit closer to Will’s. Be brave.

Oblivious to Mike’s internal panic, Will leans back on his hands, looking up at the night sky.
“Are you sure we should be doing it outside, though?” he muses. “Won’t we get, like…
irradiated?”

Mike shrugs, taking another bite of sandwich. His fingers twitch against the blanket. “If we
were gonna die from toxic spores, we would have already,” he points out. He swallows, then
wipes his free hand on his jeans. God, he’s sweating. “Besides, Dustin’s been checking them
out. He says they’re not radioactive.”

Will lifts an eyebrow. “I mean, they definitely felt radioactive when I was down there.”
Right. Right, because that—happened. Will was in the Upside Down. With toxic spores. And
Demodogs.

Mike blinks, and Will’s waterlogged corpse flashes behind his eyes.

Body in the quarry. Blood in the water.

There’s a small noise as Will clears his throat, looking like he regrets bringing it up.
“Anyway,” he means, in a way that means Mike’s been totally weird in the last minute. “Um.
So… no occasion, then? No holidays I’m forgetting?”

It’s a clear prod. Gentle, because Will’s always gentle, but a prod nonetheless. Experimental,
tentative. What is this? What are we doing?

Body in the quarry. Blood in the—blood—

Mike swallows down the sour taste in his mouth. He shrugs. “I mean, it is almost
Halloween,” he says, a little absently, then immediately wants to slap himself. Focus, man.
You’re blowing it.

“But—no,” he stutters, trying to get his head back with the program. “I just thought it would
be nice.”

Jesus. Nice? What is he even saying?

Luckily, Will doesn’t look put off by Mike’s fumbling. He tucks a small smile into his shirt
collar, cheeks glowing a soft pink in the moonlight. “It is,” he says, almost shyly. “Nice.”

Mike lets out a long breath. He moves his hand a little closer to Will’s. If he shifted even a
quarter of an inch, their fingers would be touching.

Of course, that’s when Will says: “Do you ever—do you ever miss El?”

Mike blinks at him. What? Why would they be talking about El right now? Is Will trying to
change the subject? Is he turning him down?

“I mean,” he starts, a little fumbling. “I see her, like, every day. So not really.”

Will lets out a frustrated sigh, waving his free hand in the air. “You know what I mean,” he
says, pointedly avoiding Mike’s eye. “Like—you don’t miss the way you guys used to be?
You don’t want to get back with her?”

Oh. Oh. Oh, okay. So it’s like that.

Deliberately, Mike scoots a little closer, until his thumb is bumping Will’s own. He bends
down, just a little, to catch his avoidant gaze. “No,” he says, low and serious. “No, I don’t.”

Will gulps, and Mike’s eyes flit down to the bob of his throat. All at once, he’s transfixed. He
can’t look away. There’s a perfectly circular mole on the underside of Will’s jaw, and Mike
wants to trace it with his tongue. He wants to scrape it with his teeth. He wants to—
“Mike,” Will whispers, eyes desperately searching his. He sounds wrecked.

Slowly, Mike leans in. He doesn’t move his eyes from Will’s lips. Inch by inch, he moves his
hand across the blanket, until it’s completely covering Will’s own. “Will,” he murmurs. “I—”

There’s a sudden jerk, and a jostling under Mike’s hand, and suddenly Will’s several feet
away, clambering to his feet, one hand slapped to the back of his neck. Mike blinks at the
space where he disappeared, disoriented. What—what just—

“Do you feel that?” Will asks.

Mike hardly hears him, over the pounding of his own blood. They were about to—Mike was
about to—

“What?” he asks, hoarse and scraped-out.

But Will doesn’t even look back. He strides to the edge of the roof, braces his hands against
the wall, and looks over the edge. Then, he crosses to the other side and does the same thing.

As he looks back at him, Mike finally understands the expression on his face. Fear.

“Something’s wrong,” Will says.

A delayed surge of adrenaline kicks in, jumpstarted by the panic in Will’s eyes, and Mike
rushes to his feet, quickly moving to join Will by the roof’s edge.

He looks over.

“I don’t see anyth—”

That’s all he manages, though, before the dog attacks.

Time speeds up. Slows down. All Mike knows is weight and pressure and pain. Slimy skin
against leather. Razor-sharp claws against skin. Against muscle. Against bone.

Mike’s survival instincts kick in automatically, and he grapples with the Demodog, trying
uselessly to push it off him. It’s knocked him to the ground, and it’s fucking heavy. Heavier
than a full-grown man, heavier than a fucking car. Its teeth snap inches away from his face,
and Mike cries out. Thinks he cries out. It’s hard to tell. He doesn’t know anything anymore.
Just this:

He’s going to die.

“Help!” he yells, instinctual and automatic. “Shit, fuck— Will, help me—”

Somewhere in the back of his head, Vecna laughs. Pathetic.

And he is. He always has been. He’s been pathetic for his entire life, and now he’ll be dead.
That’s all there is to it.
How did he think he could protect anyone? He can’t even protect himself.

The Demodog jerks backwards, and there’s a blur of motion as Will rushes to his side,
grabbing desperately at whatever part of the dog he can reach. Because Mike had called for
him— stupid— now they’re both going to die—

A pain sears down his shoulder, white-hot and blinding, so sharp that it almost feels like
nothing at all. At the same time, though, it definitely feels like something. It feels like nothing
Mike’s ever felt. He was an idiot, to think he knew what pain felt like. He had no goddamn
idea.

Mike closes his eyes.

I wish I’d kissed him, he thinks, desperate and honest. I wish I’d told him how I felt.

And then—something happens.

One second he’s dying, and the next he’s not. The pressure loosens from his chest, his ears
pop with sound, and a bright white light flashes behind his eyelids. For a moment, there’s
nothing.

Then, his ears start to ring. Ceaseless, high-pitched, like he’d blasted Metallica on his radio
one too many times. He blinks a few times, eyes heavy and groggy, the world pitching from
side to side. Everything is bright. Blurry. He sees it in snatches: the Demodog, flung
mercilessly across the roof. Will, flung hopelessly across Mike’s chest. His face is tucked into
Mike’s neck, warm and wet, his shoulders heaving with sobs. A strand of caramel-colored
hair tickles Mike’s nose.

“Wha…”

Will shakes his head against Mike’s shoulder, crying even harder. Mike doesn’t—he doesn’t
know what just happened. He doesn’t know, because a minute ago he was dying, and now
he’s completely fine. That doesn’t just happen. Not without weapons. Will’s strong, but he’s
not that strong.

But Will’s clearly in no state to explain. So Mike drops his head back against the ground,
stares up at the stars, and strokes down the ridge of Will’s spine. “It’s okay,” he says faintly,
as he takes stock of all his limbs and other faculties. Shit, he’s alive. “We’re okay, Will. You
did good.”

A loud bang pierces the ringing in Mike’s ears. Over Will’s shoulder, fuzzy and distant, he
sees Hopper bursting gun-first through the stairwell. A disorganized trio stumbles after him:
Ms. Byers, El, and Lucas.

Another bang. Across the roof, the Demodog goes still.

Mike looks away.

Heavy boots pound on the ground, advancing quickly towards Mike, and he squints up at his
rescuer. Hopper looks murderous. He glares down at Mike, backlit by the moon and the
roof’s artificial lighting, eyes squinted, expression cold. “What. Were. You. Thinking?”

Oh, Jesus. Here they go.

At the noise, Will flinches, and Mike’s grip on him tightens. “Hey, it’s alright,” he murmurs
quietly, tucking his chin into the curve of Will’s shoulder. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t answer Hopper. There’s nothing to say. He was thinking—

He was thinking that he wanted to have a nice night with Will. One nice night, before the
entire world went to shit. Of course, he ruined it, just like he always does. Why did they have
to do it outside? What was he thinking? He was stupid, and careless, and he should’ve at
least brought some weapons, but he didn’t want to bring weapons to a date, and—it was all
his fault.

Will could’ve died.

“Are you out of your mind?” Hopper continues, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. Mike
stares silently at the bulging vein on his neck. Everything feels far-away. Not quite real. He’s
not sure that any of this is actually happening. The only thing that feels solid is Will,
trembling apart in his arms.

“You know you’re not supposed to be out here. Especially now, right after these goddamn
dogs start popping up—”

“Hop.”

Ms. Byers appears out of the light, like a guardian angel, and looks down at Mike. Then, she
looks over the rest of the roof: the overturned picnic basket, the messed-up blanket, the
scattered wrappers. Her gaze softens. “That’s enough.”

Behind her, Lucas comes limping into view. His pants are stained with dark blood, and he’s
leaning heavily on one leg. “I’m so sorry,” he tells Mike, sounding like he might cry. “I—I
tried to fight it off, but it was too fast.”

Right. Because Lucas was on patrol.

How many of his friends have to get hurt for his mistakes? It’s like a loop. No matter what
Mike does, he always messes it up somehow. He always picks the wrong option. Even when
he thinks he’s doing the right thing, the good thing, he does it all wrong.

He shakes his head, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder. “Lucas, it’s—it’s okay. It was
my fault.”

Hopper jerks, agitated, and points a menacing finger down at Mike. “You’re damn right it
was—”

“That’s enough!”
Ms. Byers clamps a firm hand onto Hopper’s shoulder, fire in her eyes. They stare each other
down for a few seconds, the air tense and tight between them.

Reluctantly, Hopper slumps. His finger lowers, dangling harmlessly at his side.

“I’m sure it was an honest mistake,” Ms. Byers says, more gently. She glances at Mike. “And
— look at him, Hop. Don’t you think he’s been punished enough?”

For the first time, Mike realizes that he’s bleeding. Like, a lot, actually, all over his shirt and
his jacket and Will’s shirt and Will’s jacket and the roof and his skin and—

“Fine,” Hopper relents, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “Get to the hospital wing,
Wheeler. You too, Sinclair.”

Wearily, Mike nods. With great pain, he carefully extricates himself from Will, moving to sit
up at his side. “Yeah, of course,” he tells Hopper. “I’m—I’m so sor—”

Will makes a groggy noise of protest, rubbing his face with his hands. “It wasn’t your fault,”
he murmurs, the words barely audible. Then, blinking to awareness, he looks up at Hopper.
“It wasn’t his fault,” he repeats, more strongly. “It was mine.”

Oh, Will.

Ms. Byers frowns sympathetically at him. “Will, honey, I’m sure it wasn’t—”

Will waves her off. “No, it was,” he protests, frustration seeping into his voice. “I knew
something was going to happen. I could feel it. And I just—I just brushed it off.”

He sneaks a glance back at Mike, his cheeks going a little pink. “I just wanted…”

Mike stares back at him, mouth dry, heart pounding. He knows exactly what Will wanted. He
wants the same thing.

The roof falls silent; Will’s confession echoing off the concrete, dissipating into the night.
Finally, Will swallows, his throat clicking in the quiet. “Anyway,” he mutters. “It was stupid
of me. It’s my fault, not Mike’s.”

He’s wrong. He’s so, so wrong, and Mike can’t even find it in himself to be mad. He knew
Will felt something, earlier. He’s not sure why Will won’t just talk to him about it—but then
again, Mike hasn’t told Will about his visions, so he guesses it’s fair play.

What are they doing?

“Will,” Mike says, soft and sad, staring quietly at the side of his face. Look back, he wants to
beg. Look back at me. Talk to me.

Will’s eyes stay straight ahead, watery and upset. He doesn’t look back.

Ms. Byers sighs. “Okay, honey,” she says. “We can talk about it later, alright? El, Hop, can
you walk the boys to the hospital wing?”
And with that, Hopper bends down, tugging Mike to his feet, slinging an arm around his
shoulder. All things considered, he’s a lot more gentle than Mike expected him to be. But that
doesn’t matter—Mike keeps looking at Will, silently begging him to just look back.

The last thing Mike sees, right before Hopper helps him to the elevator, is the stiff line of
Will’s shoulders. He’s staring straight down at the ground.

***

Will isn’t bleeding, but it still feels like he is. His jacket is slashed open, the stench of the
dead Demodog clinging to his clothes and slicking over his skin. There’s some sort of
unidentified ooze on his shoe. Mike’s blood is all over his hands. It’s sticky as it dries.

Silently, he picks up candy wrappers and puts them back in the picnic basket.

He’s been an idiot. What was he thinking, agreeing to this? Knowing that Henry was planning
something? He let Mike cloud his judgment, just like he always does. Desperation doesn’t
make for a clear head. It just makes everything harder.

“I talked to El,” Mom says, after a few minutes. She’s folding the plaid blanket, looking
down at her hands, voice casual in a way that’s actually not casual at all.

It takes a second for Will to catch her meaning.

El told her, then. She told her about Henry.

Will swallows. His hands pause around the edge of a paper plate. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Mom confirms. She sighs, then, and looks searchingly up at Will. “Why didn’t you
tell me?”

And that, unsurprisingly, is Will’s last straw. Tears spill over onto his cheeks, hot and quick,
and his hands begin to shake. Why didn’t he tell her? Why didn’t he bring a gun to the roof?
Why didn’t he ask Mike to meet him inside? Why didn’t he turn down the date in the first
place? Why does he do anything?

He’s a mess. He’s fifteen, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, even if he wants
people to think he does, and he’s scared, and he wants his mom. He’s so sick of pretending to
be an adult. It’s exhausting.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know how,” he manages, fighting through his tears. “I didn’t want to
worry anyone, and I thought if El and I could just figure it out on our own…”

Jesus. It sounds so goddamn stupid, when he says it like that. Glaringly obvious, glaringly
dumb. Anyone could’ve seen where that was going. Anyone would’ve known how it would
turn out. Mike and Lucas in the hospital wing. Will alone.
It was always going to end like this. And if he doesn’t do something, if he doesn’t fix it, it’ll
end even worse.

He sniffles again, rubbing harshly at his eyes. “But we screwed it up,” he says miserably. “I
screwed it up.”

Mom frowns at him. “Honey.”

He doesn’t deserve her sympathy. She doesn’t understand. Will shakes his head, endlessly
frustrated. “No, Mom, it’s true,” he argues. “That’s all I ever do. Screw things up.”

He stares down at the ground, tears burning in his eyes.

Mike could’ve died. He could’ve died, and it would’ve been all Will’s fault.

Mom’s gaze rests heavily on the side of his face, but he can’t look up. Can’t meet her eye.
Your son is a failure, he thinks. I’m sorry.

Finally, there’s a shift of movement, and Mom crouches down, sitting cross-legged on the
ground. “Do you remember… do you remember when your father left?”

She waits.

Will blinks in surprise, then tentatively sits down next to her, trying to follow the turn in
conversation. “Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, of course.”

Of course he remembers. Most of the time, he wishes he didn’t.

Mom smiles thinly back at him, then looks off into the distance. Starlight reflects off her
eyes. “I was a mess,” she admits, with a small laugh. “I couldn’t get out of bed for days. And
—do you remember what you did?”

Will huffs out a laugh of his own, wiping messily at his cheeks. “I drew you a picture.”

Mom nods. “Your rainbow ship,” she says softly. “And it was so—so colorful, so bright, so
you, that it made me think—maybe I hadn’t messed you up after all.”

His rainbow ship. Will remembers it, in vague and fuzzy snatches. Remembers that he got
caught drawing it at school, that Troy teased him for weeks, that he got pushed down into the
dirt and called fairy, fag, queer. Remembers that Mom pinned the drawing up at Melvald’s,
and nothing Troy could call him mattered after that.

Mom smiles at him, oblivious to his train of thought. “Maybe I wasn’t such a bad mom, if my
kid was drawing me such nice pictures,” she says. “And making me burnt toast in bed—”

Ugh. Will groans, covering his face with his hands. “I was eight!”

Mom’s smile grows brighter. “And it was very sweet of you,” she assures him. “You were
always—always so sweet. So kind, and thoughtful, and good.” She shakes her head, eyes
shining with tears. “Always thinking of everyone except yourself.”
Even before the sentence is over, Will’s eyes sting in response. She doesn’t even know. She
has no idea how wrong she is. The only person Will ever thinks of is himself. His stupid
feelings. He’s selfish, right down to his rotten core. That’s why he’s always trying so hard to
make up for it.

He’s not good. He’s not good at all.

He shrugs, noncommittal, and looks away again. He can’t face her. He doesn’t know how to
look his mom in the eye and tell her that she’s got it all wrong.

The silence swells.

After a second, Mom asks, voice carefully even: “Did you have a nice time with Mike?”

Oh, god. For a second, Will almost wishes they’d go back to talking about Dad. Anything,
really, other than whatever she’s trying to do now.

Cautiously, Will glances back at her. She looks deliberately restrained: expression calm,
posture still. She blinks innocently, waiting for him to answer.

“I mean,” Will starts, just as carefully. “Before the Demodog… Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Mom clears her throat. “You two have seemed a lot closer lately,” she says, faux-casually.
“More like—how you used to be as kids.”

Despite himself, Will blushes. There’s definitely a note of insinuation to her tone. One that
sounds a lot like: Is there anything you want to tell me?

No.

Yes.

“Oh,” he says, lamely. “Yeah, I mean—I guess so.”

He fidgets with his hands. Sometimes, he wishes he wore rings, like Mike. It would probably
help, having something to fiddle with.

“It’s nice,” Mom says, more gently now. Like an apology. “I always thought you two were…
good with each other.”

Will swallows thickly. His head feels like water. Like an ocean. Like a storm. It’s getting a
little harder to breathe. He focuses on the hangnail, right by the edge of his thumb, until his
vision goes blurry.

Mom bends down, just a little bit, trying to look him in the eye. “Will… Sweetheart, you can
tell me anything. You know that, right?”

In theory, yeah. In practice—not so much.

Will sniffles, rubbing miserably at his face. “I know,” he chokes out. He tries to say
something else— anything else, really—but nothing comes.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you, like I used to be,” Mom says quietly. “I mean—since
Bob—”

Will’s head jerks up. He’s too shocked to remember that he wasn’t supposed to be looking at
her. “Mom, that’s not your fault,” he blurts. “You were going through— so much, and—”

“And so were you,” Mom finishes. Her gaze is quiet. Knowing. “Right?”

