Chapter Text
There’s talking around him, words over his head, whispering, arguing. Will lets it pass, like water moving around a stone. Whatever they’re talking about isn’t meant for him anymore.
Mike’s hand is still in his, warm and real, and Will holds on to that instead. Not the voices pressing in, not the hands on his shoulders, not the face hovering too close, mouth moving with words Will doesn’t need. None of it matters. None of it really mattered back then, either. A shadow and a promise. They couldn’t save him, then. It feels sweet, slightly. that he gets this again, just for a moment. Mike’s fingers laced through his, the soft, grounding squeeze. Once, twice, like a quiet promise that doesn’t ask anything of him. He could tap something, say something, but he doesn’t.
Will stays very still instead, like each move would be wrong, breathing shallowly. He doesn’t fight the heaviness settling in his chest, he doesn’t try to be brave or scared or anything at all. There is no need, not right now. Mike drags his thumb along the back of his hand.
He knows, now.
The knowing comes gently, without panic. It’s not like before, when he was going over plans, when it was all he could think of, laced with acceptance and fear and everything in between. Trying too hard to fit everything in such small time.
Will is going to die, and somehow, that’s all right.
There’s no sharp regret waiting for him, no list of things he should have done differently, no frantic wishing for more time. The years he had, the years he loved, the people he loved and who loved him… it feels complete enough. Full enough.
He doesn’t need to reach for anything else.
Will squeezes Mike’s hand back, faint but deliberate, hoping Mike understands what he can’t say.
He thinks, briefly, of what he’s leaving behind.
Who he’s leaving behind.
The thought doesn’t twist the way it used to. He knows they’ll be all right. They’ve learned how to survive without him already, in a hundred quiet ways, and he’s proud of them, of how steady they’ve grown, how they keep choosing each other.
Jane will take care of them. He hates that he’s placing that weight on her again, that it’s his absence she’ll have to manage this time, but the guilt doesn’t claw like it once did. Not this time. Jane… she’s strong. She always has been, even if it was for the wrong reasons, the wrong circumstances. She won’t let them fall apart.
His painting isn’t finished, but that’s alright. Will lets his eyes close.
He feels it brush against him, careful, almost familiar.
He’s back too soon. Mike’s hand is crushing his, tight enough to hurt, like pain might keep him here. His brother’s mouth presses into his hair, warm and shaking. They’re trying so hard.
It’’s already too late.
The love doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t make him want to run, it just sits with him, heavy and tender, and he loves them for it, for the effort, for the refusal, for the way they can’t stop reaching.
His eyes drift closed again.
He’s back.
He is always back. The hunger is vast and patient, waiting for him to notice.
No one is going to save you, his mind whispers, not cruel, just honest. Get up.
“Will? Will.” Mike’s hands are on his shoulders now, urgent, grounding. Will exhales, a long, quiet sigh.
He lets himself be held a moment longer before he moves, rolling over, wishing they would just… leave him there. Just for a moment longer.
It all blurs together, after that. Time slips, stretches, folds in on itself. He would find it vaguely amusing at any other time- he would think of something funny to say, to clear the fear on Lucas’ face, the way he keeps coming back, keeps fighting, bruised and blooding but unable to stand down. He would swoon any other time of the way Mike stood in front of him, sure and steady, like a knight. He doesn’t have it in him, now. Will knows they’re desperate. He can feel it in the way the room hovers around him, in the careful voices, in the days stacking up while he curls further inward. He knows he’s disappeared again, retreated someplace quiet where it doesn’t hurt so sharply.
Mike cries in front of him. Openly.
Mike never cries- never in front of people. Only the rare moments when they were children, or he went to his mother… only in those rare, rare moments did Mike let himself break down. Will wasn’t really expecting to see it so often, even now. MIke’s tears spilling as he begs Will to eat, to please just try. Will doesn’t have words for him. He can’t say no, he can’t say yes, he can’t tell Mike that eating here won’t solve anything. All he can do is lean forward, rest his forehead against Mike’s shoulder, and let himself be guided, bite by bite, slow and patient.
Only for Mike. He can’t let him cry and turn a blind eye- he’s never been able to. Not to his Mike.
And even though it’s wrong, and honestly pretty fucked up, Will is stupidly glad for it.
Glad that, at the end, he gets this back. Gets him.
It makes the cost feel lighter, like something he can finally afford to pay. He would pay for his life to have Mike in any way he can. Will sinks into Mike’s chest and closes his eyes. Listening to his heartbeat, letting darkness overtake him. It feels like all he does anymore.
Sleep. Drift. Rest.
Castle Byers is waiting for him, this time.
It’s smaller than he remembers it being. When he was a child it felt so vast, so endless, so safe. Inside, a little demo curls in on itself, too tight, too still. Will kneels in front of it, exhaustion settling deep in his bones, and he presses his hand to the wooden wall, breath shuddering out of him.
“Thank you,” he whispers, even though he knows it can’t respond, “for keeping me safe when I needed you. I don't need you anymore.”
