Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The repeated clink of forks against plates was the first thing Will noticed after moving into the Wheeler house, a sound he wasn’t used to, because his own home had never been this full.

It wasn’t just the clink, either, but everything around it that made the sound feel like home. The dull scrape of chair legs against the tile, the low murmur of the radio Mrs. Wheeler always kept on in the mornings, the soft rush of someone moving past the table to grab salt or napkins, the occasional cough from Ted behind his newspaper. A whole collection of small, ordinary noises that didn’t ask anything from him except to exist, and Will found himself holding onto them like they were something solid he could grip whenever his mind started to drift too far.

Mrs. Wheeler’s kitchen always sounded like this in the mornings, safe sounds. Will focused on them like they were proof that nothing bad was happening in Hawkins right now, like if he listened closely enough they could keep the rest of the world from breaking in.

The truth was, Will still measured safety in ridiculous ways. Not in locks or fences or whatever the government promised was sealed and contained, but in the simplest things. Morning sounds. Warm food. People talking about nothing. The kind of nothing that used to feel boring back when boring was an option.

Jonathan had mentioned a few days ago, not during a serious conversation or anything, just tossed out while they were doing laundry like it was an observation and not a concern. He’d said Will had been talking in his sleep. Not yelling or screaming, just murmuring things that didn’t quite make sense, then waking up tense like he’d been running from something. Jonathan shrugged after, said it was probably stress, said it happened sometimes.

Will hadn’t known what to say to that. He still didn’t.

He didn’t remember his dreams most nights. He didn’t remember what he said when he was half-awake. And the idea that his thoughts might still be loud enough to escape him even in sleep was something he didn’t want to sit with for too long.

Will always sits at the dining room table with Mike to his right, close enough that their elbows almost touch, though he kept his arms tucked in anyway. It’s not that he wanted to, he didn’t want to, some part of him wanted to lean into that closeness the way he used to when they were kids, when sharing space with Mike meant comfort and nothing more complicated than that.

Will’s body started doing this thing lately where it reacts before his brain could catch up, a tightness blooming under his ribs, a nervous flutter that sparked whenever Mike was too close, and he hated how his chest betrayed him like that and how quickly it reminded him of what he was trying not to want.

Joyce sat across from him, already halfway through her eggs, and Will watched her for a moment longer than necessary, the way she chewed while still half-looking at him like she was checking that he was there and that he was eating. Joyce never completely relaxed anymore, not after everything, not after losing him practically twice and getting him back both times.

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs like Mrs. Wheeler wouldn’t immediately tell him to stop.

“So,” Jonathan said, pointing his fork at Will, “you’re really putting ketchup on your eggs.”

Will frowned. “It’s good.”

He tried to sound normal. To most, this was just a stupid sibling argument, but to Will it was something he wanted to hold onto because it meant they were all here, alive and breathing, sitting at a table together, even if it wasn’t their own kitchen and Hawkins still felt like it was humming with something dangerous beneath the surface.

“It’s not,” Jonathan chuckled. “It’s illegal.”

Mike glanced at Will, then at the ketchup bottle. “I mean, I don’t know. I’ve seen worse.”

It was such a small thing, Mike defending him without thinking, Mike being Mike, and Will felt it anyway, that stupid flip in his stomach he kept pretending didn’t matter. He told himself it was nothing, just habit, just old reflexes from when Mike’s approval had meant friendship and not something heavier, because letting it mean more was the fastest way to ruin it.

Joyce sighed. “Jonathan.”

“I’m just saying,” Jonathan said, muffled around a mouthful of eggs. “We’ve survived interdimensional monsters. This feels like a step too far.”

Will rolled his eyes but smirked a little, his shoulders started relaxing despite himself, not because the joke was that funny but because the rhythm of it felt right. A joke landing. People responding. Everyone playing their parts like the world hadn’t cracked open and spilled something awful into their streets.

It has been seventeen months of Will living in the same house, eating at the same table, brushing past Mike in the hallways, and he still got shy when Mike defended him, still felt like his thoughts tangled and tripped over themselves, still felt like if he let himself think too hard about it then something fragile would break.

So he didn’t.

He’d learned how not to. How to keep his face smooth and his mouth moving in the right ways, how to let jokes come easily and silence fall when it needed to, how to act normal because normal meant safe and safe meant Mike stayed.

“Hey,” Mike said suddenly, his voice pitching up the way it always did when he was excited. “I, um. I started a new comic.”

Will looked up despite himself. “You always start new comics.”

He meant it gently, familiar, because Mike’s excitement still did that thing where it made the years between now and childhood blur for half a second, like nothing had happened except time passing quietly.

“Yeah, but this one’s different,” Mike said quickly, reaching down to pull it from under the table like he’d been hiding it. “It’s like, uh, it’s sci-fi but also kinda sad. There’s this kid who gets stuck between worlds and no one believes him and he has to, y’know, figure it out on his own.”

Will’s throat tightened and he forced it back down, telling himself it was just because the premise hit too close and because it was hard hearing his own life described like a story someone could hold in their hands, even though he couldn’t stop the thought that followed, the quiet realization that Mike had chosen this story, that Mike had seen something familiar in it and cared enough to want to share it with him.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Sounds familiar.”

Mike shot him a look. “It’s not like that. I mean. It is, but not in a bad way.”

Will’s fingers tightened around his fork as he searched for something safe to say, something that wouldn’t give him away. “That sounds… cool.”

He wished he could say more, wished he could explain how it felt to be seen like that without being exposed, to be understood without being pitied, but Will never trusted himself with more because more always led to places he wasn’t allowed to go.

Mike smiled, wide and relieved. “Yeah? I mean, I thought you’d like it. And maybe after dinner tonight we could, uh. Read it. Together. Like we used to.”

The word together landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere deep in Will’s chest where feelings collected and stayed.

Will swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Joyce watched them both then, quiet now, her smile soft even as her eyes flicked toward the window and the street beyond it where military trucks sat parked at the corner, engines idling even this early in the morning.

Will followed her gaze without meaning to, and the warmth of the kitchen dimmed around the edges. Outside, the air looked too still, like the world was holding its breath. Trucks parked like warnings. Men in uniforms standing too straight, too watchful. Hawkins pretending it was a normal town while soldiers observed it like it might suddenly turn into something else.

Outside, Hawkins was already awake.

Fences cut through streets that used to lead to nowhere special. Soldiers stood near places where the ground had split open months ago, rifles slung low, eyes scanning like they were waiting for the town to do something wrong.

Will had tried to explain to himself why that bothered him so much. Maybe it was because it made Hawkins feel like a cage. Maybe it was because every uniform reminded him of labs and needles and people who spoke about him like he was a problem to solve. Or maybe it was just the feeling of being watched, like the whole town was holding onto the idea that the Byers family and the Wheelers and anyone connected to any of it were still a threat.

