show me yours, and i'll show you mine

by lightsflicker

Summary:

Suddenly, Mike is twelve, teetering on the edge of the quarry. Maybe tomorrow the paramedics will pull him from the same exact place they found Will's body. It’s a comforting thought, morbidly enough. To be with Will again. 

“You should have jumped,” the voice echoes. “You should’ve just jumped.”

or: Vecna gives Mike Wheeler a no good, very bad evening.

Notes:

i started this before vol 1 dropped, but didn’t finish it in time so i retconned some of it to slot into canon a bit better re: who’s there, how mike’s feeling (not good) so this takes place a day or so after episode four!

warnings for mike wheeler being passively suicidal and having internalized homophobia and just problems in general. sorry buddy. readers - heed the warnings and take care of yourselves <3

italics = vecna in mike's head, plain text = what's really happening.

title is from phoebe bridgers’ savior complex, the mike wheeler song of all time (to me)

post volume 2 edit: girl 😭 LMAOOOOO

 

It’d be really nice if, all things considered, Mike’s bedroom could be at least still in one piece when he gets back.

It’s not. 

“Jesus,” Robin says, eyeing the debris covering what was once Mike’s bedroom floor, coming out of what also was once a wall and a closet. “You weren’t doing any sort of home renovation before this, were you?” 

Mike rolls his eyes, trying to separate crumbling drywall and insulation from clothing and salvage something for himself and Will to wear. Coming back to the house without mom, dad, Holly or Nancy was one thing, but seeing the destruction and the blood still smeared on the kitchen floor was another. 

“I mean,” Robin goes on, ever persistent, “that’s crazy. Do you think it, just like, totally ripped through your closet, like it did at the Turnbow’s, or-?” 

Mike gestures around to the sheer wreck that is his bedroom. “You mean when that demogorgon mauled my parents and took my sister?” 

Robin winces. “I didn’t mean-” 

“It’s cool,” Mike says. He sighs. “It’ll just… have to be fixed. Eventually. Sometime.”

“If we don’t all die.” 

“Right,” Mike affirms, exhausted. “If we don’t all die.” 

He continues rooting through the wreckage while Robin curiously inspects the posters on his walls, the books on his dresser, even the dirty dishes on his desk that he probably should’ve taken downstairs last week. 

“It’s so… teen boy in here,” she notes aloud, shuddering. “Oh! Bowie fan?” 

Mike groans. “Are you done yet?” 

“Nope.” She scans another dogeared poster on his wall. “Hey, did you see-” 

Will then crosses into Mike’s bedroom, eyes flitting between Mike and Robin. Robin, of course, positively beams - something Mike’s been trying to ignore, because he has far too much else going on, but it still grates on him. 

“Find ‘em yet?” she asks, and Will shakes his head. Robin sighs. “Still blows my mind that Nancy fucking Wheeler keeps guns and ammo in her pink, lacy bedroom. Be right back, gentlemen.” 

She ducks out of the room, and Will kneels next to Mike. “You want some help cleaning this up?” 

“I don’t even know where to start, to be honest.” 

Will starts trying to move some of the larger shards of the splintered door out of the way. 

“Mike,” he says, filling the silence, “Holly’s going to be okay. Your parents, too. It’s-” 

“I know,” Mike answers flatly. He glances at Will and softens his voice on instinct. “I know.” 

Will’s frown deepens. “Are you sure you’re… doing alright?” 

Mike shrugs, pushing it down. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s like you said, we’ll get Holly back, kill Vecna, Max’ll wake up. And then we can fix my house. Maybe you can use your new powers for some home repair.” 

Will huffs out a laugh. “Not sure if that’s how it works, Mike.” 

“Could be.” He lifts an emerald-green knit sweater from the mess and tosses it into the pile of clothes to take to the WSQK station. “Sorcerer-turned-handyman.” 

Will doesn’t respond to that, and Mike mentally kicks himself. 

He’s moved to Mike’s dresser, surveying its contents similarly to how Robin had, but Mike’s never minded Will looking through his things. “I didn’t know you still had this,” Will says quietly. He’s reverently touching a painting unfurled and pinned down by two paperweights Mike nabbed from Ted’s office. 

“Oh,” Mike says. “I mean, yeah, of course I still have it; it’s a Will Byers original.” 

Will smiles placidly, but his eyes soften at the sight of the canvas. “I feel like I haven’t been up here in ages.” 

“In my room?” When the Byers ended up moving in, Will had taken the basement with Jonathan. Mike hadn’t realized until now just how long it had been since Will was last in his bedroom. 

Will nods. “You changed it up.” 

“Yeah, what with the gigantic hole in the wall and all.” 

“It’s tasteful. Feng Shui.” 

“You know you-” Mike pauses, choosing his words carefully. “You know you can always come up here, right? You don’t, like, have to stay in the basement all the time.” 

Will shrugs. “Didn’t want to invade your space any more than I already have, I guess.” 

“You’re not invading at all,” Mike protests. 

Will gives him a sideways glance. 

“You’re not!” Mike smiles sheepishly, folding a t-shirt over and over in his hands. “I liked having you here.”

“I liked being here,” Will says quietly, and a silence follows. “So, thanks for, like, letting us crash and stuff. I know it was a lot.” 

“I mean, best friend living in my basement, not really a bad deal.” 

Will goes quiet again, his eyes still locked to the painting. 

Mike awkwardly clears his throat. “But when this is all over, like, before you go back to Lenora-” 

Will rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure there’s still gunshot holes in my walls. Pretty sure we’re banned from Lenora-”  

“If you go back,” Mike says, gazing over his shoulder, “I don’t know, we should hang out. Do something normal.” God, that could not have sounded any more fucking awkward. 

Will raises an eyebrow. “We’ve technically been hanging out for 18 months straight. Aren’t you sick of me?” 

“No, not yet,” Mike says, and he can already feel his face flushing. “But don’t test me.” 

“There’s still plenty of time for you to get tired of me,” Will assures him, smiling thinly. “You keep batteries up here? Double A?” 