The wood dissolves beneath his palm, turning to thick black smoke. Too familiar, too wrong. It fades, and Will looks down.
The creature is already dead. It’s been for a long time. Will is just… sad he didn’t notice it sooner.
He lifts it carefully, cradling it against his chest. Will doesn’t really know why tenderness comes so easily now, even for something that once terrified him. Maybe because it’s over. Maybe because everything deserves gentleness at the end. He carries it to the field, the one he’s been tending for so long. The ground parts beneath his fingers, soft and willing, opening deep enough, fingers digging into soil. It’s orange underneath, and he pushes past itt. As he lays the body down, a thought slips through him, quiet and unavoidable.
Did they bury me like this?
Did Jonathan cry the way Will is crying now?
His chest aches, but it isn’t sharp. It's dull, and survivable. He can survive this pain, this empathy. Will tugs gently at that place inside himself, and the earth responds, folding over the grave like a blanket. Warm, and complete.
He lets it grow still.
When he opens his eyes, Mike is there, hovering over him like he’s afraid Will might disappear if he looks away. His face is slack with exhaustion, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused, and Will thinks, distantly, of when they were children and Mike would stay up all night reading comics until his eyes hurt.
Will doesn’t have the strength to meet his gaze.
He turns his head instead, pressing his face into Mike's chest, breathing him in like it might be the last solid thing he gets to keep. His body feels heavy, used up, like there’s nothing left inside him to fight with. “It's too late,” Will murmurs, voice barely there. Defeated. “They're dying, Mike. I failed.”
Mike's arms tighten immediately, wrapping around Will like instinct, like muscle memory. He pulls Will closer, shielding him from the room, from the whiteboard across the wall covered in Dustin's frantic handwriting and half-erased plans. Arrows, equations, guesses that were supposed to mean hope.
It didn’t. None of it worked.
The music didn’t help. Jane couldn’t find anything when she tried to look. Every idea fell apart the second they touched it. All that thinking, all that scrambling, all for nothing.
Mike lowers his chin to the top of Will's head, he looks as tired as will feels, bone-deep and hollowed out. “Will?” He whispers, just for his ears.
Will nods against his chest, small and slow. A response. Always a response.
Mike hesitates, then forces himself to ask the question that’s been eating away at himt. “Why won’t you let El see inside your head?” His voice breaks a little, and Will aches at it. “What are you hiding from us?”
Will doesn’t open his eyes, unflinching, sinking further into Mike's hold. “I can’t let her see it like that,” he says quietly. “Mike, you need to understand...” Mike's arms pull tighter around him, panic flaring bright and helpless in his chest. Will's words drag him backward, to his basement, to the smell of dust and old carpet, to kids sitting with candy and costumes and making promises they thought were unbreakable.
“Mike,” Will continues, voice thin, fraying at the edges, “The upside down will die with me. Dimension X… that’s Henry’s. That’s the Mind Flayer’s. The hive mind, all of it. That was never really mine.” He pauses, gathering what little strength he has left. “But the upside down?” Mike’s breath stutters. “That's mine.”
Mike knows. He knows what’s coming before Will finishes, and it feels like falling from somewhere high with nothing to catch him. Still, he doesn’t interrupt. He can't.
“I made it,” Will whispers. “I didn’t mean to. I just-” His voice cracks, grief finally breaking through the calm. “I wanted to go home. I was cold and scared and I wanted my mom, and I wanted you, and I just wanted to go home.”
Mike breaks. The sound that comes out of him is ugly and raw, a sob he can’t hold back, and hhe buries his face into Will’s hair, hands clutching at him anywhere they can reach. His back, his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt, like if he holds on hard enough, none of this will be real.
“Mike,” Will says softly, apologetically, “It’s mine. My monsters. My land. I never wanted it, but they’re-...” his voice falters. “They’re dying in there. All of them. They’re suffering, because of me.” WIl swallows thickly, trying to get it all down. “I made it out, and they didn’t. They’re stuck. And… and I am, too.”
Mike shakes his head, words tumbling out between sobs. “We'll fix it. We always do. We'll figure it out, okay? We’ll figure it out, please, Will-”
Will just lean into him more, the way he always does. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t correct him. He just shakes his head, small and tired. “I'm never leaving it,” he whispers, “it's mine. It's me.”
Mike keeps whispering reassurances anyway, voice breaking apart as he goes, promising impossible things because the alternative is unthinkable. Will listens, lets the sound of it wash over him, even though he knows none of it can reach where he’s already going. He can't take this comfort away from him, not when he's still alive, not when Mike needs him at that moment.
He curls up beside the body in his own grave, made just for him. The earth is cold and familiar, like it knows him. Will tucks himself close, knees drawn in, and stares into the dark with a strange, distant calm.
He wonders, quietly, when it will be his turn. He's tired of waiting.
The next chance he gets, he's taking it.
He can't go on like this for much longer.
By the time Will wakes the next day, he’s alone. Truly alone, for the first time in longer than he can remember. The space beside him is empty and cold, like everyone finally had to leave at once. Voices drift faintly from the hallway, hushed at first, then sharper farther down. They're arguing, maybe, or maybe just desperate.