After Vecna, after the earthquakes that weren’t earthquakes, the Upside Down had pushed too close. Cracks tore through Hawkins like scars that refused to heal, the largest one running straight through a neighborhood three blocks from the Wheelers’ house.

The government sealed them as best they could. Concrete. Steel. Gates wrapped in warning signs no one was allowed past. They said it was contained.

Will had learned to hate that word, contained, because it sounded too neat, too confident, like they could put a lid on something that wanted out, like they could tell the town to relax because they had a plan. Plans didn’t stop the Upside Down. Plans didn’t stop fear.

Lockdown followed.

No unnecessary travel. Curfews. Hawkins became a place you stayed in because leaving was harder than staying.

California felt like another life now. El lived in Hawkins with Hopper again, settling into something steadier than before. She and Mike had gone their separate ways months ago, not in any dramatic way, just a slow drifting apart, and they still kept in touch. Will understood why she needed the space. He really did.

And still, sometimes, he caught himself staring at Mike and thinking about how much room that drifting had created, and then hating himself immediately for even noticing it because he didn’t want to be that person, didn’t want to benefit from someone else’s sadness, didn’t want to want anything at all.

Hawkins had its hooks in him again, and somehow this time it felt different.

Safer.

Mostly.

After breakfast, Mrs. Wheeler handed out chores like she always did, clipboard in hand.

“Mike, vacuum the living room,” she said. “Will, can you help me with the laundry?”

“Yeah,” Will said.

“Cool,” Mike said at the same time.

Their eyes met for a second too long, and Will looked away first because if he didn’t he was afraid he’d do something stupid, like smile too softly or let his face show the kind of relief he always felt when Mike wanted him around, and he didn’t trust himself with eye contact anymore when it made his thoughts feel too loud.

They spent the afternoon moving through the house together, folding towels and carrying baskets and drifting in and out of each other’s space in a way that felt practiced, comfortable, like something they’d been doing for years. The silence between them never felt empty, only broken when Mike bumped into a chair or knocked something over and muttered a rushed, “Sorry, sorry,” like he was afraid of taking up too much room.

Will smiled every time.

And every time he smiled, he wondered if Mike could tell. Not just that Will thought it was endearing or familiar, but that it made him warm in a way friendship didn’t fully explain anymore, in a way that lingered long after the moment passed.

By the time the sun dipped low and the house grew quieter, Will felt that familiar tension settle in his chest, the slow tightening that always came when the day started slipping toward night.

Night was coming.

And night meant reading Mike’s new comic with him, just like he’d agreed to that morning.

Supper always felt heavier than breakfast. Not louder or busier, just heavier, like the weight of the day finally caught up to everyone all at once. Will noticed it in the way his shoulders tensed the second he stepped into the kitchen, in the way his breath felt shallower even before he sat down. Morning felt forgiving. Evening felt like it asked questions.

The smell hit him first, something warm and buttery, garlic and herbs mixing in the air. Mrs. Wheeler had cooked chicken, baked until the skin looked crisp and golden, with mashed potatoes piled high in a bowl at the center of the table. There was gravy too, dark and steaming, and green beans sautéed with onions that still snapped faintly when she stirred them.

Normally, Will would have loved it. Normally, the smell alone would’ve made his stomach growl.

Tonight, it just made his chest feel tight.

The table was already set when Will came in after drawing in the basement all day, cloth napkins folded neatly and glasses filled with ice water that had started to sweat onto the wood.

Mike hovered near the doorway like he wasn’t sure where to stand.

That, more than anything, made Will’s stomach drop. Mike didn’t hover. Mike filled space. Mike paced and talked and filled silence with words like he was afraid it might collapse in on itself. Seeing him hesitate, seeing that nervous energy coiled just beneath his skin, made Will’s own fear spike in response.

Mike caught Will’s eye and smiled, quick and nervous. “You made it,” he said, like Will had ever missed dinner.

Will hated how much that smile mattered to him. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean. Yeah.”

They sat across from each other this time. Will noticed immediately and hated himself for noticing at all. Across the table meant distance, no accidental touches or shared warmth or brushing shoulders. It also meant that every time Will looked up, Mike was right there in his line of sight, impossible to avoid without making it obvious. Mr. Wheeler, someone Will privately liked to refer to as Ted, cleared his throat as he took his seat. “Smells great, Karen.”

Mrs. Wheeler set the serving spoon down a little harder than necessary. “Thank you, Ted. It’d be helpful if you cooked every once in a while,” she said, her tone sharp with sarcasm.

Mr. Wheeler grunted and went back to reading the daily newspaper.

Will watched him for a second longer than necessary, unsettled by the way Ted always seemed half-outside the room, present but not really there. Sometimes Will wondered if that was a defense mechanism. Sometimes he wondered if it was a luxury.

He couldn’t understand how someone could read the same newspaper all day. Sometimes it felt like Ted wasn’t reading it at all, just staring at the page and letting his mind drift somewhere far away.

There was a pause. Not an uncomfortable one, just the kind that settled when everyone seemed to be thinking the same thing and didn’t want to be the first to say it.

Jonathan glanced between them and then focused very intently on his plate.

“So,” Mr. Wheeler said, reaching for the potatoes, “I heard the army’s extending the perimeter again.”

Mrs. Wheeler stiffened. “They’re what.”

Will felt the shift ripple through the room instantly, that sharp change from domestic to dangerous, and his spine went rigid without him telling it to. His body always noticed threats faster than his mind did.

“They’re expanding the fences near the old middle school,” Ted said. “I read it in the paper.”

“You read it in the paper?” she repeated. “Ted, they promised us they were done.”

“They also promised us the cracks were sealed,” Joyce said gently. “And then one opened two streets over.”

Mrs. Wheeler exhaled sharply. “Exactly.”

Mr. Wheeler frowned. “Well, what do you want them to do. Just leave it open.”

“I want them to stop lying,” she said, her voice tight. “I want my kids to be able to walk outside without soldiers watching them like they’re waiting for something to go wrong.”

Will swallowed.

Mike stared at his plate, jaw tight, and Will watched him from across the table, the way his shoulders hunched just slightly like he was bracing for something that never quite came but always threatened to. It hurt, seeing him like that. Hurt in a quiet way that didn’t have a name. Will wanted to reach across the table and fix it, even though he didn’t know how and wasn’t sure he was allowed to try.

Joyce spoke up then, her voice soft but firm. “I just want to say… thank you. For letting us stay. I know it’s not easy. None of this is.”

Mrs. Wheeler looked at her and something in her expression softened. “You don’t need to thank us every day, Joyce.”