“Top drawer,” Mike answers, rising from the floor and brushing his hands over the seat of his pants. Over the dresser, Will’s holding a small shoebox in his hands. Mike’s heart drops to his stomach. 

“What’s this?” Will asks gently. 

“Nothing,” Mike says quickly, crossing the room to take the shoebox from Will’s hands. He couldn’t fathom that the shoebox was anywhere but tucked beneath his bed. Before his fingers can brush the top of the box, Will pulls it out of his reach, still smiling. 

“Will,” Mike says, “come on.” 

Will’s eyebrows wiggle teasingly. “What? Is this where you keep all your secrets, or something?” 

Mike forces a laugh, but a burn crawls up his neck and heats his face. “Ha, ha. Come on, hand it over.” 

“What? I wanna see!” 

“Nope,” Mike says, trying to keep their conversation light when he feels like he’s suffocating. “No secrets for you. It’s just junk in there, anyway. Come on, fork it over.” 

Will keeps the shoebox out of Mike’s view, and casts the lid to the floor. 

“Will,” Mike pleads, now fully mortified. “Put it down. That’s not your-” 

“Oh,” Will says, examining the contents of the shoebox. Mike knows exactly what resides within it, and knows exactly why it's supposed to be underneath his bed, not out on the dresser. “So this is where they were.” 

“Stop-” The word catches in Mike’s chest. “Don't look at that, Will. Come on.” 

“Should we have a read-aloud?” Will asks calmly, setting the box on top of the painting, its contents exposed under the light. “Maybe I’ll read them to Robin. She’d love  these. I’ll have Lucas and Dustin read them, too. Do you think El would like to hear-” 

Mike's chest constricts; it's like the room is getting smaller, almost, and he can't tear his eyes from Will's hands, rummaging through the box. “What are you-”

With calculated movements, Will unfolds one piece of looseleaf from the box. He clears his throat. “Dear Will.” 

“Stop,” Mike pleads again. “What are you-” 

“I’m sorry I haven’t written,” Will continues reading off the page, sighing mockingly. Mike throws his arm forward to snatch it from his grasp, but Will dodges it with ease. “I didn’t know what to say. It’s lonely here. I really - oh, this one’s underlined - really miss you. School sucks without you. Dustin and Lucas are great and all-”

“It’s not funny, Will-”

“But I feel - oh, wow, underlined again - lost when you’re not here. I know that’s lame to say, and it’s so stupid, but-” 

“I’m sorry,” Mike rushes out. “I’m sorry I didn’t write you, that I- that I didn’t send these, but just put the box-” 

Will keeps reading. “But you’re my best friend-” He pauses, cocking his head. “You wrote that?”

“Wrote what?” Mike’s heart thuds louder; he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. He wants to lunge forward again, to tear the letter and the entire box from Will’s hand, but he can’t.

“That I’m your best friend.” 

Mike’s mouth goes dry. Will widens his eyes expectantly, wearing an unreadable expression. 

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly. “Yeah, I mean, you’re my best friend, man.” 

“Really? Then why aren’t we friends anymore?” 

“What?” Mike blinks. “Will. What are you talking about?”

Will scoffs. “We’re hardly friends.”

“That- that’s not true. You're not making any sense.” 

“Really?” Will goes back to sorting through the box. Mike feels trapped, like his feet have been superglued to the carpet. “What are we then, Mike?” 

Mike’s lips part, but no sound escapes them. He swears his bedroom is getting smaller, and something coils in him, strangling his chest, his throat. 

“Why haven’t you told anyone?” Will asks. “Why haven’t you told me?”

“Told you… told you what?” 

“I know how you think of me.” 

“Will, stop it.” 

“Why haven’t you told the others? You haven’t even told El, have you? Or your parents? Or Nancy? Haven’t told anyone why you can’t sleep at night? Haven’t told anyone that it’s all your fault-” 

“This isn't funny,” Mike stammers. “Stop it. Stop it.”

Will unfurls another letter. “There it is,” he announces. “I wish I could see you. I wish I could call you - that one’s crossed out, wonder why. Oh, and it’s signed. Lo-” 

“Will, knock it off.” 

“What do you think I would say?” Will hardly sounds like himself anymore; his voice deepens in pitch and Mike's bedroom grows colder. When he steps away, his back collides with his desk. He throws a panicked glance down the hallway, but Nancy’s room is dark, and he could’ve sworn Robin was just in there-

“If I knew?” Will plows forward. “If I found out how you felt, do you actually think I would feel the same?”

Mike shakes his head frantically, unable to meet Will's eyes. The temperature continues to drop, and Will draws closer. “I don’t feel anything-” 

“Stop lying.” 

“I’m not-”

“If your father knew?” 

The room gets darker, colder. Mike grips the edge of his desk, his nails digging into the wood. Will wouldn't speak to him this way, he's sure of it. Will, he's pretty sure, doesn't even have the capacity to be cruel, despite living a life that would make anybody just that. “You’re not- you're not Will. You- he wouldn’t say that.” 

“Wouldn’t I?” Will taunts, his voice now entirely unrecognizable. “You had no problem speaking to me like that, didn’t you? Didn’t you? So afraid of me, when I was the only one who-” 

“Shut up,” Mike whispers. “Shut up, shut up.” 

“When I needed you, and you-”

“Stop it.” 

Will grins. “You first.” 

“Will.” 

“Should I read another?” Will’s hands ghost over the shoebox. “Should I tell everyone the exact way you signed these, when you could hardly even hug me at the airport?” 

“Shut up,” Mike murmurs. He wants so badly to scream, to tear his vocal chords with the sheer volume of it, but it’s always been damn near impossible to raise his voice while he looks at Will. “Shut up. Shut up.” 

“You shut me out,” Will - no, something else - growls, closing in on Mike. “And you turn around and think we’re a team, that we’re best friends, that we-” 

“I didn't shut you out,” Mike stumbles over the words, and the lie tastes foreign in his mouth. He swore he'd never lie to Will again, and here he is. “I said I was sorry, alright? I- I said I was sorry-”  

“You know that isn't good enough, right?” Will's usual gentle cadence has been diminished to a grumble that hurts Mike's ears. He's completely trapped against the desk, the letters in the shoebox spread across his dresser, Will glaring at him. “You have to know. You think I don't notice how you try to pretend? You think I don't notice the way you look at me, the way you try to touch me? After the way you treated me? After the way you treated me, how you spoke to me, you think a sorry is good enough? Do you actually think I'd ever need you? Love you?”