Will doesn't listen- he knows better than to eavesdrop. His mother taught him better.
His hand finds the bedside drawer by muscle memory, fingers nudging and pulling. He doesn’t rush, but he doesn’t hesitate, either. The bottle is exactly where it’s always been. He cups the pills into his mouth, swallows dry, again and again, until there’s nothing left to take. He doesn't have any water, but he doesn't need any.
It's just Will, just the dull determination of finishing something that’s already been decided.
The orange bottle goes back into the drawer empty. He pushes it shut, neat, careful.
Will lies back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, and lets himself rest.
Really rest.
The way he hasn’t been able to in years.
There are more of them now. The corpses. The bodies that he left behind. He can see how small they are up close, how fragile, like they were never meant to last this long. One of them is curled around a stuffed tiger, threadbare and faded. His stuffed tiger. The one he used to clutch at night when the worst thing in the world was his father’s footsteps in the hallway.
Will's chest tightens.
He buries that one gently, with the tiger tucked under its arm, just the way it had been holding it. He presses the dirt down carefully, like he might hurt it if he’s too rough.
The others get flowers.
It feels foolish, childish, but he does it anyway, placing them where hands might have been, where faces should have been. He hopes they weren’t afraid. He hopes it didn’t hurt. He knows it’s a useless hope, but it settles something inside him, just a little. It's wrong of him, probably, to feel such kindness for something that has the power to do so much harm.
Then he starts digging again.
This grave is bigger. Longer. Not too wide.
As the hole deepens, a quiet question drifts through him, unhurried, something he's thought of but never really lingered on.
If he dies in the real world, will he stay alive here? Will he disappear from both?
The thought doesn’t scare him as it once might have.
He keeps digging.
There’s a hand brushing gently over his face, thumb warm against his cheek, and Will drags himself back toward the surface with a quiet, unwilling sound. His eyes flutter open like it takes effort just to remember how. Mike is there. Hi Mike, he thinks, but does not say. His mouth feels like it's been filled with cotton. He's close. Close enough that Will can feel his breath, see the worry carved deep between his eyebrows.
“Hey, Will,” Mike whispers, voice careful. Will loves him for it. “I’m sorry if you heard all of that. I didn’t mean to leave you alone.”
Will just stares at him, unfocused. The room feels thick, syrupy. Thoughts come slow and slippery, impossible to grab onto. He wants to answer. He wants to say ‘it’s okay’ or ‘i’m glad you’re here’ or ‘don’t go again’, but his mouth doesn’t cooperate.
“Is it getting worse?” Mike asks, eyes searching his face. “On the other side?”
Will’s lips move, soundless. His head tilts, then slumps back into the pillow like it’s too heavy to hold up. Mike’s whole body goes tense.
“Hey- hey, Will,” he says quickly, leaning closer. “What’s wrong? Will?”
A warm, sick feeling twists in Will’s stomach. Each blink feels like it takes forever, like he might not get the next one if he closes his eyes too long.
Mike notices. Of course he does.
“What’s with your eyes?” Panic sharpens his voice. He cups Will’s face, thumbs pressing too firmly now, desperate. “Will, look at me. Please. Will.” He shakes his head a little, not in refusal, just tired. I'm so tired, he thinks. He cannot say it, even if he wants to.
“Talk to me,” Mike begs, voice breaking. “Just- just talk to me. I’ll take care of you, okay? I always do. What’s happening?”
Will manages a smile. It’s small and crooked and wrong, but it’s the best he can give him. He's so pretty, all shades of brown and black and cream.
Mike freezes.
The color drains from his face so fast that Will doesn't even have a chance to mourn it.
“Will,” he breathes. “What did you do?” His hands are suddenly everywhere, grabbing at Will’s wrists, tugging his sleeves away, moving to his arms, frantic and shaking. “What did you do?” Will doesn’t answer. He can’t. The room feels like it’s tilting.
Mike checks him desperately, tugging up his shirt, brushing his hair back, fingers on his neck, searching for something he can fix, something he can understand. His hands shake harder the longer he finds nothing. Will gags a bit, tongue loose, and he slumps against Mike's body.
“Oh, Will,” Mike whispers, eyes filling. “You didn’t- you didn’t…”
Fear takes over him completely then. He presses his hand to Will’s face again, trying to keep him awake, trying to keep him here. His voice rises as he calls for help, words tumbling over each other, incoherent and terrified. His fingers slip into Will's mouth, prodding, nudging. Will’s body betrays him, curling in on itself as the nausea hits hard and fast. He can hear Mike apologizing over and over, voice wrecked, sobbing even as he tries to do something, anything, to help. Mike keeps murmuring his name like a prayer, like if he says it enough times, Will won’t slip away. He presses harder and Will is throwing up before he can warn him, bile hot and heavy. Mike doesn't flinch from it, just wipes his fingers on his pants, before pressing against the back of Will's tongue.