“I do,” Joyce said. “You opened your home to us when you didn’t have to. And I know things are… tense. But it means more than you know.”

Will picked at his food, his appetite fading the longer the conversation went on.

Gratitude always did that to him. Made him feel smaller somehow, like he took up too much space just by existing, like every kindness came with an unspoken reminder that he was still a guest, still something that needed accommodating.

He could feel it creeping up on him now, the familiar tightness in his chest, the quiet ticking of a clock in his head counting down to what came after supper.

The comic.

Mike had been different lately. Not in any obvious way, nothing he could point to without sounding ridiculous, just small shifts that added up. Sitting closer. Talking more. Smiling like he meant it. Asking Will questions and actually waiting for the answers instead of filling the silence himself.

It scared him.

Because if Mike was doing this on purpose, if there was intention behind the attention, then that meant something had changed, and if something had changed, then Will had missed the moment it happened and didn’t know what rules he was supposed to be following anymore.

What if Mike already knew.

What if he’d realized that whatever Will felt wasn’t just friendship, that it was heavier than that, something that pressed against Will’s ribs and made it hard to breathe sometimes. What if Mike was being careful now, gentle in that way people got when they were afraid of hurting someone.

What if this was pity.

The thought made Will’s stomach twist.

What if Mike felt bad that Will couldn’t have him, and this was his way of softening the blow, of making things easier, of easing him into disappointment.

Will swallowed and forced himself to eat, the saltiness of the chicken sharp on his tongue while his stomach tied itself into knots.

Mike glanced up at him. “Is it good?”

Will jumped a little. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “It’s really good.”

Mike smiled, relieved, like that answer mattered more than it should have.

Will dropped his gaze again, telling himself he was imagining it, that Mike didn’t know anything, that Mike was just being Mike, friendly and loyal and oblivious like he’d always been.

Still, his hands shook slightly under the table.

Supper was almost over, and Will didn’t know if he was ready for what came after.

Not tonight.

After supper, the plates sat half empty and warm on the table, steam still curling up from the mashed potatoes. Will pushed his green beans around with his fork, already thinking about what came next even as he tried not to.

He didn’t want to rush it or make it obvious, but his body had already started bracing itself. He could feel it approaching like a low hum under his skin, that familiar restless pressure that came when something mattered too much and he didn’t know how to stop it from mattering.

Mike cleared his throat. “Hey, um. Will?”

Will’s shoulders tensed before he could stop himself. The sound of his name always landed differently when Mike said it, like it reached further into him than it should have. He looked up anyway, because pretending not to hear would have been worse.

“Yeah?”

“So, uh,” Mike said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you still wanna read the comic. Tonight. I mean. If you’re not tired or anything.”

Will’s thoughts scrambled.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. That was the problem. He wanted to too much, wanted it in a way that made his chest ache and his thoughts spin, wanted it in a way that felt dangerous because it came with expectations he didn’t know how to meet.

He searched for something safe. Something reasonable. Something that wouldn’t sound like rejection but also wouldn’t pull him any closer to the edge than he already was.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I’m kinda… tired. And I said I’d help your mom with the dishes and stuff.”

Mike’s face fell for just a second before he tried to cover it.

Will noticed. Of course he did.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s fine,” Mike said. “I just thought maybe since we talked about it earlier.”

Relief flooded Will’s chest fast and sharp, followed immediately by guilt that settled just as heavily. He hated that part of himself, the part that wanted to hide even when it hurt someone else, hated how fear always seemed to win. Jonathan watched them from the other side of the table, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Will felt it like a weight, like Jonathan had tuned into something Will hadn’t realized he was broadcasting. Jonathan had always been good at that, at seeing the things Will tried to bury.

He didn’t say anything, but Will could feel the question in his stare.

Mrs. Wheeler picked up her glass and smiled. “Michael, you have been talking about that comic all week.”

Mike flushed. “Mom.”

“No, you have,” she said, amused. “You wouldn’t stop going on about it the other day. You even begged me to drive you to Bradley’s after work so you could get it before they sold out.”

Will blinked. “Bradley’s?”

The name made it feel more real somehow, less abstract, because Mike hadn’t just picked this comic up on a whim. He’d cared enough to go out of his way for it, to make sure he didn’t miss it.

Mrs. Wheeler nodded. “They had a new shipment come in. The spinner rack near the counter was nearly empty already.”

Mike shrugged, suddenly very interested in his plate. “It’s a good comic.”

“I know,” she said. “I had to buy it because you wouldn’t let it go. So I’m glad it’s actually going to get read.”

She looked at Will then. “You don’t have to feel obligated, sweetheart. But I know Mike would really like it.”

The word obligation lodged itself in Will’s chest and stayed there.

That was exactly what he was afraid of, Mike wanting him there out of kindness or loyalty or some sense of responsibility Will had never asked for, Mike being careful with him because he thought he needed it. Pity dressed up as care.

Will’s chest tightened until it felt hard to breathe.

Jonathan stood and stacked his plate. “I’m heading down to the basement,” he said casually, though his eyes flicked to Will and lingered there.

“You okay?” he whispered.

Will nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

He hated how obvious that probably was.

After dinner, Will stayed behind to help Mrs. Wheeler with the dishes. Warm water fogged the window over the sink, blurring the outside world into soft shapes and light, and the steady sound of running water filled the kitchen in a way that felt grounding. Will scrubbed plates harder than necessary, grateful for something that required his hands instead of his thoughts.

“You don’t have to scrub every crumb off,” Mrs. Wheeler said gently. “You’re always so helpful.”

Will forced a smile. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Upstairs, he heard footsteps. A door closing. A faucet turning on.

Mike brushing his teeth.

Every sound felt amplified, like his body was tracking Mike even when he wasn’t in the room, and every second ticked louder than the last as if it were counting down to something he didn’t feel ready to face.

The water shut off upstairs.

Footsteps again, this time closer.

Mike appeared in the doorway, his hair damp, a sleep shirt pulled from the back of his closet hanging loose and slightly wrinkled. He hesitated like he wasn’t sure if he was interrupting something important.

“Hey,” he said. “I, um. I brushed my teeth already so. Whenever you’re ready.”

Will froze with a plate in his hands.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to,” Mike added quickly. “I just think you’d like it. A lot.”

Mrs. Wheeler glanced between them and smiled. “Go on, Will. I’ve got this.”

Will opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Mike’s face lit up, bright and unguarded, excitement slipping through every careful word Will had been clinging to all evening.

“Cool. Yeah. Cool,” Mike said.

Will dried his hands slowly, his heart pounding, and followed Mike toward the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. Upstairs awaited Mike’s room. And everything Will was trying not to feel.

