Chapter Text
No one should ever see their friend
They've known since they were just kids
Foam up and bite it on the floor
You never need to call my name
Though I love it all the same
I know you by your knock on the door
I know you by your footsteps on the floor- A Knock At The Door, Ethel Cain
When Mike was four, he fell off his bike and slid halfway down St. Gabriel Ave, leaving a few inches of his skin behind him. The year before, he had gotten ahold of scissors and made a cape out of Nancy’s favorite blue dress. She used the same scissors to hack at his hair until their mother found the two of them.
He didn’t remember either incident. He knows they happened, of course. The fall had scarred, a pink-white patch just below his knee cap, and his mom still brought out the pictures of his bald patch and cape every time she got too wine drunk. The lack of memories isn’t a hollow or a scar, not a gaping wound from something torn away; they’re just nothing.
The first five years of his life are the same, nothing upon nothing upon nothing until -
His first memory, his first recollection of anything, is this: the creaking of wood and chain, the first bite of a September chill settling into his bones, the scratchiness of the new jacket his mother had bought, and a very tiny voice saying, “My name’s Will.”
It was that simple.
Mike had seen a boy with a heavy blue jacket alone on the swings, and everything just made sense. Of course he’d go over there and ask to be friends, and of course Will would say yes. Of course they’d spend the rest of the day together and of course they’d have a death grip on each other's hands when their moms came to pick them up. Of course that was the first day of many, of Will-and-Mike and the world against them.
Of course, of course, of course.
His first memory, his first real memory, is of the swingset and Will. Every memory after that is of Will too, even when it’s not, even when he’s gone. They’ve been Will-and-Mike since he was five, and he never learned how to untangle the two, how to be without Will.
So it’s a very easy conclusion to come to, so simple that even he couldn’t deny it, wouldn’t dare. Mike’s life began the day he met Will; his life started on that swing set.
It only makes sense that it would end there, too.
By the time they get back to the Squawk tower, his hands are shaking and there is a very large bruise settling into every inch of his body. Mike isn’t even sure how they got out of the base, or how Ms. Byers stole a military grade truck, or if anyone was still alive. In the aftermath, in the seconds that followed the Demogorons' crumpled body hitting the ground, his thoughts had narrowed down to one single thing - Will.
Will, who had slumped to the ground, who had landed a little too close to a flaming body for his sake. Will, who was unconscious and vulnerable in the middle of a destroyed army base with Vecna minutes gone. They had to get out, they had to get him the fuck out of there.
Mike was at his feet the next time he blinked, barely aware of anything other than the heavy weight of Will in his arms and the dull ache of Ms. Byers crashing into him. Together they carried Will out of the base, somehow, and now they were in the radio shack, just the three of them.
Only the three of them, because he failed the kids, because he couldn’t save any of them, just like no one ever saved him, or Will, or El. They had promised to protect them from Vecna, from Mr. Whatsit, who took Holly, who nearly killed his parents and -
His hands are shaking, a tremble that consumes his entire body until he’s just shaking like a terrified alley cat. His mom is in the hospital, he has no idea if Nancy or Lucas or Robin are alive, he can’t do anything for them, but he can grab a cloth and clean off the soot and blood clinging to Will’s face. He could do that. Mike could do that. He knew just how uncomfortable it was to wake up with dried blood and the scent of destruction clinging to your skin.
He could do this. He could do this.
Mike scrounges around for a bucket and a a mostly clean rag, barely hearing Ms. Byers’ voice crackling over the radio as she calls out for anyone. He hopes Lucas isn’t dead, they can’t take another funeral, but if they lose another Party member - if Max wakes up and Lucas is gone - if -
Stop.
The water still works, and it’s cool against his fingers as he fills up the plastic bowl Robin had thrown at his head a week ago. The scrapes covering his hand sting, a grounding feeling that’s almost as relieving as the sight of brown water swirling down the drain. If he were in a poetic mood, he’d call it holy, a religious experience, like a baptism held on the shores of the Jordan River.
But Mike can barely breathe without having a panic attack, let alone come up with symbolism so it’s just water going down the drain and water filling up a bowl. It sloshes against the edges, wetting his fingertips as he slowly makes his way over to Will’s limp body on the couch. He almost looks like he could be asleep, if he wasn’t so fucking dirty.
