Chapter Text
Chapter 2:
Will woke up to a sound that didn’t belong to the basement.
Birds, loud and insistent, chirping somewhere just outside the window. The noise pulled him out of sleep slowly, leaving him heavy and disoriented, and for a few seconds he didn’t open his eyes, just laying there listening and trying to figure out why everything felt off.
The light was wrong. Too warm. Too open.
He groaned softly and shifted, his cheek pressed into a pillow that smelled faintly like detergent and something familiar. His mouth felt dry, and when he lifted his head, he realized with a small rush of embarrassment that he’d almost been drooling.
Great.
Will wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed himself upright, hair sticking up in every direction, flattened on one side and wild on the other. His shirt was twisted from sleep, the fabric bunched at his waist, still warm from where he’d been lying.
Mike’s room.
The realization hit all at once, sharp and disorienting. The posters on the walls. The desk shoved slightly crooked into the corner. Sunlight cutting across the floor instead of the familiar low basement ceiling. His body went tense before his brain fully caught up.
He looked beside him.
The bed was empty.
The sheets there were rumpled but cool, like no one had been there for a while, and something in Will’s chest tightened as his gaze drifted downward without him meaning to.
The pull-out mattress was there once again.
It was stretched out beside the bed, thin and uneven, the blanket half-kicked off and twisted around itself. The pillow was dented, an unmistakable shape left behind. Will stared at it for a moment longer than he meant to, his thoughts slow and unhelpful.
Mike had slept there.
Not with him.
Will swallowed, a dull, sinking feeling settling low in his chest.
He didn’t know why. That was the worst part. There was no argument to replay, no moment he could point to and say that’s when it happened. Just the quiet evidence of distance laid out on the floor.
He sat there, listening. Birds outside. A car passing somewhere down the street. Faint movement downstairs, a cabinet opening, the clink of something ceramic set down a little too hard.
Life continuing like normal.
His head felt foggy, heavy with the leftover pieces of sleep, and when he tried to remember the night before, it all blurred together. Reading the comic. Lying down. Darkness settling in around them. Nothing sharp. Nothing wrong.
At least, nothing he remembered.
Slowly, Will swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there, shoulders hunched, hair still a mess, staring at the pull-out mattress like it might explain something if he looked long enough.
It didn’t.
Whatever had happened, it had happened without him.
And now he had to get dressed, go downstairs, and act like everything was fine when he had no idea what had changed.
The realization hit Will all at once.
He glanced at the clock on Mike’s nightstand and his stomach dropped, the red numbers glaring back at him, far later than they should have been. The quiet in the house suddenly made sense.
He’d slept in.
“Oh— shit,” he muttered, scrambling off the bed.
He didn’t fix his hair. Didn’t straighten his shirt. He shoved his feet into his socks, grabbed his hoodie from the chair, and tugged it on halfway as he rushed for the door, heart already pounding.
He took the stairs too fast, nearly missing a step as he rounded the corner, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the house. The faint smell of breakfast lingered in the air, eggs and toast already past their best, like he’d missed something without realizing how much time had passed.
The dining room came into view.
Mike was already there.
He sat at the table, hunched forward, shoulders tight in a way Will immediately noticed. The comic was laying open in front of him, but Mike wasn’t leaning into it the way he usually did. He wasn’t relaxed. He wasn’t smiling. One hand rested awkwardly on the page, like he’d paused mid-read and forgotten what to do with himself.
Will slowed in the doorway.
Mike was reading it.
Without him.
Will’s chest tightened.
They were supposed to read it together. That had been the plan. Seeing Mike alone with it made something uncomfortable twist low in Will’s stomach, like he’d arrived late to a moment that didn’t belong to him anymore.
“Hey,” Will said, breathless. “Sorry. I— I didn’t mean to sleep in.”
Mike looked up.
This time, the look didn’t soften.
“Oh,” he said, a little too quickly. “Uh. Yeah. It’s fine.”
He glanced down at the comic like it had suddenly become a problem. “I didn’t know how long you’d be, so I just… kinda started.”
Will nodded, unsure what else to do. “Okay.”
The silence stretched.
Mike cleared his throat and slid the comic an inch closer to himself instead of toward the center of the table. It was a small movement, barely anything at all, but Will felt it anyway.
