Chapter Text
[ANOTHER DAY, ISN'T IT, WILL?]
[Shut up. Get out of my head]
"Darling, pass the toast–"
"Jonathan, is your mom already at work?"
"Pumpkin soup again? I can't take it anymore–"
[HOW DOES IT FEEL, WILL?]
"Yeah, Mom's at work. She has an early shift—"
"Holly, who said you could leave the table? Everyone is still eating."
[TO FEEL THIS WAY]
"Mrs. Wheeler, it's really delicious, truly."
[Stop it]
"I can't eat this soup anymore! You promised pie!"
[ISOLATION]
"Mike, you're whining like a little kid."
[LONELINESS]
"Shut up, Holly. Just go to your room already."
"Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah."
[CONFUSION]
[That's not true.]
[HOW LONG WILL YOU KEEP HIDING, WILL?]
"Mike, you're not eating anything again."
"I said I can't eat this soup, Mom!"
[THIS ISN'T YOUR LIFE.]
[I said get out of my head. Stop]
"Will..."
[NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY TO FIT IN]
"Hey, Will?"
[IT DOESN'T BELONG TO YOU. YOU'RE TRYING TO STEAL A LIFE THAT ISN'T YOURS]
"Will? You okay?"
Mike's voice sounded as if it were coming from far away, filtering through a thick, sticky haze. Yet, the sound of it alone sent a warm wave spreading through Will's body, ending in a pleasant tingle at his fingertips. Strangely, it became easier to breathe, despite the familiar weight on his chest that had been his constant companion for a year now.
Will gave a full-body shudder, forcibly dragging himself out of the embrace of the voice in his head. The spoon in his hand, full of Karen Wheeler's signature pumpkin soup, hung frozen in the air, midway to his mouth. Bright orange drops dripped from it, splattering onto the impeccably white tablecloth like tiny, accusing stains.
He blinked rapidly, his eyes struggling to refocus. With a clumsy motion, he set the spoon back into the bowl, the gentle clink a stark sound in the sudden silence he was now aware of. The world around him began to bleed back into reality, slow and steady, its colors and sounds diluting the strange, cotton-wool silence of his trance.
Feeling as if he was moving through syrup, he turned his head toward the source of the voice. And as he did, his heart performed its familiar, aching somersault behind the ribs. His eyes met Mike's, a pair of deep, dark pools, and for a terrifying, thrilling second, Will was certain that every one of his thoughts was written plain as day across his face.
Will dropped his gaze to the table and frantically grabbed a napkin, scrubbing at the stains before him as if he could erase his own awkwardness.
"Yeah, no, sorry...I'm... I just. I spaced out."
Mike, Jonathan, and Ted Wheeler watched him from around the table, their stares feeling like physical pressure. He could feel their eyes on him as he rubbed the pristine tablecloth, only succeeding in smearing the orange droplets into a wider, more obvious blotch. A tight knot clenched in his throat, cutting off his air.
What was he supposed to say?
That ever since the rift tore through Hawkins he could feel—no, not just feel—perceive with every fiber of his being that chilling presence of the Vecna?
That it was as if a cold, sticky hand would sometimes brush against his shoulder, wrap around his throat, and slither into the deepest, most hidden parts of his body, trying to siphon him out, to leave behind nothing but an empty shell of flesh and bones?
That the voice which had haunted him for the past year was now becoming louder and more convincing, making him question his very sanity?
That all that was happening to him terrified him to death?
Suddenly, a warm, soft hand covered his own, which was still clenched white-knuckled around the ruined napkin. Will froze, his entire world narrowing to that single point of contact.
"Will, honey, it's alright. I'll take care of it, don't you worry." Karen's voice sounded just above his ear, as sudden as Mike's had been minutes before, but with a calming warmth that drained the tension from his shoulders. With a strange sense of relief, he unclenched his fingers, letting her take the napkin as he sank back against his chair.
Yet, he couldn't bring himself to lift his head. His gaze remained fixed on the table, watching through a blurred, unseeing haze as Karen's slender, pale fingers—so reminiscent of Mike's—efficiently blotted the mess from the white fabric. He could still feel the weight of the others' stares, Jonathan's confused, Mike's concerned, Ted's impatient. But he didn't dare to look up.