All the breath leaves Mike's lungs, just like that. “Will, I'm not- I don't understand.” 

Will plows on, ignoring Mike's agony. “You think El doesn't notice? Do you think your family doesn't notice how you look at me-”

Mike screws his eyes shut. “Stop.” 

“Look at me.”

He keeps his eyes closed as a chill racks his entire body. “Stop.” 

“Look at me!” Will shouts. “Look at me!”

Mike breaks away, darting into the hallway. “Lucas! Lucas, where-” 

do you get all these ideas?” Karen asks, eyes glinting warmly. 

Dining room table. Mike is ten; Holly isn’t even old enough for a high chair yet. He beams, explaining a new D&D campaign to his parents - well, Karen. 

“And then,” Mike goes on, “when the Thessalhydra comes out of the cave, they’ll have to-” 

“Don’t you think we ought to sign him up for sports?” his father grunts, marking his first contribution to the conversation. “All this talk of monsters and junk. Can’t be good for a kid.” 

“Ted. It’s what he likes,” Karen says firmly. “Go on, Michael. So, when the thermahydra-” 

“Thessalhydra,” Mike corrects, defeated. 

“When I was your age,” Ted plows on, “my old man had me in t-ball, soccer, boxing. Toughens up a kid.” 

“I loathe t-ball,” Mike mutters. 

“You hardly gave it a shot,” Ted says, sawing into his dinner. “You get into a sport, build up some muscle. Son, those kids at school pick on you because-” 

“Ted.” 

“They pick on you because you’re always ragging on about this magic crap. Having your head in the clouds all the time instead of reality. I don’t like it.” 

Mike shrinks in his seat. Ted sighs, softening a bit. 

“Just don’t bring it to the dinner table,” he says. “Alright? All that hokey-pokey. This is how kids start thinking you’re queer or something.” 

Mike looks to Nancy for some line of defense, who lifelessly picks at her food. 

“See?” a voice grates on Mike’s ears as the memory blurs and shifts. “Even they know. She knows. They all know you’re

kidding me,” Lucas says, watching Robin pull two hunting rifles from underneath Nancy’s bed. “Huh.” 

“Nope,” Robin affirms. “Not kidding.” 

Lucas takes the first rifle from Robin’s hands. “Guess she had to keep them somewhere.” 

Erica raises an eyebrow. “Can I-?” 

“No,” Lucas and Robin say in unison. She rolls her eyes. 

“Fine, but don’t come crying to me when you-” 

A shout rings down the hallway - Will’s, unmistakable and desperate. “HELP! Someone, get in here! HELP!” 

Robin’s eyes widen. “Was that-” 

“Will,” Lucas finishes. “In Mike’s room.” 

They bolt down the 

hallway at school, and Mike’s trying to ignore the taunts of bullies and mouthbreathers echoing through the corridors. His heart’s never felt heavier, he’s never felt more lost in his life. The hallway seems to stretch on for ages.

Dustin and Lucas aren’t with him when Mike steps into the breezeway, and he can feel the eyes of a missing poster pouring into him. Jonathan must’ve already come by the middle school to replace the one that had been defaced earlier. 

Mike stares at the missing poster. 

Will stares back, grinning, eyes big. 

“You know it should’ve been you, right?” The voice returns. “You know you should’ve been the one I

don’t know!” Will is shouting frantically, shaking Mike’s limp frame by the shoulders. “I came in, and we- he just- he stopped talking, and his eyes-” 

“We need music,” Lucas says, eyes wide in horror. “Where’s his music, Will?”

“I don’t know!” 

Lucas whirls around, waving wildly to Robin and Erica. “Go downstairs. Find any music. Anything Mike

places his hand on Will’s knee, trying to stop its incessant bouncing. He's brushing his fingers over Will’s leg in the cafeteria, two weeks after he was found, and Will had been so anxious that Mike worried he’d never be the 

same thing happened to Max,” Lucas rushes out, tearing through Mike’s bedroom for any form of music. Will rattles Mike by his shoulders and hurriedly pats his cheek. “If we hurry, he might be 

okay?” Mike asks quietly, eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

Will nods unconvincingly. This had been happening a lot recently; Will’s leg would fidget, his arm would twitch uncomfortably - movements so small only Mike would perceive them. He hadn’t learned yet that it’s one thing to pull Will into a hug, or hold his hand, or place a hand on his knee at home, and that it’s a whole other thing to do that at school. 

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Troy, to be sure. Mike doesn’t have to turn around to know. Will shrinks beside him, eyes on Mike for reassurance. “Moved on from your fake girlfriend to zombie boy already, queer-ler?” 

Mike freezes. Will keeps staring, waiting. His eyes flicker down to Mike’s hand flat on his knee. 

“He’s disgusted,” the voice snarls as the room shrinks. “Just look at him.” 

And Mike does look. He looks at Will; he’s wearing a grimace on his face, and he’s staring at Mike’s hand. Everyone in the cafeteria is looking, too, looking directly at Mike, who’s just made his own life and Will’s a thousand times harder with one stupid move. 

His hand suddenly feels like it’s on fire, burning from the inside out. He pulls his hand off of Will’s knee, and scoots his seat a few inches further to the right. 

“They all know, Michael. Haven’t you figured it out yet? They all know, that they think 

there’s some cassettes in here somewhere,” Will stammers, failing to keep his voice steady. “I know they have to be, just-”

“Fuck!” Lucas ransacks a desk drawer and casts it to the floor. “He has- he has nothing in this room! Shit!” 

Will’s still in front of Mike, who’s standing stiffly at the foot of his bed, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and the color draining from his face. Will shakes him again, and Mike’s head lolls back. “How- how long does it take?”