It’s wrong, in a universal way, for Will Byers to be dirty, to be broken, to be tiny and crumpled and half-gone. Will is light, Will is all the good things left in the world, Will is Will. He shouldn’t be broken; he shouldn’t look ruined.
Mike can fix that. Mike will fix that.
He kneels beside the couch, folding his legs beneath him with Ms. Byers’ bordering on desperate voice a steady song in the background. The cloth, blue and slightly bleach-stained, dips into the water before he presses it against Will’s temple. There’s dried blood near his hairline, from a fall or a hit or anything really, and it has to go.
Will should never be bloodied.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Stop, dip the cloth in the water, and raise it up again. Back and forth, ignore the thought that one of your best friends may be dead. Back and forth, breathe in and let the pain roll over you. Back and forth, you can’t save anyone, but you can clean Will up so he doesn’t wake up uncomfortable. This, this you can do.
It’s almost relaxing, cleaning off Will’s face and his neck and his hands. It’s a steadying sort of motion, and it’s distracting enough that his breathing slows and his heartbeat falls into a normal pattern. Huh, turns out the only thing he needs to distract himself from a panic attack is Will. Not even his voice, or his gentle, kind, always forgiving eyes, just his - existence.
Mike doesn’t think too hard about that, and it’s only mostly because Will has a slightly bleeding scrape against his wrist that needs pressure. Really.
He’s cleaning his hands, the calloused fingers pressed against his palm while he scrapes away a layer of soot, when the doors crash open. Mike startles so hard that the bowl of water splashes all over the floor and his legs. He doesn’t even think about letting go of Will’s hand as his head snaps towards the door and -
Lucas’s shirt is half covered in blood, and his arm is thrown over Robin’s shoulder as they stumble in. Mike can distantly hear Murray cursing in the background over Ms. Byers concerned-afraid-what-the-fuck-is-happening voice. Oh, thank god. The last of his panic attack slips away, then it surges back because Lucas is bleeding badly and leaning too heavily on Robin.
Mike looks back at Will, at the hand limply held in his own. His chest is rising and falling, there’s a pinkness slowly returning to his cheeks, and his eyes move subtly beneath his eyelids. He’s alive and he’s as safe as he’ll ever be.
It takes everything in him to stand up, to carefully fold Will’s arm over his chest and head over to Lucas. Robin had deposited him at the table while she went for the first aid kit that they always had on hand. Mike takes stock of his injuries, eyes darting over the slashes, the slightly gray tint of his cheeks, the way his knuckles are nearly white from how hard he’s gripping onto the edge of the table. “How bad?”
Lucas’s eyes shift to meet his before he shakes his head, “Surface level, but Mike, fuck, I lost the kids.” He doesn’t bother with a response to the pure fucking shame in Lucas’s voice, because he knows it all too well. They failed, they failed those kids just like everyone had failed them. They’ll carry that for the rest of their lives, no matter how short; there’s no reason to keep talking about it.
He kneels in front of him just as Robin slams the first aid kit onto the table. She tosses him a bottle of wound wash and another cloth, and Mike doesn’t skip a beat before pushing up Lucas’s shirt. They’re well practiced at this, too practiced at it.
Lucas tilts back his head and groans behind gritted teeth as he pours the wound wash over the cuts, wiping away the blood and bits of torn t-shirt material that stuck to it. He’s right, it’s surface level, deep enough it’ll scar but not deep enough to tear into muscle and organs. The only miracle they got today.
Robin is passing Lucas a bottle of painkillers when the words finally burst out of her, “Did you guys see that shit too? The fucking Demogorgon that was going to rip me open levitated into the air and then was snapped apart just like that,” She snaps her fingers, and Mike hears it perfectly, the breaking of a Demogorgon bones or whatever the hell their skeleton’s made of.
Crack, crack, crack, crack, Will’s outstretched hand and the blood dripping from his nose as he looks at Mike and Mike looks back and he sees.
Mike blinks when Lucas jolts under his hand, not because he’s pressing too hard but because he’s staring at Robin intensely, “It happened for you too? That thing was going to kill me, it lunged, I thought - It levitated too, snapped apart just like,” He stops again, and he doesn’t continue, but he doesn’t need to. They can all fill in that sentence perfectly.