“I’m almost finished with it,” Mike added, not looking at him. “You can read it later if you want.”
Later.
Not with him.
“Oh,” Will said again, the word coming out quieter than he meant it to. “Yeah. Sure.”
He hovered for a second, then pulled out the chair across from Mike and sat down, hands folding together in his lap like he needed to keep them contained. He tried not to stare at the comic, at the way Mike’s fingers curled slightly around the edge like he was guarding it.
Mike flipped a page, then another, faster now, like he was trying to get through it. He didn’t explain anything. Didn’t point things out. Didn’t glance up to check Will’s reaction the way he was doing last night.
Will watched him anyway.
Watched the way Mike’s knee bounced under the table. The way he kept adjusting his grip on the comic. The way he avoided looking at Will’s face entirely.
“You can—” Will started, then stopped. “You don’t have to rush.”
Mike stiffened.
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I’m basically done.”
He turned one more page and then closed the comic decisively, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He stood almost immediately, pushing his chair back like he needed the space.
“I’m gonna grab some cereal,” he said. “I wasn’t really hungry earlier.”
Will blinked. “Oh. Okay.”
Mike nodded, already halfway to the counter. “Yeah.”
He poured cereal into a bowl with too much force, milk sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He leaned against the counter instead of sitting back down, back half-turned to Will like he didn’t know how to face him right now.
The comic stayed on the table.
Closed.
Will stared at it, his chest feeling hollow in a way he couldn’t explain. He hadn’t done anything wrong. At least, not that he knew of. And yet it felt like he was being edged out of something he hadn’t realized he could lose.
He swallowed and looked down at his hands.
Whatever had shifted between last night and this morning, it wasn’t subtle.
And Mike definitely felt it.
Will sat there for a second too long after Mike moved away, staring at the closed comic like it might start talking if he waited. It didn’t. Nothing did. The house stayed stubbornly normal, full of morning light and clinking dishes and the low hum of life going on without any regard for the fact that something inside Will felt like it had gone wrong.
He tried to tell himself it was nothing.
Mike was allowed to be weird sometimes. Mike was allowed to be quiet. Mike was allowed to wake up in a bad mood or get distracted or change his mind about reading a comic together. None of that meant anything on its own.
Except Will’s chest wouldn’t loosen.
It stayed tight and heavy, like his ribs were holding something in place that didn’t want to stay there. He could feel his heartbeat too clearly, each one loud and insistent, and suddenly he was too aware of where his hands were, how he was sitting, how obvious it must look that he didn’t know what to do with himself.
He replayed the night in fragments.
Mike’s room. The lamp light. The comic between them. Mike’s voice, soft and steady, promising him he was safe. Falling asleep faster than he meant to. The warmth of the bed. Nothing bad. Nothing sharp.
Nothing he could point to and say this is where it went wrong.
That almost made it worse.
If there had been a mistake, if Will had said something wrong or done something wrong, at least he could understand it. He could apologize. He could fix it. But this felt like waking up to the consequences of something he couldn’t remember doing.
His stomach twisted.
Did I move too much?
Did I take up too much space?
Did I make it weird just by being there?
The questions stacked up quickly, tumbling over each other before he could stop them. Will had always been good at noticing shifts, at feeling when the air changed in a room, when someone pulled back even just a little. He’d learned that skill early, learned it the hard way.
Mike pulled back now.
Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone else would notice. Just enough that Will noticed, and that was always the most dangerous kind.
He glanced toward the counter without lifting his head too much. Mike stood there with his bowl of cereal, shoulders tense, staring at nothing like he was trying very hard not to think. He didn’t look at Will. Not once.
Something hollowed out in Will’s chest.
He told himself he was overreacting. He told himself this was what anxiety did, took nothing and made it feel enormous. He told himself Mike hadn’t done anything wrong, that he hadn’t done anything wrong either.
Still, the thought crept in, quiet and persistent.
Maybe he heard something.
Will didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t have any memory to attach it to, any words or images or sounds. Just a vague sense of unease, like waking up after a storm and seeing broken branches without remembering the wind.
He shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge it.
No. That didn’t make sense. If Mike had heard something, he would’ve said something. Mike wasn’t subtle when things bothered him. Mike confronted things. He asked questions. He didn’t do this careful, distant thing.