"You know, kid, you've been looking a bit peaky lately," Ted mumbled melancholically from behind his morning newspaper, his voice a low rumble. "Maybe you ought to see a doctor. I know a good osteopath, actually. Fella just moved here from the city. Could sort out that posture of yours, and that neck of yours, too. How long are you going to keep rubbing it like that—"
"Oh, Ted, leave the boy alone, he's fine," Karen interjected, rolling her eyes. She gave Will's elbow a soft, reassuring pat. "It's how all teenagers are these days. Look at Mike, he's hunched over like he's got a Slinky for a spine."
"Moo-ooom," Mike groaned, the sound dripping with exasperation as he downed the last of his coffee in one gulp. His third one this morning, Will noted absently. He'd started drinking it so often lately.
Will stole a glance at Mike, who was fidgeting restlessly on the chair beside him. The bulky blue sweater hung loosely on his thin frame, paradoxically making him look even more lanky. His dark, curly hair was a mess of morning disarray, and it was clear he hadn't even tried to smooth it down in his sleepy haste to get to breakfast. A few stubborn strands fell across his eyes, and against his will, Will noticed how this seemed to sharpen his cheekbones, making them stand out starkly today.
His gaze, as if magnetized, stuck to Mike, lingering on the long nose, dusted with freckles. On his face, which had lengthened and matured over the past year, losing its childish softness, the nose now seemed almost too large and out of place. Then with a heart that seemed to skip a beat, Will’s eyes dropped down to the stubbornly set lips, twisted into that all-too-familiar, irritated grimace.
All of this sent the usual, pleasant warmth flooding through Will's veins, and the ghost of a smile touched the corners of his lips. But then he noticed Mike—who must have felt the weight of his gaze—beginning to turn his head. In a flash, Will sharply averted his eyes, fixing them intently on the empty space in front of him, his heart now hammering for a completely different reason.
"And don't even get me started on the bags under your eyes. And the skinniness! What girl is going to look twice at you, Mike, if you look like that? How many times do I have to tell you?"
The question hung in the air, and Will felt a fresh, unexpected pang in his chest. It was a strange, possessive ache. The idea of a girl looking at Mike—and the reason for it being his appearance—felt all wrong.
Mike rolled his eyes with a dramatic, audible sigh. He pushed back from the table, the legs of his chair screeching against the hardwood floor in a long, drawn-out protest. Ted flinched at the sound and responded by noisily flipping the page of his newspaper, glaring at his son from over the top of it. Mike met his gaze with a defiant stare of his own.
Then, he stood up, his hand brushing against Will's shoulder as he passed.
"I'm gonna go change for school. If anyone needs me, I'm upstairs. We're leaving right away, okay?"
Will, without looking at him, gave a silent nod. He took a hurried gulp of the terribly tart orange juice Karen had freshly squeezed in her new automatic juicer, the acidic bite a welcome distraction from the warmth still blooming where Mike had touched him.
Jonathan watched Mike's retreating back as he bounded up the stairs. Under the table, he gently nudged Will's ankle with the toe of his boot. Then, leaning across the table, his voice a low whisper barely audible over the loud gurgling of the coffee machine, he asked, "Will. Are you okay? You haven't been yourself lately."
The question, so full of quiet concern from the one person who knew him best, threatened to unravel him completely.
However, Will just shook his head, forcing a smile onto his lips.
"It's fine, really. It's just... been a tough week. With school."
Ted let out a derisive snort from the other end of the table, sharply turning the page of his newspaper as if scrutinizing the sports section. "Kids these day are so fragile. Not like in our time. A little bit of pressure and they snap like twigs—"
"Ted, for heaven's sake!"
"What, Karen? Am I not allowed to speak at my own table now—"
Will hurriedly began to push his chair back, trying to slide it as quietly as possible across the polished parquet. Ted watched his movements with narrowed eyes.
"Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler. It was delicious, as always."
"Of course, sweetheart. Any time. We're having duck with apples for dinner tonight by the way."
Will's gaze finally met Jonathan's worried one across the table. He smiled again, this time more convincingly, straightening his spine and infusing his voice with a feigned cheerfulness he was far from feeling. "It's all good. Seriously, don't worry about me."
Jonathan pressed his lips into a thin, disapproving line and shook his head. From the look on his face, Will knew he didn't believe a single word. He could see right through him. As he always did. And as Will turned to escape up the stairs, the weight of that silent, knowing gaze felt heavy on his shoulders.
Going up to the second floor Will shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together and chafing his arms. A familiar chill skittered down his spine, raising goosebumps in its wake.
He couldn't tell anyone about this. Not the cold, not the voice, not the static still humming under his skin. If he did, they would all worry. They would hover. They would treat him like a patient, a victim. Again. They would handle him like a cracked porcelain doll, their eyes full of a pity that felt suffocating.