Will opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Mom, I—”

The rest of it is water. Tears, flowing out from his eyes, dripping onto his clothes, onto the
concrete, as he dives forward into Mom’s arms. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, breath catching on a
sob. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Mom hugs him tighter. “Oh, baby,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss into his hair. “There’s
nothing—there’s nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. I promise.”

Will knows it’s a lie, but the way she says it makes it sound true. She’s always been like that,
for as long as he can remember. It’s like her superpower.

He should probably say something, but he can’t speak. Can’t do anything except cry, sobs
heaving through his ribs, tugging through his stomach. Everything hurts. It hurts so, so bad.

“I love you, Will,” Mom whispers, and then it hurts a little less.

Will squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to her shoulder as hard as he can. Like he’s
trying to melt into her, trying to escape his own body. “I love you too, Mom.”

It feels good to tell the truth.

***

Will used to be better at sleeping alone. He’s gotten spoiled, these last six months. He’s
grown used to the steady pace of Mike’s breathing, the catch of his throat when he has a
nightmare. He’s grown used to another body across the room, keeping him company, keeping
him safe.

Now it’s just him.

He washed Mike’s blood off his hands, but he still feels it. Maybe he always will. Maybe that
feeling doesn’t ever go away.

Will looks sideways at Mike’s empty bed. He sighs.

The wall clock ticks mercilessly into the night. It sounds deafening in the quiet room.

Will sighs again.

Fuck this.

Fuck this. He throws off his covers, slips on his shoes, and pads down the hall. No one else is
up—it must be well past midnight. Mike’s probably sleeping. Will will just—go check on
him. That’s all. Just to make sure.

The hospital wing is silent. Max’s machinery glows and beeps next to her bed, the glowing
line of her respiration steadily rising and falling. Will’s grown so used to the sight that he
hardly registers it, other than with a dull pang of grief. He misses her. He really does.

Mike’s bed is just as quiet. His eyes are closed, his shoulder heavily bandaged. Someone
must have thrown his clothes in the wash, because he’s wearing a too-big pair of Jonathan’s
old pajamas.

Will grabs a spare blanket and pulls up a seat.

Mike looks so beautiful when he sleeps. That’s probably a creepy thing to think, but Will
thinks it all the same. His hair fans out across the pillow, like some sort of prince in a fairy
tale, and his hands are gently folded on top of his stomach, rings gleaming in the room’s low
light. His freckles look like stars. His eyes are—

Oh, shit. His eyes are open.

Maybe Mike wasn’t as asleep as he thought.

“Hey,” Mike greets, groggy and low. He rests his cheek against the pillow, shifting a little bit
to face Will. He doesn’t look at all surprised to see Will by his bedside in the middle of the
night. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Flushing with embarrassment, Will shakes his head. Mike gives him a lazy sort of half-smile
in response. He looks sort of drugged-up. He probably is, now that Will thinks about it.

“Me neither,” Mike admits, looking up at him through his lashes. “It’s—weird, without you.”

Will’s blush heats up. He’s glad it’s dark in here. He hesitates, then says, spurred on by some
insane middle-of-the-night burst of confidence: “Well… I’m here now.”

Everything’s easier in the middle of the night. Like a dream. Inconsequential. Will could kiss
Mike right now, and he probably wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.

He stays exactly where he is.

Mike, though, splays out one hand across the covers, dangling off the edge of the bed. His
fingers twitch upwards, a clear invitation. His expression, when Will dares to look at it, is
open and honest. Pleading.
 “Please?” Mike whispers. His eyes are impossibly dark.

And—well, Will only has so much strength. It’s a terrible idea, probably, and Will’s the
whole reason that Mike’s even in here, and he still doesn’t know if their picnic was a date or
not, and he still doesn’t know what Mike wants from him—and even if he had a pretty good
idea, he’s not sure it’s something he can give.

Will takes Mike’s hand.

It’s just one night.

At first, his fingers are tense against Mike’s—cautious, guarded. He doesn’t want to relax. He
can’t let himself.

Eventually, though, Mike falls asleep, his thumb stroking sweetly over the back of Will’s
hand, and it’s such a peaceful moment that Will can’t keep his guard up. It reminds him of
when they were little, holding hands after a nightmare, or after Troy called one of them
names. Nothing bad could get them when they were together. That’s what Mike always said.

With the gentle sound of Mike’s breathing filling up the room, and the steady pressure of
Mike’s hand in his, Will falls asleep.

He dreams of light.

Chapter End Notes

🙂
…sorry at least you guys got a nice ending tho!! some of your ideas for this chapter
were straight up EVIL. the amount of people who thought will was gonna stand mike
up… i stg i almost rewrote it myself. but alas, the Plot. i hope this chapter gives you a
better idea of their thought processes. a lot of people said that they wanted to know what
they were thinking here, and my answer is that they are 15 year olds that sometimes do
not think with their Brains. i hope that’s helpful

🥳
again, episode 3 script is linked here. the next script will be out on sunday the 12th! get
your theories going

see yall next week on tumblr! (and in two weeks on ao3!) 💗

- H xx
 Lockdown
Chapter Summary

“Will?” Owens says, and Will closes his eyes automatically, bracing for the blow. He
can’t do this. He wants to turn invisible. He wants to leap out of his chair and run as fast
as his legs will carry him. He wants Mike.

He wants to be someone else. Someone easier.

Chapter Notes

cw: violence & mild gore, gun usage, injuries.

if you haven’t read the episode 4 script yet, and you would like to, feel free to click
here!

enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The dogs come overnight. It’s a confusing mid-morning scramble, Will waking up sleepy and
disoriented by Mike’s bedside, flashing scarlet lights screaming all around them, fumbling for
guns and weapons and trying to ignore the tingle in his fingers where Mike’s skin had been
touching his own. Mike tries to come with him, because of course he does, but Will’s backed
up by about fifty people in yelling at him to stay put. The last thing Will says to him, pushing
him back into bed, is don’t tear your stitches, Mike. Then he joins the fray.

Throughout the morning, in-between reloading bullets and dodging shark-like rows of teeth,
Will wonders if that’s the last thing he’ll ever say to Mike. He could’ve made it better,
probably. More meaningful.

Somewhere along the way, he’s gravitated towards Mom, El, and Jonathan. They’re all
standing back to back, a fucked-up little murder circle, and Jonathan’s swinging his nail-bat
like he’s imagining Steve’s handsome face plastered onto each Demodog. Steve’s still better
at it, but Will doesn’t tell him that, because he seems pissed off enough as it is.

El rolls her shoulders back, then waves a hand out at the field, taking out all the dogs with
one single swoop. In the ensuing silence, Will looks down at his rifle, feeling a little pathetic.
Maybe a lot pathetic. It’s like he doesn’t even need to be here, really.

Then, the dogs start to rise again.

Of course Henry couldn’t make it easy for them. Of course he had to disappear for months
upon months, silent everywhere except Will’s head, and come back with something infinitely
more fucked-up than any of them could imagine. Demodogs that don’t die. Zombie dogs.

It feels like a kick in the teeth.

Mom curses, then frantically reloads her rifle, jamming the end against her palm. “There’s
too many of them!”

Heaving out an exhausted breath, Jonathan takes another swing. There’s a sickening crunch,
slimy flesh against bloodstained wood, then a high-pitched whine. Quickly, Jonathan uses the
back of his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Why aren’t they dying?”

He’s looking right at Will when he says it, which stings more than it should. Jonathan hasn’t
taken the news of his and El’s secrecy well. No one has. Will can’t blame them. Still, because
he’s tired and beat-down and vaguely worried about Mike, hunkering down in the hospital
wing, he glares right back at his brother. “How would I know?”

A muscle twitches in Jonathan’s jaw. “I dunno,” he says, his volume rising. “Seems like
there’s a lot you’re not telling us.”

An automatic sting of hurt prickles over Will’s skin. He bristles, feeling tense and on-edge
and stupidly sad, even though Jonathan has every right to be upset.

Will opens his mouth to reply—something sharp and thoughtless, no doubt, something about
Nancy or Steve or smoke breaks, when Mom whips her head around, eyes narrowing to slits.
“Boys,” she snaps. “Not the time.”

Both of them immediately wilt. “Sorry, Mom,” they chorus. Will catches the last snatch of a
dirty look that Jonathan sends him, though, and tries not to wince.

It always sucks when Jonathan’s mad at him.

But there’s no time to think about it, because in the next moment El’s swaying on her feet,
her jacket-clad shoulder pitching heavily into Will’s, her scuffed-up tennis shoes stumbling
against dead grass, and something is wrong. Will shoots an incoming dog, quick and
automatic, before turning to her. “El, you okay?”

El gives a weary nod in response, even though she’s clearly dead on her feet. She lifts her
shaking palms, ready to go again.

A low grunt escapes from between Jonathan’s clenched teeth. “We can’t hold them off much
longer!” he shouts over his shoulder.

He’s right. They can’t.

Will sets his shoulders, hefts his rifle, and squeezes the trigger. He’s been training for this, of
course, but all the violence still makes something twinge low in his gut. It doesn’t help that
he can feel it, the searing flesh and gripping agony, somewhere far in the back of his mind.
Less than he would’ve when he was the spy, but it’s still noticeable.
The dogs aren’t dying. No matter how much they get shot at, they still heave themselves back
to their feet, falling apart at the seams, bleeding black and rotting from the inside-out. It’s
grotesque. It turns Will’s stomach.

They’ll kill them.

But—no. Even as he thinks it, he knows it’s not right. A memory flashes through his head,
the cold plastic of Owens’ hospital chair, the sweet bite of a blue lollipop. What do you think
the evil wanted? To kill you?

Not me. Everyone else.

That dog last night hadn’t been coming for him. It had gone straight for Mike.

Just like right now. Just like all morning. Will’s been picking off dogs left and right, but they
were never coming for him. They were coming for everyone else.

Alright, Henry, he thinks, bitter and acerbic. Well played.

So Henry wants him alive. It’s not news. That means he wants something from Will, or even
worse, that he needs something from him. And he’ll kill absolutely everyone to get it.

Will grits his teeth. He shoots another dog.

It’s no use, though. They’re coming faster and faster, circling in on them, on Dustin and
Hopper, on Steve and Nancy, on Robin, on everyone. They won’t stay down. They’re gone,
they’re goners, and it’s all Will’s fault.

Then the bomb sails down.

Something black and electronic whizzes through the air, then latches neatly onto the slimy
neck of a nearby Demodog. For a second, nothing happens.

It clicks. A halo of glowing sparks lights around the machinery, zapping the dog with a heavy
jolt of electricity. As Will watches, amazed, the charge spreads from the first dog to the next,
then quickly to the entire pack. Limbs twitching, teeth bared, they fall to the ground. Static
buzzes in the back of Will’s head.

They’re dead.

At least, for now.

Will squints upwards in the direction of their salvation, a vague idea forming in his head,
only to find Lucas staring back down at him from the roof. His wrist rocket is still poised and
taut, the sling faintly smoking. Dustin stands next to him, absolutely beaming with pride. As
Will watches them, he remembers fuzzy snatches of conversation from the last few weeks,
something about Dustin designing and testing out prototype weapons.

Will grins at Lucas, sending up a wave. Immediately, Lucas smiles and ducks his head, an
embarrassed sort of pride overtaking his face. A second later, Dustin bowls him over with a
hug.

Before Will can make another move, his earpiece beeps. Owens’ voice, stern and
authoritative, follows. “Good work, everyone,” he says. “Back to the lab ASAP—those
things won’t stay down for long.”

Next to him, El bends double, hands on her knees, panting. Will shifts his rifle under his arm,
then rubs absently at her back with his free hand. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “We’re safe
now.”

El looks back at Will, her expression shuttering with uncertainty. She doesn’t believe him,
and Will can’t blame her. All he can do is look back at her. He has no answers. No comfort.

Another moment, and their earpieces click again. “Better get cozy,” Owens says solemnly.
“Tonight, we’re initiating lockdown.”

***

The conference room is bleak. Dead silent. Disappointment hangs heavy in the air, so thick
that Will’s nearly choking on it. The morning’s toll is clear in almost every person, from
Mike’s stitched-up arm to Lucas’s mummified leg.

Owens clicks a button, and the projector displays Jonathan’s Demodog picture in its full,
technicolor glory. It almost seems like it’s mocking them, now. Will’s pretty sure that same
dog, entrails hanging from its ripped-open belly, was heading the attack this morning.

“Creel has sent his first offensive round,” Owens states flatly. His words echo off the walls.
“Not the heavy hitters. Let me repeat that—the first round.”

Across the table, Mike shifts uncomfortably. Will wonders if his stitches are acting up. He
wonders how badly it hurts.

Probably pretty bad.

Owens gestures expansively around the room, as if to say, look at this shitshow. “And already
we’ve got—at least two people out of commission. Eleven out of power. Drained morale.
They’re killing us.” He pauses, shaking his head bitterly. “And it’s only day one.”

Dustin’s hand shoots straight up in the air. Without waiting to be called on, he blurts: “But
they’re zombie dogs!”

Will blinks at him. So does everyone else.

Dustin frowns, defensively crossing his arms over his chest. “You know,” he mumbles.
“Like… zombies. Zombie dogs. They don’t die?”
Owens sighs. “Yes, I’m well aware,” he says tiredly. “Whatever Creel put into this newest
batch, they’re stronger than ever before. They attack in broad daylight, they don’t stay dead.
He hasn’t been wasting his time—he’s been preparing for battle.”

Next to Dustin, Steve frowns as well, eyes boring down into the table. “But—so have we,” he
protests, a little petulantly.

Will can sense it just before it happens. The corner of Owens’ mouth twitches, in a way that
might be the start of a smile or a sob, and then he barks out a single peal of laughter. It’s not a
happy sound—it’s completely wrung-out, bone-dry. Exhausted. Like he can’t believe his life
has come to this.

Join the fucking club.

“Harrington, we haven’t been preparing for battle,” Owens says sardonically. “We’ve been
preparing not to die.”

He pauses, jaw tightening, and Will can tell he’s at the end of his rope. “Look around you!”
Owens spits. “Does this look like a group that could take on Henry Creel at his full strength?
Does this look like a group that could take on even a single Demogorgon?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. “No,” he says, shaking his head. He looks out at all the
battered and bruised bodies, the grimy frowning faces. Just for a second, he meets Will’s eye,
and Will quickly tears his gaze away.

“No,” Owens repeats, after a moment. “It doesn’t. Tonight, we’re instating full lockdown
procedures. No one comes in or out. We live on stored rations, we cut all lines of
communication. Our best hope is to wait this thing out.”

Nancy’s head jerks up sharply. “So that’s the plan?” she demands. “We’re just gonna hide?”

Owens gives her a withering look, not even seeming the slightest bit abashed. “Yes,” he says
flatly. “Yes, Miss Wheeler, we are. We’re going to hide, and we’re going to wait, and we’re
going to pray for goddamn mercy.”

The room is silent. Without looking up, Owens waves a dismissive hand. “Everyone out,” he
commands. “I want Joyce, Hopper, and Eleven.”

Business as usual, then.

Just as Will starts to shift in his seat, Owens’ head snaps up, pinning him to the spot with one
look. “And Will.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s—that’s probably not good.

Something heavy sinks in Will’s stomach, until he feels like he genuinely might be sick. All
these months, waiting and waiting to be important enough to make it into one of these
meetings, and now he’s finally done it. By lying to everyone. By keeping secrets. By
dooming them all to Henry’s mercy.

Under the table, his hands start to shake.

As Mom, El, and Hopper exchange nervous glances, Jonathan stays seated, furrowing his
brows. He turns to Owens. “Shouldn’t I…”

“Did I say your name?”

Jonathan clenches his jaw. His eyes are cold steel, the same kind of glossed-over look that he
used to get when Dad would spit profanities at him. He’s always been a lot better at that than
Will—completely retreating somewhere in the far recesses of his head, keeping a stoic mask
over his features. Don’t let them see you cry.

“No, sir,” Jonathan says evenly.

Owens nods, once. “Then out,” he stresses. Agent Stinson escorts Jonathan and the rest of
the group out into the hallway, then shuts the door heavily behind her.

After that, it’s just the five of them.

It seems like no one’s willing to be the first person to talk. After sitting in a violently
uncomfortable silence for several moments, Mom finally clears her throat. “Sam, I’m not
sure—”

Whatever she was going to say next is lost to the sharp pop of Owens’ neck as he looks up.
His gaze, fed-up and deadly, rests directly between El and Will. For his part, Will tries his
best to melt into his chair.

“You two want to be treated like adults?” Owens asks, still fuming. “Fine. Then start acting
like it.”

Will shrinks a little further towards the floor. El, just like Jonathan, stares impassively back at
Owens. Unmoved.

Owens narrows his eyes. “I gave you two— countless opportunities,” he recalls. “You know
what you both told me? That I can trust you. That you’d tell me if you felt anything.”

Gruffly, Hopper cuts in: “This is ridiculo—”

“I’m not done,” Owens snaps, his eyes never once leaving Will and El. He leans a little
further over the table, palms braced over the edge. His shadow looms large. Will thinks if this
goes on for another minute or two, he might start hyperventilating, or something equally as
embarrassing.

Owens turns to El. “Are you connected to the Hive Mind? Yes or no?”

Oh, shit.
Will’s definitely hyperventilating now. El takes it a lot better, of course she does, because she
isn’t connected to the Hive Mind, and she never has been. She’s guilty of nothing but trusting
the wrong person.

“No,” El says, flatly unimpressed. She meets Owens’ eye with a steady confidence that
nearly makes Will tremble with jealousy. Why can’t he be like that? Why can’t he be like
her?

They always come back to this, the two of them.

“I feel only what Henry wants me to feel,” El elaborates, after another deliberate second. “I
can search it out, or I can receive it. But I am not connected.”

Owens nods, apparently pleased. “Look at that,” he says, mockingly cheerful. “A straight
answer. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Will stares at the table so hard that he thinks he might burn a hole through the wood.
Everyone’s eyes are on him, and it hurts. It’s like there’s a million tiny daggers stabbing into
his skin, an all-over prickle that consumes him until there’s nothing left. His head pounds
with panicked static.

Henry is silent.