Unless he didn’t know how.
The thought made Will’s throat tighten.
He stared down at his hands, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. He forced himself to breathe slowly, the way Joyce had taught him, the way the doctors had taught him, in through the nose and out through the mouth like that was supposed to fix things.
It didn’t.
All it did was give his thoughts more room.
What if I ruined it?
The word it sat there, undefined and heavy. Will didn’t know what it was exactly. The comfort. The closeness. The fragile sense that maybe, just maybe, things could feel okay again for a little while.
He’d been so careful.
So careful not to want too much. Not to lean in. Not to make Mike feel responsible for him. Not to turn something good into something fragile just by hoping it could stay.
And now Mike wouldn’t even read a damn comic with him.
Will swallowed hard, his vision stinging just a little as he blinked quickly and stared at the table until it passed. He wouldn’t cry over this. That would be ridiculous. This was nothing. It had to be nothing.
Still, the fear stayed.
Because Will had learned, over and over again, that things didn’t always break loudly. Sometimes they just shifted, quietly, until you realized you were standing alone without ever hearing the moment it happened.
And sitting there at the table, listening to Mike move around behind him without looking his way, Will couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d already missed something important.
Something he wouldn’t get back just by pretending everything was fine.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs then, lighter and quicker than Mike’s had been earlier.
Will looked up just as Jonathan appeared at the top, hair more tousled than usual, hoodie wrinkled like he’d slept in it. Nancy followed close behind him, one hand brushing his wrist as she leaned in to say something too quiet for Will to hear.
Jonathan laughed under his breath.
Not a loud laugh. Just that soft, private one he only ever used around people he was comfortable with.
Nancy smiled up at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and nudged his shoulder lightly. “You’re such an idiot.”
“You’re the one who slept down there last night,” Jonathan shot back, grinning.
“Because you wouldn’t shut up,” she said, but she didn’t move away. If anything, she stepped closer, their shoulders bumping easily like it was second nature.
Will’s chest tightened.
They came into the dining room together, moving like they’d already figured out how to exist in the same space without thinking about it. Jonathan reached past Nancy to grab a mug from the counter, their hands brushing without either of them reacting. Nancy leaned against the table, close enough that Jonathan’s knee rested between hers.
“So,” Jonathan said casually, glancing at Will, “you sleep okay?”
Will nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”
Nancy smiled at him. “You were out when we came up to Mikes room. We didn’t want to wake you.”
We.
The word landed quietly and stayed there.
Jonathan shrugged. “Basement couch isn’t exactly five-star, but it gets the job done.”
Nancy snorted. “You say that like you didn’t steal all the blankets.”
“You run cold,” Jonathan said easily. “I’m generous.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat in it, just familiarity. Comfort. The kind that came from knowing where you belonged next to someone.
Will watched them without meaning to.
They weren’t awkward. They weren’t careful. There was no hesitation in the way Jonathan leaned closer when Nancy spoke or the way she tilted toward him like she expected him to be there. Sharing a bed hadn’t made them tense or quiet or distant. It had done the opposite.
It had made them softer.
Will’s gaze drifted, unavoidably, to Mike.
Mike stood at the counter with his back half-turned, spoon clinking faintly against the side of his bowl. He didn’t look at Will. Didn’t look at Jonathan and Nancy either. His shoulders stayed tight, like he was holding himself in place.
The difference felt sharp.
If Mike had ever been comfortable with Will—really comfortable—wouldn’t it look like that?
Wouldn’t it be easy?
Wouldn’t Mike be closer, warmer, joking, instead of avoiding his eyes and pulling away like Will had crossed some invisible line just by being there?
The thought settled heavy in Will’s chest.
Maybe this was what it was supposed to look like when sharing space didn’t mean anything more than trust. When sleeping beside someone didn’t turn into tension or distance the next morning.
Jonathan and Nancy laughed quietly again, leaning into each other without thinking.
Mike scraped his spoon against the bowl a little too hard.
Will looked down at the table, fingers curling slightly against the wood, and tried not to let the comparison hurt as much as it did.
Because if this was proof of comfort—
Then whatever was happening with Mike wasn’t that.
