Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

-Background info: This is cannon-accurate to all of the series! (I will at least try my hardest! Some stuff might be a little off, but I’ve been planning this fic for a while, so it should all be good!)

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“WILL- WILL COME ON-”
Will opens his eyes, a state of confusion washing over him as his mom shakes desperately at his shoulder, her fingers digging into his skin. He can immediately tell something is going on, something bad.
“BABY, WE’VE GOTTA GO!”
His mom desperately pleads, her voice frantic and shaky. She’s still in her pajamas, an oversized shirt from Hopper, and black, velvet pants. Her face is flushed in pure, genuine fear.
Will jumps out of bed, looking over at Mike’s empty sleeping bag on the floor. The pillows are spread around the floor, the blankets nearly at the door. Yet, there's no Mike to be found.
“Where is Mike?”
He searches for any sign of him, ignoring his mom's yelling as he looks around his dark room.
A bright glowing light shines behind the curtains of Mike’s bedroom, the light slowly fades over the house.
“He’s already in the car honey, grab your bag, and let's GO!”
She's pulling at his arms, almost knocking Will off of his feet entirely.
“Mom, what's going on?!?”
Will slides down onto the floor, shoving his feet into his sneakers, his sock practically falling off.
He can barely hear anything, the loud whirling of multiple helicopters overriding any other sounds.
His head is pounding, his movements fueled by pure adrenaline.
“It’s happened honey, and we’ve gotta get out of here!”
The sinking realization hits him as he runs out the door, tripping over his untied laces, his backpack flung over his shoulder.
The Upside Down has finally broken free. Vecna has started whatever fucked up plan he has, and he won’t stop until everyone is dead.

They knew it was going to happen, the entire town was braced for the impact of whatever would happen next. They were already all shaken up from the growing death rates, the Hellfire Club, and whatever “demon” infiltrated their small, suburban towns.
Will’s friends and family were split up between houses, awaiting the next steps Vecna would take. Nobody had a set “home” anymore, everyone just packed themselves under each other's roofs with whatever groups they ended up with. And with Will’s old house being sold, he truly had nowhere to live anymore.
He and his family were currently at the Wheeler's house. Wherever Will was, Mike always followed, no matter what roof he was under.
During one of their “group meetings” involving everyone inside of Will’s circle, even extending to Steve and Robin, Nancy had insisted everyone should pack their backpacks filled to the brim with survival gear, in case of an emergency, making the bags quick to grab and go.
Everyone was a little hesitant at first, scared to splurge all their money on gear they might never use, money was already tight enough with the growing unemployment rates the town was experiencing. Nancy was able to stress her idea even more, leading everyone to be on board toward the end of the meeting.
And right now, Will has never been more grateful for Nancy's ideas.
“Where is everyone?!?”
Will screamed to his mother as she pulled him out the door, tripping over the jumbled “WELCOME” mat under her feet.
“Ted, Karen, and Holly are together, Nancy, Argyle, and Jonathan are as well, and Mike’s already in our car.”
His mom screams, covering her ears to block out the violent sounds of gunshots and helicopters.
As she opens the front door, Will sees the rest of the crew. Holly is sobbing into Karen's arms, as Ted hurls their backpacks into the back of the van.
Jonathan runs up to Will, helping him carry his bag, and placing his hand over his back to rush him forward.
“Jon, you need to LEAVE we Don’t have time baby.”
His mom cries, running over to her car, Jonathan following behind.
“Meet us at the gas station on Jerkins Road, right before the expressway.”
Jonathan instructs, running his hand through Will’s hair, the same way he did when he was younger, comforting Will from the extreme sounds of their parents screaming.
“I will, I’ll see you again honey!”
His mom gives Jonathan a kiss on his cheek, his face soaked in tears.
“I love you guys.”
He screams, running back to his car, Nancy and Argyle packing the backseats full of as much stuff as they can fit.
Ted's car has already raced off, seemingly getting the same rules from Jonathan.
Will can barely breathe, his heart filling his ears as he jumps into the backseat, his mom follows in behind the driver's seat, throwing her back into the empty seat beside her.
Jonathan’s car speeds off down the road, and Will prays to god that wasn’t just his last conversation with his brother.
Will gasps when he sees Mike sitting beside him, his nerves slightly settling knowing he’s safe.
His seatbelt is barely in his hands before his mom is frantically backing the car up, almost hitting a tree in the process. She switches back to drive, whipping the steering wheel to the side, her face determined in the reflection of the rearview mirror.
Will’s body moves with her vicious turns, Mike almost falling on top of him.
Will turns his head around, looking at the Wheeler's house behind his shoulder. He stares at that front door that he’s gone inside countless amount of times, always welcomed with open arms.
He tries to look into Mike's window, but the flashing lights and the fact that his curtains are down do not leave him much to look at.
A wave of sorrow floods over him, his entire life packed into a bag inside his mom’s car until the time being.
And that open-ended amount of time is what makes his tired eyes prickle up with tears.
He turns back about, trying his best to drown out the chaos around him without making it too obvious to his mom and Mike, the last thing he wants to do is direct their attention to him when the world is being split into two as they drive.
“Will.”
Mike whispers, trying not to bring any attention toward Will, especially with Joyce mumbling under her breath in the front seat.
Will looks over to Mike, his eyes running over his black tank top, the thread all worn down and faded since he retired the shirt into sleepwear since his dad claimed it was “too girly” for him to wear outside.
Will catches himself before his eyes drift too far down to the expanse of skin, hugged by the tanktop that managed to be just short enough that it barely covers half his small stomach.
“We’re going to be ok. Alright?”
Mike says, his fingers nervously toying with the strings of Will’s backpack on the seat between them. He picks at the green fabric, rubbing his fingernails over it.
Will tries his best to believe Mike’s words, knowing he’s safe alongside him, he has his family, his friends, and as always, Mike. He always will, no matter what strategies vecna uses to separate them.
And yet, the thoughts aren’t comforting enough. He still can’t help his mind from racing with all the possibilities. He’s fueled by his own adrenaline and fears, his mind can’t seem to sit still.
What if Jonathan, Nancy, and Argyle got into a crash? What if the rest of the Wheelers fell into the gate? Holly’s too young for any of this.
He’s filled with fears about the rest of the party as well. What’s going to happen to Max at the hospital? Lucas? Dustin? Where are El and Hopper? His chest feels tight, he can’t hold back his tears any longer-
“Will, heyhey- It’s ok-”
Mike wraps his hands around Will’s backpack, lifting it up, and onto the floor beneath them.
He slides closer to Will, his seatbelt holding him back.
Will turns to face him, Mike wraps his arm around his shoulder, leaning his head.
“Will, honey, we’re going to make it out of here baby.”
His mom comments, the weariness apparent in the way she breathes out her words, almost tripping over them.
They’re a few miles from home, Will feeling himself slipping deeper into states of panic with the growing length from his home.
Mike stares a Will, analyzing his tense look. He drops his arm from around his shoulder, his fingers brushing the back of WIll’s neck, making the hair on his arms stand up.
Mike reaches for his backpack from the floor under him, unfastening the metal belt-like clip tying the leather shut. He pulls the fabric straps loose enough to slip his hand into his backpack.
He puts his hand in, digging it around for a bit, before pulling out an unopened water bottle.
Will perks up at Mikes small, yet noticeable action as he hands the water bottle to him.
Will shakes as he opens the cap, the green plastic cap digging into his fingertips as he unscrews the lid.
The water is lukewarm, and the plastic of the bottle is crushed, the label holding on for dear life.
And yet, it helps him clear his mind just a bit more.
He takes a few sips, his mouth feeling less dry, his head a little lighter.
He gives the bottle back to Mike, figuring wasting water is something they could heavily regret soon.