“I’m sorry,” Mike cries desperately, forehead pressed to Will’s temple. “I’m so sorry. I know it hurts. I know. Just- just stay with me, okay? I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Please, Will, you got to get it out.”
Will retches again, tears streaming from his eyes now, body shaking uncontrollably. Everything feels too loud and too far away at the same time. Mike doesn’t let go. He won’t. He’s crying just as hard, hands firm and grounding, refusing to let Will fold in on himself completely. Will loves him for it. He hates him for it even more.
The door slams open.
Footsteps skid across the floor, someone shouting Will’s name like it’s being torn out of their chest. Another set of arms is there suddenly, hands grabbing at him, pulling him closer, frantic and shaking. He feels Mike tug back, almost like a game. Will’s body convulses, stomach churning, and there's vomit all over his brother's shirt, now. He'd feel bad if he could.
“Will-! Will, hey, look at me, buddy,” his brother says, voice cracking. “What happened? What did you do? Mike? Mike, what the fuck is going on-”
Will can hear them. He can feel them. But it’s like they’re already far away.
His eyes keep slipping shut no matter how hard Mike calls his name, no matter how much they shake him, no matter how desperately they beg him to stay. He feels lips on his face, on his forehead, on his cheeks, on the top of his head. He wants to stay, at that moment, just for a second. Just so they're not crying too hard.
Will doesn’t know if he can.
There is only one again.
It stands a short distance away, crooked and uncertain, head tilted like it’s trying to remember him. Will almost miss when there were more of them, when the dark felt crowded, loud with movement and breath and hunger. This quiet is worse. He doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know if it’s mercy or warning.
The sound reaches him before the world does.
Beeping. Steady, and mechanical. The rest of it comes to him after. The wet hitch of someone trying not to cry. Pressure on his shoulder, grounding and insistent. Will opens his eyes slowly, like each inch of awareness costs him something. The ceiling swims into focus above him, too bright, too clean.
“Will,” Jonathan breathes, leaning into his line of sight, relief and terror tangled together in his voice. “Will- hey. Hey, bud. You’re okay.”
Another sob breaks, closer this time, and it takes him a second to understand what he’s feeling against his side.
Mike.
Curled half on top of him in the narrow hospital bed, cheek pressed to Will's chest like he’s listening for proof. Like if he stops listening, he might disappear again.
Will's arms feel heavy, useless. He wants to hold Mike, to tell him he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere, not yet, but all he can manage is to stare back up at the ceiling and breathe.
“Will,” Jane says softly. Her voice shakes. When Will turns his eyes just enough, he sees her standing there, tears clinging to her lashes. “I found you this time. Your walls were down, when you were gone.” she swallows. “it was… it was beautiful there.”
The word lands wrong. It hurts in a dull, distant way.
“I'm sorry,” Jane continues, guilt folding her shoulders inward. “That you didn’t want me to see it.”
Will doesn’t answer. He doesn't have the strength to comfort her, to explain, to say it wasn’t hers to fix or witness or carry. He's endlessly grateful their mother isn’t there, he doesn’t think he could survive seeing her face right now. He doesn’t know where she is, and for once, he lets himself not care. Nothing feels sharp enough to matter.
Mike's hand tightens around his, like he’s afraid he might slip away again if he loosens his grip. Will exhale slowly, letting the sound sink into Mike's hair. It's the closest thing to reassurance he has left.
Time passes in fragments.
Voices come and go. Nurses. Doctors. Soft reassurances that don’t reach him. Eventually, they’re ushered out, gentle but firm. Jonathan promises to come back in the morning, voice thick as he explains how mom is trying to understand the gates, how she’s looking for a way to save him.
Will doesn’t tell him it’s useless. He doesn’t have it in him.
Jane leaves last, saying she needs rest, that she needs to get stronger, to fix what she thinks she started. Will waatches her go without comment.
The door clicks shut.
Only then does he realize Mike hasn’t moved, not a single inch.
He's still pressed against Will's side, breathing unevenly, hand locked tight around him like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the world. Will stares at the ceiling, listening to the machines, to Mike's quiet, broken breaths, and thinks distantly of the one waiting for him on the other side.
There is only one.
And here, too, there is only Mike.
“I’ll join you,” Mike whispers at last, the words breaking the long, hollow stretch of silence between them. His voice is hoarse, worn thin from crying and not sleeping. Will feels a tug of worry within him. “I’ll join you, so don’t- don’t try that again. It’s not fair.” His breath stutters. “You’re being mean, Will. And it’s not- it’s not fair.”
It takes him a long moment to find the strength, but he lifts his hand and lets it rest on the back of Mike’s head. Mike leans into the touch immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission. Will’s fingers move slowly through his hair, gentle, careful, the best comfort he has left to give.
“You can’t,” Mike says again, quieter now, desperation leaking into every syllable. “I can’t lose you. You don’t understand, Will. I love you. More than anything.” His voice cracks completely. “You don’t get it. You went crazy without me, and- and you were just going to- you were going to leave. You were going to-”
He can’t finish.