Snapped apart just like Max.
This time, when he jolts Mike knows it’s because he pressed too hard. He swallows, shoving away the image of Max in the hospital bed, covered in casts and so pale he thought she was just a corpse for a second. He grabs a bundle of gauze, carefully wrapping Lucas’s wounds and pointedly not looking at either of them when he says, “It was Will.”
It’s barely a breath of air, honestly, it was mostly just Will, but Mike can feel their stares. Robin’s voice is delicate and disbelieving, “That - Vecna powers on the goddamn Demogorons - was Will? Our Will? Sweet, caring, always about to be possessed by Vecna, Will?”
“Yes, Robin, that Will. You know any others?” She flicks his forehead and he flips her off without jolting Lucas at all. See, well practiced.
“Okay, I’m gonna need you to explain that one for me, Mike.” Lucas is perfectly still under his hands as he looks down at him. Mike sighs, taking the medical tape Robin slides towards him, and begins to stick down the gauze.
“He’s connected to Vecna; it goes both ways. That means he can access the hive mind, and Vecna can creep in through a backdoor. But, it also means Will can access his powers, his strength. It goes both fucking ways and Will figured that out.” He’s to busy wrapping up Lucas’s torso to see the looks exchanged above him, or to notice the half-smile that's pulling on his lips.
Mike leans back on his heels when the last of the tape goes down, tilting his head to make sure the gauze is in place and there’s no blood seeping through. He nods just as Robin hums in agreement, “You’re alive, for now.”
Lucas rolls his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath as he finally lets go of his death grip on the table. He slips his shirt back down, breathing heavily out of his nose and shifting around, feeling out the parameters of his injury. They’ve all been there before, in that seat, being the one with the blood and pain and worry from everyone else. It sucks all the same. “Thanks, Mike. But seriously, that was Will?”
He pushes himself up, barely catching himself on the table and Robin’s shoulder as his knees buckle. Blood rushes back to his feet right alongside the dull pain radiating through his body, the world swims before his eyes for a few nauseating seconds. “Okay, Batman, take a seat.” Robin practically manhandles him into the seat across from Lucas, and Mike grudgingly lets her.
He does wrinkle his nose because, “Batman? I’m Batman?”
Robin nods toward the couch, where Will really does look like he’s sleeping if you ignore the mess of his clothes, “I mean, if Will over there is Superman, then you’re Batman. Best friends, allies, equals, one with superpowers and the other with more weapons than physically possible. Boom, Batman.” She flicks him on the forehead again, because Robin is annoying and funny and she always bounces back, always.
Lucas nods in agreement, leaning forward just a bit and groaning immediately. His hand hovers over his chest as he leans back, “Bad idea, but Robin’s not wrong. You’re Batman, dude, and on that note, Will has superpowers now?”
“It’s more like Vecna does, and Will just - took them back.” Mike smiles again, except this time he knows he’s smiling like a goddamn idiot, “It was so badass. A Demogorgon was about to get me, leaping through the air, mouth open and I swore that was it. I didn’t have time to run or any weapons; I was just standing there. It should have been it. But then, Will just stopped it, with only his hand, he stopped it.”
Robin’s staring at him again, eyes slightly narrowed, head tilted like she’s trying to figure something out. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t, either way she nods, “Yeah, badass.”
For a moment, it’s quiet, for a moment the stillness draws out between the three of them at the kitchen table with blood on the floor and a first aid kit spilling out onto the wood. Then there’s a groan from the couch, a small strangled thing that has Mike jolting out of his seat without a second thought. His legs work this time, somehow, and he stumbles to the couch, leaning heavily on the arm while Will shifts, hands clenching as his eyes flutter until they eventually blink open.
The sight of his eyes, hazel and fuzzy and completely, utterly him, nearly sends Mike to the ground. Or maybe that’s his unsteady legs, either way he ends up clinging to the arm of the couch while Robin almost launches herself over its back to get a hand on Will’s forehead. She presses back a few damp strands, fingers darting over the cut near his hairline, and settling on the crown of his head, “Byers? You in there?”