“I don’t know!” Lucas shouts. “Will, help me! I can’t

keep having this conversation with you,” Karen is saying through a sigh. “I mean, the graffiti on the bathroom stall was one thing, and the essay, and the- the cursing, but now you’re skipping class? This isn’t you, Michael.” 

“I only skipped two,” Mike says dryly. “Not the end of the world.” 

Karen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Two? Two? I only got a call about science! You skipped two classes?” 

In his bed, Mike rolls onto his side, wishing he could just stay here forever. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

“What’s going on with you?” Karen prods, exasperated. “Mr. Clark couldn’t believe you skipped his class! You love science, Mike! He was worried about you! Do you know what it’s like to get that call?” 

Mike buries his face in his pillow. No, he doesn’t say, no, I don’t know what it’s like, because I can’t force myself to care about anything anymore. 

“Mike,” Karen says, her voice only a thread above a whisper. “Is everything okay?” 

His answer is robotic, automatic. “Everything’s fine.” 

“Is this about Will? Is everything alright with your friends?” 

Mike curls his knees to his chest further, wanting more than anything to be left alone. His voice nearly breaks when he asks, “Why does it have to be about Will?” 

Karen purses her lips, contemplative. “I know the anniversary is coming up, and that’s a hard time-”

“It’s not,” Mike cuts in sharply. “It’s not about that. I’m just tired, Mom. It’s like, I’m tired all the time. So, I’m sorry I skipped my stupid classes.” 

 “Sweetheart.” Karen’s nails meet Mike’s back, gently scratching. “Did something happen?” 

“She knows,” says the voice, turning a comforting memory into a miserable one, just like that. “She knows something’s wrong with you.” 

“Nothing happened.” Mike hates the way the words come out in a squeak, and more than that, he hates how hard it is to lie to his mother. “Can you just leave me alone?” 

“Okay.” Karen retracts her hand. “If you need anything, or you ever want to talk, you can always just wake

him up?” Will cries. “Will it wake him up? If we try the radio?” 

Lucas snaps his fingers. “The radio! The radio!”  

The lights in Mike Wheeler’s bedroom begin to flicker wildly. The ceiling fan, the lamp, even the lights in the hallway flash, and dread pools in Will’s gut. He leaves Mike’s body to find the stereo, and his shaking hands fumble with the buttons. He won’t lose Mike. They won’t lose Mike. He adjusts the dial of the stereo, turns the volume up high, and hopes to god that it’ll play

music, blasting through the school gym. A suit that’s far too scratchy, a tie that’s too tight around his throat. He sits in a folding chair, alone, and his eyes can’t help but follow the movements of a pair on the dance floor. She’s dancing with him. Does she like him? Does he like her? 

Why should Mike care? 

Why should Mike care if he sits in this folding chair alone? Dances are stupid - but Will shouldn’t be dancing with someone who called him zombie boy - you told him to go with her. Isn’t that what you wanted? 

“If that’s what you wanted,” the voice says, “then why does it hurt you so much to look at him

and make sure he doesn’t start floating,” Lucas tells Will over the loud static spewing from the useless radio. “ERICA! ROBIN!” He shouts down the stairs. “HURRY!” 

“WE’RE HURRYING!” 

Will curses under his breath, smacking the side of the stereo. “Of course the Squawk never has a goddamn signal - fuck!”  

Will turns to Mike, and he feels like he can’t breathe, he’s useless, it feels like he can only watch

a movie in his basement, and it’s only him and Will; the Wheelers’ house is the only place Joyce allows Will to spend the night after he was found. The screen glows, illuminating Will’s profile in hues of blue and white. 

On the couch, under the same blanket. The Thing rampages through the lab, but Mike’s eyes can’t meet the screen. He watches the movie through the reflection in Will’s pupils, and feels Will’s leg brush against his. He can feel the warmth of Will radiating off of him; they’re sitting that close. Their shoulders touch, their knees brush, every smile from Will sends a secret thrill through Mike. 

He’s beautiful, Mike thinks, with a trepid, sinking feeling in his stomach. His brain calls to mind El, and the girls in his class he’s supposed to like, and even Max Mayfield. 

Oh. The realization comes to him unbidden. 

This is what it’s supposed to feel like.  

He's not entirely sure what it means, but it hurts.

That voice again. “You wanted to kiss him, didn’t you?”

No, Mike thinks. No, I didn’t, I was just-

“Don’t lie,” says the voice. “You know exactly what you wanted that night.” 

Mike tries to convince himself it isn’t true, feeling like he’s drowning in the memory. 

“You can’t even be his friend, can you? Always wanting more, more, more.”

I can, Mike thinks, and the feeling of Will’s leg against his makes his heart pang. I can be his friend, I am his friend, I’m-

“Liar.”

Mike shifts himself towards the edge of the couch, putting a good few feet between himself and Will, and tries to watch the movie, and tries to ignore the confused, quiet, longing expression on Will’s face. 

That was the last time Mike hung out alone with Will Byers for a very long time. 

The lights flash in Mike’s bedroom like lightning, like a storm, like 

it’s raining. It’s been raining for days now, pattering the garage roof and cascading down the gutters. It’s loud, matching the hammering of Mike’s heart. 

He tries to ignore the tears brimming in the waterlines of Will’s eyes and the crack in his voice. 

“See?” Will snaps. “You don’t know, and you don’t even care, and obviously he doesn’t either, and I don’t blame him! You’re destroying everything and for what, so you can swap spit with some stupid girl?”

“El’s not stupid!” His head keeps spinning, the rain keeps falling, and his mouth keeps moving faster than his brain. “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” 

Will’s breathing hitches. A brief silence settles between them and dread floods Mike’s bloodstream. 

Mike wishes, just then, Will would say something back. That he would say something equally cruel, that he would punch him in the gut then and there, that he could hurl insults as easily as Mike could. 

He wishes Will would be mean, that he would say something and shatter the romanticized view of him that Mike has been trying to shake for the past year. But of course he doesn’t; Will’s far too gentle for that, far kinder than Mike’s ever been. That’s always been one of Mike’s favorite things about him. 

It’s because Mike’s view of Will isn’t romanticized at all. That’s just who he is. 