Will manages to calm himself down enough to close his eyes.
The car is almost silent now, everyone on edge, yet no one saying anything about it. Will listens to the continuous hum of the car's movements, trying to drown out the chaos outside the windows. He leans his head back, feeling Mike’s eyes constantly on him. He lets himself breathe, counting numbers in his head to keep him from falling any faster into his own despair.
“Oh fuck.”
Will’s mom gasps, and Will’s eyes immediately shoot open. He leans forward, bumping his shoulder with Mike.
They both look through the front window, each murmuring their own obscurities under their breath when they realize the scene playing out in front of them.
The gate has managed to reach this part of town, splitting the road directly in half. Stores all around them are crumbled into rubble, people are covered in dust, and buildings are split into two.
The entire scene is covered in cop cars, all empty, while the lights flash on relentlessly.
People are running across the street, dragging themselves and others. They wave their hands up at the sight of their car as if pleading to not be hit. All on the sidewalks people are covered in blood, their heads bleeding out, their legs scattered in deep, gashes.
Flames engulfed cars, screams of terror and sobs of hopelessness all around them, and the dark midnight sky turned a flaming, smokey gray.
It’s hell on earth, people he recognizes from school and home, so many strangers as well, all running around like wild animals.
There are lights flashing, ones Will can’t even find the source of, reflecting the light of the flames.
“Holy. Fuck.”
Mike says, looking out his own window.
One uncalculated turn has sent them down a rampage, cars coming from different directions from the side roads, all honking, filled with scared families and little kids sitting on parents' laps.
Joyce starts yelling to no one, people keep getting hit by cars, some with their clothes being eaten by flames.
“HOLY- BOYS WATCH OUT-”
Joyce screams her head turned to the back window.
Before Will can register, a black pickup truck without a driver in sight, is heading full-speed toward the rear of the car.
The last thing Will feels is Mike’s arms wrapped around him, and his mother's hand on his shoulder, before it all goes black.

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“WILL BABY WILL-”
He gasps, his lungs filling with air, his eyes opening.
He’s not in his car anymore, but rather on the side of the road, his mom on her knees, leaning over him. Her hands are on his chest, and Will feels a deep pain in his ribs under her palms.
His head is in piercing pain, his neck aching.
Mike sits to his side, his face inches from his own.
“OH THANK GOD.”
His mom pulls him to sit up, throwing her arms around his body in a quick hug.
Mike sighs in relief, dropping his arms to the side.
“Are you ok?”
Mike pleads, his face nicked with small cuts dotting his cheeks.
“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.”
“Ok, baby we need to get you up and out of here.”
His mom cries, standing up and walking behind Will’s body, reaching around his waist to help lift him. Will winces at the pain in his sore ribs.
Mike grabs his hands, helping to position his feet correctly under his body.
Will spots his mom's car in the middle of the street, completely engulfed by flames, luckily, they managed to get all their backpacks out.
Will squeezes Mike’s arm for relief as he puts weight slowly onto his legs.
He immediately gasps in pain, face shriveling up, his ankle feeling pinched and tight.
“What’s wrong?”
His mom says, worried.
“Just my ankle.”
Will says, trying to look away from the mass amounts of people dying in front of him, his stomach feeling knotted.
He manages to stand fully straight, with an arm wrapped around Mike’s shoulders for leaning support.
Joyce frantically ran her hands over his body, rubbing off the dirt and ash that had built up on his clothes, her hands covered in soot, a bloody gash on her arm that Will had just now noticed, the blood shining in the light of the flames.
He feels a wave of guilt, his mom and Mike both in pain and yet, they’re sacrificing their own well-being for Will’s useless fucking ankle.
“I’m going to go get help.”
Joyce says to the boys, looking around the crowds of people for something to get them out of this situation.
“No, Mom that’s not a good idea.”
Will stresses, Mike, shaking his head next to him.
“I’ll be alright, you can’t walk and we can’t leave you alone.”
Will can’t stand the thought of losing his mom after all the people he’s already lost in his life.
“Joyce, I agree with Will, we shouldn’t split up.”
Each of Will's deep, frantic breaths causes a sharp twist of pain in his stomach, and the sight of people getting killed around them makes it all feel even worse.
“Boys, we don’t have time to fight. I need you two to stay right here and keep care of each other, I’ll be right back.”
And with that, she gives a kiss to both of their tear-soaked cheeks, telling them “I love you” before running off, backpack slung over her shoulder.
“No, nononono Mike, she can’t.”
Will panics, trying to push off of Mike to run after his mom.
Mike holds him tighter.
“Will, calm down she’ll be back.”
Will pushes off of him, his ankle hot with pain the second he lets go of Mike.
He pushes past it, but can barely get a step before Mike grabs him again.
“MIKE I CAN’T LET HER-”
He instantly cuts himself off, both boys looking behind them at the sound of mass, guttural screaming.
But this wasn’t the normal panicked scream they’d been hearing, this was caused by something else.
Something bigger.
The second Will hears the screaming, a huge stampede of people headed directly toward them, with no signs of stopping.
“SHIT.”
Mike screams, almost carrying Will as they run forward.
People come from all angles, all running in the same direction.
Will gasps in pain with each step, trying his hardest to run as fast as he can, but it’s no use.
The two boys can’t keep up with the front of the crowd, they’re being pushed and shoved, tripping over their own feet and untied laces.
“MOM, MOM WHERE ARE YOU?”
Will cups his free hand over his mouth, frantically searching for the sight of his mother.
He’s sobbing uncontrollably, his lungs filling with dust, his screams drowned out by the countless amounts of other ones, everyone in a state of heightened panic, running from something Will isn’t even aware of.
“MOM, MOM PLEASE!”
Mike pulls him tighter into his side, letting Will hobble in front of him.
“MOMMY! MOMMY PLEASE?”
He can’t hear himself speak, he doesn’t know what his body is even doing anymore.
Cars come from all sides of the road, some even on the sidewalk. They race through people, reciving busted bumpers after hitting the growing crowd.
Mike’s coughing next to him, his legs moving at the same pace as Will’s.
The crowd starts to slowly disperse as they make it farther downtown, the streets splitting off farther.
Mike leads them down an alleyway, the building next to it crumbling in the flames.
Will’s body caked in sweat and ash, his face heavy with a gray film on his skin.
They continue down the alley, past the knocked-over trashcans, running past the dead bodies pushed to the side, the pools of blood around them.
They make it out of town, and head toward the woods.
A few people seem to have the same idea, a father with his daughter sobbing in his arms headed in the same direction.
Will takes one look back, hoping to see his mother chasing after them.
Yet instead, all he sees is the roaring flames, all noises blocked out by screaming, the entire town falling down building by building.
He sees the gate a few miles behind them, the opening showing no signs of an end.
He wants to collapse down onto his knees, he wants to hold himself in his arms and beg for his mom to come back, his head is still pounding from the crash, the flashing lights blinding him, but he has a promise to make.
He has to get out for her, for Jonathan, for Mike.
They run past the treeline, Will’s arm wrapped still around Mike, and he grips just a little tighter now.