But he didn't need that. He wasn't that same scared boy anymore. He was strong. He could stand up for himself.
He had to be.
The thought felt brittle, a fragile shield against the tide of his own growing loneliness.
Will clenched his fists, taking a deep, steadying breath to corral his runaway pulse. He let his eyes fall shut, tilting his face towards the sunlight streaming through the hallway window on the second floor. The warm rays bathed his tired face, offering a few precious seconds of enveloping warmth. From downstairs, the pleasant aroma of pastries and freshly brewed coffee wafted up, a stark contrast to the cold inside him. The low hum of conversation and the gentle clatter of plates created a cocoon of domestic peace, so palpable that Will wished he could dissolve into this moment forever, to be normal, just for a day.
He opened his eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness, and fixed his gaze on the door in front of him.
It was plastered with the typical teenage rebellion of protest-filled band posters and warning signs. How Ted had ever allowed Mike to hang all that stuff was a mystery Will still couldn't fathom.
His heart stuttered for a second, as he raised his hand, letting it hover for a moment before he knocked cautiously on the door.
It was such a simple, everyday action—it shouldn't have made him feel so unhinged. Yet there he stood, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, drilling a hole into the dark wood of the door with his gaze, his heart in his throat as he waited to hear that voice.
"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm—"
"It's Will."
"Oh. Hey—come in."
Mike's voice from behind the door immediately softened, the edge of irritation vanishing as he cut himself off mid-sentence. Will pushed the door open and stepped into the semi-darkness of the room. The air was different in here—cooler, and tinged with the familiar scent of Mike's laundry detergent, dusty furniture and the faint, metallic tang of the D&D miniatures scattered on his desk.
It was a scent that felt more like home to Will than anywhere else.
All the curtains were drawn tight, casting the room in a dim, grayish half-light. In the gloom, the chaotic state of Mike's room was unmistakable: a landscape of clothes, comic books, and loose papers strewn across the floor. Mike was hopping over these little mounds of clutter in his hurry, darting around the space as he searched for something to wear. He yanked open dresser drawers, not glancing back at Will, who had carefully shut the door behind him and now stood awkwardly with his back against it.
"Will, just—just a sec, I'll be two minutes—where the hell are my jeans? Damn it, did Mom wash them yesterday? Oh, for fuck's sake," Mike groaned, tilting his head back in exasperation. "Okay, fine. Can you wait a minute? Just—shit—" He finally stopped his frantic pacing, halting in the middle of the room. With a look of pure despair, he ran his hands through his already disheveled dark hair, making it stand on end.
"It's fine, Mike, I can wait—"
"Cool."
"But we're gonna have to sprint to school. We're already late."
Will crossed his arms over his chest and let out a soft laugh. Mike groaned again, yanking his closet door open and frantically sifting through the contents.
"Don't rub it in, I'm going as fast as I can!"
Finally, Mike fished out something resembling clean pants and a sweatshirt, shaking them in the air in a gesture of victory before tossing them onto the bed.
Will studied his face more closely, noticing the shadows under his eyes. "I thought you went to bed early last night. Didn't you sleep well?"
"Couldn't fall asleep for ages—" Mike waved a dismissive hand in Will's direction. In one fluid, careless motion, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his domestic pants and shoved them down, kicking them off into the pile of dirty laundry in the corner. He followed it with the same practiced, hurried movement, pulling his sweater over his head and leaving him standing only in a thin t-shirt and his boxers.
The sight sent an unexpected, tender ache through Will.
In this state of undress and bathed in the soft, dim light of the room, Mike seemed both intensely familiar and entirely new. The sharp line of his jaw, the column of his throat, the pale, vulnerable skin of his inner arms, the subtle shift of muscles in his calves as he shifted his weight —Will saw it all with a painful, hyper-focused clarity that made the air feel thin.
"I just kept looking at the clock, and it was already 4 a.m., and I was like, for fuck's sake—" Mike continued, completely oblivious as he straightened up and turned towards Will, shaking out the pair of jeans to turn them right-side-out.
Every movement he made—the frustrated sigh that made his chest rise and fall, the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed—it was all so mundane for Mike, so utterly normal. But for Will it all made his limbs suddenly tingle with a sweet, heavy languor. But beneath that tenderness was something else, something sharper: an electric shock that sent an unfamiliar wave of heat flushing through his entire body.
[WHAT'S WRONG, WILL?]
Will swallowed thickly, tearing his gaze away as he felt a hot blush creep across his cheeks and neck. He twisted his fingers together, the pressure a feeble anchor against the storm in his mind.
