Chapter Text
Maxine rolls over Sinclair’s back, long hair whipping, flicking a dagger with her wrist. Sinclair turns, tight footwork, helping her spin; Michael has seen them practice this sequence in the palace courtyard; the Ranger nocking three arrows as Max crouches. He fires them over her head: pierces into a demogorgon, the creature shrieking.
Henderson steps forward, not too far. Harrington is there to give him cover, sweeping his spear, pushing for room in the onslaught. They’ve been going for nearly an hour. They’re tiring. Dustin strums his lute, nimble, the spell weaving over the party. Haste. Michael Wheelheart can feel it in his own heavy, armoured limbs, music and magic urging him faster.
Edward Munson’s behind them, leaning over the edge of the ramparts.
Last night, Harrington demanded the injured Bard stay on the backline (pitched as: we need a handsome and dangerous man to oversee the boiling tar). Eddie’s playing his own instrument, a modified lute, something with enchantment that sounds distorted and reverbs unlike anything he’s heard. Munson belts a note, chest tipping back, screaming over the battle. It weaves with Dustin’s magic, boosting.
His sister’s with Eddie, she’s garrison commander. Directs the grunts loading canons. Can hear her shout, “Load, hold - and fire!” her rapier pointed with each earth-shattering volley.
Robin and Jonathan have been working together: has seen them tired, their last planning session, hunched over a desk of spellbooks. Rob is an adept with auditory illusions, while Jon is a visual spellcaster. Together, they cast large, convincing, illusion magic. Using their phantasms, beasts with many eyes, wings, talons: they herd the enemy towards the palace’s cauldrons of boiling pitch, or Nancy Wheelheart’s gunners.
Robin’s leaning against Jon; he’s got one arm under her, despite the matted stain on his leg.
Michael forges ahead. El’s at his back. They must get to the cave. She’s bloody, overextended. They all are. The left side of Wheelheart’s vision has a widening black spot. A bat chomped him earlier. Harrington yanked it off, shaking, but it got, a chunk. It got a chunk. Keeps blinking blood out of his eye.
El is throwing monsters with her powers, grunting each push, voice ragged. Michael slashes, overhead swing with ‘Heart-Breaker’ his talking sword. Two hands. Sees the cave’s entrance. Starts to jog, plate mail clanking, slapping hard where the leather straps have loosened. Slides under a talon, past another demogorgon, faster, faster, running.
The stone echoes under his boots. “William! Will!”
The Sorcerer is at the back of the cavern. Small pools of water half-floating, their droplets suspended by the force of the magic he’s expending. His eyes are rolled back, white; arms out, curled fingers. Michael drops to his knees in front of his lover, panting.
“Please,” he gasps. Gauntleted hand to Will’s waist. “Please, remember me.”
William looks down on his betrothed; white eyes seeing too much, and not enough. He’s controlling the monsters. Michael just needs him to remember who he is. Please. Please, for all of them, for their kingdom. For him. Dear Gods above: for him.
Will the Wise rests his hand on Mike’s head. Fingers threading through his hair, tilting his face up. Michael looks, hopeful.
The Sorcerer’s voice is deep, from his chest. “I cast you out, Paladin.”
Michael sees the spellwork in the air. Glances to the markings, runes on the floor. He’s stepped into it. He’s stepped right into the trap.
Michael used to tease Will about saying his spells out loud. He can cast a few cantrips as a Paladin, so he knows, you don’t actually have to say ‘Fireball’ when you cast Fireball, unless you want to be a total fop-doodle about it. But now, when Will says, “I cast Banishment,” Michael isn’t thinking of how silly it sounds to say aloud. He’s thinking: his William is still in there.
———————————————————————
He’s watching Labyrinth on VHS, it’s late. The Goblin King singing in the background as he microwaves popcorn. Has the cast iron stove snapping with heat.
Mom and Hop tell him to take the cabin for winter break. It’s on the market, so he has to let in any potential buyers; but otherwise, it’s his for the holidays. Mom thinks it’ll be good to see his friends again, wishes she could be there too, but work, and she’ll see him soon, ok honey?
It’s been a few years. And while he’s told himself, college is busy, it’s fine. And also, make new friends! Some friends more like Buckley, who he can talk about his more, uh, gay experiences, with. It’s been nice. Great. It’s been great. He hasn’t been avoiding Mike.
Something heavy bangs against the door, metal. He tells himself it’s the wind. It’s winter, snow storm. Yanks his blanket tighter around his shoulders, but glances at the windows. There’s a man outside, peering in. Will jolts.
Grabs the snow shovel by the door, flings it open. “Hey!” he yells, making his voice lower. “Who’s there?” Steps onto the porch in his socks.
It’s Mike. Mike’s in armour. An enamelled heart on his breastplate. Sword. Sword out. The tip dragging on the wood planks, he’s leaning against the exterior wall. The side of his face is matted with blood.