“I guess I did,” is all Will can say to combat Mike’s attempt to apologize, and it’s the meanest he’s capable of being. “I really did.” 

“Why so afraid?” the voice booms. “So afraid of Will? Why does he scare you? You love pushing him away just to see if he’ll crawling come back, don’t you?” 

Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, Mike knows the answer. He knows this isn’t real; but the door remains locked, and he seals the thought away. 

I didn't mean to

“But you did.” 

In the next instant Will’s pedaling into the storm, and Mike calls for him to come back, but it catches in his throat this time, and he can’t 

find anything!” Lucas shouts, yanking back desk drawers in Mike’s ransacked bedroom in a fruitless attempt to find a cassette, a vinyl, anything. “I can’t- we can’t-” 

“Keep looking!” Will manages, his heart in his throat. Mike must keep a stash of music in his bedroom somewhere. He steps over the debris of Mike’s closet door, splintered on the floor. The radio proves useless, continuing to spew static. 

“Anything downstairs?” Lucas calls through the open doorway. “Hurry!” 

“Jack shit!” Erica yells back. Will can hear the sounds of their friends rifling through the kitchen, drawers slamming. He wishes Nancy was here, Holly, or even Ted, if it meant they could find something in this house. 

“All these people listen to is fucking Kenny G!” Robin’s voice echoes up the stairs. 

Will’s hands are shaking, they won’t stop 

shaking, and Mike can still taste it on his mouth. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, it’s El, and the kiss is perfect, it’s innocent. 

It disgusts him, the kiss. 

All he wants is to shrink into the floor and disappear here and now. 

Was she disappointed by it? Did he let her down, too, the way he’s let everyone else down? Maybe she could sense it in him, or taste it on his lips, that there’s something wrong with him. 

Maybe she could tell that all he could think about was the fact that they’re standing in the Byers’ house, that they’re really going through with this move, that it’ll be the last time he sees any of them for a long time. 

That all he could think about was Will. 

Could she read that on him? 

“She knows,” the voice says. The empty bedroom shifts. It’s getting smaller. He feels like he’s going to be suffocated in the Byers’ furniture-less home, and if he screamed, no one would come looking for him. “She knows. They all know. I know. I know every single disgusting thought you have. I know every fantasy, every nightmare you have. I know how you think about him instead of her. Do you think she deserves that? Do you think she doesn't know? Did you think you had anyone fooled besides yourself, Michael? Do you really think that she can't see it in your eyes

are rolled back into his head, exposing the whites of Mike’s scleras. His head is angled back and his arms are slack at his sides. 

Lucas is still rifling through the half-destroyed closet, and Will has resigned himself to holding Mike’s face in his hands. 

“Mike,” Will croaks. “Mike, please, we’re right here-” 

Mike’s skin is cold and clammy in his palms. The lights flicker throughout his bedroom, reflecting off of his vacant eyes. Not Mike, Will thinks. Please. His brain, ever overactive, reminds Will that it should be him that Vecna is attacking, not Mike. Never Mike. 

“I’m right here,” Will says, cradling Mike’s pale face in his hands. “I’m right here.” His head whirls around. “Lucas!” 

“I’m trying!” There’s a tremor in Lucas’ voice that frightens Will. He wonders if Lucas thinks they’ll lose Mike the exact same way they lost Max. Another dresser drawer to the ground. Another. Another. 

Mike’s head snaps back, out of Will’s hands. Will reaches for his shoulders, and doesn’t realize until now that he’s been sobbing. The sentiment remains, uninterrupted, that it shouldn’t have been Mike, it should’ve been 

you, the voice leers, and Mike’s peering around the corner of an ambulance. Men lift a gurney from the quarry. It’s Will’s red vest, Will’s hair, Will’s arm dangling into the water. 

“It’s not Will,” Mike whispers, and the youth in his own voice surprises him. “It can’t be.” 

He watches, uselessly, as his best friend’s body is recovered from the lake. 

“You know it should’ve been you,” that low voice rumbles. “You know that, don’t you? It should’ve been you instead of

Will raises a hand to brush it through Mike’s hair, and even his scalp is cold, it’s all cold, his skin is so 

cold, when you land. You hit the water from that high up, it’s like concrete. If it isn’t the height that crushes your bones on impact, it’ll be the shock, or you’ll freeze. The water fills your lungs like ice once you’re under. 

Mike is twelve, teetering on the edge of the quarry. Maybe tomorrow the paramedics would pull him from the same place they found Will. It’s a comforting thought, morbidly enough. To be with Will again. 

“You should have jumped,” the voice echoes. “You should’ve just jumped. Don’t you think Eleven 

(“You can’t even write it, Mike,” she says, and he still can’t find it in himself to spit it out; the words are acidic on his tongue. Beautiful, smart, brave El, his El, and he still can’t force it out. He can’t feel anything.)

and Will

(“We’re friends!” he snaps under the colorful lights of the roller-rink, with a venom he knows he shouldn’t throw at Will. 

Yet he tries, tries to place some sort of distance between them because the two-thousand miles from Hawkins to the California state line hadn’t been enough. To hell with the letters he couldn’t send, the ones where he wrote that he missed him, the ones where an L had left the pen where he knows he should’ve saved that signature for El instead. 

“We’re friends,” Mike repeats, as if that makes it any less of a lie.)

and even sweet Holly 

(And he’s sitting on a bench with his baby sister, and she’s talking about monsters, and he can only hope that they won’t get her, too.)

would have been better off if you had just jumped on that day? If you’re some sort of savior, some sort of leader, you should’ve done them a favor and jumped. Want to be a leader, Mike? Jump.”

On the edge of the quarry, Mike’s sneakers leave the ground

Mike lifts towards the ceiling, out of Will’s grasp. 

“LUCAS!” Will screams. “HELP!”

As Lucas frantically tosses rummages beneath Mike’s bed, a flurry of socks and soda cans follow. The lights switch on and off, creating a strobe-like effect over Mike, whose mouth has gone slack. 

He breaks their arms first, Will remembers with sheer terror. That same chill passes over the back of his neck. The taunting. Vecna’s holding Mike’s life in his hands, dangling him in front of Will like it’s all some sort of game. 