[I CAN FEEL THE TENSION]
[Stop reading my mind. Get out.]
Mike, still chattering about something, shoved his legs into his jeans, hopping on one foot as he buckled his belt. Will deliberately averted his eyes, using every ounce of his willpower to study the titles of books on a dusty shelf, the old photos pinned to the wall, the scattered pencils on the desk—even a lone, hole-ridden sock peeking out from behind the dresser. Anything, anything but look at Mike.
[WHAT ARE THESE NEW THOUGHTS IN YOUR HEAD, WILL?]
[Go away.]
Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw Mike pull his sweatshirt on and finally glance in his direction. Not hearing a word of what Mike was saying, Will gave a vague nod and stretched a thin, unconvincing smile across his lips. His heart was hammering high in his throat, its frantic rhythm a deafening drumbeat in his ears.
[THIS ISN'T THE FIRST TIME, IS IT?]
[Shut up.]
A wave of nausea washed over him. Suddenly, being in this enclosed space with Mike felt suffocating. He wanted to run, to escape, to hide. It was absurd and terrifying. And he was utterly powerless against it.
[WHAT WOULD MIKE THINK IF HE KNEW WHAT YOU WERE THINKING?]
[I'm not thinking anything.]
Mike snatched his backpack from the back of a chair and, with an encouraging smile, walked over to him. Now he was standing so close that Will could count every freckle dusting his nose. Will felt as if he had forgotten how to breathe, his feet were rooted to the floor. Mike was still talking cheerfully, but Will couldn't hear a single sound. The only thing in his ears was the relentless, pounding rhythm of his own pulse.
[YOU'RE LYING, WILLIAM. YOU ALWAYS LIE.]
"So, are we going or what?" Mike's voice cut through the fog in Will's mind, and he bit his lip, struggling to claw his way back to reality. Mike raised his eyebrows, eyes scanning Will from head to toe with a look of genuine curiosity.
Will ran his fingers through his hair, as he tried to steady his breathing and sound as nonchalant as possible.
"Yeah... yeah, I'm ready, have been waiting for you. Let's go."
Yet, they both remained rooted to the spot, until Mike gave a lopsided grin, hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulder.
"Well, then move, I'm waiting for you to get out of the way." He gave Will's knee a playful, impatient nudge with his foot. Will jolted at the sudden contact, lurching and yanking the door open faster than necessary.
"Yeah, sorry. Sorry."
They started their descent down the creaky staircase to the first floor. Halfway down, Will felt the soft pressure of Mike's hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
"Hey, Will."
"Yeah?" Will's voice came out low and raspy. He cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the unpleasant hoarseness—another unwelcome reminder of his inexorable march into adulthood.
"You need to stop apologizing all the time. You never do anything wrong."
Will blinked in surprise, turning to face Mike. He was looking at him from under his dark, furrowed brows with soft smile, his hand still resting on Will's shoulder, giving the fabric of his bomber jacket a slight squeeze.
Will let out a slow, shaky breath.
"Okay. Sor—"
He bit his tongue a second too late, as Mike burst out laughing and clapped him hard on the back.
"See? That's exactly what I'm talking about, buddy!"
[BUDDY]
The word echoed in the hollow of his chest. Mike easily maneuvered around Will, who was still frozen on the stairs, and slipped into the hallway, yanking the front door open.
[YOU HEARD HIM, WILL]
On numb, unfeeling legs, Will followed Mike out onto the well-kept Wheeler lawn, now illuminated by the cool light of a pale autumn sun. Mike was already on his bike, one foot propped on a pedal, his other leg jiggling with impatient energy as he watched Will approach.
[YOU WILL ALWAYS BE HIS FRIEND. AND NOTHING MORE]
Will swung his leg over the seat of his own bike, the motion feeling robotic. Mike gave him an encouraging nod, and then they were off, kicking up a spray of gravel as they turned from the driveway onto the quiet, morning-empty road, its asphalt carpeted in a mosaic of fallen leaves. The wind whipped at Will's face, and for a brief, reckless moment, he wished it could just blow the tangled, aching mess of his feelings right out of him and scatter them among the dead foliage, forgotten.
With a dull, aching pain in his chest, he watched the shifting landscape of Mike's back: the steady roll of his shoulders as he pedaled, the stretch of his long legs, the way his unruly black curls whipped in the wind. A desperate, impossible yearning rose in him.
He shook his head, as if to physically dislodge the painful thoughts.