Will keeps petting his hair, steady and rhythmic, grounding them both. His gaze drifts to the window, to the faint flicker of lights outside. Always flickering, like the world itself can’t quite hold steady anymore. He wonders what it means, that Will is the only one to always notice.
“I’ll join you,” Mike whispers again, pleading now. “You can’t die, because I’ll follow you right after.”
Will’s chest aches at that. Not sharp, just deep and heavy. He draws in a slow breath, gathering what little he has left, and leans his forehead against Mike’s temple.
“Mike,” he whispers, the name costing him everything. “I’m already dead.”
Mike’s body shudders. He presses his face harder into Will’s chest, tears soaking through the fabric of his shirt, his shoulders trembling with quiet, broken sobs. “Don’t say that,” he begs. “Please- don’t say that. I got you back. We saved you, Will. We did. Please don’t do this to yourself.”
Will closes his eyes and keeps his hand in Mike’s hair, holding him the way he used to when they were kids, when comfort didn’t have to be explained or justified. He lets Mike cry, lets him cling, lets him believe whatever he needs to at this moment.
There’s nothing Will can say that will make it better.
So he stays quiet.
Jonathan comes back early the next morning, before the light has fully settled into the room. He doesn’t say Mike’s name. Mike doesn’t say his. They don’t even look at each other. Everything important is already standing between them, lying still beneath white sheets.
Jonathan goes straight to Will’s bedside.
He pushes Will’s hair back from his forehead with a careful hand, like he’s afraid even that might hurt him. For a second, his face holds, jaw tight, shoulders squared, the familiar mask of an older brother who learned a long time ago how to stand upright in disasters.
Then it cracks.
Will sees Jonathan swallow hard. Sees his throat work like he’s trying to force the feeling back down. See him try to be brave. He fails. Will lifts his hand, slow and weak, and catches Jonathan’s wrist before he can pull away. His fingers barely close, but it’s enough. He drags his thumb gently along the side of Jonathan’s wrist, a small, familiar comfort. I’m here. I know you. I love you.
Jonathan breaks.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes out immediately, the words spilling too fast, like he’s been holding them in all night. “I’m sorry that you had nothing. That it was so bad for you. I should’ve-” His voice fractures. “I should’ve protected you better.” Tears stream down his face, unchecked, soaking into the front of his jacket as he leans closer. “You’re my brother, Will,” he says fiercely, like saying it louder might make it stick. “Please. Just talk to me. Tell me how to help you. Tell me what to do.” He grips Will’s hand tighter, grounding himself in the feel of him. “I’d give the world to you. I mean it. I promise. Nothing- nothing would ever change that. Ever.” Jonathan’s voice drops, shaking. “Being your brother… It's the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s the thing that made me understand how lucky I am. That out of everyone, I got to love you.”
Jonathan bows his head, shoulders trembling, forcing the words through sobs he can’t stop. Will watches him with tired eyes, thumb still stroking his wrist, trying to give back what little he can. Mike’s hand rubs slowly up and down Will’s side, steady and silent. He doesn’t speak. There aren’t words left in him. Jonathan waits.
When Will doesn’t answer, doesn’t move beyond that gentle touch, Jonathan exhales shakily and sinks into the chair beside the bed. He presses Will’s hand against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, like he’s praying to something he doesn’t believe in anymore. Will wonders how long it's been since Jonathan was the one who was comforted.
“Mom’s going crazy,” his brother says quietly. “She’s trying to figure out what happened. What we missed. We didn’t tell her everything.” His voice firms, determination threading through the grief. “I won’t let this end like that. I won’t.” He looks up again, eyes red but sharp now, resolved in a way that hurts to see. “Please, Will. If not for yourself- do it for Mom. You can’t do this to her. You can’t do this to us.”
Jonathan tightens his grip, like he’s anchoring Will to the world by force alone. “Please,” he whispers.
Will closes his eyes, because he can’t bear the sound of his brother begging anymore. Every word feels like another weight laid gently, but relentlessly, on his chest. He knows, in doing this, that he’s choosing the quiet way out. The way people will call cowardly when they don’t understand how tired someone can be.
He accepts that name without fighting it.
He prays anyway. Not the kind of prayer he was ever taught, not folded hands or memorized words, just a loose, aching hope drifting upward. He hopes it’s gentle. That whatever happens to his body is done with care. He hopes they lay him down softly, like something precious instead of something broken. That they give him flowers, or a stuffed animal that has long since lost it's comfort.
He hopes his soul, if he still has one, doesn’t have to keep fighting. He's had enough violence to last a lifetime. It wasn’t a sin to be human. He knows that. People are messy and scared and they make mistakes just trying to survive. But being Will Byers has always felt like something else entirely. Like an offense, like the world looked at him and decided he could carry more pain than was fair.
He's never been religious. He doesn’t know what he believes. But he thinks of Jesus anyway, pale and bleeding in the pictures hung in quiet rooms, and he hopes, if someone is watching, that they understand. That they forgive him for being what he was. For breaking under the weight of it all. His father would like that, probably.