Mike’s room smelled like laundry detergent and old paper. It always did.

The scent hit Will the second he stepped inside, familiar enough to make his chest ache in a way he didn’t have words for. It smelled like clothes still warm from the dryer, like notebooks and comics stacked a little too messily, like a space that had been lived in and loved and never once felt threatening. The door clicked shut behind them, soft but loud enough to make Will’s heart jump anyway.

The room was dim, lit only by the desk lamp near the bed. Posters crowded the walls, edges curling slightly, corners taped back down where they’d started to peel.

Mike didn’t seem to notice Will standing frozen near the doorway.

He flopped onto his bed like he always had, bouncing once and then twice before reaching under his pillow. “Okay, so,” he said, pulling the comic out triumphantly, “I’m like halfway through but I can totally start over. I don’t mind. I actually kinda wanna reread the beginning anyway because I think I missed some stuff.”

“That’s fine,” Will said quickly, even though his voice came out tighter than he meant it to. “You don’t have to.”

He didn’t trust himself to say more. His throat felt crowded, like too many thoughts were stacked behind his words and any one of them could slip out if he wasn’t careful.

“I want to,” Mike said firmly. “It’s better if you know what’s going on.”

Something about that settled heavily in Will’s chest, the idea that Mike wanted him to understand, wanted him included, because Will had spent so much of his life being the one left behind, the one things happened to instead of with. Being invited into Mike’s world like this felt intimate in a way that scared him.

Mike patted the space beside him. “What are you waiting for, come sit.”

Will’s stomach dropped.

There it was. The moment he’d been quietly dreading and wanting all day.

He crossed the room anyway, because he didn’t know how to say no without explaining why, and explaining why would mean admitting things he barely let himself think about. Every step felt unreal, like he was walking through water, like his body was heavier than it should have been.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

It almost was worse than touching.

Mike opened the comic and handed it to him. “Here. You can hold it.”

Will moved his hand closer to take it, his fingers brushing the edge of the page as his grip wavered.

His hands were shaking.

Not a lot. Just enough.

Enough that Mike noticed.

“Hey,” Mike said softly. “Are you okay?”

Will’s throat tightened instantly.

He stared down at the page, at the bold lines and colors blurring together, at the way his vision refused to focus on anything except the overwhelming awareness of Mike beside him. His thoughts scrambled for something safe, something believable.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes I get kinda freaked out still.”

Mike’s eyebrows pulled together. “About… Vecna?”

Will nodded quickly, grateful for the opening even as guilt curled in his stomach. “Yeah. I mean. After everything. And the lockdown. And just… nights are hard.”

That part wasn’t a lie.

Nights were hard..

It just wasn’t the whole truth.

The truth was that Will had never been this close to Mike before, not like this, not since they were kids when closeness didn’t mean anything except safety. Back when wanting Mike meant wanting him alive, wanting him back, wanting him okay.

Now wanting Mike meant wanting something he didn’t think he could ever have.

Mike leaned closer without realizing it. “That makes sense,” he said. “I mean, it was really messed up. You don’t have to be fine about it.”

Will nodded, even as his thoughts spiraled.

Mike had been so nice lately. Too nice.

Mike has to know.

The thought hit Will so hard it almost knocked the air out of him, and he wondered if Mike had noticed all the ways Will flinched when he touched him by accident, or the way Will’s voice went quiet when Mike talked about El, or the way Will sometimes looked at him a beat too long before immediately looking away.

But also, Mike was just good like that. Kind and loyal and always trying to do the right thing.

Of course he’d sit closer and listen harder and be gentler if he thought Will was hurting. That was who Mike was.

“Hey,” Mike said gently, interrupting the noise in Will’s head. “You’re safe here. Okay?”

He rested his hand on the mattress near Will’s knee, not touching, just there.

The space between Mike’s hand and Will’s leg felt electric, like something humming under his skin, and Will didn’t dare move.

“If anything happened,” Mike added, his voice steady, “I wouldn’t let it get to you. I promise.”

Will’s chest ached.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Mike smiled, relieved. “Cool. So. Page one.”

They leaned in slightly, their heads closer now, the comic resting between them. Will focused on the panels, on the way Mike’s finger traced the lines as he read quietly, explaining bits here and there and stumbling over words when he got excited.

Will’s hands stopped shaking.

Not because he was calm.

But because, for a moment, he let himself believe Mike’s promise, and that was enough to get him through the page.

By the time Will realized how late it was, his eyes were burning.

The exhaustion crept up on him quietly, slipping past his defenses in the same way it always did, not all at once but in a heavy, inevitable pull that made his thoughts feel slower and his body harder to move. He’d been so focused on holding himself together, on monitoring every reaction and breath and heartbeat, that he hadn’t noticed how tired he was until it was already too much.

The clock on Mike’s nightstand read 10:57. The comic lies open between them, bent slightly at the spine from how long they’d been hunched over it. Mike had started reading slower sometime around the last few pages, his voice softer now, words blurring together in that way they always did when he was tired but still trying.

“And then he, uh,” Mike said, squinting at the panel, “he goes back through the portal but it’s not the same place anymore.”

Will nodded even though he barely processed the words, his head foggy and heavy like it was sinking inward. “Yeah. I’m kinda tired.”

Mike blinked, like he’d been pulled out of a dream. “Oh. Yeah. Same. I didn’t even realize how late it was.”

Will closed the comic carefully and handed it back, his fingers lingering for half a second too long before he forced himself to let go. “We can read more tomorrow. If you want.”

“Yeah,” Mike said quickly. “Totally. Tomorrow’s good.”

Will stood, relief already beginning to loosen something tight in his chest. Leaving meant space. Leaving meant safety. He walked toward the door, wrapped his hand around the knob, and felt himself finally start to breathe again.

“Wait,” Mike said.

Will froze.

“What?”

Mike sat up a little straighter. “What’re you doing?”

“Uh,” Will said, forcing his voice to stay casual even as his heart started racing again. “Going to sleep. I’ll just go down to the basement.”

Mike went quiet.

Not immediately, just slower, like his thoughts had snagged on something.

“Oh,” he said. “Are you scared of the basement? Like. Because of Vecna.”

There it was.

The lie Will had offered earlier rushed back full force, sharp and unavoidable. He hadn’t meant for it to turn into this. He hadn’t meant for Mike to remember it, to hold onto it like something important.

“I mean. I am sometimes,” Will said carefully. “But Jonathan’s down there, so it’s fine.”

Mike rubbed his hands on his sweatpants, not looking at him. “You can sleep up here if you want.”

Will’s stomach dropped.

The words landed heavy and dangerous, settling somewhere deep in his chest where fear and want tangled together. Sleeping up here meant closeness, meant nowhere to hide, meant lying awake next to Mike with nothing but the dark between them.