“Mike?” he drops the shovel, grabs under his arms, metal pinching. “Hey, what happened?” Drags him inside, trail of melting snow and red.
Mike fumbles for Will’s face, armoured thumb on his chin. “William?” Butts his forehead against Will’s. “It’s you,” he chokes. “It’s you.” Kisses him.
His lips and stuttering breath hot on Will’s mouth. Kisses him hungry and wanting. Messy, teeth scraping down his bottom lip as he sags against him.
Byers can’t help himself. If he knew this, THIS was waiting for him in Hawkins, he wouldn’t have played hooky for two years. Kisses his best friend back, hands supporting him, feeling him. Mike’s hair is longer; Will rubs his fingers backwards up his scalp, tugging. Then groans, and pushes away. “You’re bleeding,” Will says.
“I have weathered far worse. The Mind-Flayer, the Thessalhydra?” slurs. His face is so close, dark eyes flitting back and forth. “And you? You are well?”
“Yeah. Yeah, the, are, um, why are you talking like that?” Touches his lips where Mike kissed him each pause.
Stepping back, Mike takes in the cabin. “I am speaking in our normal tongue. Though I am worried, my love, perhaps I have indeed endured a greater knock than I first anticipated. Or, perchance, we are trapped in a demi-plane, a cursed land heretofore undiscovered? How long since you arrived?”
“My flight was yesterday? Um.”
Wheeler takes a further step back, raises the tip of his sword to Will’s throat. “Gentle One, you have to understand: I need be sure you are not a demon wearing my beloved’s face. We both know it has happened before. Show me your token, the proof of our betrothal.”
David Bowie as the Goblin King, in the background, “Dance, magic, dance.”
“Nope, no, no,” Byers ducks for the remote. Flicks off the VHS. Turns to feel the prick of the sword under his chin. Tilts his face up, palms out. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
“You Banished me. I trudged through the snow, it was thoroughly freezing, but then, but ho! I imagined I had found you. Internally, I rejoiced. I laid my lips on you to remind you of our love. You laid your lips on me in return?” He purses his mouth identical to Mike Wheeler, slightly scrunched to the side. “Howe’er, I begin to fear you are not Will the Wise.”
“Yeah, no. I’m just Will.” Wishes for the snow shovel, something, the sword near his face is beginning to actually feel real. All of this is beginning to feel a little too sharp. “I’m Will Byers?” Fingers on the blade, pushing it down an inch. “I, um, and who are you?”
He sheaths the greatsword, thank god. Kneels, head bowed. “Michael Wheelheart, Paladin, Oath sworn in blood to the Kingdom of Hawkmoor. First protector of the realm. Leader of the Princeguard. Intended to the Prince.”
“Oh.” Rubs behind his ear. “You can stand.”
“I cannot.”
“Please, please stand.”
The Paladin glowers beneath dark brows, “I cannot, for-” One gloved hand to his temples, examines the blood, almost clinical. “I am afeared my brain-pan might be affect-?” The plate mail clunking as he slumps first forward, half-bracing, one gauntlet on the ground; trying to draw his sword again (why?), the half-unsheathed weapon a prop between him and the floorboards. Then the pommel scrapes, and he slips to the side. Forehead thuds.
Will stands hands out, as if he was going to help. “Shit.”
———————————————————————
Max is glaring at him, eyebrows pinched. Fingers above and below his eye, opening it forcefully. Mike snorts, jerks back, knocking his head against something solid. It’s dark. Cold, voices in the background.
“He lives,” Max screams over her shoulder. Pats his cheek. “Suppose he will continue to vex us all.” Hand extended, he takes it; she cantilevers back, helping him stand. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Wheelheart. Care to explain your lack of plate?” She drops her voice when he says nothing, “Were you able to locate William?”
“Will?”
“Your betrothed. Do you not recall, your one true love: yea high, an affinity for capes and terrible haircuts?”
He’s staring. Can’t quite understand, all of this. He’s in a cave. Max is wearing boiled leather armour, a rogue’s cloak of shadows. Daggers strapped to her forearms. And Will Byers, who’s been avoiding Hawkins, and probably him, for the past two years: is apparently his fiancé.
Mike Wheeler bites his lip. “I don’t think I’m in the right place.”
Gripping his shoulder, Mayfield’s fingers pinch. “You are exactly where you need to be.” Tilts her head, eyes unexpectedly liquid. “We, do, need you. You can’t blame yourself for last twelvemonth.”
“Michael?” a softer, stuffy voice. “Did you see William?” It’s El.
Mike’s winded, all his thoughts have been broken glass, but this is worse. She’s wearing a dress with a Shakespearean bodice, the skirt has slits and muddy pants underneath. Her hair is long, as if she’s been growing it forever. As if she’s been growing it her whole life. And, she is, alive.