He hopes where he’s going is kind, soft, and warm. Somewhere without monsters, without hands dragging him back into the dark.
And if all of that is too much to ask, he hopes he’s not going anywhere at all.
He hopes he becomes nothing. not empty, not lonely, just nothing. The way he was before fear, before pain, before the world learned his name.
He is inside the grave.
Inside the ground he made with his own hands, packed tight around him like the earth is trying to remember his shape. It presses at his shoulders, his ribs, his spine. Usually, he could grow it back, split the dirt open, let roots and stone listen to him. Usually, the ground obeys. Now, he doesn’t have the strength.
It sits on his chest, heavy and wrong, its mouth stretched wide, breath hot and wet against his throat. Saliva drips down his collarbone, soaking into his shirt, pooling where his heart beats too slowly. It's shaking, all of it trembling with need.
So desperate, so hungry.
“Hello,” he whispers, the word barely making it past his lips.
The creature tilts its head, not curious, but hesitant, like something straining against a leash. Will stare up at it, eyes soft, unfocused. He can feel the weight of it sinking further into him, pinning him down, claiming space that used to belong to breath. The dirt presses harder with every shallow inhale.
“Does it hurt?” he asks quietly.
Of course it doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know why he thought it might. Maybe he just needed to say it out loud. Maybe the silence here is too heavy to carry alone. It settles in his lungs, thick and unmoving, and every breath feels borrowed. “That's okay,” Will says gently, just to fill the space. just to prove he’s still here. The creature shifts, its body shuddering as it lowers itself fully onto him, all instinct and ownership. The pressure makes spots bloom in Will's vision. His hands twitch uselessly at his sides.
“I feel it too,” he murmurs, voice thinning. “the ache.”
It's everywhere. Not just in his chest, not just where the creature presses into him, but older than that. So much deeper. It's an ache that’s been following him since the day he went missing and never really came back.
Will swallows, filled with understanding. “Do you miss him?” Something in the creature falters. Its body jerks, a sharp, uneven movement, like the question struck something raw. It doesn’t move away, but it sinks down harder, clinging now instead of hunting. Like it’s afraid to let go of what little warmth is left.
“That's okay too,” he whispers. His voice is almost gone, but he keeps going. “Missing someone hurts. I know.”
The creature’s weight feels unbearable now, crushing the air out of him inch by inch. Its breath stutters against his throat. Will's eyes burn, but he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t have anything left to give that kind of pain.
“I'm sorry,” he says softly. not just to the thing on top of him, but to everything. To everyone. “I'm sorry I couldn't fix it. I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”
The dirt holds him.
There’s a nudging at the base of his mind, a careful prodding, familiar enough that his first instinct is to pull away. He's known that sensation for most of his life now, the warning touch before something reaches in and takes. Hi body tenses on reflex.
Only this time, it’s warm. It's not invasive, or sharp. It feels like hands cupped around a flame, careful not to let it go out. There are lips against his cheek, soft and grounding, and someone is speaking his name. He can’t hear the words from here, but he knows the shape of them. He always does.
For a moment, there’s a hollow disappointment in him, an old, aching one. Mike has pulled him back from the edge so many times that some part of Will still expects it. He's still waiting for it. It hurts to realize, even now, that Mike can’t reach him here. He feels Mike's hand in his own, grounding him, lips against his forehead. But it is not the prodding.
“Jane,” he whispers.
He opens himself, just a little, for the first time in so long that it feels almost like stretching a muscle he forgot he had. The wall falls away quietly, without pain. His sister stands before him, eyes bloodshot, breath trembling, awe written across her face like she can’t quite believe she’s finally here.
“You let me find you,” she breathes, wondering and relief tangled together. Will nods, the movement small, tired. He sinks back into the ground, not sinking away, just settling, like the earth has been waiting for him to stop running. Jane steps closer, careful, reverent.
Snow drifts down and lands on his face, sharp and stinging, just like it always does. It grounds him. Reminds him where he is. Jane kneels in front of him, close enough now that he can see the way her hands shake.
“…It is beautiful,” she says softly, almost to herself.
Will lifts his hand and thread his fingers into hers. The contact sends a slow, steady wave through him, not overwhelming, not consuming, just opening that connection. He lets it wash over him, lets himself feel it without fear.
There is nothing here that can save him. He sees the understanding of that reflected in her eyes, the grief she’s trying so hard to hold back.
“…I don't know how to help you,” Jane admits. “Mike doesn’t either.” Her voice cracks. “Why aren’t you fighting?”
Will turns his gaze away, toward a tree in the distance, tall and winding, reaching upward despite the dead sky above it. It reminds him of something stubborn. Something that grows anyway. Purple and beautiful.
“I'm tired of fighting, Jane,” he says gently. “I love you, but… this place doesn’t need more fighting.”
“It is the Upside Down,” she insists, fear creeping back in, like that statement alone was enough. Maybe in another life it would be.