He blinks a few more times, long enough that Lucas can very carefully make his way over, a hand on the wall as he stares over Robin’s shoulder. Will’s voice is raspy and cracks halfway through, but it’s the sweetest sound Mike’s ever heard, “Robin? ‘re okay?”
She laughs, a high, startled thing, and Mike’s view of his hazel eyes are momentarily blocked by messy hair as Robin leans over and nearly crushes their heads together. “Jesus, Will, I thought that was it. Didn’t realize you were actually Superman!”
His response is so quiet Mike almost misses it, almost, “Not Superman, a sorcerer.”
Oh. His heart did an odd skip half-beat thing that he named as relief, gutwrenching, never-ending relief that Will was alive and talking and alive. He leans more on the arm of the couch, reaching out to wrap his hand around Will’s ankle. He can feel the divot of his bone, and the undeniable warmth that means life. “Superman or sorcerer, try not to pass out and scare the shit out of me next time.”
Will jolts forward, grabbing at the couch and nearly grappling over Robin to sit up and get a good look at him. “Mike!” Robin snorts, just a little bit, but even still she wraps her arm around his shoulders to help him sit up. It’s an odd tangle of limbs and bruises slipping into blood and grime but somehow it results in Will sitting up, his shoulder pressing against the back of the sofa while Robin keeps him stable. “You’re okay! I wasn’t sure, I thought. You’re okay.”
Mike squeezes his ankle, fighting the urge to launch himself forward and crash right into Will. They’re both too bruised and fragile for that right now, even if he really, really wants to. He resigns himself to clinging onto Will and staring, taking in every inch of his clean face and hazel eyes and the rise and falling of his chest. He’s alive, they both are.
It’s more than enough.
“Yes, Will, I am safe and sound too.” Lucas’s dry voice breaks his - he’s not going to call it a trance. Will tilts his head, looking over Robin’s shoulder to Lucas with guilt painted on his face.
“I didn’t mean,” Mike fights the urge to glare at Lucas for causing the half-wince on Will’s face.
“I was joking. You really saved all our asses, Will. Thanks.” The guilt goes away, and Will leans into Robin’s arms a little more, relaxing at the sound and sight of all three of them alive - because of him, him.
“I didn’t even know I could do anything like that, I just - I couldn’t let any of you get hurt. I had to stop it, so I did.” Will says it like it’s simple, like it’s so very simple. His friends were in danger, his friends were going to get hurt so he found a way to save them. Even if that way was tapping into the powers of a deranged, barely human being who practically controlled another dimension.
Fucking Will Byers.
Mike winces, the dull ache rising up just a little more. “Mike? What’s wrong?” Will’s clutching at Robin’s arm to claw himself further up the couch, but he just shakes his head.
“Everything just hurts, I got thrown around a few times but it’s nothing bad just -”
Robin finishes his sentences with a concerned look, “Fucking sucks?”
He nods, “Fucking sucks. I’m gonna see if there’s any ice left in the freezer.” He forces himself to take slow, steady steps towards the freezer. If he stumbles, if he falters, if god forbid he winces in pain Will might actually leap across the couch. He needs rest, he needs to recover from using Vecna’s powers to kill three full-grown Demogorgons simultaneously.
His right hip hurts, a sharp dragging pain that follows down half his leg, and there’s a burning pain in his lower back. Tomorrow morning, Mike’s sure he’ll find a nasty bruise covering half of it. God, Nancy’s going to smother him when she gets back - because she would, she would get back.
She’d come back with Jonathan a step behind, Dustin bitching to Steve, alive and perfectly fine. She’d probably even manage to find a new gun to wield anytime someone pissed her off. Hell, maybe by the time she got back, all of this would be over. They’d, for once, luck out and find El, who found Holly and all the other kids while Hopper blew up Vecna to make sure it stuck this time. Then, just because she loved to be the center of attention, Max would triumphantly return and call him a dick in her first hour alive.
They’d all be okay. They’d get that beautiful after without three waterfalls but it wouldn’t matter because they’d have each other. They’d be okay, they would.
Mike shivers as he opens the fridge, the cold slipping down his arm and digging its teeth into his chest. At least the freezer somehow worked, a godsend with a pile of ice in the center. He grabs a towel from the countertop, wrapping it around a handful of ice. The groan he lets out when he presses it against his shoulder is almost animalistic.