Distantly, though, if Will really strains his ears, he thinks he hears someone laughing.

“Will?” Owens says, and Will closes his eyes automatically, bracing for the blow. He can’t do
this. He can’t do this. He wants to turn invisible. He wants to leap out of his chair and run as
fast as his legs will carry him. He wants Mike.

He wants to be someone else. Someone easier.

“Is there something you’d like to tell us?”

Maybe the laugh Will heard was really his own. Maybe he’s laughing right now. Maybe he’s
been laughing this whole time. Is there something he’d like to tell them? Where does he even
start?

He’s losing his mind, for one. That feels like the important thing.

Across the table, Mom bristles. “Are you trying to imply—”

“I’m not implying anything,” Owens argues. “It’s a simple yes or no question. And if he
doesn’t answer… then I’m leaning towards yes.”

Ha. Simple. Nothing in Will’s short, miserable life has ever been simple.

He squeezes his eyes shut, closing them so tightly that violent spots of color dance behind his
eyelids. His breath comes quick in his lungs. His blood races through his veins.
“Will,” Owens repeats, and this time he sounds almost sorry for him. “Are you connected to
the Hive Mind? Yes or no?”

Yes or no. Yes or no. Yes, no, and a million shades of uncertainty.

Somewhere in the distant blue-black silence, Mom pleads for his innocence. “He—he can’t
be. We broke the connection. We burned it out of him!”

Gently, Owens says, “I’m not asking you, Joyce. I’m asking him.”

Him. Right. Him, as in Will. As in—himself. Everything feels shiny and far-away, like a
thousand voices are yelling at him through a thick layer of saran-wrap. Snarling. Like they’re
out for blood.

Not me. Everyone else.

Will opens his eyes. “I…”

For a second, he can’t remember who I is. Can’t remember the meaning of the syllable.

He swallows. His cognitive functions jolt sideways into place. “I don’t know,” he manages.
His throat feels like sandpaper, but at least he’s said it. At least he’s forming words.

Jesus, what’s wrong with him?

Well.

Owens stares back, his mouth a thin line. “Explain.”

Come on, come on. Will inhales deeply, then lets it out through his teeth, his lips moving like
molasses as he tries to think of an explanation. He doesn’t know how to describe— this.
Whatever’s happening in his head. Whatever’s been happening in his head.

“It’s not… It’s not like when I was the spy,” he says finally, as the rest of his body starts to
come back to him. Fingers, toes. Jack-rabbit heart, squeezing so tight between his lungs that
it might suffocate him. “I’m in control.”

He doesn’t know if it’s a statement or a prayer. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just
another lie. He’s good at those, he thinks.

Out of all people, Hopper’s watching him across the table, a slow understanding dawning in
his eyes. “...But?” he prompts, as gentle as he knows how to be, when no one else speaks.

“But,” Will echoes, and sucks in a greedy lungful of air. It helps. Centers him. “I can still feel
him.” He looks up at the room—at El, Mom, Hopper. Owens. “I can still feel the Hive
Mind,” he says, more steadily. “Not as strongly as I could before, but it’s there, in the back of
my head. And if I try to focus on it, it feels—”

He focuses. All of it intensifies, the dizziness and the static and the voices, until he’s not even
sure how he’s still in one piece. Through it all, he manages to croak, “It hurts.”
When he opens his eyes again, Owens is nodding. Clean and unsurprised, like he’d been
expecting this all along. Like he’d always known, deep down, that Will was a traitor. “You
know what this means,” he says.

Will does.

“We can’t involve you in plans anymore, Will,” Owens continues, which is probably about
the kindest verdict he could have passed down. “We can’t put you out on patrols. It’s too
risky.”

It’s a much lesser sentence than Will had expected, but he still winces anyway. Then, forcibly
calming himself, he nods. He can feel the tears stinging at his eyes, but he refuses to let them
fall. Not yet, at least. Not until he gets out of here.

“I understand,” he says.

“Good,” Owens replies, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “In that case, you’re dismissed.”

Will nods again, a broken record, a View-Master skipping slides, and stands to leave. Just get
out of here, he thinks. Just make it out the door. Cry afterwards. Don’t let him see.

Owens watches him, gaze sharp. “And—Will?”

Despite himself, Will flinches. He wonders when he started bracing himself every time
Owens opened his mouth.

Will doesn’t give a reply, but Owens doesn’t wait for one. He knows he has Will’s attention.
Knows that he never lost it. There’s no trace of the man he used to be in his eyes—only cool
calculation. Something on the verge of rage, just before the tipping-point. Something that
Will remembers from his childhood, something that he’s recognized in the eyes of a thousand
men since.

Owens looks at him, and Lonnie Byers snarls behind his teeth: “Don’t ever lie to me again.”

***

Stitches fucking suck. Mike hasn’t really gotten them that many times, just once in first
grade, after he fell out of a tree, and again in fifth, after doing it again. Not big on giving up,
he guesses. Mike’s nothing if not stubborn.

Jonathan bites his lip, pulling the needle tight, and Mike tries his best not to jump all the way
off the examination table. “Ow!”

Jonathan glances up, absent and far-away, and pauses his stitchwork. “Sorry,” he says, in a
way that definitely means he’s not. He frowns at Mike’s shoulder, examining it like it’s a
black-and-white diagram in a textbook, and not Mike’s fucking shoulder. Finally, he seems to
snap back to reality, raising an eyebrow up at Mike. “Maybe if you didn’t move so much—”

“It’s not my fault!” Mike whines. Seriously, he’d like to see Jonathan up here. See how he
likes it then. Even if he thinks, wayyy back in the dusty corners of his brain, that Jonathan
would probably take it a lot better, instead of complaining about it like a little baby. But
whatever. That’s not the point. “This is taking forever.”

“Do you want it done quickly, or do you want it done well?”

“Quickly,” Mike deadpans.

Asshole.

Jonathan rolls his eyes, then starts on another stitch. Despite his sarcasm, his hand is a lot
gentler this time, which gives Mike a smug sense of satisfaction. See, Dad? Complaining
does get results.

As he works, Jonathan frowns critically at Mike’s skin. “How’d you manage to tear through
these in one day, anyway? You must’ve been thrashing around all night.”

Images flash through Mike’s head, blurry and half-remembered: thunderstorms, broken
bones, lake water. Dead eyes. A haunting voice.

With his good shoulder, he shrugs. He doesn’t look Jonathan in the eye.

At the non-answer, Jonathan softens a little bit. “Nightmare?”

Mike shrugs again, inspecting a particularly lengthy crack in the wall’s baseboard. “I dunno,
maybe,” he mumbles, trying to sound casual. “Don’t remember.”

Jonathan clearly doesn’t buy it, but he lets it go. They sit in silence for a little while, Jonathan
quietly finishing up the rest of Mike’s stitches. There’s no one else in the hospital room,
except for Max, but Mike’s visited her so often that he hardly registers her presence. She’s
almost a part of the room at this point, as horrible as that sounds. A silent, breathing, beeping
piece of furniture.

God, Lucas would kick his ass for thinking that. Mike wants to kick his own ass, as soon as
he’s thought it. Max would—

Well. She would.

After a couple minutes, Jonathan starts to get that look on his face, the one that means he
wants to say something but feels awkward about it. Mike waits, aimlessly swinging his legs
off the side of the table. His heels leave little scuff marks on the metal. It feels good. Just.

Finally, it comes. “...How’s Nancy?”

Mike scrunches up his nose. On second thought, maybe Jonathan should have kept that one
to himself. He seems to realize it, too, because he shrinks back as soon as he says it,
sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Mike says bluntly, because really. “Don’t you patrol with
her, like, every day?”

Mike knows he does. He knows, because Will knows, and then comes complaining to Mike
about the sheer amount of uncomfortable tension that he has to endure on every single patrol
day. If there’s one thing Will can’t stand, it’s uncomfortable tension. Especially with his
brother.

Safe to say, everyone’s a little fed up with love triangle bullshit. Mike included.

“Yeah,” Jonathan acknowledges. “Yeah, I guess. Just… doesn’t seem like she really wants to
talk to me.”

Mike raises an eyebrow. Hopefully, what he’s conveying with that eyebrow raise is: And what
am I supposed to do about it?

He and Nancy might be closer than they used to—and hell, he and Steve might be closer, too
—but that still doesn’t mean he wants to play couples’ counselor. He’s got enough on his
plate as it is.

The message must get across well enough, because Jonathan snaps out of whatever gloomy
haze had come over him, shakes his head, and resumes Mike’s stitches. “It’s fine,” he says,
sounding extremely not-fine. “Don’t worry about it.”

Oh, mother fucker. Now Mike’s gonna worry about it. Fuck him, honestly.

Still in that same weird mood, quiet and subdued, Jonathan finishes off the last stitch, pulling
the thread tight and snipping it with some scissors. “All done,” he says, attempting levity.
“Try to… I dunno, stay still or something.”

Mike quirks a smile, swings his legs one last time for good measure, then hops off the table.
“No promises,” he quips. Jonathan lifts his lips in return, but it’s still way too sad. Mike can
barely even look at him.

He starts for the door, but stops just before the handle. He looks back at Jonathan—and at
Max, further away. She’d kick your ass, he thinks, and knows with complete certainty that it’s
true. Do better.

Maybe he has time for a little couples’ counseling. Couldn’t hurt, really.

He pictures Nancy, her dark circles and frizzy hair, her longing looks and snapped
commands. “I think…”

Jonathan blinks at him, surprised, and Mike does his best to wrangle his thoughts into
something coherent. “I think Nancy really misses you,” he says finally, and can’t help but
glance over at Max one more time. “Even if she sees you every day.”

He knows it’s just his imagination, but it seems like Max smiles.
When he shifts his gaze, Jonathan’s staring at him, slack-jawed with shock, and Mike
manages to grin back at him. He gives a two-fingered salute, because why the hell not, and
bustles out of the room, already walking the familiar path to the gym.

He might feel like shit, but at least one good arm is enough to throw a punch.

***

The tears spill over almost immediately. The fluorescent light of the hallway fills Will’s
senses, and he tries to blink it away, vision blurring and dipping as he does. He wipes his
cheeks, staring furiously at the ground. Stupid, he thinks, so harshly that it nearly burns.
Stupid, stupid, stup—

There’s a firm jolt to his shoulder, and he instantly looks up, eyes wide. “Oh, sorry, I—”

Argyle looks down at him, pleasantly surprised, arms full of—flower pots? Will rubs at his
eyes, but the vision, bafflingly, stays the same. “Argyle?”

“Heyy, little man,” Argyle greets, completely unfazed. “You okay?”

Well.

“Yeah,” Will blurts, hurriedly scrubbing away the rest of his tears. “Yeah, I’m fine. What are
you… What are you doing?”

Argyle lifts a pot in explanation, though it really doesn’t explain much at all. “Boss man’s
locking down the lab, dude,” he says. “Gotta bring my buddies inside.”

Will squints at Argyle’s haul. Lots of greenery, for the end of the world. “Your…buddies,” he
repeats.

If it sounds judgemental, Argyle doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. “Yeah!” he chirps, grinning
widely. He looks down at the tray, struggling to balance the sheer number of plants as he
shifts it to one arm, using the other to point. “Oh, this one’s Jon, and this one’s Eleven—and
this one’s Steve, ‘cause of the hair. See?”

He gives an affectionate pat to a particularly grassy plant, with a bunch of shoots sticking
straight up. Will blinks at it. Okay. Cool. This is a thing that’s happening.

“And that scary-looking one is Nancy,” Argyle finishes, pointing to something that looks a
whole lot like a Venus fly trap. As a gnat buzzes by, it snaps its jaws.

Will tries to think of something to say. His brain, for all the torture it had been putting him
through just a few minutes ago, is completely blank. Luckily, though, Argyle’s always talked
enough for the both of them. And for anyone else who happens to be in the room, really. Or
the building. Or the state.
“Want to help?” Argyle offers, and shifts his tray of plants back to a more secure position. “I
could use some extra muscle, man.”

A reflexive laugh punches out of Will, bright and bewildered. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever
called him extra muscle before. Of course, if anyone would, it would be Argyle. What’s even
happening right now?

“Sure,” he agrees, and laughs again. His chest feels a little lighter with it, which is nice.
“Yeah, why not?”

Argyle’s garden, once they get to it, is beautiful. It hits him right in the solar plexus, this
patch of life in the middle of so much death. It’s well-tended, lit up with love, and carefully
hidden away from any sort of destructive forces. Will’s patrolled this perimeter a hundred
times, and he never noticed it.

He never noticed it.

“How…” His throat goes dry, and he shakes his head. Tries again. “How did you do this?”

It’s not exactly what he wants to say, but it’s an easy enough place to start. Argyle kneels
down in the dirt, uproots something that looks suspiciously pointy, and smiles up at him.
Takes it in stride, like he always does. “I’ve got a green thumb, my dude.”

Will squints. “Is that weed?”

“Sure is!” Argyle grins sunnily. “Good ol’ Mary Jane.”

Right.

Will chuckles, because of course, and kneels down next to Argyle. Carefully, he digs his
fingertips into the dirt, beginning to uproot a flowering mushroom. Each of the plants has its
own nametag—a dandelion labeled Robin, a sunflower with Will’s own name, a cactus for
Erica—and the garden bed is lined with colorful ribbons and protective fencing, just as
deliberate as it is decorative. Will never would have expected this, from Argyle, but maybe…
Maybe he should have.

Maybe there’s a lot of things that he hasn’t noticed.

“Argyle,” Will says.

Argyle glances sideways. “Yeah, little man?”

Will frowns down at the mushroom in his hands. Dustin, its label reads. “Why did you stay
here?” he asks, finally. “I mean, you could’ve just gone back to California, right?”

Argyle blinks slowly back at him, like he’s not quite following. “Why would I wanna go back
there?” he asks.

Caught off guard, Will furrows his brow. “I mean,” he stutters. “‘Cause it’s not, like, falling
apart?” He gestures to the general shittiness of the world around him, thinking, isn’t it
obvious? “‘Cause you have a family there? A life? I mean, here you have…” He shakes his
head, throat tightening. “Nothing,” he concludes. “You’re in danger every day that you stay
here.”

After a long, thoughtful moment, one where Will can hear his own heart thrumming in his
chest, Argyle speaks. He’s frowning, which is so unusual for him that Will almost can’t look
away. “Not nothing, man,” he says. “Jon’s here.”

Oh.

Oblivious to whatever internal crisis Will is currently going through, Argyle continues. “And
my buddies. Who’s gonna water them if I’m gone?” He shakes his head, more contemplative
than Will’s ever seen him. More than he even knew he was capable of. “I mean, there’s stuff I
miss about Cali, dude.” He begins to tick off a list on his fingers. “Better weed. Better pizza.
My nana. But… they’ll all be there when I get back.”

Will looks at Argyle, stunned beyond words, and Argyle looks back at him, smiling. “Right
now, my friends need me here, man. And that’s more important.”

Will knows he’s staring, but he can’t find it in himself to care. How did he not notice this
before? He’s always written Argyle off as a stoner, as someone careless and oblivious, even a
little annoying sometimes. His brother’s best friend, even if he didn’t have a single clue why.
But now he knows. God, Argyle’s fucking selfless.

This whole time, Will’s been thinking of nothing but himself. His problems, his feelings, his
secrets.

Before he even realizes it, he’s crying. This time, he doesn’t move to wipe his tears away.
“It’s my fault,” he confesses, the words practically falling from his lips. They were always
going to end up here, he thinks. He should have realized sooner.

Argyle’s brow knits in concern. He reaches out to put a supportive hand on Will’s shoulder.
“What is, little man?”

Will sniffles, then rubs at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Everything.”

He thinks back to Mike’s stitches, Lucas’s leg, even El, this morning, who had looked
seconds away from passing out. He thinks about how much worse it’ll get. “Lucas, El, Mike
— they’re all getting hurt because of me,” he tells Argyle. “Because I didn’t say anything
sooner.”

For a second, Argyle seems to genuinely consider this. Then: “Well, did you send those dogs
after us?”

It’s probably rhetorical, but Will’s pulse jumps anyway, and he jerks away from Argyle’s
touch, heart pounding. “What?” he blurts. “No, of course not. I would never—”

Argyle shrugs. “Seems to me like it’s not your fault, then.”

 Okay. Okay. Will takes several deep breaths, in and out, air dragging through his lungs and
rushing out through his mouth. “But—I messed up,” he protests.

He keeps waiting for Argyle to come to his senses. To agree with him, to tell him that it is his
fault, that everything since Mirkwood has been his fault, that everyone would be better off if
Will was far away, where he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.

Of course, Argyle would never. He’s not that kind of guy.

Case in point, he laughs loudly, delighted, and claps a hand back onto Will’s shoulder. “I
mess up every day, man! And—hey, listen.” He looks Will in the eye, suddenly serious. “If
there’s one thing I know about you and your brother? Even if you mess up, you fix it.”

Will’s eyes widen, and Argyle smiles back at him. “You can fix it, my dude,” he says
cheerfully. “I know you can.”

Fix it.

That’s it.

“I can fix it,” Will repeats, and for once, he believes it. He can feel the determination rushing
through his veins—heady, addictive, powerful. “I can fix it.”

Why didn’t he think of it before? The answer’s been staring him in the face the whole time.
Wherever he goes, death follows. That’s true, and it’s not something that he can change.

But he can fix it.

Argyle beams, patting him on the back. Will hardly feels it. “That’s the spirit, little man!” he
cheers, then stands to his feet. “Now, come on. Help me move MJ inside.”

Argyle goes ahead, but Will doesn’t follow him. Not right away. Instead, he looks off into the
distance, eyes searching, heart pounding with sudden, terrifying adrenaline.

Past the lab’s fence, the gates wait for him.

Come home, Will.

Okay, Will thinks, and closes his eyes. Okay.