“I don’t wanna bother you,” Will said quickly. “It’s fine. Really.”

“It’s not a bother,” Mike said. “I mean. You’ve slept up here before.”

Yeah, Will thought. When we were kids.

When wanting Mike meant wanting him safe. When sleeping next to him didn’t come with all these sharp, complicated edges.

“Yeah, but,” Will started, then stopped because he didn’t know how to finish that sentence without saying too much.

Mike stood anyway. “Hold on.”

He moved to the side of the bed and crouched down, reaching underneath. “I can pull the mattress out.”

Will’s brain went into full panic.

“No, you don’t have to,” he said. “Mike, seriously, it’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” Mike said, already tugging at the frame. “I don’t mind.”

The mattress slid out halfway and then stuck.

Mike frowned. “Come on.”

He yanked harder.

The mattress came loose all at once, knocking into the nightstand and sending the glass of water tipping over, spilling everywhere and soaking straight into the thin fabric.

“Shit,” Mike said.

The water spread fast, darkening the mattress and dripping onto the floor.

Mike stared at it, jaw tight. “Great. Awesome.”

“It’s okay,” Will said, even though his heart was pounding again. “I will just go downstairs.”

Mike let out a short, frustrated laugh. “You know what. Whatever.”

He shoved the mattress back in and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Just sleep on my bed. I don’t care.”

Will froze.

“What?”

Mike shrugged, trying to play it off, a crooked smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not a big deal. It’s dry. And I’m tired. So. Yeah.”

Will’s anxiety spiked so hard his ears rang.

He told himself this wasn’t new. They’d done this before. Shared beds. Blankets pulled up to their chins. Whispered conversations until sleep took them both.

But that was before.

Before Will knew what it meant to want Mike in ways he couldn’t explain away as loyalty or friendship or history. Before every small thing felt charged.

He climbed onto the bed carefully, sitting on the edge at first like it might collapse under him, moving stiffly and keeping as much distance as possible, his hands folded in his lap like he was afraid they’d betray him if he let them relax.

Mike lies down on his side, facing the wall. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Will said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m good.”

The room went quiet again.

The lamp clicked off, plunging everything into darkness broken only by the faint red glow of the clock. Will stared at the ceiling, his heart racing as every thought tripped over the next.

Too close. This is too close. Don’t move. Don’t breathe weird. Don’t make it awkward.

He shifted slightly, then stopped, terrified Mike would notice.

Mike yawned. “Night.”

“Night,” Will said.

His eyes stayed wide open long after that.

The room slowly found its rhythm again.

Mike’s breathing evened out first, and Will noticed it the way he noticed everything about Mike without meaning to, the slight hitch before each inhale and the steady calm that followed, familiar enough to make something in his chest finally loosen. The mattress felt warmer here, the familiar scent of detergent and paper grounding in a way nothing else ever really was, and Will’s thoughts softened as exhaustion pulled at him from the inside out.

When his eyes finally closed, it didn’t feel like falling asleep.

It felt like sinking.

His thoughts drifted without order, memories bleeding into one another in that hazy way they always did when he was too tired to hold them apart. Bikes on cracked pavement. His old home lit by Christmas lights. Mike’s voice calling his name, always his name, always sounding like it mattered.

Will shifted in his sleep, closer without realizing it, his shoulder brushing Mike’s arm.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. His dreams had been getting louder lately, pulling pieces of the past into the present until his body reacted before he was awake enough to stop it.

He murmured something then, quiet and unfinished, like the thought had slipped out before he could stop it.

“Mike…”

The name came out the way a breath did, automatic and unguarded.

Mike stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Will’s brow creased, his face tightening like he was trying to say something important and couldn’t quite find the words even in sleep. His voice came again, softer this time, barely more than air.

“Don’t… don’t go.”

His fingers curled into the blanket, instinctive, like he was reaching for something he was afraid might disappear if he let go.

“I’m trying. I swear.” he whispered, the words slurring together. “I’m really trying.”

Mike’s breathing hitched.

He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just listened, suddenly wide awake, his heart pounding so hard he was sure it’d wake Will.

He had no idea Will had been doing this lately. No idea that some nights, the quiet didn’t stay quiet.

Will swallowed in his sleep, his voice barely there now. “I don’t mean to. I just… I feel better when you’re here.”

The room felt too quiet after that, like the air itself was holding still.

Mike lies completely frozen, staring at the wall, every word replaying in his head whether he wanted it to or not, every piece clicking into place with a clarity that made his chest feel too tight and too full all at once.

Will shifted again, the tension in his face easing as if saying it had been enough, as if whatever he’d been holding inside had finally found somewhere to rest.

“I love you,” he murmured, so quietly it almost disappeared into the dark. Then nothing.

Just the steady rhythm of sleep. Mike didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t breathe right. Didn’t know what to do with the way his heart felt like it was trying to break out of his ribs. He stayed exactly where he was.

And for the first time in a long time, Mike Wheeler didn’t know what tomorrow was supposed to look like.

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.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3:

Will woke up in Mike’s room again.

The first thing he noticed was warmth. Not the heavy, closed in warmth of the basement, but something softer, closer, breathing. For a moment he did not open his eyes. He stayed perfectly still, afraid that if he moved even a little whatever this was would disappear.

Mike was on the bed beside him this time.

Not just beside him. Wrapped around him.

Mike’s arm rested fully around Will’s waist, his hand flat against Will’s stomach through the thin fabric of his shirt. Mike’s face was tucked into the space near Will’s shoulder, breath slow and steady against his neck. Sometime during the night he must have shifted closer, close enough that it did not feel like an accident.

Will’s heart hammered painfully in his chest.

He did not understand it. He did not know what it meant. Whether this was just how Mike slept, whether it was comfort, whether it was something else entirely. All Will knew was that he did not want to move.

So he didn’t.

He focused on small things instead. The rise and fall of Mike’s chest behind him. The weight of Mike’s arm, solid and real. The faint smell of soap and laundry detergent and something unmistakably Mike. His body felt frozen in place, caught between fear and something dangerously close to hope.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Heavy ones.

Will’s body went rigid just as the door flew open.

“Michael.”

Ted Wheeler’s voice cut through the room, loud and sharp. Mike stirred immediately, groaning as he woke, his grip loosening but not fully letting go.

“What time is it,” Mike muttered, voice thick with sleep.

Ted stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, eyes already scanning the room. His gaze dropped to the bed. To Mike’s arm around Will.

His expression changed.

“What is this,” Ted said.

Mike blinked, still half asleep. “What.”

Then he followed his father’s stare.

Realization hit him hard. He jolted fully awake, eyes widening as he sucked in a sharp breath and scooted away from Will so fast the mattress dipped. His arm yanked back like he had touched something hot.