Fuck, he couldn’t even remember why his shoulder hurt. He shuts the freezer, leaning forward and pressing his head against the cool metal. The chill that slips down his spine is almost welcome as the pain quiets. This is going to be a rough, rough week.
He stills, pressing the ice harder against his shoulder, it’s quiet, it’s too quiet. Quiet’s never good, not when you’re them, not when you’re in Hawkins, Indiana. Mike turns around just as Robin screams Will’s name. She’s bent over the back of the couch, both hands on Will’s shoulders and even from the kitchen, he can make out the white of them - the lack of those perfect hazel eyes.
No.
Mike drops the ice, cubes scattering across the floor as he makes it from the kitchen to the couch in three seconds. Nothing hurts anymore, it’s all gone, replaced by adrenaline and fear, gutwrenching, swallowing him whole, fear. Lucas is shouting for Joyce and Robin is shaking Will’s shoulders. His eyes are white, they’re completely rolled up into the back of his head, and he’s trembling.
No. Not him. Not like this. Not when they just survived, not when there was a chance they could have all survived this. No. No.
No.
He yanks Robin back by her shoulder in the same fluid motion he kneels by Will’s side, an arm keeping him upright. “Should I Stay or Should I Go by The Clash, go get it! Now!” Robin’s face is a shade of white, and he doesn’t have to look to see the sheer terror in Lucas’s eyes. They’ve been here before and this story has not ended kindly. “ROBIN GO!”
She goes, darting towards the recording booth and the racks of cassettes and records. The Clash is somewhere in there, she’s played it before. Mike remembers because Will knew every lyric; he had whispered them under his breath, drumming his fingers against the table while Ms. Peters taught a lesson about circles in Geometry. As if that mattered when there was a gaping hole to the Upside Down only a few miles away.
It was the first time in weeks that Will had looked happy, relaxed, like a normal teenager without the world on his shoulders. Mike had been too busy staring at Will to remember any of the lyrics.
Now, with Will trembling in his arms, his eyes white and gone, he wishes he had. He wishes he knew everything down to the damn chorus because maybe he could sing, maybe that would be enough to bring Will back. Mike wishes he could tear Will from Vecna’s grip; he wishes he could kill the ugly bastard himself.
“Come on, come on Will, don’t do this. Not like this, Will, not after we survived, come on, please.” His hands are limp in his lap, the same hands Mike had gently cleaned, the same callouses that came from years of painting rather than the handle of a gun like Nancy’s. He always loved that, the paintings, Will’s paintings, he always loves them, always.
The world shrinks down to the couch, any pain in his body gone, replaced by the jagged edge of his fear for Will. He’s cold, he’s so cold and Will has never been cold, only when the Mind Flayer got him, only when Vecna got him. He was practically a furnace when they were young. Mike was never cold during their sleepovers in the basement, not as long as Will was there.
He’s so cold and his hazel eyes aren’t there and this is all fundamentally wrong.
“Will! You can’t let him win, you’ve never let him win. Not when we were kids, not now, not ever. He doesn’t get to win, you have to fight. Run towards the light, run towards us.” There’s clattering from within the shack, and for a brief, jarring moment, Mike wonders where the hell Ms. Byers is. Surely they’ve made enough noise to send her running?
Then Will tenses in his arm, jerking, twitching within his grasp like he’s being attacked - like vines are dragging him away, away from Mike. Where the fuck is Robin?! He’s losing him, he knows he’s losing him, he can’t lose him.
“Come back to us, come back. We haven’t saved Holly, we haven’t figured out how to help Dustin, we haven’t found the others, we can’t - There’s so much more we have left to do, you can’t give up now. You have to fight, Will!”
Lucas told him once, what happened to Max in the attic of Creel House. It had spilled out of him as the two of them stood watch over her comatose body. It was like he couldn’t contain it, the horror of it all, the tragedy of it. Mike couldn’t have stopped him if he tried, so instead he listened.
Her arm first, right in the middle of her forearm, her radius split in one direction, her ulna in the other. Then her leg, her fibula pulling apart in two so cleanly it was barely brutal - it just was. Then her other arm, same break, same twisted skin and bone, same wrongness. Blood had dripped down her cheeks, pooling in the corners of her eyes before slipping away with her sight.