Chapter End Notes

i apologize for how short (and late) this chapter is. if you saw my post on tumblr, you
know why. everything with school & work & the world has just been a Lot, especially
last week. i want to make it 100% clear that by posting byler fics, i am not expressing
any kind of approval, solidarity, or agreement with noah schnapp & other cast member’s
opinions. i love these characters, and i love this story, and it makes me genuinely very
upset that the fandom has been torn apart by such ignorant and hateful people. anyway,
if you’re still here, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! the next one will be out next friday
(for real this time). then i’m taking a week break to work on my episode 5 script, which
will be out the following sunday. thanks everyone for reading! it means the world to me.

again, if you’d like to read the episode 4 script, click here! i’ll see you all next week 💗
🫂

- H xx
 The Quarry
Chapter Summary

Mike forces down the rest of his fear. He does the only thing left that he can think of.

He takes Will’s hand, then brings it up to his own heart. It’s beating like crazy, pushing
right out through his ribs and into Will’s palm. Take it, Mike thinks. It’s yours.

Chapter Notes

short chapter, but an important one! buckle up.

if you haven’t read the episode 4 script yet, and you would like to, feel free to click
here!

enjoy <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Will waits until nightfall. The day is chaotic and loud, everyone scrambling to make final
preparations before the lockdown. Dustin holes up in his lab, Lucas and El stay with Max,
and Mike locks himself in the gym for almost the entire afternoon, punching away his
feelings.

Will spends the time alone. He stocks up on everything he can think of—weapons, food,
flashlights. This won’t be like when he was a kid. He knows better now. He’s prepared for
this. Henry hasn’t got him on the back foot—they’re on level ground.

At least, he thinks so.

By the time Mike stumbles back into the bedroom, yawning and rubbing at his eyes, freshly-
showered and bundled up against the cold, Will’s already pretending to sleep. He can’t risk
conversation. He knows that the guilt would show somehow—on his face, or through his
voice. He’s a liar, yeah, but not a very good one. Especially around Mike.

There’s also a small part of him, deep down, that knows Mike would try to talk him out of it.
It’s the same part that knows Will might let him. He’d do anything Mike wanted, if he asked
him nicely enough. That’s what makes their friendship so dangerous.

But this is Will’s decision, and Will’s alone. He’s made up his mind.
Mike must be completely exhausted, because he passes out almost immediately, snuggling
under his quilt and murmuring goodnight to Will, even though he doesn’t know he’s awake to
hear it. Will’s heart jolts sideways. He squeezes his eyes shut and tracks the cadence of
Mike’s breaths until they go slow and deep. Then, he waits a while extra for good measure.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but eventually, something in him gives an insistent tug,
and he slips out of bed as quietly as possible. He rolls his extra blankets up into pill-shaped
balls, then shoves them under his top sheet. It’s not much, but it’ll fool the cameras, if
nothing else. He just has to hope that Owens is preoccupied enough to not notice.

A quick glance backwards shows that Mike still hasn’t stirred. He’s always been a pretty
deep sleeper, and luckily enough, it looks like a nightmare-free night tonight. Otherwise, Will
would feel even worse about leaving him than he already does.

He crouches by the desk, making the final additions to his stuffed-full backpack. Batteries. A
lighter. A gun.

His throat clicks, and he carefully zips the bag closed. In the back of his mind, Henry slithers
awake. Come home, Will.

He nods, then slings the bag over his shoulder. Alright, he thinks. You win.

Entirely silent, he sneaks out the door. He’s good at softening his footsteps, creeping around
corners, watching his step. He’s had to be. Creepy Will Byers, weird Will Byers, wallflower
Will Byers. Zombie Boy. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Quiet or dead. Those are his options. They’re
the only ones he’s ever had.

It’s all too easy to run away. He’s been doing it his whole life.

***

At first, Mike’s not sure what wakes him up. For once, his dreams weren’t all that bad. Pretty
good, actually. He thinks he’d been holding Will’s hand.

A sliver of light darts across his eyes, flooding in from the hallway outside, and Mike squints.
He’s still in that hazy stage between asleep and awake, and he’s not entirely sure what’s
going on. “Will?”

No response. His dreams shift further and further out of reach, and suddenly, Mike feels the
cold mattress against his skin, the crisp night air against his cheek. He opens his eyes a little
further, feeling groggy and disoriented, and rolls over to check out Will’s bunk. He’s
probably asleep, but it doesn’t hurt to look.

There’s a stiff lump in Will’s bed. It’s not moving.

Mike stares at it for a few seconds, uncomprehending. Then, his heart stops beating. “Will,”
he breathes, and scrambles out of bed. Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck ohfuck—

He crosses the room in a blink, then throws back Will’s top sheet. Rolled-up blankets stuff his
bed, no sign of life to be found. He reaches a hand out, patting the bedroll—stupidly, like
Will would be hiding somewhere in the middle of it. Like this is a game.

It hits him in waves. Will is gone.

Will is gone.

His backpack, gone. His clothes, gone. His gun—gone.

Oh, fuck.

“Will!”

***

It’s raining. Will hadn’t expected it to be raining. It’s slowing him down, costing him
precious seconds that he could be moving, could be running, could be escaping. The longer
he lingers, the more likely he is to be caught. Any minute now, Owens will start locking
down the lab. He doesn’t have any time to waste, and yet here he is, wasting it.

“Shit,” he mutters, slicking a hand down his waterlogged jacket. He hopes the stuff in his
backpack isn’t getting too ruined. He’s gonna need all the help he can get.

He sneaks around the corner, pressing tight to the wall, staying just out of view of the
cameras. There’s a rack of unused bikes near Argyle’s garden, one that he scoped out earlier
when they were packing up plants. Sometimes, on the rare occasions Owens lets anyone out
of the lab, they’re used for supply runs.

Now, Will’s using them to run away.

He pops the kickstand on the nearest one, a pale blue racer with a black basket and sturdy
headlights. He thinks he recognizes it from Tommy Pickens down the road, so someone
must’ve nabbed it from him. Not like he’s using it, though. He was a total couch-potato.

Will takes a deep breath. Then, he wheels the bike out into the dirt. It’s slow-going—the
ground is already turning muddy, slick with puddles and wet earth. The tires drag along the
heavy surface, unyielding.

In the distance, a door slams. “Will!”

Fuck.
Will stops in his tracks, the bottom of his shoes sinking slowly into the mud. He squeezes his
eyes shut, and heavy rain plasters his bangs to his forehead. He’s drenched.

Mike jogs out from a side door, the cold rain soaking him from head to toe. He doesn’t seem
to notice, though—he’s staring wide-eyed at Will, his gaze flicking desperately over the
scene. There’s something bordering on betrayal in his expression, and it hurts to look at.

Will looks away.

There’s a long silence, nothing but thunder and bullets of rain against the pavement. Mike’s
throat bobs as he swallows. “...Where are you going?”

Will exhales, hard. He inches the bike back a few steps, vaguely considering running away
while Mike’s still in shock. He’s selfish like that. Cowardly.

“I have to do this, Mike.”

At the confirmation, Mike’s breath catches, his eyes widening even further. Rain drips from
his eyelashes like drops of watercolor. “You can’t…” He steps forward, his hand reaching out
to Will, almost unconsciously. “You can’t leave. It’s—”

Will flinches. He feels fourteen again, tears building behind his eyes, hands gripping the
handlebars so tight that his palms chafe against the rubber. His chest draws tight.

Mike flinches, too. The rest of his sentence dies with the rain.

Finally, he repeats, so softly that it’s almost inaudible: “You can’t leave.”

They always end up back here, don’t they?

In that moment, Mike looks just as young as Will feels. They’re in the garage again, Mike
begging him not to leave, Will knowing that he has to. It’s a second chance, except there’s no
second option. Will’s trapped in a loop, breaking his own heart, and there’s no way out of it.
They can’t stop hurting each other.

Maybe this way, Mike will at least have a chance.

Will gets on the bike. “I’m sorry,” he says.

With a hard push against the muddy ground, he leaves Mike alone in the rain.

***

Mike stands frozen for exactly five seconds. He counts them, along with the heavy beats of
his heart: One. Two. Three. Four.
Five.

He goes for the bike rack.

His head’s a mess, and there’s no use in sorting through it—alarm bells all over, betrayal,
shock, confusion, hurt. Flashes of the garage from last year, of the regret that haunted him for
months afterwards. He’d done one thing right that night, though—he’d gone after Will. He
did it then, and he’ll do it now. He’ll do it as many times as it takes, until Will gets it through
his thick skull that he’s not alone. That Mike cares about him. That he’s not losing him ever
again, no matter what it takes.

There’s a heavy creak of metal behind him, iron shutters sliding down over the lab windows,
and Mike quickens his pace. Owens must have started the lockdown already. He doesn’t have
much time.

Will’s nothing more than a speck in the distance, out past the fence and into the woods, and
panic thrums in Mike’s chest as he tries to get his bike going. It’s raining in earnest now, and
the ground is so slick that he can barely stand, let alone bike.

Adrenaline courses lightning-quick through his veins. He barely even feels his own actions,
but somehow, within the span of a few seconds, he’s racing across the perimeter, squinting
his eyes against the rain.

A spark begins traveling through the lab’s fence, lighting the wire with a white-hot glow.
Electricity.

Shit.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Mike mutters furiously, leaning harder on his handlebars. His
legs burn as he pedals faster, eyes scanning the fence for a weak spot.

There. Right in the middle, there’s a lifted hole in the wire, just big enough for Mike to fit
through, if he slides. In a couple seconds, the electricity will have reached it, but for now, it’s
harmless.

It’s dangerous. It’s crazy.

It’s his only option.

Mike takes a deep breath. Don’t think about it, he tells himself. Then, he wrenches on his
handlebars.

His bike drops parallel to the ground, tires skidding uncontrollably through the mud. Mike
holds on for dear life, squeezing his eyes shut, thighs on a death grip around the bike seat. He
feels the fence chain tug at his hair as he passes under it, his entire body completely
sideways. It’s completely impossible. It’s like something out of a movie.

For a single, shining moment, Mike feels like a total badass.

Then that moment is over. Mike falls in a messy heap to the mud, banging his knee on his
bike as he goes. His bike clatters to the ground, the momentum completely lost, and he braces
a hand against the slippery grass, trying to catch his breath.

There’s no time to waste. He allows himself two more seconds—one, two—then scrambles
up to his feet. His shoulder’s on fire, and he’s pretty sure he just tore his stitches. None of it
matters, though. Not when he has to find Will.

A sharp pop sounds behind him as the fence lights up with electricity. Mike picks his bike up,
straddles it, and keeps going.

He’s not losing Will. Not again.

***

Will’s not even sure where he’s going. He just knows that he has to get away, has to run.
There’s something like an invisible thread in his mind, tugging him along to his final
destination. It keeps him centered, even as tears streak down his cheeks, even as his lungs
threaten to burst with the force of holding back sobs. I have to do this, he reminds himself. I
have to fix it.

Henry was hurting his friends. He was hurting Mike. All because of him. Will’s the one he
wants, so Will’s the one he’ll get. Will, in exchange for everyone else.

And then, maybe when he’s not looking—maybe Will could be brave enough to play the
hero. To take out Vecna, once and for all. To stab him in the back, shoot him in the heart,
torch the whole Upside-Down to the ground. Something. Anything.

Will’s never been much of a planner, and it’s definitely not much of a plan. But it’s all he’s
got.

The forest cuts at his cheeks as he bikes through trees, bushes, branches. He’s going off of
instinct more than anything else—he can barely even see. Somewhere in these woods, three
years ago, his life changed forever. Somewhere in these woods, the old Will died.

Tonight, he takes back his life. Tonight, it’s finally his turn. No more hiding. No more fear.
His heart might be pounding, but he knows he’s doing the right thing. He’s not afraid. He’s
determined.

He leans harder onto his handlebars. He keeps going.

***
Mike can barely keep up. He’s never seen Will bike this fast. It’s making Mike feel like the
bad guy, like he’s chasing after him, stupid, desperate. Like Will can’t get away from him
fast enough.

Brackish salt dissolves on his tongue, a mix of rain and tears streaming in through his open
mouth. “Will!”

It’s cold. It’s fucking freezing, actually, but Mike can’t focus on that. Can’t focus on the
branches stinging his arms, the rain weighing down his hair, the mud slicking his path. He
can’t focus on anything at all except for Will’s blurry outline, speeding off in the distance.
“Will, please!”

Will doesn’t stop. If anything, he speeds up.

A sob wrenches out of Mike’s chest, sudden and violent, and he lifts an arm to wipe roughly
at his face. The forest flashes by, and in a heartbeat he’s back in the worst night of his life,
racing through the woods after rangers dragged the quarry for Will’s body. Mike had been
crying then, too.

Now, Will’s here, he’s alive, but he’s never felt further away. Mike stares at his outline until
his eyes burn, until he sees a bike-shaped afterimage when he blinks. He can’t get it out of his
head—that night. The quarry. The body. Three fucking years, and it’s haunted him every day
since.

He’s not letting that happen again. Will wants to run away? Tough luck. Mike’s running after
him.

He pedals faster.

***

Mike doesn’t know how long it’s been, but eventually the mud starts to give way to stone,
and the trees begin to give way to open air. They’re getting higher and higher, further and
further from the lab. With a start, he realizes that he knows exactly where Will’s leading
them.

The quarry.

Fuck.

By the time Mike catches up, Will’s already standing near the edge. This is one of the largest
gates, one of the most destroyed places in Hawkins. Instead of water, the quarry’s bone-dry,
the ground eviscerated by a mile-wide cavern. It glows red in the night, lighting the entire
world in eerie hues of scarlet. The side of Will’s face is shadowed as he looks out at it.

Mike gets off his bike. “Will.”

It seems like that’s all he’s been saying for the last hour, for the last six months, for the last
year. He’s not sure he knows how to say anything else. Not sure he knows how to do
anything else, except beg Will to notice him. Beg him not to leave.

Finally, Will turns back to look at him. But it’s like he doesn’t even see him—his eyes are
glazed over, his vision far-away. He almost looks like he’s under some kind of spell, which
makes Mike’s heart skip a beat with panic. But he knows Will is lucid. He definitely was at
the lab, at least.

He was lucid enough to leave him.

Mike takes a cautious step closer. “Will, you don’t have to do this,” he says. At the same
time, he sizes up the distance between Will and the quarry’s edge, wondering what the best
way to get him away from it would be. Should he go for a tackle? Talk him down? If he ran
at him, would Will just jump?

Will’s eyes focus, and he blinks a few times, as if coming out of a haze. When Mike looks
closer, he realizes that he’s crying. He feels answering tears sting at his waterline, and makes
no move to hold them back.

When Will finally speaks, it’s strangled. Choked. “You don’t get it, Mike.”

Fuck it. Mike crosses the distance between them, gently taking Will’s trembling arm and
tugging him a little closer, away from the ledge. He searches Will’s expression, deliberately
looking him in the eye. “What don’t I get?” he says softly. “Please, what is it?”

He’s done with all the games. With the secrets, with the lies, with the fear. None of that
matters anymore. For once, he just wants them to be honest with each other. He knows that
Will gets stuck in his head, but Mike used to be able to get him out. He can do that again,
right? He has to.

“Just tell me,” Mike murmurs, stroking a thumb over the back of Will’s hand. “Just tell me,
and we can figure it out together. I promis—”

Will yanks his arm away, and for the first time all night, he looks angry. Mike blinks at him,
bereft, clueless as to where he went wrong. Will’s crying in earnest now, furious tears
streaking quickly down his face, dripping off his chin. He looks like he’s completely breaking
down. Mike doesn’t know how to help. Doesn’t know how to make it better. He can’t do
anything except watch.

“Together?” Will repeats, staring at him. There’s an incredulous bite to his voice, almost like
Mike’s said something funny. Like Mike’s being stupid.

A thick lump wedges its way down Mike’s throat, and his breathing goes a little funny. He
takes a step back, more hurt than he wants to admit. “I…”

Will’s breath catches on the edge of a sob. “It was supposed to be us!”

Mike freezes. The rain roars in his ears. His pulse pounds along his wrist.
Will doesn’t look away. His eyes are liquid, dark and honest. “It was supposed to be me and
you,” he whispers.

Suddenly, Mike knows exactly what he was trying to say in the garage last year. You’re
destroying everything, and for what? So you can swap spit with some stupid girl?

It was supposed to be Will. It always was. Mike sees the truth of it now, clear as day, cracked-
open and raw in his expression. It was supposed to be them, but Mike was too afraid. And
they both know it.

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep, steadying breath. Be brave. Be fucking brave. He needs you.

When he looks back at Will, he’s made up his mind. His jaw clenches, and he says the words
as clearly as he can. “It still can be.”

The bluntness, the exhilarated truth of the words, pushes a little laugh out of Mike’s chest.
Zooming out, it’s all a little ridiculous: the setting, the fight, the memories. How did they get
here? Why can’t they go home?

“Look at us, Will!” Mike bursts, waving an arm around the dark quarry. “Look at where we
are! I followed you out here, didn’t I?”

Honestly, what more does Will want from him? Does he want Mike to chase him around for
the rest of their lives? Does he want him to beg on his knees? Does he want him to apologize
until he’s blue in the face, to pull him close, to—

Because Mike will do it. That’s the sad part. He really will.

Will scrubs a hand over his face, frustrated. “Yeah, and I didn’t want you to!” he snaps. “I
need to do this on my own, Mike. No one else is getting hurt because of me.”

Of course. Of course that’s what he’s thinking. Stupid, gorgeous, self-sacrificial—

Mike forces down the rest of his fear. He does the only thing left that he can think of.

He takes Will’s hand, then brings it up to his own heart. It’s beating like crazy, pushing right
out through his ribs and into Will’s palm. Take it, Mike thinks. It’s yours.

Will’s breath catches, his eyes darting from Mike’s chest up to his lips.

Mike closes his eyes.

“Stay,” he begs.

He feels completely flayed open. Will’s fingertips curl softly against the slick leather of his
jacket. Eddie’s triangle pin presses against Mike’s skin, safe and tucked-away, like a secret.
Somehow, though, he feels like Will can see right through. Like he knows.

He knows.
Heart in his throat, Mike waits. This is it—he’s laid it all out on the table. Will can take him
or leave him. Together, or not at all. Ten years of friendship, and it all comes down to this
single, waterlogged moment at the top of the Hawkins quarry.