Will squeezes her hand, slow and reassuring, wishing she could feel what he feels. “It is,” he agrees, wrung out,“but it’s mine. It helped me, and it hurt me, and now…” he exhales. “…it’s dying.” Jane's grip tightens. “It needs me to save it,” he continued quietly. “But I can’t.”
He could build a thousand Castle Byers, pour all the love he has left into them, and it still wouldn’t fix this place. Just like it wouldn’t fix him. It wouldn't save it, and it didn't save him all those years ago. He sees the truth settle in her eyes at last, not despair, but understanding. She nods, to herself, and squeezes Will's hand. “I understand.” He can feel it, the way she changes, determined and strong. “I will not let it take you, again. You will not be gone. Let me save you, Will. One more time. It is all I ask.”
There's a pulling, dragging him back, and he opens his eyes against his will. Mike is right there, too close, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them. Tears spill down Mike's face unchecked, sliding off the bridge of his nose and dripping onto Will's cheek, warm and real.
Will blinks slowly, registering him piece by piece, afraid that if he rushes it, Mike might disappear again. His eyes are brown. Deep. Darker than will remember, like they’ve absorbed too much grief to stay light.
Will thinks, stupidly, that he wishes he could draw him one last time. He would get it right. He knew he would. He'd pour everything he has left into the lines, every apology, every thank you, every unspoken I love you, all until the paper couldn’t hold it anymore.
“Will,” Mike says, voice breaking as he tries to find a way in. His face twists with desperation, eyebrows pulled tight like he’s physically holding himself together. “Just- just tell me what you’re thinking. Please.”
Will lifts his hand, slow and shaking, and brushes the tears away from Mike's face. The second his fingers touch him, Mike makes this broken sound, a half sob, half breath, and leans forward into the contact like he’s been starving for it. His hands come up to grip Will's forearms, trembling, holding on like Will might slip away if he doesn’t anchor him. “I can't do it after,” Mike says quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We need to do it together, Will. You promised me. We would be a team- partners. Remember?” His grip tightens. “I won't do it without you. I refuse. You can’t- you can’t make me.”
Will shushes him softly, the sound barely there, and cups Mike's face with both hands.His thumbs drag gently beneath mike’s eyes, wiping away tears that keep coming no matter how many times will clear them. There's a quiet relief in him, heavy and tender, that if he has any love left at all, this is where it’s going.
“You can’t,” Mike murmurs, voice thin but certain. “Okay? you can’t do it.” He presses his forehead lightly to Will, voice softening. “We have- we have a plan. It’s already moving. Just… just wait until after. If it doesn't work, I'll be with you. And then-;then we can go,” a pause, “together.”
Something nudges the base of his neck.
Not pain, but alarm.
A sudden, awful awareness floods through him, sharp enough to make his fingers twitch. He has to fight the instinct to sit up, to pull away, to run. People. There are people upside down.
“It's okay, Will- just let it happen-”
The truth hits all at once: Jane closed the gates. All of them but one. They were sealed tight, impenetrable. Will’s breath catches.
“She opened another,” Mike whispers, voice low and terrified, his forehead still pressed to Will’s, “to save you. Just- let her try. Please.”
The words echo through will like a bell rung underwater. To save him.
“It's not worth it,” Will says, and his voice sounds small even to him. “It won’t just- close again. She can’t close another one, Mike- Jane's powers haven’t come back right, she’s missing too much, she’s-”
Mike pulls him closer, not letting him spiral, nodding against Will's skin, forehead pressed into the hollow of his shoulder like he’s grounding himself there, like this is the only place he can breathe. “Then we don’t close it,” Mike says, simple and fierce all at once. His arms tighten, winding around Will's body like a decision being made. “We leave it open.”
Will stiffens. “Mike-”
“Listen to me,” Mike cuts in, voice rough but steady, the kind of steadiness that only comes after everything else has already broken. A leader. “If the upside down needs to stay open, and if it needs you to do that- then who cares.” His voice wavers, just for a second. “It's not worth it. None of it is worth it if it hurts you like this.”
The words knock the air out of Will's lungs. He feels off-balance, like the ground has shifted under his feet and he didn’t notice until now. “But- the town,” he whispers. “Mike, you don’t understand what that could do. People could get hurt-”
Mike doesn’t argue. He just holds on tighter, arms locking around Will’s ribs, his cheek pressing into Will's chest as if he’s chosen his answer already. “I don't care,” Mike says, and it isn’t reckless, it’s honest. “I don’t care if you have to go there every night,” his voice softens, sweet, and breaks open, “now I can follow you if I have to. You won’t be alone.”
His hand comes up on its own, fingers sliding into the edges of Mike's hair, twisting the strands around his knuckles just to make sure he’s real. There's a churning in his stomach, fear, disbelief, something dangerously close to hope, and then, slowly, relief spreads through him like warmth after a long cold.
Something shifts.
He becomes aware of a sound beneath everything else. Wet. Tearing. Chewing.
His breath catches again, sharp this time, but Mike is already there, already soothing him before he can panic. Mike's hand drags gently up Will's arm, thumb tracing circles like he’s calming a startled animal.