“Dad!”, Mike said, sitting up. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

Will’s face burned instantly. His chest felt tight and hollow at the same time, like it was folding in on itself.

Ted shook his head, jaw tight. “I came in here to talk to you just to find you like this?”

Will pushed himself up, heart racing. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, already scrambling off the bed. “I didn’t mean to. I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

“Will,” Mike said sharply, standing. “Stop. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But Will was already backing toward the door, eyes fixed on the floor, shame rushing through him in a wave that felt familiar and crushing. He could not look at either of them. He turned and fled down the stairs, the sound of raised voices following him as the basement door shut behind him.

Will collapsed onto the edge of the old couch, breathing hard, hands shaking in his lap. His ears rang as voices filtered down through the floorboards, muffled and distant, yet still clear enough that he couldn’t escape a single word.

“YOU DON’T GET TO JUST BARGE IN LIKE THAT!”, Mike’s voice cut through first, louder than Will had ever heard it.

“I’m your father,” Ted shot back. “And I don’t like what I saw.”

“What you saw was my friend sleeping,” Mike said. “That’s it.”

“I thought he was supposed to be in the basement with his brother! He’s been eating our food, he’s stayed here for seventeen months now!” Ted replied. “And now he is trying to take over your room too?”

“No,” Mike said immediately. “You just assumed he’d only be down in the basement. No one agreed on that.”

There was a pause, then Ted spoke again, slower this time, less sharp but still tense. “It just looked... —I just didn’t expect to walk in and see that.”

Will pressed his palms to his face.

Mike’s voice rose again. “You’re making it something it isn’t. He gets scared down there. You know that. I wasn’t going to make him stay down there just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

“That’s not your responsibility,” Ted said.

“Yes, it is,” Mike snapped. “I care about him.”

The words hit Will harder than he expected.

Ted exhaled loudly. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” Mike said. “You’re being unfair.”

The argument blurred after that, voices rising and falling, anger seeping through the ceiling in uneven waves. Will could not make out every word, but he heard enough. He sat there shaking, heart pounding, listening to Mike defend him in a way no one ever really had before. It should have made him feel safe.

Instead it made his chest ache.

Because Ted had seen something. Not just closeness, not just friendship. He had seen something that scared him, something that crossed an invisible line. And that meant it had been visible. It meant Will had not imagined it.

That terrified him.

He had always known, in a quiet way, that he was different. Not the way boys like Ted Wheeler expected boys to be. He had spent years learning how to soften himself, how to fold parts of himself inward so they would not be noticed. Mornings like this tore that open again.

Maybe this was how it would always be. Safe, but only behind closed doors. Close, but never allowed to be named. Comfortable, until someone walked in and reminded him where the line was.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

“Will,” Mike said, breathless.

Will flinched.

Mike stopped a few feet away, crouching slightly so they were closer to eye level. His expression had changed, anger replaced by something careful and worried. His voice dropped immediately.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Will shook his head, staring at the floor. “I shouldn’t have stayed up there. I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” Mike said gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Will let out a weak, broken laugh. “Your dad thinks I did.”

Mike’s jaw tightened. “My dad is an idiot.”

He sat down beside Will, close but not touching, giving him space on purpose. “He shouldn’t have came in like that. He shouldn’t have said anything. That’s on him. Not you.”

Will blinked hard, biting the inside of his cheek as his vision blurred.

Footsteps echoed again.

Nancy appeared at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide, with Mrs. Wheeler close behind her.

“What happened,” Nancy asked, looking between them.

Mike straightened slightly. “Dad came into my room and freaked out.”

Mrs. Wheeler frowned. “About what.”

“About Will sleeping upstairs,” Mike said. “About nothing.”

Her expression softened immediately. “I don’t understand why he’d react like that,” she said. “You two are best friends.”

Mike nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. We are.”

The words landed quietly but heavily.

Will’s chest sank, something warm draining away. Best friends. Of course. That was all it was supposed to be. That was all it could be.

“I’m fine,” Will said quickly, wiping at his eyes and forcing himself upright. “Really.”

Mike searched his face like he did not quite believe him, but Will looked away. If he met Mike’s eyes now, he was afraid everything he was trying to keep hidden would spill out.

Mrs. Wheeler spoke gently. “Why don’t we go eat something. Breakfast is still warm.”

Will nodded even though his stomach felt tight.

They went upstairs together, not touching, but close enough that Will could feel Mike beside him. The kitchen was bright with morning light, the normalcy almost painful. Ted sat on the couch in the living room, television on, not looking at them as they passed.

They ate in near silence. Joyce arrived a few minutes later, immediately noticing the tension, as she set her bag down a little too carefully.

She took one look at Will’s face, then at Mike’s stiff posture across the table, and her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Okay,” she said gently, too gently. “Something happened.”

Will shook his head immediately. “No. I’m fine.”

Joyce did not look convinced. She stepped closer, lowering her voice without meaning to. “Honey, your face is flushed and you won’t look at me. That’s usually not nothing.”

Holly shifted uncomfortably. “My dad—”, almost blurting out what Ted saw this morning.

“It’s really okay,” Mike said quickly, cutting off Holly. His tone was steady but tight, like he was holding it together on purpose. “We just had a weird morning.”

Joyce turned to him. “A weird how.”

Mike hesitated, eyes flicking to Will and then away again. “Just… tired. Everyone’s tired.”

Joyce studied them both for a long moment. Will felt like she could see straight through him, straight through the careful way he was sitting and the way his hands were folded too neatly in his lap.

“Alright,” she said finally. “But if something’s bothering either of you, you tell me straight away. You hear me?”

Will nodded even though his throat felt tight. “Yeah.”

Joyce reached out and squeezed his shoulder, warm and grounding. “Good.”

She straightened and turned back to the counter, but the concern didn’t leave her face. Mike watched Will from across the table then, just for a second longer than necessary, his expression unreadable.

Will dropped his gaze.

The kitchen filled again with the small sounds of morning, spoons against bowls, the radio humming faintly as it always was, and the television murmuring from the other room. On the surface, everything settled back into place.

But the tension stayed.

It sat in the space between Will and Mike, quiet and unspoken, felt more than seen. Will could not shake the feeling that something had shifted and that Joyce had noticed it too, even if she did not yet know why.

And as the day stretched out ahead of them, Will wondered how long they could all pretend it was just a weird morning.

The rest of the day passed in a way that felt deceptively normal. Mike didn’t ignore Will like the day before. That was the strange part. He hovered instead, close without being obvious, present without crowding him. When Will moved from the kitchen to the living room while doing the chores Mrs. Wheeler had asked him to do, Mike followed a few minutes later with some excuse about forgetting something. When Will sat on the couch pretending to read, Mike dropped into the chair nearby and flipped through a magazine he clearly wasn’t actually looking at. It wasn’t distance. It was something careful, like Mike was trying to make sure Will was okay.