Fingers brush the side of his face. Hopeful, breathless, Mike leans into the touch. Will’s
gentle, cautious—his hand ghosts along Mike’s jaw, his thumb caressing the dimple by his
mouth. Every square inch of Mike’s body vibrates, desperate and wanting, and he leans a
little closer. Finally, he thinks.

“I can’t,” Will says.

For a second, the words don’t register. Then, Mike thinks he’s heard him wrong.

Cold air blows across his cheeks. Will’s hand is gone.

Wait.

Mike’s eyes fly open.

It’s too late. In the time that it’s taken him to catch up, Will’s already booked it across the
quarry, backpack thumping, sneakers pounding. As Mike watches, helplessly rooted to the
spot, Will takes a flying leap off the edge.

The moment freezes, stretches, feels infinite and infinitesimal all at once. Mike doesn’t
breathe. Doesn’t blink. He doesn’t do anything but watch, completely and utterly useless, as
Will floats in midair, his outline lit scarlet by the light of the Upside-Down. He doesn’t look
afraid. Not even a little bit.

He looks fearless.

Then the world speeds up again, spinning and blurring, and Will falls.

He falls, and falls, and falls.

***

Wind howls. Stars dance across the night sky. Mike stands, frozen in time, staring
unblinkingly at the spot Will disappeared. His hand is still outstretched, his mouth still
hanging open in a silent scream. He was too late.

He’s too late.

But—maybe not. Maybe there’s still more.

Be there for him, Bob had told him, a million years ago. That’s the most important thing you
can do.
 Three years ago, Will went missing. Three years ago, Will spent seven days of his life alone
in a nightmare dimension, fighting monsters in the cold. Three years ago, there was nothing
in the world that Mike wanted more than to be by his best friend’s side. To keep him safe.

As Mike looks over the quarry’s edge, taking in the pulsing, red-hot gate, rain falls in thick
sheets around him. It soaks into the crevices of Eddie’s jacket, pools in the creased toes of his
sneakers. He’ll admit it—it’s an intimidating sight. It looks like a descent straight into hell.

“Okay,” Mike says. Then, for good measure: “Okay.”

He takes a step backwards. Then another.

Then, more purposefully, he backs all the way up to the rock line, grinding his heels into the
mud. He shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Hold on, Will, he thinks. I’m coming.

He gets a running start.

Chapter End Notes

i know this is a really short chapter, but i really didn’t want to add any scenes and take
away from the momentum of this sequence. i hope everyone enjoyed! honestly, i’m just
happy i got it up at all, because i only had 200 words on the doc this morning😭 it’s
officially the last week of undergrad (!!) which means life is Stressful. should ease up
soon, though!

i’m taking a week (maybe 2? we shall see) long break, and then the episode 5 script will

💗
be posted on my tumblr. excited to keep going! thanks to everyone who’s still here. love
yall to pieces

again, the episode 4 script is linked here!

- H xx
 Heroes
Chapter Summary

“I know what everyone thinks of me,” he spits. “I know that I’m—weak, okay, and I
can’t fight good like the rest of you—”

“Mike—”

“But I don’t care! I don’t care, okay? I’m not letting you do this alone.”

Silence thumps between them. Mike’s eyes are wide, half-crazed, like he can’t even
control what’s coming out of his mouth. Like he doesn’t want to control it.

And Will doesn’t want him to, either. Not if it means he says things like this.

Mike swallows, then tacks on, heartbreakingly: “Not again.”

Chapter Notes

happy friday! if you would like to read the episode 5 script before this chapter, click
here!

warnings for gun usage, wounds and injuries, and blood. enjoy! 💗
See the end of the chapter for more notes

Gravity works strangely in the Upside Down. That’s the first thing Will remembers. More
accurately, that’s the first thing he feels— limbs weighed down in mid-air, flailing for
purchase and finding none, stomach swooping, liquid sloshing, strands of hair floating. His
backpack thumps wildly against his spine, and he scrambles to grab the straps so that he
doesn’t lose anything. His eyes are squeezed shut—he can’t bear to look. Besides, he’s falling
too fast, and the wind would sting like hell.

All of that, and he still doesn’t regret his decision. He knows he had to jump.

There’s a moment, though, right when he hits the ground. And god, he hits it hard. His bones
ache with the force of it. His nose slams straight into the dusty bedrock, sending starbursts of
pain up into his sinuses, flashes of red behind his closed eyelids. “Ow,” he mutters, rolling
sideways to rub at the hurting spot, even if it fades into the cacophony of similar hurts
exploding through his body.
And in that moment, that singular handful of seconds, he thinks about Mike. About his face,
just before Will had run. His pulse thumping under Will’s palm like a scared rabbit—
frightened, but brave. Trusting.

Stay, he’d said.

Now, Will’s here. But there was no other way.

He forces the image out of his mind, shifts himself up to a sitting position, and painstakingly
checks for injuries. Nothing feels broken, which is good. Then, he reaches backwards for his
bag. All of his weapons are still intact, which is also good. A promising start, compared to his
last visit.

There’s no sign of immediate danger—not yet, at least—but Will knows better than to let his
guard down. In quick, practiced movements, he pulls his rifle from its strap and readies the
scope. When something comes for him, he’ll be ready. He’s not that scared little kid anymore.
He refuses to be.

A sound crackles through the air.

Will jumps, his finger flexing on the trigger, but not pulling. At first, he can’t tell exactly
what the noise is. A howl? A bark? A scream?

Then, it gets closer. Coming from the sky, not the forest. Descending from above.

There’s a flash of black leather, and with a sudden drop of his stomach, Will knows exactly
what’s making the sound. Or, more specifically, who.

He’d know that voice anywhere.

In a disgraceful pinwheel of motion, Mike Wheeler plummets to the ground. He lands just a
few feet away from Will, also face-down, arms and legs awkwardly akimbo. His whole face
scrunches up as his nose crashes against the gravel, the skin below his nostrils going pale
white and then a dark, oozing red. “Owww.”

For a second, Will just stares. It should be an impossible thing, is an impossible thing; Mike
Wheeler in the Upside Down. So fantastical, so improbable, that he must have imagined it.
Must have dreamed it up.

He blinks, and Mike’s still there. Moving, even, alive and awake and miserable-looking,
pinching the bridge of his nose to stem the bleeding. He squints over at Will, pissed and hurt
and reckless and way too pleased with himself, all at once.

The expression, the posture, the nosebleed, is all so uniquely Mike that Will can’t just be
imagining it. Can’t just be dreaming. And that, he thinks, is when the panic starts to set in.

“You followed me?” he demands, even though the answer is right in front of his face. He
knows what Mike did. He might even know why. But that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.
Mike wipes blood from his face with the back of his hand, then resumes pinching his nose. In
a congested, nasally voice, he says, “Duh.”

Duh. That’s all he has to say for himself? He’s risking his life, running headfirst into danger,
being a reckless, sacrificial idiot, and the only explanation he can offer is duh? Like it’s
nothing?

Will’s aware, distantly, that he’s started to hyperventilate. Images keep playing through his
mind, a horrifically fucked-up trauma reel of possibilities: Mike ripped to shreds by a
demodog, skewered by a vine, burned in a fire, bitten by bats, strangled by Vecna himself.
Worst of all, Will doesn’t even know if Henry’s the one sending him these images, or if he’s
coming up with them all by himself. Knowing his brain, it’s probably a mixture of the two.

He looks around the quarry, half-expecting a horde of monsters to already be on their heels.
The space is just as empty as it was when he arrived, wide-open and yawning and ominous,
but that doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way. It doesn’t mean that there aren’t still endless horrors
to come.

In fact, it’s almost worse, that nothing’s shown up yet. The Upside Down is unnaturally still.

“You have to go back,” Will blurts.

Mike tilts his head, like he’s confused. Something about the simplicity of it, the familiarity,
the innocent boyishness, sparks a raging frenzy in Will’s sternum, fizzing into his fingertips,
urging him to move, to undo what’s been done, to fix it. He crawls over to Mike, body still
aching from the fall, and tries to push him back towards the gate. “It’s not safe,” he grunts,
shoving his whole body against Mike’s shoulder. “You have to go back!”

Mike, though he must be a hundred pounds soaking wet, stubbornly resists his efforts. He
pushes right back, eyebrows tipped down in a petulant glare. Angry, now, even more than he
was before. “I know it’s not safe!” he bites back, crossing his arms over his chest. “What, do
you think I’m an idiot?”

His tone is frustrated, but there’s something genuine behind his eyes. Fear, almost, or offense.
No—hurt. That’s it. He’s not just arguing—he’s honestly asking.

Despite himself, Will softens. “Mike, no,” he answers, more gentle now. “Of course not.”

It’s not enough. Mike’s on a roll now, his glare intensifying, his words tumbling out with
rapidly increasing desperation. “I know what everyone thinks of me,” he spits. “I know that
I’m— weak, okay, and I can’t fight good like the rest of you—”

“Mike—”

“But I don’t care! I don’t care, okay? I’m not letting you do this alone.”

Silence thumps between them. Mike’s eyes are wide, half-crazed, like he can’t even control
what’s coming out of his mouth. Like he doesn’t want to control it.

And Will doesn’t want him to, either. Not if it means he says things like this.
Mike swallows, then tacks on, heartbreakingly: “Not again.”

Not again. Will thinks of himself at twelve, slogging through a deserted wasteland with
nothing but his dwindling wits for company, selfishly wishing that his best friend was by his
side. Knowing, deep down, that he didn’t want Mike to be subjected to the same miserable
experience, not ever. But if he’s volunteering— well. Who is Will, honestly, to stop him?
Once Mike Wheeler makes up his mind, he’s more determined than a force of nature. If he
says he’s coming with him, then he’s almost definitely coming with him. For better or worse.

The thing is, Will has a horrible, sinking feeling that it’ll be for worse.

He stares at Mike, wishing he could muster up some more anger, more frustration, more of
anything, really, other than an aggressive rush of fondness. Mike, as always, is the best, most
infuriating human being alive. Will wants to punch him. He wants to kiss him. He wants, he
wants, he wants.

Mike’s eyes slant with a steely sort of determination. Gearing up for the big finale. “So,” he
starts. “If you’re really gonna do this… I’m coming with you. Otherwise, we’re both going
back.”

Will doesn’t doubt him for a second. If he says no, he fully expects that he’ll be dragged back
to the lab by any means necessary, up to and including getting pulled through the forest by
the roots of his hair. Mike just has that sort of crazy in his eyes, and Will knows better than to
tempt fate.

Still, though. It’s Mike. And this really isn’t how Will wanted this to go.

He opens his mouth, not entirely sure yet what he’s going to say—something along the lines
of you’re fucking insane or I’m desperately in love with you, for starters—but he’s cut off,
rudely, by the entire world shaking apart. A low rumble, starting below the ground and
trembling across the entire quarry, earthen and dangerous.

Before Will’s eyes, the gate starts to close. He feels Mike’s hand on his shoulder, another on
his hip, and realizes that he’s done the same, instinctively reaching out for an anchor. Mike’s
skin is hot to the touch. His blood pounds under the thin surface, frenzied and kinetic.

A few feet away, organic matter bridges the gap between worlds. It happens so quickly that
Will’s not sure it’s happening at all. But it is; ooze and slime and thick vines snaking from
one side of the opening to the other, until the ground’s closing right back up, blending
innocuously in with the rest of the rocks and gravel, like nothing had ever been there at all.
No sign of the way they both came in.

No way back.

Of course.

Panting, Mike turns to look at Will. Sweaty strands of hair hang down in front of his eyes; his
fingertips flex against Will’s shoulder. Breathlessly, he says, “Guess I’m coming with you.”
Will’s lips part, unconsciously seeking oxygen, overwhelmed by the thick stifling air around
them, by the burning-hot press of Mike’s fingers to his skin, by the immediate elimination of
any kind of escape. It’s so much. Stupidly, he hadn’t been expecting any of it.

Then, Mike’s words catch up to him.

He closes his eyes, long-suffering, and sighs. As always, he thinks, Mike Wheeler is gonna
be the goddamn death of him.

***

Mike might just be an idiot, but he doesn’t really get why Will’s still mad at him. Well—he
gets it, in a theoretical sort of sense, but in a more real, practical, here-and-now sense, he’s
completely clueless. Didn’t they have a moment, earlier? Didn’t Mike make his case clear?

Honestly, if anything, he kind of thinks that he should be the mad one, out of the two of them.
After all, he’s the one that begged Will to stay. He’s the one who crawled for forgiveness on
his hands and knees, who leapt over the edge of the quarry without hesitation, who took his
bleeding heart in his hand and served it to Will on a goddamn silver platter.

And here Will is, stomping a flattened trail through the woods, not even bothering to look at
him.

Seriously, Mike’s ready to ask the audience. Phone a friend. What the hell is he doing wrong?

I’ll take confusing best friends for 500, Alex.

The Upside Down isn’t really anything like what Mike thought it’d be. And, at the same time,
it’s exactly like what he thought it’d be. Obviously, as one of the only people who were still
dimension-hopping virgins, Mike’s thought about it a lot. No one’s ever accused him of not
having a healthy imagination.

It’s definitely got a few things going for it. Dark and spooky? Check. Freezing-his-balls-off
cold? Also check. Danger lurking around every corner? Remains to be seen, but Mike’s
gonna go out on a limb and check that one off, too.

It’s mainly different, though, because Will is here. Mike can’t find it in himself to be scared,
not really, with his best friend by his side. Or—several feet in front of him. Same difference.
Even though Will’s pissed at him, even though they’re fighting, Mike feels wholly and
entirely safe. Like nothing at all could possibly hurt him. Which is probably a problem that’ll
catch up with him later, knowing his luck, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Will quickens his pace, nothing more than a furious blur in the distance, and Mike tries his
hardest to keep up. He’s not exactly at his best right now, though, and his shoe snags on a
stray tree root, sending him toppling halfway to the ground. Only halfway, because he
(thankfully) catches himself, but it’s a close call. “Shit,” he mutters, trying his best to
dislodge his sneaker from the root. “Will, wait up!”

Will doesn’t stop. In fact, the only sign he hears Mike at all is a slight turn of his head,
followed by an annoyed yell: “Maybe you should walk faster!”

Jesus. This is ridiculous. Mike stares after Will’s retreating back, incredulous and a little
pissed himself, now, then scoffs. That’s how he’s gonna play it? Really?

Mike picks up the damaged pieces of his ego, then runs after him. “Will!” He doubles his
pace, already short of breath. “Will, I don’t—”

Finally, he’s close enough to tug at the corduroy of Will’s jacket, sending him spinning
around to face Mike, eyes narrowed and lips thin. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t
have to. The expression is enough.

Mike thought he could do this. Like always, he was wrong. At the frosty wave of anger that
wafts from Will’s skin, he falters. Takes a step back. His fingers loosen against the fabric of
Will’s jacket, then fall away entirely. “I… Are you mad at me?”

It’s a lame question. It’s also not what he meant to say, not exactly. But it’s all he’s got. He
feels twelve, suddenly—thirteen, fourteen—blindsided by the consequences of his own
actions, wrongfooted without knowing exactly why. Begging, begging, begging. Are you mad
at me? What did I do wrong? I know I messed up, please give me another chance—

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Maybe Will’s done giving him chances. He wouldn’t blame him,
if he was.

Will’s mouth falls open a little, like he can’t believe the audacity of the question, and he barks
out a short, humorless laugh. It’s an ugly sound, one that has Mike shrinking away even
further as he waits to get chewed out. Fix it, his brain screams. Fix it, fix it, fix it.

He’s trying.

“Am I—am I mad at you?” Will repeats, his voice raising in pitch and incredulity.
“Unbelievable!”

Teeth gritted, he storms away, more hurricane than boy. Like a man with a death wish, Mike
scrambles after him. “I just,” he tries, even though Will’s pointedly ignoring him. “I’m not
sure what I did wrong.”

One more time, Will stops in his tracks. The movement is so sudden that Mike nearly slams
into his back, digging his heels into the dirt to prevent the collision.

Will scrubs a hand over his face, looking about three thousand years old and twice as weary,
then gestures out to the bleak forest around them, his arms an angry slice of motion. “None of
that matters right now, Mike! Look at where we are! Do you think this is a game?”

Stung, Mike frowns. “No,” he says, more quietly. “Of course not.”
A bit of the fight leaks from Will’s posture. His eyes dart around Mike’s face, softening as he
takes in whatever pitiful expression he must be wearing. Mike, for his part, shifts from foot to
foot and tries his best not to make things worse.

After what feels like an eternity, Will sighs, long and tired, then keeps on walking. His pace
is a lot slower, now, in what feels like a deliberate olive branch. He’s letting Mike keep up
with him.

Gladly, Mike falls into line. They’ve been silent for a while now, nothing but labored
breathing and dead leaves crunching underfoot. It doesn’t feel like the right time to say
anything else, so he doesn’t. He just waits.

Eventually, Will speaks. “I had a plan, Mike,” he says softly, sounding hopelessly resigned.
“No one else was supposed to get caught up in it. Especially not you.”

He doesn’t think it’s meant to be a dig, but Mike’s bruised ego interprets it as one, either way.
Does Will mean that he would have wanted someone else with him, if he had the choice?
Someone more capable? Stronger, faster, better?

Mike forcibly exhales, reminding himself to calm down. He didn’t mean it like that, he
thinks, and tries his hardest to believe it. Out loud, he says: “Especially not me? What is that
supposed to mean?”

It still comes out a little accusatory, because of course it does. Mike sucks like that.

Will turns his way, every trace of anger gone from his body. His eyes are big and wide;
earnest. Carefully, he reaches out to put a hand on Mike’s shoulder, fingertips gently digging
into the worn leather. When he speaks, he meets Mike’s eye—deliberate, genuine. “It means
that I wanted you safe.”

Oh.

It’s a protective sort of statement, the kind that Mom or even Nancy would make, but
somehow it feels— different, coming from Will. More meaningful.

And the moment afterwards, Will’s eyes darting down to his lips, only complicates things
further. Something sparks between them, right there in the frigid dead air of the Upside
Down. Mike feels it in his chest. On his tongue.

Will looks back up. Hurriedly, like nothing had happened, he spins back around and keeps
walking. But he’s not angry anymore. Mike can tell.