And maybe it never had been.
Will escaped upstairs as soon as he could without making it obvious.
He told himself it was normal. That everyone showered in the morning. That he wasn’t running, wasn’t avoiding Mike, wasn’t trying to put a door and a floor between them because the kitchen had started to feel too small and too loud and too full of things he couldn’t untangle.
The stairs creaked softly under his feet. The house smelled different up here, cleaner somehow, like soap and laundry and the faint sweetness of Mrs. Wheeler’s shampoo that never quite went away.
He shut the bathroom door behind him and turned on the shower, twisting the handle until steam started to bloom against the mirror.
Then, faint but unmistakable, he heard it.
Mike’s door.
The soft click of it closing down the hall.
Will froze with his hand still on the faucet.
His chest tightened instantly, that sharp, irrational panic flaring before he could talk himself out of it. Mike closing his door meant space. Distance. Mike choosing to be somewhere Will wasn’t. It shouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t mean anything.
But it felt like something ending.
Will stepped into the shower too fast, his thoughts still chasing each other in tight, frantic circles. The water was hot, hotter than he realized, and he sucked in a breath, shifting his weight—
His foot slid.
The world tilted.
He went down hard, his shoulder knocking against the wall, his elbow smacking the tile with a sharp crack that knocked the air out of him. Water sprayed everywhere as he scrambled, heart pounding, palms slipping uselessly for a second before he caught himself.
“OW—”
“WILL?” Holly’s muffled voice cut through the door, high and immediate. “WHAT WAS THAT?”
He sat there for half a second, stunned, water beating down on his back, his pulse racing for more reasons than just the fall.
“I’m okay!” he called quickly, louder than he meant to. “I just— I slipped!”
There was a pause. Then Holly again, right outside the door.
“Well maybe you shouldn’t try ice skating in the shower,” she said solemnly. “Because that’s dangerous.”
Despite himself, a breathy laugh slipped out of Will. “Thanks, Holly.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, very satisfied. “Tell Joyce you’re alive.”
“I will,” he promised.
By the time he finished showering, his hands were still shaking a little. Not from the fall. From everything else.
He dried off slowly, pulling on clean clothes, trying to give his heart time to calm down. Steam clung to the mirror, fogging his reflection until he wiped it away with his sleeve.
He barely recognized himself for a second. Hair sticking up in every direction. Eyes a little too wide. A red mark blooming on his elbow.
He looked tired.
He reached for the doorknob.
And then he saw Mike.
Not directly. Not at first.
Just the reflection of him passing the bathroom doorway, visible for half a second in the mirror behind Will. Mike’s head turned without thinking, his eyes flicking toward the bathroom, toward Will.
Their gazes met in the reflection.
The moment stretched, thin and electric.
Mike’s expression flickered, something unreadable crossing his face before he looked away just as quickly and kept walking.
Will’s chest tightened painfully.
He stood there for a beat too long, staring at his own reflection, at the space Mike had just passed through, at the way the house suddenly felt too quiet again.
Then footsteps thundered up the stairs.
“Michael!” Mrs. Wheeler’s voice rang out sharply. “Why are you just standing there? Nancy needs you to help her get groceries!”
Nancy appeared behind her, arms crossed, already exasperated. “Mom, I can—”
“No,” Mrs. Wheeler cut in. “You’re not gonna do this all by yourself. Michael, grab your shoes. Now.”
Mike reappeared at the top of the stairs, already moving, not looking at Will this time.
“Yeah. Okay,” he said quickly.
He didn’t glance back.
Will listened as Mike’s footsteps went down the stairs again, farther and farther away, until the front door opened and shut.
Only then did Will realize he’d been holding his breath.
And only then did the quiet panic he’d been keeping at bay finally settle back into his chest, heavier than before, like whatever had shifted between them last night wasn’t done making itself known yet.
Not even close.
Mike had been gone for almost an hour.
Will didn’t know exactly how long he’d been pacing before he realized he was doing it. Only that at some point his feet had started carrying him down the hallway without him really deciding to go there, his body moving on a kind of restless autopilot he didn’t know how to shut off.
Mike’s door was still open.
The pull-out mattress was still there.