“It’s okay,” Mike murmurs. “That’s just Dustin and Steve.” A pause, then a soft, almost fond huff of disbelief. “You said they weren’t eating because there was nothing there, so… they brought meat. Better than them eating one of us, right?”
Will stares, stunned. The thought feels unreal, almost absurd, that they would do that. That they would walk straight into the worst place they know and offer something so dangerous for something they don't care about.
Just for him.
His chest aches.
Mike presses a kiss to his shoulder, careful and reverent, like he’s afraid to bruise him. “I don’t want the painting,” he admits quietly, “not when it’s-” his voice falters, “not when it’s a goodbye.”
Will hadn’t meant to ever tell him. He'd planned to keep that small, private, tucked away like so many other things he loved too much to risk losing. But Mike has always known him too well. Will drags his thumb slowly along Mike's ear, feeling the way Mike sniffles against his neck, the way he instinctively burrows closer, seeking comfort without shame. Will lets him.
“I love you,” Mike whispers, barely audible, like he’s afraid saying it too loud might make it hurt more.
Will doesn't say it back, but he doesn't need to.
His arms tighten around Mike instead, his fingers still tangled in his hair, his body offering the only answer he has left, and for the first time in so long, it feels like it might be enough.
When Will opens his eyes that night, it’s different. Not perfect, or untouched, but softer around the edges, like the world has learned how to breathe with him instead of against him.
There are two of them this time. Five, if he looks further down.
They crouch a few feet away, small and intent, gnawing on neat little chunks of meat. Probably cow, Will thinks distantly, recognizing the shape, the smell. The sight still turns his stomach a little, still makes his skin prickle, but the ache inside him eases, just a bit. Fed. A quiet relief settles in his gut, warm and grounding, and he exhales without realizing he was holding his breath.
He presses his fingers into the ground and lets himself imagine. Not defenses, and not walls.
Big green rocks, rounded at the bottom and sharp at the top, like they were grown instead of broken. Purple tree trunks crowned with orange leaves that drift down slowly, lazily, as if they have all the time in the world. He wants to think they will. There's blue grass that bends under an invisible wind, a wind that he can't feel or see. There's so much of it, stretching and stretching until the color becomes calming instead of wrong. So much blue. His favorite shade of it, too.
It’s easier, he thinks, to see other colors now.
One of the creatures chitters softly and toddles closer, nudging his leg with its blunt little head before curling up against his foot like it belongs there. Its body winds in, warm and heavy with sleep, and goes still.
Will not move. not at first. He doesn’t want to scare it. He doesn’t want to break whatever fragile truce this moment has given him. So he stays standing, balanced and quiet, letting it rest.
“Oh.”
the sound isn’t his.
It's breathy, familiar, and Will's heart lifts so suddenly it almost hurts. He glances back over his shoulder and sees him. Mike, crawling carefully through a hole in the air.
A gate.
Will hadn’t noticed it forming, but now that he sees it, it’s perfect. Small and stable with the soft, glowing remnants of Jane's energy humming gently around the edges, like a promise instead of a warning.
Mike stumbles through, bundled in an almost ridiculous number of layers, shoulders hunched against a cold that doesn’t quite belong here. It's warmer, now. Will can see when he notices it. Mike steps carefully over fallen trunks, pushing leaves out of his face, muttering under his breath as he goes. He looks real. Beautiful.
When he reaches will, he doesn’t crowd him. He doesn’t stand face to face like this is something that needs confronting. Instead, he kneels, slow and deliberate, like he’s approaching something sacred.
Will watch his expression shift. Confusion, mild disgust, then curiosity. Mike bites his lip, studying the creature at Will’s foot, glancing up at Will for silent permission before looking back down again. Then, unbelievably, Mike reaches out. He scoops the little creature into his hands with a sharp inhale, shuddering at the slick, slimy texture, but he doesn’t drop it. doesn’t recoil. He just holds it there, awkward and gentle, like he’s holding something fragile.
“It's nice here,” Mike whispers, almost to himself. “I know you don’t like it, but…” he looks around, really looks at the colors and the quiet and the way the world seems to hum instead of scream, “…it’s beautiful.”
Will's bottom lip trembles. Just once.
And then he’s crying. Hard, full sobs that shake straight through him, the kind he’s been holding back for years. Mike immediately sets the creature down on his lap, careful and slow, and opens his arms without a word.
Will goes to him.
Of course he does.
Mike pulls him close, solid and warm, pressing a kiss into his hair and letting Will cry until there’s nothing left to spill. His arms are steady.
“We can help,” Mike murmurs eventually, voice low and certain, full of love instead of fear. Will doesn't know why he thought it'd be any different. “You don’t have to do this on your own anymore, Will. Let me help you.”
Will nods into his shoulder, fingers clutching desperately for something to hold onto and landing in one of Mike's five jackets. He looks ridiculous, bundled up like that, and achingly lovely, right here, right now.
Will isn’t hungry anymore.
“Okay,” he whispers back, a promise that he thinks he can actually keep this time. “Okay.”