Chapter Text

Will’s body is fueled by his pure, raw desire to survive. His fingers are digging into Mike’s side, Mike’s own hands at the point of bruising Will's skin, the flesh already tender to the touch from the accident, yet, Mike’s desperation still seems so painless and gentle. 

Will can’t even figure out how long they’ve been running for, the old, burnt-up town miles behind them now. 

He’s gasping, his chest aching, his ribs still sore from the crash. 

Will’s entire family, his mom, and everyone he loves besides Mike are miles behind. He has no clue what's to happen to the houses he’s spent so much of his life in, it already took so much out of him to lose his childhood home, he doesn’t need to lose Mike’s as well.  

“Just a bit farther Will, we’ll be alright.”

Will hasn’t even realized he’s crying again, he’s whimpering in pain with each step, and his ankle feels on fire. 

The trees around them are shaking, the leaves swirling in the smoke-filled air. They’ve broken away from the manic crowds, no one in sight. 

It’s terrifyingly silent, not a single hum from a cricket, no birds chirping in the huge trees over their heads, just the sounds of labored breathing. 

Will can still hear the screaming in his head. He can still see his mom's face and the way she held him before running off. 

Will starts crying even harder. 

Mike’s panting, his soot-covered face drenched in sweat, gray hand prints shaded on his black tank top. 

His hair keeps getting in his face, the sweaty mound of curls still rustled up from sleep. Will wants to reach his hand out and move his hair from out of his mouth, he wants to hold it out of his face as he walks, anything to repay him for the way he feels. 

They spot a patch of land that seems clear of the many trees in the thick forest around it. 

Will can see patches of moss, the moonlight shining down through the trees, contrasting the pitch black surrounding them.

Will’s body feels ready to give out, the adrenaline slowly wearing off into deep, intense pain. 

Mike leads the two over to the cleared area, still carrying all of Will’s weight on him.

“Do you think this is a good place to camp out?”

Will studies the area, which seems clear of any gates or demogorgons.

“Yeah, I think so.”

He coughs out, his chest still heavy from the amount of sobbing he’s done.

They walk deeper into the patch of land, Mike almost tripping on a rock. 

Mike helps guide him down to the floor, his hands wrapped around Will’s waist to keep him from falling. 

Will lowers his body to the ground, sighing at the instant pressure release on his ankle. 

He kicks his feet out in front of him, noticing a tear in the fabric of his jeans.

“You sit here for a second, while I get our tent up.”

Mike drops his backpack off his shoulders, stretching his arms out, the denim of his jacket clinging to his bony shoulders, and Will can’t help but notice it. 

“I can help.”

Will feels an insane amount of guilt creeping up on him over the fact that Mike had to help him run all this distance. He takes note of the hobble in Mike’s steps, the way he groans as he stretches his back, all pushing the knife deeper into Will’s self-loathing. 

“No, you need to sit down. I don’t want you hurting yourself anymore.”

He blushes at this, Mike always has a way of making him feel better. 

Will looks around, scanning any odd shapes in the shadows and listening for any weird sounds nearby.

He scans around for the sight of his mom, his brother, or anyone at all. 

He pulls his backpack off, digging inside to find a map and a flashlight. 

He locates it in the front pocket, the metal of the pins decorating his backpack scraping against the soft skin of his inner wrist. 

He got most of the pins from Jonathan, his favorite one, “The Clash” band logo, is pinned proudly to the corner of the front pocket. 

Mike works on pitching the emergency tent, tying the black ropes around two giant oak trees parallel to each other. 

He clears out the bigger rocks around the tent, trying to make it as comfortable as possible. 

Will pulls the twine holding the two maps together, one of Hawkins, and one of Indiana. He lets the Hawkins map fall to the ground and picks up the Indiana one. 

He picks the flashlight up, switches the yellow button on, and a circle of light immediately illuminates the paper in his hands. 

He tries to find the two's current location, completely unaware of what town they’re in. He manages to find Hawkins and goes off of that. 

“Jon wants us to meet at the gas station on Jerkins, I found it, it doesn’t seem all that far from here.”

Mike finishes up the knot he’s working on, pulling the rope between his slim fingers, Will tries his hardest to see the veins in his wrist in the dark. 

“Alright, that works. Let's sleep first.”

Will chews on his lip, uncertainty waving over him. 

What if he never makes it back? 

What if they get killed by a demogoron tonight?

What if they get killed tomorrow on their way?