Ahead of them loomed the ruins left by the rift—houses gutted and abandoned, left to the mercy of the scavengers, a skeletal reminder of the town's trauma. They veered away from the ghostly neighborhood, heading instead toward the convoy of military vehicles and the towering concrete barrier that now divided one part of Hawkins from the other.
Mike slowed his bike slightly, pulling even with Will. The tension in his muscles was visible, etched into the rigid line of his shoulders and jaw, and magnified in his strained voice.
"The military's really starting to act like they own the whole damn town," Mike muttered, his eyes fixed on the checkpoint ahead. "You can't even take a piss without them knowing about it. It's fucking suffocating."
The raw frustration in his voice was a strange comfort to Will.
"Agreed. The army is the last thing Hawkins needs right now. As if we don't have enough problems without them."
Mike gave a grim nod of agreement, and together they slowed to a halt at the checkpoint, the only gateway deeper into the town and towards the school.
A soldier with a bored, hardened expression stepped forward, one hand resting loosely on the rifle slung across his chest. "State your destination and present your passes," he said, his voice flat and devoid of courtesy.
Mike, his irritation palpable, was already fumbling in his backpack. "We're going to school. To learn," he added with a sarcastic bite, pulling out two laminated passes issued by the Hawkins PD. "You know, reading, writing... trying to have a somewhat normal life."
The soldier's eyes narrowed, but he took the passes without comment, scrutinizing the photos and then their faces with tedious slowness. Another soldier nearby watched them closely, his stance tense.
"Got a problem with us doing our jobs, kid?" the first soldier finally asked, his voice a low growl.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Mike retorted, his smile tight and utterly false. "We all feel so much safer with you here."
Will held his breath, his heart thumping. He willed Mike to just be quiet. After a tense moment that felt like an hour, the soldier thrust the passes back into Mike's hand.
"Move along. And watch your mouth, boy. This isn't a game."
The moment the barrier was lifted, Mike didn't wait. He shoved off, pedaling hard and fast. Will followed instantly, their bikes lurching forward as they poured all their energy into the pavement. They didn't speak, didn't look back, just raced down the deserted street towards the school, the wind whipping past their ears.
Finally, they skidded to a halt before yet another military checkpoint guarding the school's perimeter. Abandoning their bikes by the rack, they dashed for the entrance, weaving through a handful of other late-teen stragglers.
At full speed, they burst into the school's nearly empty main hall, shoving their passes under the nose of another grim-faced guard without breaking stride. They didn't stop, sprinting down the long, echoing corridors toward their classroom. Gasping for air, they slid inside, relief flooding them as they saw the teacher's desk was still empty. Pushing past already-seated, chattering students, they collapsed into their desks next to Lucas and Dustin, who clicked their tongues in synchronized disapproval.
"Well, well, lovebirds. What held you up this time?" Lucas teased, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Couldn't tear yourselves apart this morning?"
"No, no, no Lucas," Dustin laughed loudly. "Mike just couldn't decide which of his ten identical gray sweaters made him look the most brooding today."
"Shut the fuck up, both of you," Mike clicked his tongue in irritation. He aimed a half-hearted kick at Lucas under the table and jabbed his fist into Dustin's shoulder with a bit more force than necessary. He then busied himself with rummaging through his backpack, pulling out textbooks with unnecessary vigor. But out of the corner of his eye, Will saw the unmistakable pink flush coloring the very tips of Mike's ears.
The classroom door swung open with a sharp crack, and their teacher hurried in, hastily adjusting his tie and taking a swift gulp from a mug of coffee. The collective hum of the room died instantly, not into silence, but into a low undercurrent of whispers that hissed from every corner.
Clearing his throat, the man slumped into his chair and reached for the textbook. "Page fifty-one. Chapter five, number theory. Madds—you're up first. Let's go."
A wave of rustling paper and scraping pens followed. Will tried to follow suit, to force his focus onto the numbers in front of him, on the equations being scrawled across the board at the front of the class. But it was useless. His mind felt shrouded in a thick, impenetrable fog. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and icy chills cascaded down his spine. His gaze kept drifting helplessly toward the window, to the distant woods where the red pinpricks of military vehicle lights glowed like malevolent eyes.
[YOU DON'T BELONG HERE, WILL]
Will froze. A paralyzing cold locked his joints, and a phantom sensation—the crushing weight of a heavy, clawed paw—settled on his shoulder, pressing him down into a state of pure, inexplicable terror.