It sat half-out from under the bed, sheets rumpled and uneven like they’d been pulled back in a hurry, the thin blanket folded wrong at the corner. It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a mattress. Just proof that Mike had slept somewhere else.
But every time Will passed the doorway, his chest tightened anyway.
He walked past once. Then again. Then slowed on the third pass, pretending he was just heading to the bathroom or the stairs or anywhere that wasn’t here. His eyes flicked back on their own, landing on the mattress like it might suddenly explain something if he stared long enough.
Nothing came.
No memory surfaced. No realization snapped into place. Just that same blank stretch where the night should’ve been, smooth and untouched no matter how hard he pressed against it.
He replayed everything he did remember instead. Falling asleep. The warmth of the bed. Mike’s breathing steady beside him. Darkness closing in slow and heavy.
Then nothing.
The space after that felt wrong, like a missing step his brain kept tripping over.
Will shifted his weight and looked away, his gaze catching on Mike’s desk instead.
A single sheet of paper sat there, slightly crooked, weighed down at one corner by a pencil. Words were written across it, dark enough to stand out even from the hallway, but too far away to read.
His heart gave a small, traitorous jump.
For half a second, he imagined stepping closer. Just a little. Pretending he was looking for something else. Letting himself glance down and maybe, finally, understand why everything felt so off this morning. Why Mike wouldn’t look at him. Why the air between them felt tight and brittle like it might crack if he touched it wrong.
He didn’t move.
Will swallowed and took a step back instead.
He wasn’t like that. He didn’t read people’s things. He didn’t cross lines just because he was scared. Mike deserved privacy. Mike deserved space. Whatever was written on that paper wasn’t meant for him.
Even if some small, desperate part of him wanted it to be.
He turned away, forcing his feet to carry him down the hall again, but the image stayed with him anyway. The mattress. The paper. The unanswered questions pressing in from all sides.
Whatever had happened last night was still there, waiting for him.
And no matter how many times Will passed Mike’s open door, it refused to come back to him.
Not yet.
By dinner, it had been hours.
Long enough for the house to settle into that strange, quiet rhythm it got when everyone stayed in their own rooms too long. Long enough for Will to convince himself that nothing had happened and for that conviction to crumble again every time he thought about the pull-out mattress or Mike’s closed door or the way Mike hadn’t knocked once all afternoon.
They sat at the table anyway.
Will took his usual seat, hands folded in his lap, posture careful like he was afraid of taking up the wrong amount of space. Mike sat two chairs down, close enough to be obvious, far enough to feel intentional. Neither of them looked at the other for longer than a second at a time.
The tension sat between them like an extra place setting.
Joyce noticed immediately.
Jonathan did too.
They shared a glance across the table, quick and knowing, the kind that came from years of reading Will’s silences and Mike’s tells. Joyce didn’t say anything, just watched Will a little closer, her eyes soft but alert. Jonathan leaned back in his chair, studying the way Mike’s knee bounced under the table, the way Will kept picking at the edge of his napkin.
“So,” Ted said suddenly, clearing his throat as he set his fork down. “Did you see that thing on the news?”
No one answered right away.
Ted continued anyway. “Some story about a group protesting downtown. Men holding hands and making a big show of it like that’s something everyone needs to see.”
Will’s stomach dropped.
“They keep pushing it,” Ted went on, shaking his head. “I just don’t get why people have to flaunt that kind of lifestyle. Feels unnecessary. Kids don’t need to be exposed to all that.”
The words landed heavy and ugly in the quiet.
Will’s chest went tight so fast it almost hurt. His ears rang faintly, his body reacting before his thoughts could catch up, that familiar instinct to fold inward, to disappear. He stared at his plate, suddenly afraid that if he looked up at Mike, something would be written all over his face that he didn’t know how to hide.
Ted had barely finished his sentence before Mike’s chair scraped loudly against the floor.
“What does that even mean?” Mike snapped.
The table went silent.
Ted looked up, frowning. “Excuse me?”
“You said people are ‘flaunting it,’” Mike said, his voice already tight, words coming faster now. “What does that mean? They’re just existing. They’re just— there.”
Ted scoffed. “I’m allowed to have an opinion, Michael.”
“No,” Mike shot back. “You’re allowed to have an opinion. You’re not allowed to act like people being themselves is some kind of problem.”