Fighting off the nervous, buzzing feeling in his veins, Mike jogs to catch up with him. He
sidles close, the fight already forgiven, and knocks into Will’s shoulder. If he’s not gonna get
a kiss out of this, he can at least try to lighten the mood.

A kiss would be nice, though. He wouldn’t be opposed.

“Well,” he says, good-naturedly. “I meant what I said earlier, you know. I can hold my own.
I’ve been practicing.”
With one arm, he gives an exaggerated flex, nothing much to show for it other than the
familiar bulk of Eddie’s jacket. It gets a smile out of Will, though; a sideways glance and
slightly reddened cheeks. Score.

“I know you have,” Will says kindly. Neither of them mention the events of the night before
—two nights ago? It’s hard to tell time in the Upside Down—in which Mike hadn’t been able
to hold his own. He’d failed, in spectacular fashion, and he has the stitches to prove it.

He’ll do better this time. He has to.

Will’s expression goes contemplative, a little hesitant, as he absentmindedly scans the forest.
“And that’s not what I meant,” he continues. “I don’t think you’re weak, Mike. I just—I
dunno.” He dips his head, an embarrassed flush crawling up the side of his neck. His next
words are so quiet, so mumbled, that Mike can barely make them out. “I worry about you, I
guess.”

Just like before, it feels special. Meaningful. Will wasn’t angry at Mike—he was worried. He
wants him safe. He wants him protected.

Mike knows the feeling.

He bumps their shoulders together again, because it’s the only touch he feels like he can get
away with right now, and he needs something, anything, before he explodes with pent-up
want. “I worry about you, too,” he offers, cheeks warm.

This time, Will’s definitely smiling.

It’s a good moment. Leaves crunch beneath their feet, crisp and abundant. Mike lets himself
enjoy it, just for a handful of seconds, then tries to screw his head back on. “So,” he says, and
looks back in Will’s direction. “What’s the plan?”

It’s a little tough, right now, to activate Mike’s planning mode. There’s a lot of other things
he’d rather be doing. A lot of brain space that he would like to dedicate for other stuff. But
this is important, and a good head for strategy is one of the main things that Mike actually
has to offer, especially compared to everyone else. If he’s going to be down here, he wants to
be useful.

Will looks up, startled. “What?”

“The plan!” Mike repeats, trying to jog his memory. “You said you had a plan.”

He waits, but Will’s face grows decidedly guiltier, and an unpleasant knowledge sinks low in
Mike’s gut. “Is the plan just to turn yourself in?” he guesses, his tone unamused. “Because if
it is, that’s a shitty plan, and we’re thinking of something else.”

He waits some more. Will’s eyes widen, just a little, and his mouth opens and closes, at a
total loss for words. Bingo.

Mike sighs. “That’s the plan, isn’t it.”

Really, he shouldn’t have expected anything else. This is Will Byers he’s talking to.

Will Byers, who’s currently turning a violent shade of purple, crossing his arms, and letting
out an undignified squawk of protest. “That is not the plan!”

Mike raises an eyebrow. Come on, the motion says. We’re all friends here.

And, because they are friends, and Mike knows Will entirely too well, he caves, sheepishly
rubbing at the back of his neck. “That’s not… the whole plan,” he amends.

“Uh huh,” Mike says flatly. “Yeah, we’re not doing that.”

Will’s eyes snap back to his, big and panicked. “Wait,” he blurts. “Wait, no, that’s not it. I
mean—yeah, okay, I was gonna turn myself in. But then, if everything went okay, and I
wasn’t… you know, dead—”

Mike’s stomach lurches. “Will!”

“Okay, so it wasn’t the best plan!” Will holds his hands up, as if for mercy. “I suck at plans!
Whatever. The point is, that after I got to Vecna, I was gonna—you know.” He aims his rifle
off into the trees, making a little pew pew motion, complete with whispered sound effects.
The overall performance is so endearing that Mike forgets to be mad, for just a minute, too
busy watching the way Will’s hair flops down into his eyes.

Then, he considers Will’s plan.

“A bait-and-switch,” he says, after a second. Theoretically, it isn’t a bad idea.

Will sighs, relieved that he’s caught on, and lowers his gun again. “Exactly.”

Theoretically.

“It’s dangerous,” Mike says.

Softly, and without breaking his gaze, Will replies: “I know.”

Does he, though? Because Mike knows. He knows that when he closes his eyes, he sees
Will’s waterlogged corpse in the darkness. He knows that he stood there, on the edge of that
quarry, and watched the rangers pull his best friend’s body out of the water. He knows exactly
how close he’s come to losing Will, time and time again, in a hospital bed, in the Byers’ shed,
on the lab roof. He knows exactly how close he is to losing him again, here in this nightmare
dimension, if he doesn’t play his cards exactly right. It’s a thin line that the two of them walk.
Mike doesn’t want to do anything to make it thinner.

Besides, there’s also the part they’re not saying. The fact of Will’s— connection to this place,
to Vecna, however it works. Is it even possible that he could plan something like that without
Vecna knowing about it? Is he listening to them already? Has he been watching the whole
time?
Mike shivers. No use in driving himself crazy with the unknown. “I… We’ll think about it,”
he tells Will, trying to sound reasonable. “In the meantime, maybe we can brainstorm?”

Will tries for a smile, but it falls a little flat. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Sure.”

It’s the kind of sure that doesn’t mean sure at all. It’s the kind of sure that Will says right
before he packs his bags and runs away in the middle of the night. It’s the kind of sure that he
says before jumping off the quarry and sacrificing himself to the Upside Down.

It’s the kind of sure that means he’s still planning the bait-and-switch, with or without Mike.
So, he reasons, he’ll just have to keep a close eye on him. How much does a guy really even
need to sleep? Probably not that much. Two, three hours? Three feels like a lot. Maybe just
one. One solid hour of shut-eye, and twenty-three left for dedicated Will-watching.

It still doesn’t feel like enough.

Will-watching needs to be a covert operation, though, so Mike pretends to accept the bullshit
sure. He pastes on a smile of his own, chuckles good-naturedly, and slings a companionable
arm around Will’s shoulders. “After all, we’ve got two Dungeon Masters here!” he points
out, easily continuing his earlier point. “If we put our heads together, I’m sure we can figure
something out. We’ll kick Vecna’s ass.”

At the words Dungeon Masters, Will’s nose scrunches up in disagreement. “Mike, I’m not
really—”

“You so are!” Mike argues back, already hearing the self-deprecating protest in his head.
“Best DM ever! I mean—your campaign that one time, with the juju zombies, and the
Kuzatan, and—”

There’s a jerk on his arm, quick and forceful, as Will dislodges himself, stopping short in the
middle of the woods. Mike takes a second to catch up, his brain still running away with him,
caught up in blatant admiration of Will’s creativity. Then, he sees Will’s expression, and he
very quickly remembers why it had been his first—and last—solo campaign.

Oh, shit.

Mike nearly chokes. “I mean—”

“I’m surprised you remember,” Will says stonily. His face is completely blank now; an
impenetrable impasse. They’re both remembering that night—Mike’s stupidity, Will’s hurt.
The rain against the roof.

Mike swallows, lingering on the memory. Usually, it hurts too much to think about. He
doesn’t like to remember all the times that he’s been a raging idiot. But he’s older now, and
hopefully a little wiser, so he forces himself to look that night in the eye. To sit with it. It
happened, he thinks, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.

“Of course I remember,” he says, careful to keep his voice low and even. Like he’s talking to
a spooked horse. “It was a good campaign, Will.”
Something dark flashes in Will’s eyes. He jerks his head to the side, not looking at him, and a
tense muscle jumps in his jaw. “It was a stupid campaign,” he says tightly. “Forget about it.”

“Will.”

Mike’s not sure what he’s going to say after that—just that he has to say something, that he
can’t bear to keep going like this, a million unspoken things wedged between them. He
doesn’t get the chance to, though, because something rustles in the bushes.

They’d let their guards down.

Will freezes, his entire posture changing in the blink of an eye. He’s tense, alert, wary. His
hand rests protectively on his rifle. “Did you hear that?”

Slowly, Mike reaches a hand back for his nail bat. “Hear what?” he whispers. He heard it, he
thinks, but he’d like to imagine that it was just the wind. Or anything, really, other than a
face-eating monster.

Will thrusts a hand behind him, cautiously advancing towards the tree line. “Stay behind me,”
he says.

For a second, Mike’s almost offended. He can fight, too! Didn’t he just spend the whole day
saying so? But, he relents, Will’s probably right. Between the two of them, he should
probably be in charge. Better for everyone that way.

Mike sucks it up and does as he’s told, keeping behind Will as they move towards the forest.
The trees are still, almost eerily so. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound.

Maybe it was just the wind.

He barely has time to finish the thought, though, before the first flash of gray leaps from the
underbrush. After that, there’s no time to think of anything at all, other than go go go and
teeth and gunshots and, in Will’s terrified voice: “RUN!”

So he does. That’s the last unexpected thing about this place: plenty of untrammeled, wide-
open space. Great for running for your life.

***

Will doesn’t think he’s ever been this exhausted in his life. His body hurts, his heart hurts,
and he’s got a frantic Mike Wheeler and ten-ish bloodthirsty demodogs hot on his trail. Not
the best day for him, all things considered.

He turns over his shoulder, firing off a few rounds into the pack. It’s automatic, just like the
sting of pain that ripples through the Hive Mind. He barely even registers it anymore.
“Come on!” Mike shouts, doubling his pace. “We’re almost there!”

Almost where, Will has no idea. But Mike seems to know, which is good enough for him.

Will spins back, ready to run after Mike, but the movement is too slow—too sluggish,
somehow, weighed down at the heel.

Something’s got him.

Fuck, he thinks, clear and distinct, and then the entire world goes sideways. Darkness blurs in
front of his eyes, dead leaves scrape his cheeks. A demodog, fiercely determined, tugs him
backwards by the leg of his pants. It’s not trying to hurt him—it’s trying to take him
somewhere.

Mike’s face, fuzzy and far-away, flashes with terror. “Will!”

Will’s shirt rucks up, vines and branches scratching at his exposed stomach, and the speed of
the demodog’s pull quickens to an alarming degree. He splays a hand out, trying to hold onto
something—a root, a plant, anything— but it’s all too fast. It’s no use.

In the back of his head, something hits him. No, not him—the dog. Blow after blow after
blow, red-hot and walloping, so powerful that the entire Upside Down feels it. Mike’s nail-bat
swings down again and again, never ceasing, never relenting. Desperate determination leaks
out of every downbeat. He’s not thinking, not anymore. He’s just moving.

Will tries to kick back at the dog, to dislodge it, but its grip is too strong. It’s sunk its teeth
into his leg, now, and it’s all he can do to keep from screaming. It hurts. The real pain,
combined with the imagined pain of the Hive Mind, combined with the blurry, beautiful sight
of Mike’s crazed expression, his rippling muscles, an avenging angel with a hand-me-down
baseball bat—it’s all too much. Will can’t focus. Can’t help.

Finally, their efforts start to pay off. Will’s ankle slackens from the dog’s grip, and he
frantically tugs it free, nearly crying out from the needle-sharp scrape of teeth that drags
down his leg. But as soon as he does, it turns its petaled face upwards—towards Mike.

Quick as a flash, three dogs leap over Will, teeth bared, barreling right for Mike’s chest. And
there’s no mistake—they’re aiming to kill. Whatever reservations they had towards Will,
they’re nowhere to be seen now.

Everything freezes. Narrows down to just this: the rapidly narrowing space between the dogs’
claws and Mike’s heart. The heartbreakingly terrified look in Mike’s eyes. He’s looking right
at Will. Right at him.

Someone screams, and it sounds like Mike’s name. It sounds like a curse. Like a prayer.

Everything that’d been building in Will’s skin—the voices, the pain, the anger—all comes to
a boiling point. Bubbles and bubbles, until he’s choking on it. He feels it in his veins, in his
throat, in his lungs, lightning-quick and burning-hot and powerful, more powerful than
anything he’s ever felt. More powerful than anything he’s ever seen.
Then, it explodes.

The world goes white. Loud. Like static on a radio, tuning the frequency in-between stations.
It disorients him, mixes him all up and around and inside-out and outside-in—for a second,
Will thinks that he sees a blue sky, green tents, a group of survivors beyond the trees. Like
he’s in the real Hawkins, not a cruel mockery of it.

He blinks, and Mike’s holding his face. Stroking his jaw. It’s all blurry, but it looks like he
might be crying. Will’s ears ring and ring. He feels something hot and sticky under his nose.

Mike’s mouth is moving, he realizes, and it takes a second for him to focus in on the words.
“Will! Will, are you okay? What was that?”

Hands flutter around his body, nervous and flighty, before landing on his back, helping him
sit up. Still blinking, trying to clear his vision, Will looks around. Then, he stares.

The entire forest is flattened. Trees, dogs, vines. All of it. They’re sitting in the middle of a
perfect crop circle, radiating right out from Will’s battered body.

Was that… was that him?

Will spreads his fingers apart, dazedly inspecting the fronts and backs of his hands. They
look like ordinary hands. Human. Normal. Definitely nothing that could level entire
ecosystems.

Somehow, though, they did.

He reaches up, wiping just below his nose. His palm comes away bloody.

He looks back at Mike, meeting his shock with an awestruck terror. “...I don’t know,” he
admits, helpless. “I don’t know.”

Something like fear twists at Mike’s expression, but only for a second. He schools his face
quickly, then offers a hand to Will. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Can you walk?”

Will takes the offered hand, wincing with pain as he pulls himself to his feet. “Yeah, yeah,
I’m—” He stumbles, stars floating behind his eyes, and knocks directly into Mike’s sternum.
Mike steadies him automatically, hands big and gentle around his waist.

“Here,” he says, readjusting their positions. “I’ve got you.”

They end up with Will’s full weight leaning against Mike’s side, his head against his shoulder
and a hand at his hip. It’s a lot of Mike to be surrounded by, and Will knows he’s blushing,
but he’s too tired to care.

There’s a press of fingers to his hip, quick and delicate, like a kiss. “Alright,” Mike says.
“Let’s get outta here, before they come back.”

Will nods, weak and run-down and changed, somehow, irrevocably altered in these familiar
woods. Together, they head off into the unknown.
 He doesn’t look back.

Chapter End Notes

💗
thanks for reading, guys! again, if you’d like to check out the episode 5 script, click
here! i’ll see you next week for chapter 10

- H xx
 Just for One Day
Chapter Summary

Mike’s hand crosses the boundary between them, fingers splaying out towards Will’s
cheek. Gently, he presses soft fingertips underneath Will’s eye, runs them across his
orbital bone. Wiping away tears. Sharing them, transferring them. Will to Mike. Both of
them salt-stained with Will’s pain.

“You’re my best friend,” Mike whispers. He tells it like a playground secret. Like a
promise. He’s smiling, boyish and beautiful, and Will’s never wanted to kiss him more
than he does right now.

Chapter Notes

if you haven’t read the episode 5 script yet, feel free to click here!

content warnings: blood, wounds, extremely mild gore (like literally one sentence)

enjoy! 💗
See the end of the chapter for more notes

Mike’s feet start walking the path before he even knows where he’s going. His surroundings
may look different, but the layout is still familiar, still Hawkins, and he’s got a banged-up
Will slumping against his side, depending on him. Counting on him. Him. Mike. His shoulder
is throbbing, but he ignores it. Nothing matters except Will.

He needs you, he thinks, desperate and quick and maybe a little selfishly pleased, somewhere
deep down, even though it’s not the time for that. This is an emergency. Will needs someone
level-headed, not full of hang-ups and self-deprecation.

Mike goes home.

Will must be really out of it, because he doesn’t show a single spark of recognition—or of
anything, really—until Mike’s half-dragging, half-carrying him up the Wheeler’s manicured
driveway. It’s weird to see his house like this. Gray, desolate, lifeless. To be fair, it’s never
been the most cheerful house on the block, but he didn’t really know how good he had it until
it was gone. This skeletal, nightmare, bare-bones version is decidedly worse.
Will glances up at him, a question in his clouded-over eyes, and Mike answers: “We’ll be
safe here.”

He tries to sound authoritative. Calm, confident, collected. Like he knows what he’s talking
about. Like they will be safe here, and not in just as much danger as they were before, if not
more. Honestly, Mike has no idea what he’s walking into. For all he knows, this could be
Vecna’s new hideout. But Will needs it to be safe, so it is. It will be.

Weakly, Will nods, taking his word for it. Once they get to the doorstep, Mike shifts Will’s
weight to one arm, and uses the other to jimmy the door open. It’s not locked, which leaves a
bad taste in his mouth. Is that an Upside Down thing? Did Mom not lock the door the last
time she left? Or has someone been in here?

A shiver runs down his spine. A cloud of dust flies in his face.

Coughing, Mike hauls Will through the door and up the stairs, all the way to his room. This
isn’t how I imagined getting Will into bed, he thinks, and instantly turns red. Right. Not the
time.

The mortification quickly gives way to bewilderment, though, the second he enters his
bedroom. It’s not the familiar, messy, teenage-boy room that he remembers. In fact, there’s
nothing teenage about it at all. It’s Mike’s room from when he was twelve, space-patterned
sheets and Rory the dinosaur, science-fair pictures and D&D posters galore. He stops short,
taking it all in, finally remembering Nancy’s half-baked description of the Upside Down: It’s
stuck in 1983.

“Woah,” he says, blinking. “This place really is stuck in the past.”

Once he finishes processing, he helps Will settle down on the twin-sized mattress, propping
up some pillows around him for good measure. Will pulls a face at all the fussing, but Mike
doesn’t let it bother him. They almost just died. He’ll fuss if he wants to.

God. He sounds like his mom.

After Will assures him that yes, he’s really fine, and no, he won’t pass out if Mike leaves for
more than two seconds, Mike ducks into the bathroom. He’s gotta have first-aid stuff
somewhere.

He kneels on the cold tile, flings open the sink cabinet, and starts rummaging, careful to keep
the movement limited in his bad shoulder. He thinks he might be bleeding, a little bit, but
whatever. All the more reason to find the bandages.