[STOP PRETENDING]
He clenched the pen in his sweaty hand, his knuckles turning white. He stared ahead, unseeing. Suddenly, a frigid draft passed by his ear, and the voice no longer seemed confined to the inside of his skull. It felt external, whispered from the empty space right beside him in the crowded room.
[ADMIT IT]
"—and Hopper just refuses to talk about El at all, can you believe it?"
A hushed whisper from directly behind his chair cut through the haunting presence. Will flinched violently, jolted out of his trance. The sudden return to reality was as jarring as the terror itself.
"–you, Mike? Have you heard anything about where El is now?" Dustin's conspiratorialy whispered and Will tilted his head slightly in his direction, straining to listen. He couldn't see Mike's face from his position, but he heard him shift uncomfortably in his chair.
"No idea. She hasn't reached out to me." Mike's voice was forcibly indifferent, but Will, who knew its every cadence, heard the sharp pang of hurt buried just beneath the surface. "I just hope she's okay... It's just that I... I can't be there for her."
Will slowly blinked and turned his head away, pretending to focus on the chalkboard. A familiar, cold tightness clenched behind his sternum.
"I think she can take care of herself just fine, Mike," Lucas, seated next to Will, twisted around in his seat, his whisper laced with a teasing tone. He gave Will a friendly, playful nudge in the ribs with his elbow. "I mean, who would be saving who now, huh? Right, Will?"
Will offered Lucas a polite, thin smile. Not getting the enthusiastic reaction he'd hoped for, Lucas rolled his eyes and turned back around.
From behind them, Mike offered no retort. The silence from his direction was heavier and more telling than any argument could have been.
"I just want her to be safe, that's all."
"The last time you talked, it was like you'd had quite an argument. What, did the love wither on the vine?" Dustin pressed, his voice full of feigned innocence.
"Real funny, Dustin."
"No, but seriously, Mike, you can tell us—"
"Is there a problem back there? Wheeler! Henderson!" The teacher's voice was like a whip, rapping his pointer sharply against the desk. "This is a classroom, not a coffee shop. Save the chatter for lunch."
Mike and Dustin fell into a chastised silence, sinking down in their chairs and lowering their heads.
Will's gaze drifted listlessly to the window again, where a cold autumn wind tore the last few, brittle leaves from the skeletal black branches outside. The voices of the teacher and the other students grew increasingly muffled, gradually dissolving into a formless, droning white noise.
The only sound that cut through it was the nervous tapping of Mike's pen against the desk. Its irregular, agitated rhythm seemed to mirror the frantic, stumbling beat of Will's own heart, the two sounds syncing together in the small room.
*****
"Karen, the duck is wonderful."
"Joyce, stop, you're just flattering me."
"No, I'm serious. Someone get this incredible woman a medal. Ted, you are unbelievably lucky."
"Oh, come on, Joyce, you'll make me blush."
The large platter of golden-brown duck, surrounded by roasted apples, made its way around the lively, crowded Wheeler dinner table, which was both cramped and noisy that evening. Mike, bouncing with impatience on his chair, snatched the platter right out of the hands of Nancy, who was sitting across from him, eliciting a shrill cry of protest.
"Hey, Mike! Give that back! You're not the only one here, you know!"
"I'm starving, I don't care, you already got your piece!"
"How dare you—"
"That's enough. Everyone, settle down," Ted said loudly, rubbing the bridge of his nose and gripping his mug with force, as if trying to steady his nervously twitching eye. "Mike, take your goddamn piece and give the platter to your sister. Nancy, stop being so hysterical. And both of you shut your mouthes when you're eating. Don't want to hear any sound from you till the end of the evening. You got me?"
Nancy's mouth fell open, her face flushing with indignation, but under her father's stern gaze, she pressed her lips together and stared fixedly at her plate. Mike clicked his tongue in annoyance and, with deliberate slowness, served himself a portion before clattering the platter back onto the table, his eyes meeting his father's with a hint of defiance. Ted's brow furrowed deeply as he took a slow sip from his cup, glaring at Mike from under his eyebrows.
Jonathan and Will exchanged a look, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Joyce glanced awkwardly at Karen, who was now intently and unnecessarily stirring the salad in the large bowl as if it required her complete focus. An uncomfortable silence descended over the table, broken only by the sound of chewing and the repetitive clink-clink-clink of the serving spoon against the metal sides of the salad bowl—a sound that seemed to amplify the tension with every strike.
"Sooooo, kids," Joyce's voice was honey-sweet but firm, a deliberate and practiced attempt to defuse the atmosphere. "How was school today?"