Will’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Mike wasn’t looking at him. Mike wasn’t looking at anyone. His hands were clenched at his sides, jaw tight in that familiar way that meant he was past the point of backing down.
“They don’t have to shove it in everyone’s face,” Ted said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“That’s not shoving it in anyone’s face,” Mike said sharply. “Holding hands isn’t shoving anything in anyone’s face. It’s the same thing you and Mom do literally all the time.”
“That’s different,” Ted said.
“How?” Mike demanded. “Explain how.”
Ted opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Ted’s face reddened. “I don’t need to explain anything to you.”
Mike laughed, short and humorless. “That’s because you can’t.”
Joyce’s hand hovered near Will’s arm, not touching, but close.
Ted pushed his plate away a little. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate. Especially around kids.”
Mike’s voice cracked then, just slightly. “You think they’re the problem? You think kids get hurt by seeing people love each other?”
His chest rose and fell hard.
“People get hurt when they’re told something is wrong with them for no reason,” Mike said. “People get hurt when adults say stuff like that like it doesn’t matter.”
Ted pointed his fork at him. “Watch your tone.”
“No,” Mike said immediately. “You don’t get to say something like that and then tell me to watch my tone.”
Will’s fingers curled tightly into his napkin.
He could feel everyone’s eyes on Mike now. On the way his voice shook. On the way he was standing up for something he hadn’t named out loud, not directly, but close enough that it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.
Ted opened his mouth again.
Karen Wheeler didn’t raise her voice.
She didn’t need to.
“Ted,” she said, flat and quiet.
He stopped.
Not because he agreed. Not because he understood.
But because of the look she gave him.
The kind that said this conversation is over.
Ted muttered something under his breath and picked his fork back up, suddenly very interested in his food.
The tension didn’t disappear.
It just shifted.
Mike sat back down slowly, shoulders still tight, breathing uneven. He didn’t look at Will. Didn’t look at anyone. Just stared at his plate like he’d said too much and not enough all at once.
Will’s chest ached.
He wanted to look at Mike. Wanted to almost thank him, but he knew he couldn’t, he wanted to disappear.
He kept his eyes down instead, heat creeping up his neck, that familiar fear curling in his stomach as he realized something terrifying and undeniable.
Whatever Mike had just defended so fiercely was something Will carried too visibly.
Mike didn’t finish his plate.
“I’m not hungry,” he said abruptly, standing before anyone could respond.
No one stopped him.
He pushed his chair in too hard, the scrape loud against the floor, and disappeared up the stairs without looking back. A door shut a moment later. Firm. Final.
Dinner unraveled quietly after that.
Ted muttered something about needing the couch and carried his plate into the living room, settling in front of the television like nothing had happened, the news droning on until it blurred into background noise. Joyce started clearing plates. Nancy followed her into the kitchen. The moment passed the way uncomfortable moments always did in that house, folded away and left unaddressed.
Will retreated to the basement.
The stairs felt steeper on the way down, the air cooler, heavier. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at nothing for a long time, his thoughts circling the same questions over and over without landing anywhere solid.
Everyone had seen it.
Mike yelling. Ted saying what he said. The way the room had gone still.
And Will couldn’t stop the fear from creeping in, quiet but relentless, that everyone knew. That something about last night, about sleeping in Mike’s room, about the way Mike had snapped so quickly, had tipped something out of balance.
Had Ted noticed?
Had Mike noticed something he hadn’t meant to show?
Why would Mike defend him like that if Ted was talking about men on the news?
Jonathan came down a little while later, moving quietly like he didn’t want to startle him.
He leaned against the wall near the stairs, arms crossed loosely. “Hey.”
Will looked up. “Hey.”
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just careful.
“Ted didn’t mean it like… personally,” Jonathan said, finally. “He’s just— bad at thinking before he talks.”
Will nodded, even though he was getting sick of everyone acting like it was a personal attack towards him, “I know.”
Jonathan watched him for a second longer. “Still. It wasn’t okay.”
Something unspoken settled between them then. Not said outright, but present all the same. Jonathan’s voice hadn’t softened out of pity. It hadn’t sharpened with suspicion. It just was. Steady. Knowing.
It made Will’s chest ache.