By the time El had managed to get out, by the time she had dropped into his arms, she was already on the brink of going. When Lucas had gathered her in his lap, to hold her close, as if love could save her even then, the bones had ground together in her arm. It was the sound of nails scraping against a chalkboard, Max’s bones clattering against one another as they moved freely within the pulp of her arm.
He had spent half an hour throwing up in the bathroom afterwards.
It’s all he can see now, except that instead of Max’s placid face as she breaks apart, he sees Will. Will’s eyes white and empty, the hazel replaced by broken blood vessels, his face smoothed out in a way it only ever is when he’s gone, when he’s going, when he’s wrong. Will’s sturdy arms and legs breaking.
Will breaking apart.
Mike swallows down his bile, and holds Will tighter. His voice is low, a harsh whisper, “You’ve beat him before. You won, you. Not us, not El in your head, you beat him, you got out, you can do it again. You have to, we need you, I need you.”
There’s a sharp bang, and Robin’s voice cuts through the air, “I found it!”
Of course, that’s when Will slowly starts to rise.
“Shit.” Mike lunges forward, nearly blanketing Will as he tries to weigh him down, to keep him here so Robin can music him back to life. There’s a set of hands on his shoulders, Lucas leaning over the couch, blood steadily seeping through his shirt as he puts his full weight on Will.
Robin runs in, a radio in hand and a cassette tape in the other. It clatters against the coffee table as Mike wraps his legs around Will’s, his body still rising and rising. She shoves in the cassette, and it clicks in. She hits play, her nails digging into the button. For a moment, there’s nothing, and his heart stops. Then the opening chords of Should I Stay or Should I Go start playing.
Guitar rings out, Lucas digs his hands into Will’s shoulder, Robin sits on his feet and Mike is essentially in his lap, clinging to him like he’s everything.
Darling, you got to let me know
Should I stay or should I go
The room is so cold his fingertips are red, nearly burning as goosebumps settle into his skin. Will’s eyes don’t flutter open. Something is wrong, even worse than all of this.
Lucas yelps as something, an invisible force, shoves him back. He hits the wall with a cut off scream, groaning as he slides down. Mike can barely blink, can barely swallow the fear welling in his throat, before he’s being thrown back into Robin. The two of them are crushed against the arm of the couch, her elbows digging into his spine as Will - as Will rises.
This time, there’s nothing to stop his ascent, even when they both lurch forward to grab his legs. Their hands just slide down, tearing at the fabric, their grips are nothing compared to Vecna’s. Will rises and rises and rises until Mike’s hand could just barely wrap around his ankle if he stood up on the couch, so he does exactly that.
He stands up on the couch and grabs Will’s ankle, he doesn’t try to yank him down, futile and failing. He just holds on, he holds on as The Clash rings out.
One day is fine and next is black
So if you want me off your back,
Well, come and let me know
Should I stay or Should I go
It’s not working. Will is so cold his fingers are freezing, they’re stiff, they’re white and devoid of blood. Will is cold and Will is gone. It’s. Not. Working.
It’s desperation that leads him to open his mouth, a resounding chorus of God no, not him, please, dear fucking lord not him. “Do you remember our first successful campaign? We went for twelve hours in my basement, you, me, Lucas, and Dustin. It was everything. I mean it was terrible looking back, but it was so much fun then. It was great, it was really great.”
Nothing, but Lucas doesn’t skip a beat before he speaks from where he’s on the ground, “Back in ‘85, you helped me plan a date for Max. I was a mess because it was my first Valentine's with her and I was certain I was going to fail miserably. You helped me plan our picnic at the Drive-In; we didn’t even have a car and it was still one of the best nights of my life. You gave Max a piggyback ride after, then she tried to hop onto my back and we all ended up on the ground. We laughed so hard the ticket person yelled at us. Will - Will, come on dude.”
His head tilts back, and Mike can’t even see those bloodshot eyes anymore; he can’t see Will’s empty face. “Come on, Superman. You fought him before, fight him now. This isn’t how the comic ends, this is never how it ends.” Robin is crying, Robin is on the ground and she’s crying and The Clash isn’t fucking working.