“Wait, wait! I have something!” Lucas shouts. He wrenches a shoebox out from under Mike’s bed. Will scrambles beside him, and the static of the radio roars even louder. 

In the shoebox, they paw past unstamped envelopes, pieces of looseleaf folded into squares, and finally uncover one black cassette at the bottom of the box; the label on it is faded and peeling, some parts are scratched off, as if Mike had tried to remove the label, and only a few letters of what was once a title remain:

“F R    W   .” 

“What- what is this?” Lucas demands, looking to Will for answers. “Will, is this Mike’s music?” 

“I don’t know,” Will stammers. He throws a glance over his shoulder, and Mike is still near the ceiling, unmoving. But he knows well enough that Vecna won’t let him hold onto the crumb of hope that Mike can be saved for much longer. “I don’t know. I have no idea. Try it, try it!” 

They snap the cassette into the player, and Lucas cranks the volume knob as far as it can go. For a moment, the player, too, spits out static. 

“Come on,” Will chokes. “Come on, come on-” 

Mike’s leg

hits the water first. 

Oddly, the water doesn’t greet him as harshly as he thought it would. The frigid water envelopes him, filling his lungs immediately. Mike doesn’t struggle, he doesn’t move. He plummets through the freezing quarry because El didn’t save him this time. 

“Isn’t it better this way?”

“Doesn’t it feel nice?” 

“It’s better for everyone. For all your friends.” 

“Do you think anyone would miss you?”

“Do you think anyone needs you?” 

“Do you think Will needs you?” 

“Do you think he would ever love you?” 

“After everything you’ve done?” 

As Mike sinks, Will comes to mind. A flurry of memories passes through his mind like a roll of film. Will, with his hair hanging in his eyes, joining him on the swingset. Will in that hospital bed, and he looked so small, and the flood of relief that passed through Mike like electricity. Being the first to hug him, and placing his ear over Will’s heart just to hear it beating through that thin hospital gown. 

Will in his homemade Ghostbusters costume, in tears, looking to Mike for reassurance. Placing his hand over his, promising that he’d protect him. Will screaming in that gurney, and Mike running through the halls of the hospital. Falling asleep in the chair at his bedside. 

Will telling him he’d never join another party. Will leaving for California. Unfurling a painting so beautiful it could’ve only been Will’s brush that made the strokes. The way the sun filtered through the windows of the van and washed Will’s face in light. The unmistakable weight on his heart when he looks at Will. 

It’s all Will. It’s always been Will. 

Will with paint on his hands. Will’s eyebrows furrowing over his math homework, a quizzical glint in his eyes. 

The fear of not being needed anymore. The quiet rush that runs through him when Will needs him. The inability to say he loves, and the torturous realization that he could only ever feel that for Will. Pushing Will away and pulling him back in. Their knees brushing. Being Will’s protector. Being the ‘heart.’ 

Some heart, Mike thinks as he sinks deeper, a burning sensation ravaging his chest. He’d always heard that drowning feels quite similar to burning, and he can hear Nancy’s voice, haunted, explaining how they had to burn the Mind Flayer out of Will. 

He sinks further, and 

Mike’s leg lifts just as the music kicks in, blaring. 

Erica and Robin bound up the stairs, eyes wide at the sight of Mike levitating, his eyes still rolled back. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Robin murmurs in shock, her hand over her mouth. 

“This better work,” says Lucas, and turns the volume louder. “This better goddamn work.” 

he can see Will’s face, he can hear his voice. It’s like if he reached out

Will reaches for Mike’s hand

he could feel him 

and grabs it

and none of this would be real. 

Mike comes to himself; his eyes shoot open. He’s in the dark water of the quarry, but there’s a glow near the surface. Red and blue lights reflect off the rippling crest of the water, and he kicks with all his might. It’s a miracle his legs still work after all. He kicks, and scoops with his hands, fighting his way to the surface. Something pulses through the water. It’s a low vibration, almost melodic. Mike swims

Will clings onto Mike’s hand as the lights flash wildly, the music echoing through the house. His eyes sting 

towards the surface, and he’s so close that he can feel something pulling his hand. Someone luring him out of the water, someone steady, someone kind. Someone constant. There’s spots in Mike’s vision as the water stings his eyes. But he persists, clawing his way out of the water.  

He’s almost there 

“Please, Mike, please.” 

and his hand breaches the surface

Mike falls like a puppet with its strings cut, gracelessly hitting the carpet. The buzzing lights blow out for good, encasing the Wheelers’ house in darkness as the static from the radio finally quits, but the music persists. 

Will immediately kneels on the floor, scooping Mike off the ground. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, delirious. “Holy shit.”

Mike’s eyes fly open, wildly taking in his surroundings. He opens his mouth to speak, but pulls Will into a bone-crushing hug instead. 

Lucas kneels beside Will, throwing his arms over both of them. “Oh, my god,” Lucas says. “We thought you were a goner, man.” 

Mike huffs out a laugh, pained. “Me, too.” 

Lucas leans back. “That was-” 

“Freaky,” Robin finishes. “Fucking hell, Wheeler.” 

Will still can’t find it in himself to let go of Mike, not yet. He weaves his fingers into Mike’s hair, and Mike presses his face into his shoulder, and Will holds him for as long as he can. He feels the rise and fall of Mike’s back as he gasps, and can feel the thudding of his heartbeat against his. 

Will still says in a barely perceptible whisper, “you’re okay. You’re okay.” 

Mike says nothing and buries his face deeper into Will’s jacket. 

“God.” Lucas puts his face into his hands. “That was-”

“Real fucking close,” Erica says. 

“Did you… see anything? What did he show you?”

Mike doesn’t answer, still clinging onto Will’s jacket. Lucas and Will exchange a glance, and he sighs.

“Why don’t we- Why don’t we go… look at the breakers? Get the power back on or something. Talk about… all this later.” Lucas says, sounding shaken. Will nods, answering for Mike.

Will can distantly hear the three of them pad downstairs. He releases his hold on the back of Mike’s head, but Mike doesn’t move. He still has his hands fisted in the back of Will’s jacket when he starts to sob. 