"I got an A in art and a B in literature!" Holly chirped, her legs kicking happily beneath the table as she chewed a piece of apple. Joyce beamed at her. "Is that right, sweetie? That's wonderful! You're turning into a real scholar." Karen and Ted exchanged a brief, unreadable glance.
"And why a B?" Ted asked around a mouthful of duck, his tone disapproving as he shoveled a large portion of salad onto his plate. Holly's smile faltered as she looked his way, her small legs ceasing their happy swing. "Well, just because—"
"When I was your age, there was no 'just because.' It was either perfect or it was a failure. Take a page from your sister's book, then you might actually get somewhere—"
Mike let out an audible, exasperated sigh and leaned back in his chair, stretching contentedly. Then, on pure autopilot, he shifted his weight and let his shoulder lean gently against Will's.
Will froze.
The contact was casual, thoughtless, a mere byproduct of Mike's stretch. But for Will, the world narrowed to that single point of pressure. He didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe, terrified that the slightest motion would break the spell and Mike would pull away.
Then—
Under the table, Mike’s leg shifted too. It wasn't a nudge or a kick. It was a deliberate, solid press of his thigh against Will's, from knee to hip.
A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through Will. He flinched as if touched by a live wire, his entire body tensing at the sudden, brazen contact. The noise of the dinner table—the clatter of plates, Ted's droning voice—muffled into a dull roar. The entire universe condensed into the searing line of heat where their legs connected, separated only by the thin layers of denim.
Then, Mike tilted his head. He leaned in so close that his messy, dark curls almost brushed against Will's temple. His voice was a hot whisper against Will's ear, a stark contrast to the public performance of the dinner.
"My dad is just talking out of his ass again, like always. Just ignore him, okay?"
His breath ghosted over Will's skin, and Will took a slow, shaky breath, trying to steady his own. He offered a casual smile, turning his head to meet Mike's gaze.
"Yeah, it's fine. I'm used to it."
Their eyes met.
Mike's eyes were right there, so close. Large, dark, and almond-shaped, they were slightly crinkled at the corners from the wide grin on his face. And they were warm. So incredibly warm. For years, looking into them had felt like coming home—a safe, radiant tenderness that had been the very foundation of Will's love for him. It was a feeling he could live inside forever.
But now, a strange discomfort coiled in Will's gut. He felt that familiar, pure warmth, yes, but it was suddenly underscored by something new—something charged, hot and foreign. It wasn't a gentle radiance anymore, but a focused heat that spread through his body. Instead of the pleasant tingle in his fingertips, it settled as a shameful, confusing weight low in his abdomen, a heavy and undeniable pull.
A pause hung between them. Their legs remained tightly pressed together under the crowded table, their heads almost touching. Around them, the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of conversation continued, a world away. Suddenly, Mike's intense gaze seemed to shift, scanning his face as if searching for something. A jolt of panic shot through Will. He flinched and quickly turned his head away, breaking the connection, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"I... I'm going to go to bed. I want to get some sleep."
His voice came out far too loud and jarring compared to the others, which made everyone else at the table fall silent.
"Already?" Mike's eyebrows shot up, a clear look of concern in his eyes. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Just peachy, Mike. Never better," Will bit off the words, startling himself with his own bitterness. But he couldn't help it, it was as if some external force was controlling his suddenly heavy tongue.
Will pushed his plate away on autopilot and stood up abruptly. The rest of the table looked at him in confusion. Joyce glanced at the clock. "Honey, it's only 8 o'clock—"
"I'm aware." Will's voice was suddenly sharp and harsh, a tone so foreign it made him flinch. "Stop treating me like a baby."
[THAT'S RIGHT, WILL]
"Nobody's treating you—"
"Will, what's gotten into you?" Jonathan gave a hesitant laugh, setting his fork aside. "Where's this even coming from—"
"Why does it even matter to any of you where I'm going or why? Mind your own business."
[DON'T LET THEM]
"I think I can decide when I go to bed, okay? Or am I five years old, Mom?"
He shoved his chair back with a loud scrape that echoed in the stunned silence and, without looking at anyone, marched toward the second-floor staircase.
[CONTROL YOU]
It wasn't until he reached the guest bathroom, practically falling inside and slamming the door shut, that he realized he'd been holding his breath the entire time. He gripped the sides of the sink with both hands, his knuckles turning white, and let out a ragged, deep exhale that turned into a fit of coughing. He wiped his mouth and twisted the faucet, splashing his face with icy water, the cold a shock against his burning skin.
What was happening to him?