It’s not working, it’s not working and Will is going to die. Will is going to break apart in the Squawk while Mike watches and The Clash does nothing. He can’t - This isn’t how it was supposed to go, this isn’t how any of this should be. It’s not right, it’s not - He can’t do this, he can’t lose Will, he can’t.
Will is his best friend. Will is the only person who really knows every inch of him, Will knows him, Will has always known him, Will will always know him. This can’t be how it ends, it’s not right, it’s not how it should be. Mike can’t do this.
He won’t.
The words spill out, and for once, it’s so incredibly easy. It’s Will, of course he tells the truth. “Do you remember when we met on that swingset? I asked you to be my best friend, and you said yes. It was that easy. We were just us, it was so easy, it was so right. It’s my first memory, it’s all of them.”
Will’s floating, his head tilted back, his throat barred and the room is freezing. “I lied, back in California, when El was in the Pizza shop. I lied. I said what I said to save her, I said it because I thought it was the truth. But I was wrong. I was wrong.”
His left arm snaps back with a horrific crushing sound, and Mike lets out a keening sound before he nearly chokes on the words with how quickly they spill out. “My life started the day we met. Everything started that day, I wasn’t me until that day. It was the best day of my life, and so was every other one I had with you, all of them, even the bad. Will, it’s always been you.”
Mike’s crying now, he doesn’t know when he started and he knows that if this doesn’t work, he’ll never stop. If Will goes, there will be nothing left, there will be no more. If Will goes, Mike goes too, that’s just how it works. “I need you to come back to me, please, please,” His other arm, another horrific crunch that’ll never leave him and -
He’ll never paint again, even if it works, even if Mike can love him back to life, Will will never paint again. His fingers, his beautiful, calloused fingers are crooked, each pointing in a different way. His arm is jagged, his wrist practically in pieces, and Will will never be able to paint again.
The tragedy of it nearly stops his heart then and there, nearly swallows him whole. But Will is still breathing, and Mike can’t stop if he’s still there.
“Please, you’re everything, to us. You say that I’m the heart, but you’re wrong. It’s you, it’s always been you. We came together to find you, to save you, and you saved us right back. You never gave up on any of us and you always cared. Will, you’re the heart, there’s nothing without you.” A leg, a crunch-crack, an animalistic sound from behind him, another sob but none of it matters.
Will’s the only thing he sees. He’s the only thing Mike has ever seen. He gets that now.
“I - I can’t do this without you, okay? I can’t do anything without you. There’s - there’s no me without you. So, please, please come back to me. Nothing's broken enough that we can’t fix it if we’re together, we can fix this just please, please come back to me.”
His other leg and Mike is gasping, Mike is trembling, Mike is watching Will Byers break apart for the thousandth time and it’s NOT RIGHT. “Will, Will, Will, please.”
Blood forms in the corners of his eyes, drips down his cheeks, tears, tears of blood and there’s something poetic there but it’s horrible. It’s all horrible and Will is crying tears of blood and Mike can’t do anything but watch.
His jaw strains, and somehow Mike can perfectly make out the rips in his skin. They follow the line of his jaw, creep out from the corners of his lips as his jaw strains and strains and - CRACK. Will Byers' beautiful, perfect, holy face nearly cracks in two.
Mike can’t - He doesn’t - This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
“Will,” He breathes out his name, one last desperate plea, a prayer to a God that has not looked kindly down on him since he was twelve and wrong. Finally, his closed eyes - They swell for a moment, pushing at his eyelids until they’re bulging. Then, just as quickly as they swelled up, they simply cave in on themselves.
In 6th-grade science, six months before the world would end for the first time, Mike learned about Black Holes. A cosmic body of extremely intense gravity from which nothing, not even light, can escape. They’re born when a star dies, when a star is so giant, when a star burns so brightly that upon its death it collapses under its own gravity. Matter compresses the dying-dead star from all sides into a single point that has zero volume and infinite density.
It’s called the singularity.
Will dies, the star collapses beneath its own weight.
Then it’s over as quickly as it began. Will’s body hits the ground with a thud and Mike - Mike - Mike -
The singularity.
Mike can’t breathe.