A few seconds in, Will’s voice, sounding a little more alert, floats in through the open
doorway. “I didn’t know you played guitar.”

Vaguely, in the back of his head, Mike wonders how he found out—and more specifically,
why he’s bringing it up now. But he’s a man on a mission, and he’s also just glad that Will’s
talking, and not passed out from blood loss or overexertion or something, so he’s not about to
look a gift horse in the mouth. “Yeah, I’m not really that good,” he admits, tossing a can of
glass cleaner over his shoulder. “I’m still learning.”

When Will replies, there’s a smile in his voice. “I’m sure you’re great.”

Said by someone who’s never witnessed Mike’s pitiful attempts to pluck his way through
“House of the Rising Sun.” Mike snorts, cheeks a little warm from the praise, then realizes
that his hand’s hit the back of the empty cabinet. “Shit.”

From the bedroom, Will makes an inquisitive noise.

“I could’ve sworn there was a first-aid kit in here,” Mike explains, with growing frustration.
He knows so, actually, because he’d bought it after that summer with Starcourt, when they’d
all been fucked-up beyond recognition, and it’d been expensive, too, the actual good kind
with thick bandages and gloves and antiseptic wipes, but—oh. “I guess I got it after ‘83,” he
realizes, feeling stupid. “So it’s gone now.”

There’s a series of shifting sounds, and then a few muffled thumps, like throw pillows hitting
the carpet, and then Will’s limping in through the door, nudging Mike aside as he joins the
search. “Lemme see,” he murmurs, low and close, hands already moving inside the cabinet.

For a long, breathless second, Mike can’t look away from him. He’s a force of nature, Will
Byers, even in the most mundane moments. Like a thunderstorm with limbs.

“Look, here it is,” Will says suddenly, eyes brightening. “Right here, see?”

Impossibly, he pulls a brand-new first-aid kit out of thin air. And then the bathroom starts to
—well, it starts to change.

Mike watches, pulse pounding, as reality rewrites itself before his eyes. His little-kid
decorations shimmer and fade away, dinosaur-printed shower curtain changing to a plain
deep blue, messy clothes spontaneously appearing on the tile. Mike subtly kicks away a pair
of Superman boxers, hoping that Will hasn’t noticed yet. Luckily, he hardly seems to notice
at all, still holding out the first-aid kit like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Because—for him, Mike realizes, it hasn’t. What Will said about the guitar, earlier—he’d
seen it. Somehow, miraculously, he’d seen Mike’s room as it is, not as it was. Then, with just
a little effort, he’d re-written reality to match what he saw in his head.

He really is a force of nature. Or maybe—maybe even more than that.

Mike tries to keep the awe from his face, but he already knows that he’s doing a bad job of it.
“Woah,” he breathes, once the transformation is complete. Glancing through the doorway, he
can already see that his room is back to normal, an explosion of old trigonometry work and
dark clothes and nerdy posters.

Will furrows his brow, gaze flicking over Mike’s expression. “What?”

“Will, you just…” Mike can’t help but laugh, still caught up in a giddy bubble of amazement.
He wants to bowl Will over in a hug. He wants to hold his hand. He can’t believe he even
knows him, much less gets to be his friend. He’s so lucky.

But Will still looks confused, and now additionally concerned for Mike’s sanity, so Mike
starts to explain. “Nancy said that this place—the Upside Down—was stuck in the past,
right? Stuck on the day you disappeared. But somehow… you’re able to speed it back up. To
see through to the present.”

He’s still turning this new development around in his brain, still feeling along the edges and
trying to put the pieces together, when Will’s expression lights with understanding. “True
Sight,” he says.

Of course.

“True Sight,” Mike agrees. Then, a thought escapes before he can reign it back in: “It’s
almost like the Upside Down was… waiting for you.”

Will shrinks away, his shoulders tightening. His eyes dart down to the floor, dark with shame.
Mike realizes, belatedly, that it had sounded like an accusation. He hurries to rectify it,
scooting closer to put a hand on Will’s shoulder. “No, it’s cool!” he blurts—maybe a little too
earnestly, but whatever. “It’s way cool!” He pauses, brain still whirring with the excitable
effort of solving a puzzle. “And maybe it’s related to—you know. The other stuff that keeps
happening.”

He doesn’t say your powers, notably, because he doesn’t want to freak Will out. They’ll have
to talk about it at some point, obviously, but it seems like a sore subject for now. And,
honestly, if Mike starts thinking about it too hard, he’ll never stop. He’s already got a million
questions, like—has Will had powers the whole time? Since before he got kidnapped? What
exactly can he do? Can he control it? What triggers it? Is he like El, or different? Does it
hurt? How long has he known? Did he know?

Some of those questions, he’s not even sure he wants to know the answer. And Will probably
doesn’t know much more than he does, from the look of it. Mike remembers when they first
found El, how scared she was, how skittish, how the relentless barrage of questions did
nothing but alienate her. Mike doesn’t want Will to feel that way, not if he can help it. So he’s
not pushing. He thinks, personally, that he’s doing a very good job at not pushing, given the
circumstances. It’s a bit of a brain-fuck to discover that your childhood best friend can
manipulate time and space. But, you know, Mike’s cool. The coolest, actually. He’s got this
down pat.

Will’s staring down at his palms, looking even more haunted than he usually does. When he
speaks, his voice is thin. Hoarse. “I don’t… I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he
admits, sounding small and terrified. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Mike’s heart constricts, squeezing tight at the sight of Will’s big, sad eyes. He hunches over a
bit, crouched on his heels, to look Will in the face. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft. “Nothing’s
wrong with you, okay? Other than the fact that you’re a self-sacrificial idiot who jumped off
the quarry. But—hey, that makes two of us!” He pauses, grinning. “Actually, if anything, I’m
worse, ‘cause I’ve done it twice now.”
Will’s head snaps up, his red-rimmed eyes wide with shock. “What?”

Oh. Right. Mike had kinda forgotten that he didn’t know.

But it’s a distraction—a good one—so he just grins even wider, patting Will on the shoulder
and helping him to his feet. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get you fixed up, alright?”

Will trails after him, exasperated. “Mike!” he calls. “What do you mean you’ve done it
twice?”

***

Mike tells the story as he cleans Will’s wounds. Will sits through it, trying extremely hard to
keep from jerking his leg and accidentally kicking Mike in the face. It’s a little hard to keep
his cool with Mike kneeling at his feet like this, looking up from the ground, hands gentle
around Will’s bloody ankle. It’s even harder when Mike says things like I was expendable,
and he wasn’t, like it’s nothing at all. With a grimace. With a shrug.

“That’s not true,” Will blurts, even though he’d promised not to interrupt. Mike gives him a
look, and he doubles down, indignant. “It’s not.”

“Yeah, well.” Mike shrugs again. “Debatable, I guess.”

Will wants to scream. But Mike’s not done with the story, so he bites his tongue.

“Anyway. Troy was threatening to cut out Dustin’s baby teeth, and he said he’d really do it if
I didn’t jump. And—you know Troy. He really would.”

“Yeah,” Will agrees, but he’s really thinking about Dustin, about every single time he’s
spoken to him in the last three years, about every single conversation that this particular
memory has gone unmentioned. Three years, and no one told him. He wants to punch
something. His fingers flex against Mike’s comforter. Bed. He’s in Mike’s bed. On it.
Whatever.

Focus.

“And—” Mike hesitates. Glances up at him, just once, lashes dark and long, before
studiously returning his gaze to Will’s ankle. “You know, we all hoped you were alive. But
we weren’t really sure, not yet, and we’d seen your body—” He cuts off, strangled, and has to
take a moment to collect himself. A horrible silence sits between them.

“We’d seen your body,” Mike repeats, finally, his tone subdued. “So there was a chance that
you were alive, somehow, but—it wasn’t likely. And I just… I don’t know. I jumped.”

A lot of the time, it’s difficult for Will’s brain to come up with words. They drag through his
head like molasses, thick and slow and complicated. He likes being around Mike, usually,
because the words come out easier around him. He doesn’t have to think so hard.

Right now, though, he has no words at all. He wishes he did, but he just—he can’t. There’s
nothing. It’s stupid and inconvenient, and for a single, blinding second, he hates himself so
much that he can barely breathe. Say something, he thinks, skull rattling with the force of it.
Say something, you idiot.

But the silence has lasted too long, the space around them echoing with the weight of Mike’s
confession. Like always, it’s too late.

The washcloth drags roughly over Will’s skin, and before he can stop himself, he flinches.

Mike stops instantly, looking back up with concern. “You okay?” he checks. “We can stop for
a sec, if you want.”

All of that, and Mike’s asking if Will’s okay. He could cry.

As it is, he just lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head in a jerky motion. “No, it’s fine,” he
assures him. “It’s not even a bite, see?”

It’s true—now that the blood’s cleaned away, it’s even easier to see the wound. No tooth
marks, no deep gouges; just three long scratches, dragging from mid-calf to the jut of his
ankle bone. They hurt like hell, but it could’ve been worse. A lot worse.

They’re both silent for a moment, thinking.

“Henry’s not trying to kill me,” Will admits, finally, even though he’s sure Mike’s figured
that out by now. “He wants me alive.”

A complicated look passes over Mike’s face, quick as a flash. Without answering, he finishes
cleaning the wound, bandages Will’s ankle, and stands to his feet. He comes to sit next to
Will, leaving barely any room between them. Will watches, wary, feeling like he’s about to
get chewed out, but not knowing what for. There’s a lot of options. It just depends on what
Mike’s thinking about.

Just another one of the many times Will wishes he could read Mike’s mind.

“Will,” Mike starts, his tone low and serious. He’s looking Will in the eye, his pupils dark
dark dark. In the low light of the bedroom, they’re expanded to almost twice their normal
size. “I know you haven’t been telling me everything. Okay? I know you’ve been hiding
things from me.”

Will sucks in a sharp breath, feeling a little bit like he’s been punched in the gut. He thinks
back over the last six months, the last year, everything since that night in the shed, that fight
in the garage. He could fill a whole book with the things he’s been hiding from Mike. He
hardly even recognizes himself anymore.

His mouth is dry, but he opens it anyway, some sort of half-fumbling apology on his lips.
“Mike, I—”
Mike holds up a hand. Save it. “I’m not—I’m not mad,” he clarifies, though the strain in his
voice tells a slightly different story. But he’s being honest, or at least trying to be, which is
more than Will can say for himself. “Or… I was, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here,
right? We’re down here together now. You can tell me the truth.”

Something in Will rejects that on principle, an automatic reaction to the word truth, like an
allergy that he can’t shake. But, when he slows down to think about it— really think about it
—Mike has a point. What is there to hide? There’s no one down here but them. And they
know each other too well, at this point, to keep dragging their secrets behind them.

Will’s eyes dart down to Mike’s lips, and Mike follows his gaze. The air feels thick,
somehow. Heated.

But that’s not the truth that Mike’s talking about. Not right now, at least.

Will thinks again about the eerie crop circle in the woods, the flattened trees and vines, the
crushed demodogs. Squashed like pancakes. Organs spilling out, tongues lolling.

He did that.

He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, letting the sharp pressure of it ground him.
Thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Finally, he says, feeling unsteady in every possible
way: “What if the truth is… what if it’s too much?”

Humiliatingly, his voice cracks on the last words. He feels a familiar heat behind his eyes, a
prickle at his waterline, and, for the millionth time that day, feels like screaming. Like
sobbing.

Mike softens, watching him, the last dregs of confrontation draining from his posture, but
Will can’t stop. Not now. “What if you see me differently?” he stresses, blood and guts
flashing violently in his mind’s eye. “What if I’m…”

He looks down at his hands. He blinks, and they’re stained red. Crimson. It’s not coming off,
it’s not coming off—

“What if I’m a monster?”

Before he even chokes out the last word, something firm is colliding with his chest, the scent
of cedar and rubber enveloping him in a warm cloud, strands of dark hair tickling the tender
junction between his neck and his shoulder. Will’s crying in earnest, now, and he makes no
move to hide it. He just buries his face into the soft leather of Mike’s jacket, and lets himself
be held.

Mike squeezes him tighter, and Will can feel his lips moving against the curve of his
shoulder. “You’re not a monster, Will,” he says, voice muffled. “You could never be a
monster.”

He wishes he could believe that. He really does. Because Mike clearly believes it, earnestly
and honestly, and Mike’s always been the best of them. Mike never sees the filth and the rot,
the blood and the decay. He just sees the light.

A question itches at Will’s skin, insistent and curious, maddening. After a few selfish
moments, his hands loosely linked in the small of Mike’s back, he pulls away. He’s sniffling,
still, but he needs to ask— “What am I, then?”

Mike’s hand crosses the boundary between them, fingers splaying out towards Will’s cheek.
Gently, he presses soft fingertips underneath Will’s eye, runs them across his orbital bone.
Wiping away tears. Sharing them, transferring them. Will to Mike. Both of them salt-stained
with Will’s pain.

“You’re my best friend,” Mike whispers. He tells it like a playground secret. Like a promise.
He’s smiling, boyish and beautiful, and Will’s never wanted to kiss him more than he does
right now.

You’re my best friend, he thinks, eyes on Mike’s lips, dizzy with possibility.

Then, his more rational mind kicks in. Truth, it reminds him, like a rebooting computer, a
bolded logo on the loading screen, and he remembers that it’s a double-sided word.
Reciprocal. He remembers, with a slam, why he didn’t open up to Mike in the first place.

You’re my best friend.

He backs away, just a little. Clears his throat. Mike watches him, uncharacteristically silent.
“Mike,” he starts, the word dragging out of him. Stay strong. Stand up for yourself. “I—I
know that you’ve been hiding things, too,” he manages. “It’s not just me.”

Bingo. Mike’s eyes go clear, and he shifts uneasily on the mattress, rubbing at the nape of his
neck. “It’s not—it’s nothing important,” he hedges, not quite looking at him. “Not like your
stuff.”

Will thinks of the Mike from a few minutes ago, kneeling at his feet as he claimed that he
was expendable. We’d seen your body, he’d said. I jumped.

Renewed determination rushes through Will’s veins. He thinks about Mike’s constant
nightmares, back at the lab; the way he’d zone out sometimes, like he wasn’t all there; the
horrible sound of him choking on his own panic, dead-asleep in the middle of the night.
Will’s been ignoring it for too long. He can’t stay quiet anymore. If they’re going to talk,
they’re talking about everything. He isn’t letting any of it slide.

“It is important, Mike,” Will stresses. “It’s not any less important just because it’s you.”

Mike’s face twists, like he disagrees, and oh, they’re going to have words about this. Another
time. Right now, Will’s on a mission, the words finally bubbling up the way he wanted them
to before. “You’ve been having nightmares,” he says firmly. Non negotiable. “Bad ones.”

For a moment, Mike hesitates, like he’s going to deny it. The second he caves in, though, it’s
visible, a full-body slump, all his strings cut. “Not just nightmares,” he admits.
Will gets it immediately. Then, he wishes he hadn’t. “You’ve been seeing things?” he checks,
voice rising in pitch.

Slowly, Mike nods. There’s something weary and beleaguered in his eyes, like he’s preparing
for a lecture. Like he’s in trouble. And—fuck yeah he is, because what the actual hell?
“You’ve been getting Vecna’d this whole time? And you didn’t think to tell anyone? You
didn’t think to tell me?”

Mike’s eyebrows draw together, a new, darker expression crossing his face. I’m not mad, he’d
said. But it wasn’t entirely honest. This, this right here—this is the truth. Will can tell.

Mike scoffs, dismissive, and leans forward a bit, elbows on his knees. “Oh, that’s rich,” he
bites, sardonic and bitter. “Like you tell me anything, ever! Like I know one single thing
about you that’s not a complete lie—”

“You know everything about me!”

Silence.

Will wasn’t trying to yell, but that’s the way it came out—frustrated, bottled-up, like an
explosion. Like a pot that’s been set to boil, then abandoned on the stove. Mike’s eyes widen,
and Will’s panting with exertion, and they’re in that goddamn garage again, on the ledge of
the quarry, in the back room of Surfer Boys’ pizza. The air is stifling. Will can’t breathe. It’s
such a vicious cycle, the two of them, over and over and over. Unable to move on. Unable to
make peace. Immature, childish, stupid, like the fifteen-year-old boys they are. They drag
each other into this same argument every single time, biting and kicking and screaming.

It’s true. Will doesn’t tell Mike these things, but he knows anyway.

He knows.

“Everything,” Will echoes, soft. Spores of dust float between them. His ankle throbs, a dull
pain that’s faded almost entirely into the background by now. He almost forgot about it.

The anger drains from Mike’s expression. He watches Will, thoughtful now, and Will watches
back. Secrets laid bare between them. Barriers growing thin.

“I don’t,” Mike admits, and it sounds like mercy. Like an apology. “But I want to.”

Carefully, he lays a palm on the bedspread, fingers turned up. An invitation, a familiar one by
now. Will tries not to think about what that means.

He takes Mike’s hand.

Mike’s fingers tap absentmindedly against his knuckles, like he’s playing a tiny piano. “I
don’t want to fight,” he says quietly, looking down at their laced hands. “We never used to
fight.”

Before that summer, he means. Before El. Before the Upside Down.
Will stares at his lap. At the memory-worn color of Mike’s carpet, below that. “Yeah, well,”
he says. “Things change.”

The corner of Mike’s mouth tugs down, unhappy, and Will sighs. He can’t keep this up. “I
don’t want to fight, either,” he relents.

The corner ticks back up. Mike squeezes his hand in thanks, and Will squeezes back, like:
don’t mention it.

He takes a deep breath. Tries to let the words flow naturally. “What do you see?” he blurts.
“In your visions?”

Mike’s face slackens in surprise, his grip tightening without warning. Bad idea, Will thinks,
already wishing he could backpedal. This is why he has to think before he talks. “Sorry,” he
says quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I see you.”

Will freezes. Dangerous territory, his brain warns. Proceed with caution.

“What?” he asks. He tries to read Mike’s face for clues, but there’s nothing there—his
expression is blank, his gaze fixed to the wall. Unseeing. Distant.

Mike’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. Will
wanted the truth, but he didn’t realize how big it was, not fully. He didn’t know what he was
asking for. He almost regrets it, now, seeing how affected Mike is by the admission. Almost.