Will took a deep, shuddering breath, splashing water on the back of his neck, feeling the familiar, unwelcome chill of goosebumps rise along his spine.
Then, without warning, a wave of uncontrollable rage crashed over him. Every repressed feeling, every ounce of helplessness, every suppressed aggression and hidden desire, it all flooded him at once, filling him to the brim until he was overflowing.
His throat constricted as if pulled tight by a cord. Every sound amplified into a deafening roar in his head: each dripping faucet, the buzz of a fly in the corner, the rustle of dry leaves outside the window. It was a cacophony that felt like it was eating him alive from the inside.
A violent spasm wracked his body. In a fit of alien, overwhelming aggression, he snatched the cup holding their toothbrushes and hurled it against the wall. The plastic shattered, sending brushes skittering across the tiles. Then went the box of medicines from under the sink, a clattering storm of bottles and boxes. The soap dish and combs followed. A raw, guttural scream of pure despair tore from his throat, and he slammed both of his open palms down onto the hard, porcelain sink with all his strength.
A dull, bright pain shot through his hands and up his wrists, a shocking, physical anchor that finally dragged him back to his senses. He snatched his hands back, cradling them against his chest, rubbing the throbbing palms as he doubled over, curled in a silent, pained grimace.
[THAT'S RIGHT. THE PAIN IS GOOD]
[Get out. Fuck off.]
[YOU WILL UNDERSTAND SOON]
[What do you want from me? Get out of my head!]
[THAT THE ONLY THING LEFT FOR THINGS LIKE YOU AND ME IS PAIN]
"Shut up!"
The words tore from his throat, a raw, desperate command to the presence in his mind. In a final, frantic act of defiance, he snatched a heavy box of bandages from the floor and hurled it at the mirror above the sink.
The thick glass shuddered with a low, resonant thrum, webbing into a intricate spiderweb of cracks but not shattering. And in its fractured reflection, it showed him a pale, terrified boy with despair in his big doe-like eyes, wringing his own hands as if he could tear the very feeling from his skin. The splintered image multiplied his anguish, showing him a dozen broken versions of himself, all staring back, all completely, and utterly, lost.
"Honey, what happened?" Joyce's voice through the door was thick with panic. The doorknob jiggled frantically as she tried to open it from the other side.
"Will, everyone is really worried about you," Jonathan added, his voice a low and anxious. Somewhere behind them, the agitated murmur of the Wheelers' voices was audible. "Open the door. We need to see you."
Will's heart constricted. He slid down to sit on the cold tile floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his forehead against them, making himself small.
"It's fine. I just... I have a stomachache."
A heavy pause hung on the other side of the door.
"Then why were you screaming, sweetie? We heard you from downstairs. Are you in pain?"
"And what was that crash? We thought you fell."
"No, no. I just... I dropped some boxes while I was looking for medicine. And... I yelled when I stubbed my toe on the bathtub. That's all."
Tears welled in Will's eyes, hot and shameful, as he fumbled for the right lie. More than anything in the world, he wanted to tell them—to pour out the chaos in his head and the storm in his heart to the two people who loved him most. He wanted to confess the voice, the rage, the crushing weight of all the feelings that were consuming him. But he couldn't. The truth was a monster he had to keep locked inside this room, lest it break their hearts or, worse, make them see the broken, frightening thing he was becoming.
"Will, maybe we should just—"
"I said I'm fine..." Will's voice was sharp again, a tone that brooked no argument, and he immediately regretted it. "I... I need a minute. I want to wash my face. I can handle it myself."
The Wheelers' voices behind the door began to fade. He heard Joyce's footsteps retreat from the door, hesitant and heavy with worry. Then, Jonathan tapped the wood softly with his knuckles, a quiet, intimate sound meant only for him. "If you... if you need anything, Will. We're right here." He paused. "Don't forget that."
A solid lump of tears formed in Will's throat, so thick he could barely swallow it down. He then slowly pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his pants.
"Yeah, I know," he said, then added, so quietly it was almost a breath, "Thank you, Jonathan."
He heard Jonathan turn softly on the other side of the door, his footsteps retreating down the hall just like the others.
Alone again, Will twisted the faucet back on, scrubbing his face with ice-cold water until his skin burned. He moved quickly then, gathering the scattered toothbrushes, medicine boxes, and combs, arranging them neatly back in their places with a frantic, precise energy. He refused to look at the fractured mirror, refusing to meet the gaze of the dozen broken boys he knew would be staring back. He wrenched the door open and stepped out, slamming the door behind him.