He wraps the map back up in the sting, shoving it back inside his backpack, his hands shaking, wet fingertips on the paper from his sweaty hands. 

“Will. Let's not worry tonight, alright? We’ll be alright.”

Mike interrupts him, WIll looks up from zipping his backpack. 

“Yeah, yeah I know. I just can’t help but feel like something is coming. Like, Like he’s coming.”

Mike walks over to sit next to Will, moving his backpack out of the way. Their knees are touching, and Will can feel every cell on his skin.

“I know it’s scary, it all happened so fast. But we were all prepared, we’ve done this before, and were going to do it again.”

Will nods, Mike’s face is covered in shadows. They follow the curve of his jawline, the same curve Will has thought about running his hands over in the dead of night.

“I won’t let him hurt you again, Will.”

Will tilts his head, Mike has such a way with him. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence, staring. 

Will looks at the stars behind Mike’s head, a freckle of constellations behind his dark halo of hair.

They’re both scared to death, unsure of what's next. Will isn’t even sure if he will live through the night. 

But deep down, under layers of animosity and anxiety, he knows Mike will protect him. 

Maybe they’ll go crazy together after all.

“W- We should get to bed.”

Mike stands up, his scuffed-up Converse stomping the moss under him.

Will lifts himself onto his knees, pulling his body over to the tent.

“I’ll make sure to help you out with your ankle tomorrow.”

Will smiles, pulling himself inside the tent. 

“Thanks.”

Mike grabs the two backpacks, squeezing them in the corner of the tent. He takes his jacket off, folding it meticulously. He places it under his head as a pillow.

Will follows his idea and does the same. 

Will pulls the blankets over his body, recognizing them as ones he’s seen in the Wheeler's basement before, the same ones he’s slept on during unprepared sleepovers and movie nights. 

Will reaches for the blankets squished at the back of the tent, the ones Mike had put there earlier.

He lays his head on his makeshift pillow, pulling the blankets over his shoulder. 

Mike lays on his left side, facing toward Will, their bodies so close to touching. 

“Goodnight Will.”

Mike whispers, lifting his head to pull his hair behind him. 

“Goodnight.”

Will tries his hardest to close his eyes, too paranoid of what could be lurking around them, the possibility of a Demogorgon, or even another person killing them in their sleep.

He stares at Mike's face, looking over his still, calm expression. 

He takes some more deep breaths, feeling his chest rise and fall under the comforting weight of the blanket. 

Sleep manages to take its hold over him, Will’s eyes fluttering shut, lulled to sleep by the sound of Mike breathing next to him.

“WILL, BABY IS THAT YOU?”

He’s running through the woods, his tent miles away. 

“MOM?!?”

The Demogorgon is right on his heels, he can hear it snarling in his ears, one wrong tilt of his head, and his face will be engulfed. 

He can hear his mom's voice around him, but he just can’t figure out where it’s coming from.

He shines his flashlight in front of him, taking note of every step he takes, one wrong move, and it’s all over .

“WILL I’M HERE!”

She screams, her voice hoarse and raw. 

“MOM I’M ALMOST THERE!”

His ankle hurts even worse now, the pain has made its way up into his thigh, taking over his entire leg. 

He can’t stop, his mom needs him, and he needs to save her before it’s too late.

He’s lost his backpack, nothing left on him to ward off the Demogorgon chasing him, nothing but his pure will to live, to save. 

He keeps running forward, his body becoming slower and slower as the pain in his leg takes over. 

The demogorogon behind him claws at his back, he hears a ripping sound as the demogorgon tears out a piece of his coat.

“Please please please.”

He begs under his breath, hoping that this demogorgon will get bored of the chase before Will can’t go on any further. 

He sees something over the horizon, he can’t make out what it is, but it seems to be some sort of….River?

He pulls up his last bits of strength to bolt over to it, hoping he can lose the demogorgon if he makes it into the water in time.

“WILL!??! WILL HONEY!?!?”
He slips his coat off of his shoulders without losing any stride in his step, pulling it down his back, trying his hardest to not lose any balance. He knocks his flashlight out of his hand on accident, the coat and the flashlight both hitting the demogorgon behind him, setting it off for a few steps. 

He tries to listen to his mom's crying over the screeching behind him. 

The ragged edge of the river is getting closer, he can’t tell where it starts, or ends, miles upon miles of water. 

It doesn’t look too wide, not wide enough for the demogorgon to lose full interest in him, but wide enough to buy him a few seconds of time. 

The second he gets close enough, he jumps into the water, closing his eyes and bracing for impact. 

He immediately feels wrong when not a single drop of water is felt on his skin, realizing something isn’t right. 

He opens his eyes, only to realize it wasn’t a river he jumped in, but rather a gate.

And now he’s falling head first into the upside down, his mom no longer screaming-

“WILL?!? WILL WAKE UP!”

He gasps out for air, clutching his chest as he sits up. 

“It’s the gate thegateMikeit’sthegate-”

He starts babbling for his words, trying to form some sort on sense of where he is.

“No it’s not Will. It’s just me, you’re safe.”

Mike wraps his arms around his shoulders, Will rocking back and forth, frantically looking around.

“My mom where’d she go?!!?”

Will screams into their tiny tent, heaving out his words, his chest harrowing in pain.

Mike wraps his arms even tighter, running his delicate hands through Will’s sweat-soaked hair. 

“She’s coming back, we’ll find her it’s ok.”

Will shoves his face into Mike’s shoulder, trying his hardest to hold back his tears, scared that he’s cried enough for one day. 

He pulls the blanket over his knees, the chilly early spring air biting at him through his clothes. 

“You’re safe Will, we’re safe together.”

Will complies as Mike pulls his body to lie down, guiding Will’s head to rest on his chest.

Will’s hands are shaking as they wrap around Mike, lacing his fingers together behind his back. 

Mike repositions the blankets on top of the two, pulling them up to Will’s shoulder. 

“Shhh, It’s alright, shhh.”

Will closes his eyes, trying to ground himself in Mike’s words. 

He sighs as Mike plays with his hair, messing with the tag on the back of his shirt, playing with the hair on the back of his neck. 

Will doesn't know what any of this means, or if it means anything at all. 

He figures the two will wake up tomorrow on top of each other, never again to mention the way Mike whispers “you mean the world to me” into Will’s ear as he slips into a deep sleep. 

One day they’ll talk about it.

Or at least he hopes so. 