Will noticed everything.

And still, the knot in his chest wouldn’t loosen.

The afternoon drifted by slowly while Mrs. Wheeler moved through the house, arms full of laundry, folding towels at the dining table and straightening things that didn’t really need fixing. She hummed softly to herself, the normalcy of it almost too loud. Will sat on the couch pretending to read, turning pages without absorbing a word, his attention tuned to every sound upstairs.

At some point during the day, Mike had disappeared upstairs without Will really noticing when it happened.

At first Will told himself it meant nothing. Mike always retreated into his room when he got bored or tired. But as the hours stretched on, the quiet pressed heavier, filling his chest with that familiar unease he couldn’t ever quite shake, especially since Mike was being unusually closer earlier..

By the time Mrs. Wheeler glanced at the clock and sighed, Will was already tense.

“Mike’s still upstairs?”, she said casually, lifting a basket of clothes onto her hip. “Will, honey, could you tell him dinner’s almost ready.”

Will’s stomach tightened. “Yeah. Okay.”

The stairs felt steeper than they had earlier, each step carrying him closer to something he wasn’t sure he wanted to see. He hesitated outside of Mike’s door for a second, listening. There was movement inside, the soft scrape of a chair, the faint sound of paper shifting. Mike was writing, he always loved writing since he was a kid.

Will knocked.

“Mike.”

“Yeah?”, Mike’s voice came through, quick and flat.

Will opened the door slowly.

Mike was standing near his desk, shoulders stiff, like he’d been caught in the middle of something. His hair was a mess, his eyes tired, and for a split second he looked startled to see Will before his expression closed off again.

“Um- dinner’s almost ready,” Will said quietly. “Your mom asked me to get you.”

Mike nodded once. “Uh- okay. Tell her I’ll be down in a minute.”

“That’s it?” Will said, waiting.

“Yeah.” Mike replied, already turning back toward his desk.

Will didn’t move right away.

That was when he saw it.

The paper.

It sat on Mike’s desk again, just like yesterday, angled enough that Will could see dark lines of writing across it. Neater than Mike’s usual notes. Deliberate. Like something that mattered.

Will’s chest tightened.

Mike noticed his gaze and shifted quickly, stepping in front of the desk without meaning to be obvious but failing anyway. “I said I’ll be down,” he repeated, a little sharper now.

“Oh,” Will said, his voice small. “Okay. Sorry.”

Mike’s jaw clenched. “You don’t have to apologize will, I just- I’ll be down soon okay?”

But the words didn’t sound reassuring. They sounded strained.

Will nodded and backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him a little too carefully. He stood in the hallway for a second, staring at the wood, his thoughts already spiraling.

The paper. Mike’s tone. The way he wouldn’t look at him.

Ted had gotten in Mikes head. Will was sure of it now. Something has had to of happened after Will ran to the basement that morning. A comment. A look. Something quiet and damaging that Mike hadn’t known how to push back against.

Maybe that’s why Mike is writing that damn letter. Maybe it’s for El, after Ted made him feel like some gross little boy this morning. That has to be it. That’s why Mike’s been so weird about his stupid letter, why he’s so careful to keep it out of Will’s sight.

By the time Will made it back downstairs, his chest felt hollow and tight all at once.

Mrs. Wheeler was folding a stack of shirts, her movements calm and methodical. “Is Michael coming?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Will said. “In a minute.”

She smiled, distracted. “Good.”

Will sat back down, his leg bouncing despite his best effort to keep still. His eyes flicked toward the stairs over and over, waiting for Mike to come down, half dreading it, half desperate for it.

The longer it took, the worse the thoughts got.

Maybe Ted had said something about him not being appropriate. Maybe he’d made Mike feel stupid for letting Will sleep upstairs. Maybe he’d implied things Mike wasn’t ready to think about, things Will had been trying so hard to hide.

The idea settled heavy and sharp in Will’s chest.

By the time Mike finally came down, Will had already convinced himself he was the problem.

And that whatever had felt safe the night before had cracked quietly without him noticing.

Dinner was quieter than usual.

Mike sat down a few seats away from Will, close enough to feel intentional but not close enough to be comforting. He ate in short, distracted bites, eyes fixed on his plate, shoulders tense like he was bracing for something. Ted stayed mostly silent, his presence heavy even when he wasn’t speaking, the television murmuring faintly from the living room where he’d left it on too loud.

Will kept his head down.

Every small movement felt too noticeable, every clink of a fork against a plate too sharp. He replayed the moment upstairs over and over, Mike’s clipped tone, the way he’d stepped in front of the desk so quickly, the paper still sitting there like a secret he wasn’t meant to see.

Ted had definitely said something.

That was the only explanation that made sense. Mike didn’t get like this without a reason. And the reason had to be him.

Halfway through the meal, Joyce glanced up from her plate and frowned slightly. “You boys alright.”

Will nodded immediately. “Yeah.”

Mike nodded too, a beat slower.

Joyce didn’t push, but her eyes lingered on Will a little longer than necessary, like she could see the tension wrapped tight around him even if she didn’t know why.

Ted cleared his throat. “So,” he said, awkwardly, “School’s starting up again soon.”

Mike stiffened but didn’t respond.

Will barely heard the rest of it. His thoughts had already slipped away, circling the same questions again and again. Had Ted noticed something about him this morning. Had he crossed a line without meaning to.

By the time dinner ended, Will’s appetite was gone entirely.

Chairs scraped back. Dishes were gathered. Ted retreated to the couch again like nothing had happened, the news humming in the background. Jonathan and Nancy moved around the kitchen, rinsing plates and stacking them in the sink.

Will stood awkwardly, unsure where to go.

Mike lingered by the table, waiting for everyone to be out of sight, then finally spoke, his voice low. “Hey.”

Will looked up. “Yeah.”

“Can you come upstairs,” Mike asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need help with something.”

The words sounded casual, but his eyes flicked toward the living room, toward Ted, before returning to Will.

Will shook his head immediately. “What if your dad comes up again.”

Mike scoffed softly. “So?”

Will blinked. “So.”

“So I don’t care,” Mike said. “I’m not letting him scare you out of my room.” That did it. They went up without another word, the space between them heavy but charged. Mike shut the door behind them, quieter this time, and leaned back against it for a second like he needed the support.

“Sorry I was weird earlier,” he said finally, staring at the floor. “My dad just… He makes me super mad sometimes.. And then I uhm- I guess I just get super quiet when I’m mad.”