For all the years Will has known (and loved, his brain unkindly supplies the end of the phrase) Mike, he can't remember the last time he’d seen him cry. In fact, he could likely count on one hand the amount of times Mike Wheeler has cried, and it breaks his heart. 

“You’re okay,” Will repeats softly, beneath the roar of the music. 

“I’m sorry.” Mike’s voice is muffled. “Will, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“What?” Will can hardly make out his words. 

“I’m sorry.” Mike leans back, his eyes wide and glassy, tears lining his face, a version of himself Will hasn’t seen since they were kids. Mike’s always been a quiet crier, Will remembers. He hiccups and sniffs and tries to hide it every time. But now, Mike’s face crumples entirely when he locks eyes with Will, and sobs wrack his entire body when he buries his face back into Will’s jacket. “I’m so sorry, Will, I didn’t-” 

“You-” Will blinks, hesitantly replacing his hands in Mike’s hair and combing through it gingerly. “You don’t have to be sorry. You don’t have to be sorry for anything, Mike.”

“But I am,” Mike says shakily, repeating himself like a broken record while he sobs. “I’m so- I’m just so fucking sorry, Will. For all of it. I shouldn’t’ve said- I should- fuck, I’m just so sorry.” 

“Whatever he made you see,” Will says gently, terrified, “it wasn’t real.”

“But it was real. It felt so-” 

“I know.” Will gently scratches Mike’s hair in an attempt to stop the wild heaving. “Trust me, I know.” 

They stay there, in a heap on the carpet of Mike’s childhood bedroom, just like that, for a long time. 

 

-

 

In the late hours, when night turns into morning, The Wheelers' house is dark when Mike sits on the edge of his bed. He can’t shake any of it, when he feels like it’s his duty to. 

Will sits on the floor, listening intently. 

“And you were there,” Mike finishes his explanation vaguely, anxiously fidgeting with the hem of his quilt. “El, too. Holly. My parents, everyone,” he tacks on, and while it isn’t a lie, it isn’t the truth, either. 

“Mike,” Will suggests cautiously, “whatever he showed you-” 

“I know,” Mike says, exasperated. “I know. I know it’s not supposed to be real, but he already took Holly, and he won’t stop until-” 

“We won’t let him,” Will says, voice gentle. He sounds younger somehow, in the dark. It’s as if the years hadn’t beaten them down yet, and they’re still just scared kids in Mike’s basement. “Remember?” 

Mike steadies himself with a nod, although he isn’t sure if he believes it anymore. 

“You should really clean your room,” Will whispers after a beat, and the lighter tone in his voice makes Mike chuckle weakly. “And stop hiding your music under your bed.”

“Under my bed,” Mike murmurs back in disbelief. Fuck. “Did you-” 

“I didn’t look at anything in that box,” Will promises immediately, the mind-reader he is, with Mike. “If that’s what you’re asking. You know I wouldn’t.” 

Mike grips his forehead, nodding and puzzling together where his evening stopped and started again. The relief, while small, that Will wouldn’t pry through his things washes over him. He knows what’s on the cassette. He knows Will’s smart enough to piece the title together from what remained on the label. 

“If it happens again,” Mike starts, trying to push the embarrassment aside, “we’ll just have it at the ready.” 

“Hey.” Will reaches to touch Mike’s leg dangling off the bed. “It won’t happen again. We won’t let him. Pretty sure someone said that to me once.” 

Mike snorts. “Probably someone pretty dumb.” 

“Someone who scared the shit out of me, yeah.” 

“You were scared?” 

“Mike,” Will says gravely. “Are you kidding? I was terrified. We all were. Why wouldn’t we be?” 

“No, no.” Mike shakes his head. He lets out a hollow laugh to ease the tension, but Will’s always been able to see right through that. “Sometimes, I just… I don’t know.” 

“What?” Will prods. 

“Sometimes,” Mike shuts his mouth again, embarrassed. Will keeps staring at him with those big eyes of his, and he wants to shrink and disappear into his mattress here and now. “It’s dumb.”

“Mike.” Will’s voice is soft and familiar, a far cry from the Will Vecna had showed him just hours earlier. 

Of course it is, because it’s Will’s voice. It’s the real Will - his Will, Mike’s brain wants to add, because it can’t help the innate possessiveness Mike’s always felt over him. 

“You can tell me.”

And Mike knows he can, because Will’s always had this nasty habit of making him so vulnerable. It’s something about Will’s face, Mike’s convinced, that makes him so desperate to spill his guts and say things he’ll regret. 

“Sometimes I just wonder if anyone would… miss me,” Mike finally says. It’s a thought he’s kept tucked away in the recesses of his mind, something he’d never vocalized until now. He knows Will would never tell the others, but it still feels so shameful to admit, that the so-called leader of their party isn’t a leader at all; he’s a fraud, a shell. “That’s all. Like, I wonder if anyone would really… need me, anyway. Like if I-” Mike snaps his mouth shut when Will’s face falters, trying to maintain the facade. “I know that sounds so-” 

“Don’t say that,” Will murmurs. “Don’t ever say that.”

Mike’s face warms. Here he is, speaking to Will, Will who’s had his life torn and wrecked in more ways than he could fathom, looking for comfort when it should be the other way around. “I know,” he says. “Sorry. I’m being an idiot, I’m not-” 

“You’re not an idiot,” Will whispers. “I feel like that sometimes, too.”

“You do?” 

“Yeah. Thinking, like, maybe everyone would’ve been okay if I was never found.”

Mike shoots his hand out, placing it over Will’s. “You know that’s not true.” 

“No, I know,” Will says, voice thick. They sit in silence, Mike rubbing his thumb over the back of Will’s hand. 

“If it’s any consolation,” Will finally says into the dark. “I- we’d all miss you. We all need you. You know that. Don’t listen to anything he told you.” 

“I know,” Mike breathes. He pulls his leg back, and curls onto his side, his back to Will. He isn’t entirely sure if he’ll sleep at all tonight, but the exhaustion is racking his bones. “Thanks.” 

“Course.” Will clears his throat. “You should get some sleep. Or, I don’t know, try.” 