Chapter Text

-MIKE-

For a split second, Mike forgot where he was. 

Waking up with his body sore from the weight of Will’s own, sighing contentedly as he runs his fingers through his hair, feeling the heat of his head under his palm, almost made him feel… Normal. 

A type of “normal” that Mike has felt unfamiliar with for years now, bringing him back to those days before his relationship with Will had changed, before he started feeling “things” he shouldn’t. 

It reminds him of the type of unpredictable nights they would have in the fall of '84, Mike sticking by Will’s side like glue, a parasite he just can’t get rid of, watching over his every move and studying his every word, in fear of something to come. 

But anyway, not the type of thoughts he’s trying to start his day with, so he pushes them down like normal, 

Like always. 

Will lifts his head, and  Mike lets his fingers fall from their place wrapped around his hair. 

“Hi.”

Will whispers, his voice low in the quiet of their tent, still groggy from sleep.  

Mike tries to keep his thoughts away from how the two are touching, ignoring how his leg is slotted perfectly under Will’s own, their bodies tangled together in a type of intimacy that Mike will never let himself explore. 

He becomes instantly aware of his arms, the skin feels as if it’s burning around Will’s waist, burning with something deep inside of him, he won’t address the actions of last night, and he really hopes Will won’t either. 

Or rather, he hopes , that he hopes that. 

“I’m sorry about last night.”

Will apologizes like he always does. 

Mike’s no stranger to Will’s unnecessary apologies, he knows the way that Will’s self-hatred and fears of being a burden plague over his mind, seeping deep into his bones like an ache he just can’t get any stretch for. 

“It’s nothing to apologize for.”

Mike says, feeling something unspoken between them, an apology that sits on the surface of something much more. 

Mike misses the days when he could read Will like a book; those days, he was fluent in the language of his thoughts, and the cause for each touch and twitch Will’s body moved. Instead, he recognizes words, the words of the surface of Will’s greater suffering, he knows there is something more, something deeper that he can no longer read. 

Or maybe it could be something deeper that Will can never speak about. 

Will rolls off of Mike, landing on the heap of mismatched blankets that have fallen off of his back.

He sits up, pushing his body weight into his legs, his brown jeans tearing at a few of the seams. 

“Did you bring a change of clothes?”

Mike questions, wrapping his arms around himself in a stretch as he sits up, groaning under his breath. A few strands of his hair rip out, getting caught in the zipper of his makeshift jacket pillow. 

“Yeah, I’ve got all that. I think we should go through our bags at some point to sort out what we each carry.”

Will pronounces, his fingers wrapped around the black zipper of the travel tent, sliding it down slowly, hesitantly. 

He peeks his head out, scanning the surrounding area.

“Alright, we should get moving.”

Mike watches as Will places his right leg in front of the left, his jeans tight around his thighs.

He hears Will hiss sharply as he puts pressure on his left ankle, pulling himself up into a standing position. 

Mike can’t help but feel his guilt eat away at him. He knows, somewhere inside of himself, that Will’s pain is not his fault, but he still feels his guilt as if it were. His logistics can’t change his emotions, a fact he’s learned to live by, up until his logistics turned illogical entirely. 

“Will, lemme help you.”

Mike insisted, quickly crawling out of the tent, his legs sore from running. 

“Nonono, I’m ok.”

Mike scoffs, wrapping an arm around Will’s shoulders, their bodies slotting together perfectly, Will’s head at an even height with Mike’s chest.

It’s almost “normall.”

Almost.

Mike leads Will out of the tent, guiding him slowly to a clear place on the ground, kicking a few rocks away with his scuffed-up shoes. 

“Mike-”

“Nope. I don’t want to hear it. You’re hurt, and you need help.”

Will shakes his head, leaning into Mike as he helps him sit down, kicking his feet in front of him. 

Mike leans back up, walking back over to the empty tent. He reaches for both their backpacks, his back aching from the massive amounts of weight he holds, the backpack straps digging into his palm. 

He places the two backpacks next to each other, in front of Will.

“I’m going to make you a splint.”

Mike states, raising his eyebrows demandingly as Will tries to protest. 

Mike tries to think back to his conversation with Max when the two were discussing how to prepare for and treat certain injuries.

Max was the first in the group to pick up on the split-making, claiming it was something that years of sprained ankles from failed skating sticks had taught her.

The mention of Max in his head trickles into worries of her well-being, what happened to the hospital, and what happened to her. 

He shakes the thoughts from his head, instead, pushing her face from his mind, and rather, keeping her words. 

“Ok, training wheels. You need to find yourself some sort of stick or wood, something sturdy to keep a leg straight. “

He recalled her instructions, grateful that his anxiety wasn’t mind-numbing at this moment. 

He stands up and walks toward a nearby tree. 

Mike tries to rip a solid-sized stick from a larger, protruding tree branch. He tugs at the bark, bending it up and down, the green color under the fresh bark becoming visible from his effortless pulling. 

“Mike, you good over there?”

Will questions, his voice tapering off into a laugh. 

Mike huffs under his breath, cursing his weak arms and the deep aches in his non-existent muscles. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He replies, annoyed. 

He gives the bark one more tug before letting it fall from his hand, the branch snapping back in place. 

He walks back over to his backpack, trying not to make eye contact with Will, knowing that he’s laughing at his ridiculous attempts at snapping a tree branch. 

He croches down, pulling a switchblade from deep inside his backpack. 

He’s now able to cut off two evenly sized branches from the tree, both still too long for Will’s leg, needing to be trimmed down, but thick enough to support him. 

“You finally got it!”

Will laughs, leaning his head back, clutching his arms around his stomach.

“Shut up.”

Mike shakes his head, he can’t help the way his words stutter in giggles, broken by his smile.

It feels good to hear that sound.

 Will’s laugh.

Within less than twenty-four hours, their lives had been turned completely upside down, both literally and metaphorically. 

Mike can tell it’s taken a toll on Will; he sees how his head is always turned, whether looking out for danger or looking in hopes of someone they know approaching, Mike doesn’t know. 

He sits down in the same spot in front of Will as before, crossing his legs under him. 

He slips the switchblade into his pocket, deeming it useful for “just in case.”

Mike pulls his backpack closer, reaching in to find his medical kit. 

Mike tries to remember the second step of Max’s instructions.

“Make sure you use LOTS of bandages, whatever ends up happening to us in this fucked up world, we will have bigger issues to deal with than an unwrapped bandage.”