The selfish, fucked-up part of him, though—that’s a different story. The part of him that’s
been howling with grief and jealousy and anger for the past three years, the part that screams
at Will that he doesn’t know Mike anymore, not fully, and he never will again. That part,
horrifyingly, is curious. It wants to know more. It wants Mike to keep talking.

Will stays silent.

Eventually, Mike keeps going. “I see you,” he chokes, “on that night at the quarry. When the
rangers found your body. And you’re so— small, and pale, and cold—”

He’s shivering. Trembling, actually, so fiercely that Will can feel it where they’re connected
at the palms. He’s gripping Will’s hand like a lifeline. “And it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“Mike,” Will exhales, heartbroken, and throws all caution to the wind. He brings a hand to
Mike’s cheek, gently turning his head up to face him. “Mike, look at me,” he murmurs. “I’m
alive, okay? I’m right here.”

Mike’s eyebrows furrow together, gaze slowly tracking over his face. Will wonders what he
sees. If he sees Will now, as he is, or if he sees a ghost. A nightmare. Zombie Boy.

All at once, the pain in Mike’s expression is too much to handle. Will shuts his eyes, resting
his forehead against Mike’s. He doesn’t care anymore. They’re hurtling towards something,
the two of them, and it’s long past any sort of plausible deniability. There’s no use in caring
about normal when they’re trapped together in an underground hell. There’s no use in caring
about appearances when they might die tomorrow.

He loves Mike. He loves him. And Mike loves him too, hopefully, in whatever sort of way
that might be. Right now, that’s all that matters. It’s enough.

Mike’s breath fans out across his face, stuttering and cold, and Will runs a thumb across his
cheekbone. “I’m right here,” he whispers, with as much sincerity as he can possibly manage.
Against all the odds, they’re here together. They’re alive. Will’s never appreciated it as much
as he does in this moment.

He runs his free hand over Mike’s shoulder, an anchor point, reassuring himself that Mike’s
solid and alive and real, right here beneath his hands. It’s only once he splays his palm out
against the leather that he feels something warm and damp, a strange heat seeping through
the fabric. He pulls back, frowning, to inspect it.

His hand comes away red. Really red, this time, so dark that it’s almost black, clinging to the
skin of his palm. He stares at it for a second, uncomprehending. Another vision? A trick of
the light?

He tilts his hand back and forth. The color stays the same.

“Mike, you’re bleeding,” he says, still staring. Then, his eyes widen. “Shit, you’re bleeding.
Your stitches—why didn’t you say anything?”

He scrambles for the abandoned first-aid kit on the floor, heart pounding, while Mike watches
him dazedly, shrugging. Will doesn’t know how it’s taken him this long to notice the signs of
blood loss—low temperature, unfocused eyes, slow speech. He’s been distracted. He’s been
an idiot.

“I dunno,” Mike says, sounding way too unconcerned. “I didn’t really feel it.”

“Jesus,” Will mutters, taking a second to pinch the bridge of his nose. Mike Wheeler, ladies
and gentlemen. Certified love of his life. Perpetual pain in his ass. “Alright, come on.”

Mike moves obediently, and Will helps him shrug out of his jacket. It hasn’t taken too much
damage, just a bit stained at the shoulder, but his t-shirt is soaked through, already a lost
cause. Mike pulls it over his head, muscles shifting, and Will’s mouth goes dry.

They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. Will can’t remember what he was
supposed to be doing.

“Um,” Mike says, looking a little self-conscious. “Are you gonna…”

Right, Will thinks, with a flush of embarrassment. “Right,” he says out loud, and pops the kit
open. “Turn around.”

Mike sits cross-legged on the bed, facing the headboard, and the moment that his back is
turned, Will pinches himself on the arm. Get it together, he thinks sternly. It’s not like he’s
never seen Mike shirtless. This is no different. Even if he has muscles now, and a light
scattering of chest hair, and freckles—

Focus.

As soon as he sizes up Mike’s stitches, he breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s not as bad as it
looks,” he says. “A lot of the blood’s dried already.”

“That’s good,” Mike hums, absently fidgeting with his hands. “Hey, we never talked about
you. About your thing.”

Will heaves another sigh, longer this time. He starts to clean the blood off Mike’s shoulder.
“It’s a lot,” he warns.

“So was mine,” Mike says.

Will feels himself cave. It would be nice, he thinks, to let someone in. To let it all go. And if
it was ever gonna be anyone, it was always gonna be Mike. “Okay,” he agrees, hands running
gently over Mike’s skin. “I’ll tell you.”

In the strange light of the Upside Down, Mike smiles.

***

It takes Will a while to get through the whole story. By the time he’s finished, Mike’s moved
to a more comfortable position, stomach-down on his bed, head resting on his folded arms.
He watches Will sideways, staying quiet, not interjecting. It sounds like a nightmare, the
inside of Will’s head. It’s not right. A low, simmering hatred bubbles away in Mike’s
stomach, directed purely at Henry Creel. If he was feeling up to it, he’d go take the fucker out
right now.

As it is, he just listens.

Will’s been done with the bandage for a while, but his hand is still resting on Mike’s back,
absently stroking up and down. Mike doesn’t even think he knows he’s doing it, but he’s not
about to tell him, because he doesn’t want him to stop. It feels nice.

“So—that’s it,” Will finishes, eventually, a twinge of self-deprecation in his tone. “That’s
everything that’s been happening.”

Mike takes a second to tuck it all away inside his mind, to organize it into neat folders in case
he has to reference it later: the voices, the visions, the Hive Mind. Henry. He’s sure Will
hasn’t told him all of it, not completely, but it’s more than he ever expected to know—and for
that, he’s grateful. He knows how big it is, for Will to trust him with this.
He takes another second to relish the feeling of Will’s hand on his skin. The warm point of
contact. Then, he sits up, turning to face him, knees tucked up to his chin. Will’s arm falls
back to his side, his posture defeated, something unbearably sad in his eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mike asks. It’s not accusing, not anymore. It’s not even a real
question. He knows why. He’s just hurt.

Will shrugs, a little evasive. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he counters. “About your thing?”

Which is fair.

Mike winces, trying to remember all the useless, pointless reasons he’d come up with along
the way. “I just… I dunno,” he hedges. “I thought it was stupid. I didn’t even think it was
Vecna, really. I thought it was all in my head.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“It could happen!” Mike says defensively. “People have, like—hallucinations, and stuff.”

Crazy people, he thinks, but doesn’t say. The implication is clear enough. Mike thought—he
thought he was losing his mind.

And that’s not the real reason, anyway. He knows the real reason.

Will’s quiet for a moment, processing, trying to take Mike’s defense seriously. Always kind,
even when Mike doesn’t deserve it. Never judgemental, not when it really matters.

“Okay,” he says, finally. “Well—even if it was a hallucination. You could’ve told me, okay? I
want to be there for you.”

It’s staggering, to get this much truth out of Will in one night. Day? Mike can’t remember
what time it is. For all he knows, it could be three years ago on his front stoop, watching Will
leave after their latest D&D session. It was a seven. He didn’t have to tell Mike the truth, but
he did. Now, he’s doing it again.

He didn’t have to tell Mike anything. He could’ve gone it alone.

Mike lets out a deep breath. “I want to be there for you, too,” he says. He rests his head on
his knees, looking sideways out at Will, then reaches out a hand. This time, Will doesn’t
hesitate before taking it. They’re getting good at this. Easy. Comfortable.

Carefully, Mike taps out letters against Will’s palm. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, hold. Tap, tap, hold,
tap. Tap.

S-A-F-E.

He thinks about another four-letter word, too, but doesn’t say it. From the look in Will’s eyes,
he might be thinking the same thing. Mike hopes he is, at least.
Will swallows, and it sounds loud in the quiet room. Nervous. “Mike,” he says, voice hoarse.
He’s still looking at their fingers. “I, um…”

Mike waits. Quiet, patient. He doesn’t want to scare Will off. It feels sacred, this moment,
after they’ve both patched each other up and wrung themselves out to dry. He traces a vein on
the back of Will’s hand, encouraging. “Yeah?”

Will’s expression pinches around the edges. Desperate, frustrated, in that familiar way that he
gets when his words aren’t coming out the way he wants them to. “I…” He sighs, defeated,
and uses his free hand to rub at his temple. “Nevermind.”

Mike doesn’t let himself feel disappointed. Their moment will come, he thinks. They’ve
talked a lot today, made a lot of good progress. Solved some mysteries, even, and opened
others right back up. It’s been a long day.

“Okay,” he says, and smiles. Hesitantly, Will mirrors it. They sit on Mike’s bed, holding
hands, smiling at each other, and it’s exactly the sappy kind of moment that Mike never
thought he’d get to live through. He lets himself bask in it, feeling happy right down to his
toes, before a stray thought crosses his mind, as they tend to do. “Do you have your
mixtape?”

Will’s cheeks go pink. “Um—yeah,” he answers, glancing down to his backpack. “It’s in my
bag.”

He brought it with him, then. For protection. Even if he didn’t want Mike here, not originally,
he still took a piece of him along.

It’s quiet in Mike’s room. He can hear the sound of their breathing.

“Do you feel him now?” Mike asks.

For once, Will meets his gaze head-on. Something shifts between them. Mike’s pulse kicks
up, thrumming along the delicate skin of his wrists.

“No,” Will answers. His voice is quiet, hushed, like he feels the gravity of the moment, too.
Like he doesn’t want to break anything.

Everything’s still. Mike feels frozen to the spot, watching the dust motes float around the
crown of Will’s head, watching his dark eyelashes flutter against his skin. His chest rises and
falls in an unsteady rhythm.

Then, Mike opens his big, stupid mouth. “We should probably get going,” he says.

“Yeah,” Will croaks.

Neither of them move.

Mike shakes his head, trying to clear it, forces a smile, and lets go of Will’s hand. Not now, he
thinks. Not yet. He stands to his feet, stretching, and tries not to notice Will’s eyes on his bare
skin. Everything feels like a lot of effort right now. He kinda just wants to tackle Will down
on the bed and kiss him until they can’t breathe.

He swallows over the sudden lump in his throat. Safe, he’d said, but it isn’t. Not with Vecna
around. Not with demodogs on the hunt. Not with all these stupid goddamn excuses in
Mike’s brain.

He knows the real reason he’d kept the truth from Will. It’s the same reason that he keeps
holding himself back, keeps running away, keeps telling himself that he’s waiting for the
right moment.

He’s scared.

“I’m gonna get dressed, okay?” he says, not looking at Will. He’s surprised at how casual his
voice sounds. “You can go on ahead.”

Will stands, a little awkwardly, keeping weight off his wrapped ankle. “Alright,” he agrees,
still eyeing Mike like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. Or—like he is, maybe, but he
doesn’t want to call him out on it. Mike can’t tell. “I’ll look around to see if there’s anything
useful.”

“Yeah, good thinking,” Mike replies. Anything useful, he thinks. And then he realizes.

Will smiles, still pink-cheeked and wounded and bashful, then ducks his chin to his chest and
leaves the bedroom. Mike watches him go. Then, he shuts the door.

He nearly trips over himself in his hurry to get to the ground. Kneeling, bending, he reaches
under the bed, flailing his hand around until he hits the familiar cornered edge of an old
shoebox. Unremarkable from the outside. Something that anyone would overlook, if they saw
it.

But it’s the inside that matters.

Carefully, Mike eases off the top of the box, eyes scanning over its aged contents. Still the
same, here, even in another world. Everything that reminds him of Will, all stockpiled in one
convenient location. Pictures, movie tickets, drawings. A paint-chipped wizard figurine.

And below all that, a stack of unsent letters.

Dear Will, the top one reads, in Mike’s cramped handwriting. It’s folded over, so he can’t
read much of the rest, but he knows exactly what it says. He practically has it memorized.
The whole thing is piled together in a haphazard stack, tied with a dark blue ribbon that Mike
had snagged from Mom’s craft drawer. He figured, at the time, that they’d never see the light
of day.

He takes them out of the box. Tucks them away into his backpack.

Then, he goes to find a clean shirt.

 ***

By the time Mike’s gotten dressed and fixed his hair and checked his under-eye bags and all
that good stuff, the house is eerily silent. He shrugs his backpack over his good shoulder,
pokes his head out the door, and takes the stairs two at a time.

The living room is empty.

Mike feels a spike of panic. “Will?”

“Down here!”

The basement. With a relieved, fond smile, Mike takes the second set of stairs. Will’s sitting
on the couch, an old flashlight in hand. He smiles back at Mike when he sees him. “Found us
some light,” he says, and clicks it on and off a few times.

Mike chuckles, moving to sit down next to Will. He seems like he’s in a better mood, which
is good. Lot of good memories in this basement.

Couple bad ones, too.

“Nice,” Mike tells him. “We could use that. It’s, uh—real dark down here.”

He chuckles again, a little more forced this time. He didn’t really realize, until right now, how
incriminating the basement is. He hasn’t changed a single thing about it since Will moved.
It’s still set up with D&D sets, old posters, and Will’s drawings. Lots and lots and lots of
drawings. An embarrassing amount, now that he’s sitting here.

He’s glad, actually, that it’s so dark.

Will’s been following his gaze, looking curiously around the basement. They’re both silent.
“I guess this room’s still stuck in the past,” Will says.

Mike blinks at him. “What?”

Will waves a hand vaguely. “My— powers, or whatever,” he says, like the word physically
pains him. “True Sight. It must not work in here.”

Mike’s still not following. “What do you mean?”

“You know. The drawings,” Will says, like it’s obvious. “Kid stuff, right? I mean…” He trails
off, looking uncertain, and with a sharp jolt, Mike finally understands.

“Will, no, that’s—I still have those up,” he says. “Of course I do.”

Maybe it’s not embarrassing, after all. Or, well—maybe it is. But maybe that’s okay.
It’s okay, because the look on Will’s face is like watching the sun rise, like re-reading the best
chapter of an old favorite book. Mike would do anything for that look, he thinks. He already
has.

“You… you didn’t take them down?” Will checks. His voice is fragile, tenuous, like he can
barely let himself hope. The tug behind Mike’s ribcage intensifies.

“Why would I?” he says. “You gave them to me.”

Even in the dark, Will’s blush is obvious. He looks down, fiddling with the string of his
flashlight. “Oh,” he says, strangled. “That’s—that’s really nice of you, Mike.”

Like he’s doing him a favor. Jesus Christ. Mike wrinkles his nose, replying, “It’s not nice.”
Then, a little more jokingly, “Kind of selfish, actually. I get all the Will Byers originals, right
here in this room. I’m an—an art hoarder.”

It’s ridiculous, but Will giggles, just like Mike hoped he would. “Oh, is that right?”

Flirting, Mike’s brain supplies. You’re flirting right now.

He feels his cheeks warm. Will’s on a roll now, shoulders loosening, nudging Mike’s side
with his own. “An art hoarder,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You’re crazy. They’re
crayon.”

“They’re art!” Mike protests, but he’s giggling now, too.

“Yeah, yeah.” Will playfully rolls his eyes. “You’re the expert.” He leans over for something
on the side table, then tosses Mike a second flashlight. “Got you one, too. C’mon, we should
get going.”

Mike smiles. “Thanks.”

On the front stoop, they take a breather. Flashlights in hand, they stare off into the formless
dark. Dangers unknown.

“You know,” Will says, after a minute. “I’m really glad we got everything off our chests. I
feel a lot better.”

“Yeah?” Mike says. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

Looking over at him, Will quirks an eyebrow. “Do you?” he prompts. “Feel better?”

Mike thinks about it. Thinks about the letters in his backpack.

Then, he shuffles a little closer. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Yeah, I think I do.”

Will’s breath catches, audible in the crisp cold, eyes tracking over Mike’s face. The right
moment, Mike thinks. And, well—this seems as good a moment as any.

He leans in.
 It’s an intentional movement, the kind neither of them can mistake, close as they are. Will’s
eyelids flutter shut, automatic, lashes fanning across his cheeks. Mike can feel his breath on
his face. He smells like chocolate, the fancy kind that Mom keeps on the top shelf of the
pantry. Mike smiles, thinking about Will stretching up on his toes to reach it.

He brings a hand to Will’s cheek. This is it, he tells himself. Don’t overthink it.

Over Will’s shoulder, there’s a flash of movement. A blurry splotch in the distance, flickering
into view on the front lawn. Pale skin, clouded eyes, blood and water dripping into the dead
grass.

Mike stares. Will’s corpse stares back at him.

Body in the quarry. Blood in the water. Body in the quarry. Body—blood—

“Mike?”

Will’s opened his eyes, looking vaguely mortified, craning over his own shoulder to follow
Mike’s gaze. “Did you, um—did you see something?”

The corpse is still there. With a bloated, waterlogged hand, it lifts a single finger to its mouth.
Shh.

Mike’s mouth feels like cotton. For what feels like years, he can’t bring himself to speak.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

How long, he thinks, until he screws it up again? Until he fails to save Will? Until they both
die down here?

Maybe, by jumping down here, Mike had actually doomed them both. Maybe this was what
Vecna wanted all along—for Mike to drag Will down with him.

He blinks, and the vision is gone. Nothing but blank air in its place.

But he still sees it. He always sees it.

He pastes on a smile, turning back to Will. “Nah. Just a trick of the light.” He clicks the
button for his flashlight, waving it off into the distance. “C’mon. It’s getting dark.”

Together, they head off into the unknown.

Behind them, the porch light flickers.

Chapter End Notes

big chapter! we’re officially halfway done 🥳🥳 hopefully you all liked it and are not
busy sharpening your pitchforks to attack me for the million-and-first interrupted kiss of
this series. ao3 authors just wanna have fun

💗
thank you for all your comments! for the first time in over a YEAR, i’m actually caught
up with replies, so feel free to keep them coming!! love you all very much

again, episode 5 script is linked here. next update will be the episode 6 script on my
tumblr, which will be either next sunday or possiblyyyyy the sunday after. i start

💗
working full-time next week, so we’ll see how quickly i can get it done either way, i’ll
see you guys back on ao3 in a few weeks! thank you so much for reading

- H xx
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!