“I just keep thinking,” Will said quietly, “I feel like I’m doing something wrong without realizing it.”
Jonathan frowned. “You’re not.”
Jonathan stepped closer and sat down across from him. “Whatever’s going on in your head, it’s not because you messed up,” he said. “You hear me?”
Will swallowed. “Yeah.”
Jonathan squeezed his shoulder once, firm and grounding. “Get some rest. I’m gonna crash upstairs with Nancy tonight.”
When he left, the basement went quiet again.
Will goes upstairs to brush his teeth slowly, staring at his reflection again like it might give him answers if he looked hard enough.
That was when there was a knock on the bathroom door.
Soft. Hesitant.
“Will?” Mike’s voice.
Will froze.
He opened the door a crack.
Mike stood there holding a small stack of pages, torn neatly from a comic, edges rough but careful. His hair stuck up slightly, his expression caught somewhere between nervous and hopeful.
“I— um,” Mike said. “I read the rest earlier. And I know you wanted to read it together, so… I’m sorry.”
Will blinked. “Oh.”
Mike held the pages out. “You can keep these. I think they’d mean more to you than me anyway.”
Will took them, his fingers brushing Mike’s by accident. “Thanks,” he said, awkward and sincere all at once. “Really.”
Mike nodded, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah. Of course.”
They stood there for a second too long, neither quite knowing what to say next.
Will went back down to the basement.
Jonathan was already asleep, sprawled in Nancy’s room with one arm flung over his face. Will sits on the now empty bed down in the basement, and turns on his small lamp as he slowly sits on the bed, unfolding the pages carefully like they might tear if he wasn’t gentle enough.
He read slowly.
The comic ended quietly, there was no big victory, no dramatic escape, there was just two boys who stuck together, who chose each other over and over again even when the world didn’t make sense. Who trusted each other to come back.
It felt familiar in a way that hurt.
By the time he reached the last panel, his eyes burned and tears began to wet the ends of the paper.
He scrubbed at them quickly, embarrassed by the sting, by how close everything felt all at once.
“Hey,” Mike said walking past the doorway to the basement stairs after grabbing a cup of fresh water.
Will startled.
Mike stood at the too step, slowly walking down, his face instantly softening when he saw Will’s eyes. “Are you okay?”
Will nodded too fast. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Mike took a few steps closer. “You’re not still scared about… everything, right? About Vecna and stuff?”
Will hesitated, then nodded again, because it was easier than explaining the truth.
Mike’s shoulders relaxed just a little. “Do you wanna come sleep upstairs again?” he asked quietly. “I don’t want Jonathan waking up if you get freaked out and get him.”
Will’s heart skipped.
“Oh- sure yeah,” he said, softly. “Okay.”
Mike smiled, small and genuine.
“Cool,” he said. “Yeah. Okay.”
And once again, neither of them noticed how much they weren’t saying.
Mike’s room felt different at night.
Quieter. Smaller somehow. Like the walls had leaned in while he was gone.
Will noticed it the second the door shut behind them. The desk lamp was off, the room lit only by the faint glow from the hallway for a moment before Mike reached past him and flipped the switch.
Darkness settled in soft and familiar.
Will’s eyes adjusted, and then he saw it.
The desk.
He froze just slightly, his gaze catching where it had earlier that afternoon. The same spot. The same angle. But the paper was gone.
The desk was clean now. Too clean.
His stomach twisted.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just filed it away with everything else he didn’t understand today.
Mike yawned loudly, rubbing at his face. “Sorry if I’m kinda out of it,” he said, voice tired in that distinctly Mike way Will knew so well, like he was apologizing for existing too loudly. “Today was just… a lot.”
“It’s okay,” Will said automatically.
Mike nodded, then reached into his dresser and tossed something at him without warning.
Will fumbled and caught it.
It was one of Mike’s shirts, it was soft, worn. still warm like it had been folded recently.
“Keep it,” Mike said quickly, already turning away like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. “If you get nervous or whatever, just— I dunno. Smell it. Or something. It’s stupid, but it helps.”
Will stared down at the fabric.
It smelled like Mike. Like his cologne, faint and clean, mixed with something warmer underneath that was just him. Soap, the laundry detergent Mrs. Wheeler has always used on his clothes since they were kids. It was a comfort smell Will loved.