He opens the red case, the smooth plastic shining under the sun, a small crack in the corner from something Mike can’t recall.

He finds his four bandages, picking out one of the spools, unwrapping the elastic band holding them together. 

“Can you put your leg up on my backpack?”

Mike instructs, his voice slow and gentle. 

Will lays back, lifting his left leg up from the ground, resting Mike’s backpack under his knee.

“You better fix me, Doctor Wheeler.”

Mike cringes at the name, grateful that Will isn’t looking at him and the uncomfortable face he makes.

“Yeah, you better hope I’m good at this.”

Will laughs again, a deep sound that fills Mike’s heart. 

Mike unties Will’s left shoe, slowly pulling it off of his foot to avoid any further pressure, and sets it to the side. 

He keeps Will’s white socks pulled up, deciding that taking them off and leaving him barefoot in the middle of the woods is the recipe for an even bigger disaster than a sprained ankle

Mike grabs one of the sticks, feeling the soft wood of the new branch under his fingers. He lines the sticks up to the side of Will’s leg, measuring the length he needs. 

He pulls the blade back out of his pocket, cutting the sticks to their appropriate size, about half the length of his calf. 

Will lays with his arms sprawled out to the side, picking blades of grass from the ground and twisting them in his fingers, pulling them until they snap. 

Will’s hair is spread out in a halo above him, his forehead rubbed in gray ash.

Even with torn clothes and greasy hair, Will still looks so effortless. 

It’s unnatural, really, the way he seems so…..Perfect?

A type of perfect Mike admires in him, and him only, a type of perfect he searches for in El, a type that he knows he’ll find. 

Someday.

Hopefully.

Mike places one stick down, keeping the other in place, pressed into Will’s skin. He grabs the bandage, wrapping one thin line around Will’s leg, keeping the stick still long enough for him to repeat his steps with the second.

With the sticks now (almost) perfectly parallel, Mike starts to wrap more bandage over them.

He gently places a hand on Will’s upper calf to steady himself, repositioning his aching legs under him. 

Will’s skin is electrifying under his hand; even in the brief second of contact he makes, he can still feel the lingering, barely-there warmth. 

Mike almost drops the spool of bandage, losing his train of thought. 

He finishes up the rest of the spool, pulling the last bit of bandage from the hard cardboard tube, 

Will leans up on his arms, his green sleep shirt pulled tight around his shoulders, the cuffs at his wrist frayed and worn thin from years of use. 

Mike slips Will’s shoe back onto his foot, pulling it just right to stay out of the way of the splint. 

He ties it, the shoe barely even fully on, but better than nothing. 

“Am I all healed now?”

Will snickers, twisting his leg, getting a feel for the bandages on his skin.

Mike cups his hands around Will’s leg, pressing gently into the wrapping to make sure it’s tight enough. He runs his hands slowly down Will’s leg, his fingers slotting perfectly around his muscles, faint but still there.

Will stares at him, his breathing looks uncomfortable. 

Mike reaches the bottom of Will’s ankle, no longer pressing but instead lingering, cupping his ankle gently in his hands.

Somehow, the environment feels as if it’s shifted. The trees sound more still, the leaves silenced from their rustling, and the air feels crisp and sharp. 

Safe. 

Normal. 

“Yeah, you’re good now.”

Mike replies, a few hundred seconds too late. 

Will makes no effort to move; his body and breathing are still, his hands curled into a loose fist. 

Mike’s heart has started racing, his palms sweating, and he can’t remember when or how it started. 

Seeing Will like this, so vulnerable in his pain, yet strong in his suffering all at the same time, makes Mike’s head race. 

Race in thoughts he’s worked so tirelessly to ignore and push away. 

Thoughts of something new, something uncertain and insecure in its place.

Something

not normal.

“Let's get you on your feet to test it out.”

He pats Will on the side of the leg before standing up.

He helps Will move his leg off of Mike’s backpack, offering a hand to pull the boy up to his feet, a hand that stays for a beat too long. 

Will stumbles, catching himself on Mike’s arm.

“Woah- Does it feel ok?”

Mike asks, helping Will adjust to walking with the splint on, kicking both his feet under him, getting a feel for the bandage and sticks. 

Will drops his hand from Mike’s arm, letting it fall to his side.

“It feels great. We should get our stuff packed up and get moving, it’s not safe to stay in one place for too long.”

Will answers, quietly.

“Alright, let's pack up the tent then.”

Mike replies, a sinking feeling of regret creeping up on him. 

Regret for something he can’t yet speak of. 

---------------------------------------------

Will sat to the side, resting his leg while Mike packed up the tent. He pulled their jackets out, helping Will slip his back on, even if he insisted he didn’t need it. To Mike’s request, they both ended up sharing some granola bars and chips from their bags, splitting a half-empty water bottle as well. 

Mike tried not to think too hard of the faint taste of Will’s lips on the rim of the plastic. 

After eating, they did one final scan of the area, checking for any sort of objects or wrappers they might have left that could lead a Demogorgon, or god knows what else, to their trail. 

“Alright, let's get going.”

Mike sighs, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and slipping his arms through the plush straps. 

“I want to go back.”

Mike almost falls over from the mix of the sudden weight on his shoulders and the weight of Will’s words.

Will stares at the floor, kicking his right leg nervously into the ground, avoiding eye contact.

“To….The town?”

Will nods wordlessly.

“Yeah. I want to see if we can find my mom.”

Mike wants to oppose; he wants to tell Will it “isn’t safe” and it’s “too close to the gate.”

But he knows what Will will do. He knows he’ll take it, silently oppressing Mike’s demands. 

And Mike wants to give him a better chance than that. 

“Alright, let's get going.”

Will perks up, a slight bit of hope putting a smile on his face.

Hope that Mike's hopes won’t be taken from him.

He’ll give Will anything, and fuck, he’ll sacrifice his own safety any day if it makes Will smile like that again.

They start their journey, Will leading the way through the forest, his own memory as a compass.

Mike grips the knife in his pocket just a little bit tighter. 

---------------------------------------------

Mike sees the nameless town over the horizon, the trees thinning out the closer they get. 

With each step he takes, the smell of ash and lingering smoke gets stronger.

A few minutes later, and the trees are well behind them, and an empty plane of brown grass surrounds the town. The buildings vary in damage, some fully crumpled to soot, others corroded away, hanging on with the power of a few bricks, and a select few stand tall as if the whole thing never happened. 