Will’s chest tightened. There it was. “Did he say anything?”

Mike shrugged. “Not really. Just… implied stuff. Made it sound like I was doing something wrong.”

“You weren’t.” Will said quickly.

The room became quiet for a minute. If we were just super close best friends, Will thought to himself, why would Mike be doing anything ‘wrong’ by letting me sleep in his room?

The quiet broke.

“I know I wasn’t,” Mike replied, “I mean, I think I know”

He moved further into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing his hands together. Will hovered near the door, unsure where he belonged now.

Mike glanced up. “You don’t have to stand there.. -I mean if you don’t want, -Sorry I mean.. You can sit Will.”

Will shook his head and sat slowly next to Mike , careful and tense.

The paper was still on the desk.

Will tried not to look at it. Failed. His gaze flicked there before he could stop himself, his chest tightening all over again.

Mike noticed.

His cheeks instantly flushed a cool pink. His mouth parted slightly as he stood up too fast, snatched the paper, folded it once, and shoved it into the drawer where his comics lay—using more force than necessary. The sharp sound echoed through the quiet room.

“It’s nothing,” Mike stuttered. “Just… notes.”

Will nodded, even though the answer didn’t feel true.

Silence stretched between them as minutes went by on Mikes clock.

Then Mike spoke again, softer. “Hey can I ask you something.”

Will’s stomach flipped. “Okay.”

“You ever… Like talk in your sleep.”

The words hit like a jolt.

“Like,” Mike said, clearing his throat, “some people do that. I think Nancy does sometimes.”

Will’s mind flashed back to Jonathan’s voice, telling him how he slept, about the late nights of sleep-talking he never remembered. He remembered the embarrassment that followed, the way Jonathan mentioned it so casually, like it was nothing at all.

“I do sometimes,” Will awkwardly admitted quietly. “Jonathan told me.”

Mike’s eyes widened just a little. “Is it, because of what happened? I mean like with Vecna and everything.”

“Yeah,” Will said. “Mostly when I have nightmares about it. It almost feels like I’m slipping away. Like my mind is out of control”

Mike swallowed. “Do you… I don’t know like.. ever remember what you say?”

Will shook his head. “No. I never remember. It’s just really embarrassing.”

Will hesitated, then asked, “Why do you keep asking me about that anyway? And about my dreams. Why do you even care?”

Mike went quiet, then laughs softly, a little forced. “No reason. Just wondering.”

Will waited, heart starting to race again. “You’re acting weird.”

Mike exhaled “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just tired.”

The tension lingered, awkward and unfinished.

Mike exhaled again, this time a little louder, his heart beat starting to race. “I just, I heard you the other night and you sounded scared, and I uhm.. -I didn’t like hearing you sound so scared, but when I rolled to check your face, I realized you were like completely asleep.” Mike lets out a quiet chuckle, “It was kind of terrifying.”

Will’s chest ached. “What? Did I say something bad?”

“No,” Mike said immediately. “No. Nothing like that. You just kept asking someone not to go.”

Will’s throat tightened.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Mike continued. “That’s all.”

Will nodded, his thoughts racing, but before he could say anything else, Mike reached out, hesitating for only a second before resting his hand on Will’s shoulder.

The contact sent a warm jolt through him.

“You’re safe in my room. Okay?” Mike said as he gently started to rub Wills shoulder.

Will could feel a heartbeat in his face,

“I know.” He says, as his voice shakes.

Mike slowly takes his hand off of Will and lays his head down on the soft pillow near his bed frame, after a moment, Will followed, their shoulders brushing. Mike shifted, turning slightly so his arm rested under Will’s back, not pulling him in, just there.

Will’s breath caught.

Mike watched him closely. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Will whispered.

Slowly, deliberately, Mike pulled him closer, wrapping his arm around Will’s waist and guiding his torso until Will was leaning into him. Will leaned closer without thinking, his cheek settling against Mike’s shoulder, able to feel the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Mike’s other hand slid up, fingers spreading between Will’s shoulder blades, rubbing slow, grounding circles like he was trying to calm something inside both of them.

Will’s thoughts scattered.

His body felt warm and heavy, nerves buzzing under his skin. He could feel Mike’s curls on brushing against his forehead, he could smell Mike’s cologne he was wearing, the faint scent that was just Mike, familiar and safe.

“If anyone goes,” Mike murmured. “It wont be me, I will stay.”

The words settled between them, quiet and heavy and impossibly gentle, and Will felt them everywhere all at once.

His cheeks burned instantly, that warm, spreading heat that had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with the way Mike said it, low and certain, like it wasn’t a promise he needed to think about before making. Will stayed very still, afraid that if he moved even a little the moment might crack, that Mike might realize how close they were and pull away.

He could feel Mike’s body heat clearly now, solid and steady at his chest, the warmth seeping through layers of fabric like it was meant to be there. Mike’s chest rose and fell slowly against him, each breath brushing faintly against Will’s head. It was grounding in a way Will wasn’t prepared for, like his whole body had been waiting for that exact rhythm to match.

Will’s heart was beating too fast.

Too loud.

He was sure Mike could feel it, the way his pulse fluttered against Mike’s arm, the way his body felt suddenly too aware of itself. He felt shy in a way that made his chest ache, like when you realize you want something before you’re ready to admit it.

He didn’t say anything.

The room stayed silent, thick with it, broken only by the soft sound of Mike breathing and the faint creak of the bed as Mike shifted just slightly closer without meaning to draw attention to it. Mike’s arm tightened around Will’s waist, just there, anchoring him. His fingers moved again, slow and absentminded, tracing small lines of wills waist structure through the fabric of his shirt.

They were warm.

A little damp.

Will noticed the faint slickness of Mike’s fingers where they slid along his waist, noticed how careful the movement was despite that, how Mike didn’t rush or grip or pull, just let his hand rest and move like it was a thought he hadn’t fully realized yet. The sensation sent a quiet shiver through Will, not in a fear or panic way, just something new and overwhelming that made his throat tighten.

He focused on breathing.

On the steady warmth behind him.

On the way Mike’s presence filled the space so completely that there was no room left for the spiraling thoughts that had followed him all day.

Eventually, without either of them really deciding to, the tension eased. Will’s breathing slowed to match Mike’s. His muscles loosened one by one. The burning in his cheeks faded into a soft, lingering warmth as exhaustion finally crept back in.

Mike’s fingers slowed, then stilled, resting at Will’s waist like they’d found where they were supposed to be.

The silence deepened.

And somewhere in it, wrapped in warmth and steady breathing and the quiet certainty of Mike staying, Will drifted off, his last conscious thought soft and dizzy and terrifying in the best way.

He wasn’t alone.

And neither of them moved as sleep finally took them both.