His face felt hot all of a sudden, like he’d been out in the sun all day and got a small sunburn.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice coming out quieter than he meant it to.
Mike shrugged, his eyes looking everywhere but Will, “Yeah. Sure.”
There was a beat of silence.
Will glanced toward the floor and then back at the bed. He sarcastically says“so… the mattress is out again.”
Mike snorted. “Yeah. Uh. You move a lot in your sleep.”
Will blinked. “I do?”
“Yeah, ever since you were a kid,” Mike said quickly. “Like— a lot. I figured I’d save myself from getting kicked in the face.”
He grinned, clearly trying to keep it light.
Will laughed, relieved despite himself. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Mike said. “I mean, you’re kinda terrifying when you’re asleep.”
Will felt better but deep down knew Mike was not telling the whole truth. Since Mike’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and something in his chest still felt tight like there was more underneath the joke.
They sat down on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly between them. Mike reached over and clicked on the desk lamp, the soft yellow light filling the room and making everything feel closer.
Will twisted the hem of the shirt in his hands. “Can I ask you something?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah.”
Will took a deep breath, building up the courage to finally ask.“Why’ve you been acting weird all day?”
Mike went still, his fingers starting to tap onto his lap, until he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not acting weird. I’m just tired.”
“You don’t usually avoid me when you’re tired,” Will said gently.
Will quickly looked down in embarrassment, his cheeks turning more pink, he doesn’t understand why he just said that. He felt as if he was thinking about Mikes actions too muck today, it sort of just blurted from his mouth.
Mike huffed out a breath. “Okay, yeah. Fine. I just— yesterday was intense. And my dad’s an idiot. And I didn’t sleep great. It’s not about you.”
Will studied his face, the way his eyes flicked away too quickly, the way his jaw tightened.
He nodded anyway. “Okay.”
Mike stood suddenly. “I’m gonna crash.”
Will got up too, glancing toward the pull-out mattress. “I’ll just—”
Mike cut in. “You don’t have to.”
He hesitated, then added, “It’s dry now. And I don’t feel like water somehow spilling on it again, I mean no offense but my mom is not like yours, she’ll make us clean it if she finds out water spilled on it.”
Will’s heart begins to flutter again, the same way it has been fluttering all day except this time, it’s not because he’s scared. “Okay.” he smiles.
They lay down side by side, slowly, a careful distance between them at first. The lamp clicked off. Darkness wrapped around them again, softer this time.
After a minute, Mike spoke.
“Do you think… sleep talking is real?”
Will frowned slightly. “What. Mike what do you mean?”
“Like,” Mike said, staring up at the ceiling, “do you think people say stuff they actually mean when they’re asleep?”
Will’s heart skipped. “Why?”
Will was embarrassed. He thought Jonathon must’ve told Mike.
‘Will sleep talks like a baby, everyone should feel obligated to take care of Will.’
He can feel his cheeks start to burn again.
Mike swallowed. “Just wondering.”
There was a long quiet pause.
Then Mike said quietly, “Do you still have nightmares? About Vecna?”
Will nodded. “Yeah. All the time.”
Mike shifted closer, slowly and carefully, as his face is now turned to Will’s head, overlooking his hair as their shoulders lightly touch.
His arm slid under Will’s head, tentative, his hand hovering for half a second like he was ready to pull away if Will flinched.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
Will wasn’t okay at all, but he nodded anyway, because saying no would’ve been worse.
Will’s breath caught. “Yeah,” he whispered.
Mike relaxed, his arm settling, his shoulder now warm against Will’s cheek. Will turned his face slightly without thinking, close enough that he could feel Mike’s fast breathing.
Mike’s voice was low. “This way you can smell me tonight,” he said. “And you won’t have nightmares.”
Will’s chest felt too full.
The shirt was still clutched in his hands. Mike’s scent surrounded him now, grounding and familiar.
He nodded into Mike’s shoulder, too overwhelmed to speak.
Mike stayed still.
Careful.
Like he was holding something fragile and didn’t quite know why.
And for the first time all day, Will felt like maybe he could breathe again. Just silent. no more questions needed to be asked. The presence of mikes scent and touch, was more than enough for Will to fall asleep.