It’s silent. Too silent. The type of silence that follows after Mike blurts something to Will speaks before thinking when arguing with El, something followed instantly with pain and regret. 

It’s a type of silence that carries and holds. It holds the volume before it, a type of atmosphere that you feel, yet, can no longer experience. 

Mike keeps his eyes on the gate that lies about a mile away. He can see the tears in the ground, a type of rip between time and all things holy, spreading as far as the eye can see.

They slowly make it toward the street between the buildings, shattered glass and pushed-over street lights under their feet. 

“Oh my god, it’s our car!”

Will exclaims, pointing to the left. He starts running, Mike following a few beats after. 

The car is almost completely gone, the engine bursting into flames and leaving a husk of useless metal and scraps of melted faux leather. The tires are a blown apart mess, the back of the car, where the truck had hit, is completely crushed, like a can of soda under someone's foot.  

“No, ohgodno.”

Will covers his face at the sight of the car, his voice cracking. 

He shakes his head, taking the sight in but wanting to push it away at the same time. Mike steps over to him, placing a comforting hand on his upper shoulder. 

Will stares blankly. Mike lets the silence of the ruined town take them and take their emotions, too.

It angers Mike beyond belief, the way Will can never have what he deserves, everything taken from him the second his fingers brush it with interest. He wishes he could understand the greater meaning of god, a force he’s been told never to swear of since he was a young child. It doesn’t make any sense, the way Will can never win, always in a one-sided battle, a loss from the start. 

Suddenly, Will starts running down the street, stepping over abandoned bags, clothes, and scraps of anything else that had been left after last night.
On instinct, Mike follows without a thought.

Just before Mike can pull out his knife in preparation to try and stab some unknown force they’re running from, Will drops to his knees on the asphalt, picking a small watch off of the asphalt.

“I- It’s hers. It’s my mom's.”

Will sounds defeated, yet traces of hope pick up in his words at the same time. The watch has a light brown strap, the leather dirty and cracked, the screen is scuffed and scratched, a mix of years of use, and the terrors of last night. 

Will wipes the screen off with his coat sleeve, the time reading “12:32,” the display of time offers a sense of security, a reassurance of the world that is so rapidly falling apart in front of them, still being the same one they lived in only hours ago. 

“Will, we’re going to find her. No matter what it takes.”

Will looks up to Mike, his eyes glossy with tears, the watch cradled between tight fingers, held up to his chest.

“We will?”

He asks, wiping his tears with a quick hand, right before slipping the watch onto his wrist, the same exact spot as the matching one he once had with Mike, that was, before the gate separated them from their homes. 

“I promise.”

Will gets off the ground, wiping tiny shards of glass from his jeans, pinching the sides of his pants, shaking the denim clean. 

“Hello?”

Both boys jump, turning around, Will almost falling over in surprise. 

Behind them in the middle of the empty street, stands a terrified-looking boy, presumably around their age. His face is drowned in exhaustion, pulling down on the bags on his eyes, shown in the lines on his forehead. 

“We have a knife.”

Mike yells, jumping in front of Will, his hand placed on his pocket, squeezing his collapsed knife. 

“MIKE- Oh my god- NO!”
Will yells, grabbing Mike’s coat and pushing him to the side, out of his and the boy's way.

“SHIT-nonono, no need-”

The boy jumps back, his arms in the air, tripping over the untied laces of his black combat boots. He shakes his head frantically, his eyes squinted in fear.

Will gives Mike a scolding look, regret suddenly pinching at him for throwing himself out like that.

“He’s just scared, We’re not going to hurt you.”

Will smiles at him, uncomfortably. He keeps his hand on Mike’s coat for a second longer before letting it drop to his side. 

The boy adds to the growing space between them, taking a few more steady steps behind. 

Will slaps Mike’s arm, mouthing at him to “put your hands up” behind gridded teeth. 

Mike complies, his palms facing the mysterious boy in surrender, mimicking his mannerisms. 

“I didn’t mean to scare anyone. My apologies.”

The boy lowers his hands, putting one on his face to push his wide-rimmed, black glasses higher up on his nose. Mike studies him, too intrigued to run away, yet too fearful of Will’s wellbeing to find himself wanting to stay. 

Mike studies the tear on his boots, the leather ripping away from the rubber bottoms. He scans up his legs, the material of his camouflage pants, the cargo pockets stuffed to the brim with something unknown, almost breaking the buttons holding them closed. 

His eyes trace over his brown button-down, his well-worn white tee-shirt underneath contrasting the shirt layered over it. 

The boy looks unsteady, uneasy. He places an uncomfortable hand on his shoulder, luring Mike’s attention to a fresh cut on his bicep, slicing his light brown skin in half with a line of deep red. 

“Sorry about that. My name is Jamie, I’m just trying to find my dad.”

He walks closer, treating Mike and Will as if they’re some type of wild animal.

Mike just wants to get out of here. He wants to wrap this up and get as far away from the gate and this random boy as possible. 

Jamie extends a hand, grinning.

Will immediately sticks his hand out in return, the boys exchanging a firm handshake, their thumbs crossed over one another. 

Jamie’s hands are bigger than Will’s, something surprising to Mike as they both stand at a similar height, Jamie even being a few inches shorter. 

“I’m Will! It’s nice to meet you!”

Jamie nods in acknowledgement. Will turns around, gesturing his free hand at Mike. 

“This is my friend Mike. he just got a little startled, so forgive him for that.”

Jamie drops Will’s hand, extending it now to Mike.

Mike complies, his handshake being much weaker in comparison to Jamie’s firm movement of his arms. 

“I understand. Everyone’s just a bit on edge nowadays.”

Jamie’s voice is light, yet a twinge of raspy undertones peaking in with certain vowels and “r’s.”

“So, you’re here for your dad?”

Mike questions, trying not to notice how close Jamie stands next to Will.

“Yeah, that huge fire last night separated us. I thought coming here could give me something to work with, but I guess not.”

Jamie sighs in defeat, his brown eyes running over the surrounding area, trying to find some artifact of his father's.

“Yeah, that's terrible. The same happened with my mom. But I was able to find her watch!”

Will holds up his wrist proudly. 

“Oh my god, that's great!”

Jamie’s eyes light up, his thick eyebrows raised high on his soot-covered face, his glasses cracked at the corners. 

“I was hoping to check out what's left of those buildings that are still up over there, You guys want to tag along?”

“We have to-

“Sure, let's go!”