Mike doesn’t have to shut his eyes yet to know what’s waiting for him on the other side of his eyelids. With his temple resting on his pillow, his eyes make out the threads of the carpet, the baseboards of his floor, the clothes littered across his ransacked bedroom. 

It feels so childish - it is childish - but Mike wishes he could have a light on. He wants his mom. He wishes she could scratch his back or pet his hair instead of being hooked up to some machine in the hospital. He wishes Nancy was here. He wishes Will would stay. 

“Will?” Mike whispers once he hears Will get to his feet. 

“What is it?” 

“Would you just-” Mike swallows, harshly. God, it sounds so juvenile. But, again, that’s the Will Effect. He makes Mike want to say and admit things he shouldn’t. God knows Mike’s tried to understand it, the Will Effect, but he hasn’t been able to crack it.

He pauses, thinking. Then, finally: “Would you stay?” 

“Yeah.” He hears Will sink back to the floor. “Yeah, I’ll stay. Of course.” 

Mike pulls the quilt over his shoulders, takes a rattling breath, and closes his eyes. He can still feel the ice-cold water of the quarry, can still hear Vecna’s voice, and can still picture Will’s defeated face each and every time he’s failed him. He scrunches his eyes shut tighter, and begs himself to just be rid of the thing. 

It’s not real. Grow up. Be there for Will instead. Be there for everyone else, for god's sake. You already cried in front of him, now you’re asking him to babysit you, like you’re some sort of kid? How many more times does he have to save you before you save him? 

He can feel the water lapping at his knees, like he’s back underwater all over again. 

“Will,” Mike says again, staring at the wall now. He thinks maybe Will retreated downstairs; he’s been quiet for so long. 

But as always, Will answers when he calls. “Yeah?” 

“Can you just come up here, or something?” Mike asks. “Just- I don’t know.” He swallows his pride. It burns going down. God. “Lay next to me?” 

Wordlessly, Will rises from his spot on the floor. Mike doesn’t dare turn around or acknowledge the shame coiling in his gut when the bed creaks with the addition of Will’s weight. He can feel Will’s wide hazel eyes boring into his spine; following each rise and fall of his back. 

When Mike shuts his eyes, he sees it all over again. He sees the stare of his father, feels the chill of that frigid hallway, hears the leering words of classmates, the disappointment in El’s voice, the slight shake in Will’s when he’s angry.

He envisions what he must’ve looked like, with his eyes rolled back like that. 

Mike fitfully tosses onto his stomach, careful to keep some distance between himself and Will. Tremors wrack his body, and he’s ashamed of it. He’s ashamed for Will to have seen him that way, to see him this way now, and he struggles to place dissonance between the Will lying next to him right now, and the fake Will who had gone through the box, and said he’d never feel the same.

Mike knows Will doesn’t feel the same. He knows Will wouldn’t love him back. He knows.  

It’s just different to hear him say it, to watch his mouth make out the syllables, to tell him, Vecna or not. He doesn’t know if he can shake it. He wonders how it’s possible for someone to live this way; he wonders how Will lives this way. 

He knows even Will, who’s kind and gentle to a fault, would be horrified to know how Mike sees him. If he told Will, in complete honesty, the exact way he took center-stage in his Vecna-induced nightmare, he’d be mortified that Mike had the audacity to ask him to sleep in his bed. That shame will get him tomorrow, but for now, it’s nice to have Will here. 

Maybe that makes Mike selfish. Will claims Mike’s selfless, but he’s never felt more beneath that title than he does right now. 

It just won’t stop. Any of it. It’s overpowering, overbearing, and maybe Mike’s been pushing it down for too long that a dam burst in the worst possible way. 

Once it’s been long enough, and Mike isn’t sure if Will’s even awake anymore, he breaks the silence for a third time, asking: “Will?” 

“Yeah?” Will’s voice is alert, fully lucid. 

Mike pauses, humiliated. “...How do you make it stop?” 

It’s a vague question, but Will understands it regardless, as he always does. “Do you want the truth?” 

Mike thinks it over, pining his tongue between his canines. “Probably not.” 

“It doesn’t stop,” Will admits, voice small. “But it gets easier.” 

Mike nods, his head shifting against the pillowcase. 

“Mike.” Will lifts his head from the pillow, hovering over him. “You’re shaking.” 

Mike pushes his nose into his pillow. God, it’s mortifying. It should be the other way around, he should be the one comforting Will, not making him sit at his beck and call after everything he’s done. 

“You’re just going to point out the obvious?” Mike attempts to joke, but his voice betrays him, trembling. 

“It’s what I do,” Will says, and begins to apprehensively scratch Mike’s back, then recoils his hand, hesitating. “Is this okay?” 

“It’s nice,” Mike says, feeling like he’s melting. If the magic of the Will Effect overcomes him when Will speaks, his touch is all the more powerful. “Could you keep-”

“Yeah,” Will says. His nails graze Mike’s back over his shirt, up and down, up and down. “Yeah, I can.” 

Mike’s eyes open again, because his brain won’t give him any respite from that image of the shoebox, laid out on the floor like that. As he speaks, his voice is still uneven and embarrassing, but he needs to get it out. “And Will, the tape-”

“I know,” is all Will says. “We don’t have to talk about it.” 

“Oh,” Mike whispers. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Will whispers back. 

 

-

 

When sleep eventually takes Mike, his dreams are, by some miracle, unplagued. 

And he, in fact, doesn’t mention it, when he and Will wake up beside each other. He doesn’t mention it when he wakes up and his leg is slotted between Will’s and his nose is pressed to the back of Will’s neck. He doesn’t mention it when he finds his arm has snaked over Will’s ribcage, unconsciously clinging onto him. 

“You still kick in your sleep,” Will mumbles, half-awake as morning light filters through the window. 

They don’t mention it beyond that, but Mike allows himself to stay like that, holding Will, just a bit longer. 

It keeps the memories at bay; it keeps him on dry land, at least for now. 

 

Notes:

longtime byler fan but this is my first ever fic so kindness via kudos and comments is always, always appreciated so i'm not just talking to the walls. thanks for reading!