Will interrupts Mike’s excuses, giving him a sharp look out of the corner of his eye.

Mike wants to protest, he wants to pull Will away and explain in dept the justifiable fears he has of walking around with this random boy in a deserted, hazardous town, only about a mile away from an active gate with god knows what coming out of it. 

But thus, Mike notices the way Will perks up at Jamie’s quest, the task offering a form of hope to him, a hope Mike has ruined before, and will try his hardest to not ruin again. 

The three make their way down the asphalt road, glass crunching under their feet, a scent of abandoned dead bodies filling the foggy air. 

Jamie and Will have trailed a few steps ahead, Will limping slightly from his fresh splint. The two are laughing uncontrollably at some joke Mike was too in his head to hear. 

He rolls his eyes, jogging a few steps to catch up, stepping to Will’s side opposite of Jamie. 

Whatever the joke was, they’re still chuckling about it under their breath, Mike questioning if it’s even worth asking for context. 

He sighs. 

He wishes things could just go back to normal. 

Chapter Text

WILL:

Will liked Jamie. He liked how his jokes made him forget himself for the seconds of a few shrieking laughs. He liked Jamie’s demeanor, attitude, and interests. 

But most of all, Will liked, Will admired , Jamie’s innocence. 

Maybe it was selfish of him to find it enduring, but it was subtle enough for his guilt not to recognize. 

Now, Jamie was utterly clueless. He had a type of child-like understanding that Will recognized in his past self, in Mike’s as well. 

All of Jamie’s knowledge and ideas of the upside down were simply just regurgitated media propaganda and lies, but Jamie knew no better. 

Will listened intently as Jamie spewed on about how the latest new articles referred to the gate as a “rip through time and space by an unsatisfied god ,” he babbled endlessly on how he’s heard this or that about “de- deam-? Demogordans? I- I think?” and how bad he wants to see one for himself. 

Will admired his purity. But he knew how dangerous it could soon become. Vecna was coming; Will could feel it. 

But it’s nice to meet someone unaware of that.

The group was currently raiding their third building of the evening, the sun quickly leaving them across the horizon. 

Their backpacks were stuffed with bags of chips and granola bars, dusty water bottles leaking from the cap, and some random maps and pamphlets Will deemed a necessity.

“Just in case.”

They were currently in a restaurant, some fancy one with two floors. The entire right side of it collapsed and caved in, the remnant of sunlight peeking through. 

The floor was covered in rubble, and the fire managed to avoid too much damage to the building, but the gas station next to it collapsing onto the restaurant surely didn’t help it. 

Jamie digs through the cash register to find nothing but a couple of pennies that he shoves into his pockets. 

Mike and Will look around the restaurant, standing before rows upon rows of decorated tables, some chairs completely gone, some tables pushed over, and abandoned food spewed around the floor. 

Will walks slowly toward the back of the restaurant, his hands wrapped tightly around himself. 

He can almost imagine how things were here before the gate, before the fire. 

He can hear the shrieking laughter of sauce-covered children annoying their parents, the hustle of the overworked staff in their tight aprons, the businessmen and their housewives, all dolled up in their best dresses and fanciest suits. 

Will smiles to himself at the image, he wishes he could have been here. 

He wishes it wasn’t his fault.

“Be careful, Will, don’t go too far back.”

Mike calls from the front of the restaurant, standing uncomfortably and out of place, like he can’t decide where to put his body. 

Mike’s been acting weird since Jamie arrived. 

He’s always trailed either a few steps too far or a few steps too close to Will.

Mike claims it was because he is “ making sure Will can walk alright in his new splint, ” but Will calls bullshit on that. 

He doesn’t laugh at Jamie’s jokes, rolls his eyes at his interest in the gates and demogorgons, and couldn’t care less about his stories of his father and past life. 

Will will confront him at some point, he’ll ask about it, just to get some halfhearted “ I'm fine ” reply per usual, maybe even another argument. 

But right now, he needs to survive.

Will nods at Mike’s comment, continuing to walk around the restaurant. 

He continues admiring the fancy photographs on the walls, pictures of what looks like Italy.

Some photos of the owners and their kids, even more scenery, and unknown countries. 

Most of the photos are either completely off the wall, the glass cases shattered on the ground, or their holding on by an single screw. 

It makes him miss his art classes back in Lenora, he misses his easel, the blending of paints, and the drag of a pencil. 

Luckily, he was able to save one of his sketchbooks before their escape, he made sure to tuck it deep in his backpack, along with a few of his favorite pencils. 

He wonders what Mike did with his painting, if he cherished it, or threw it away like it meant nothing. 

He hopes for the first option, although he wishes he could feel the latter. 

Maybe one day he’ll find out. 

“Guys, let's head into the kitchen!”

Jamie calls out from behind the main desk, crouched down on the floor, digging through empty buckets and files. 

Mike shakes his head, Will can hear the smallest sigh come from his lips. 

Will turns around, making his way back to the front. 

He steps over silverware and spilled wine glasses, burned menus, and ripped tablecloths. 

Each step onto metal causes a sharp shot of pain to swell up in his ankle, the split helping, but not erasing the pain entirely. 

Will just can’t wait for it to heal.

The sight of a child's sippy cup on the floor makes his stomach churn. 

The highchair is unbuckled, with a bear stuffed animal a few feet away, obviously trampled over, the brown fur caked in dark ash. 

He stares, thinking. 

This poor child, either dead or alive, 

All because of Will.

If he had just given himself to Vecna, if he had just stayed at Mike’s that night,

If he had just done it that night in Lenora-

“Will. Come on.”

Jamie’s hand slips over his shoulder, squeezing it gently. 

Will looks at him over his shoulder, the slight graze of stubble shaded under his chin, covering over his cheekbones. 

Will smiles at him, walking towards the front. 

Mike stands before the kitchen, shooting daggers at an unsuspecting Jamie. 

Will keeps his head low, trying to ignore Mike’s bratty expression as a whole, making sure not to trip over any plates of uneaten food. 

Will notices a light patch of skin covered around Jamie’s right elbow, a light tan on top of his milky brown skin.

“Your birthmark is cool.”

Will complements, pointing toward Jamie’s elbow. 

Jamie looks back at him, perking up.

They reach the front of the building, standing next to Mike. 

Jamie lifts his arm, pointing his elbow at Will to give him a better look. 

The light skin appears as if Jamie dipped his arm into a paint, the skin circled around the bend in his elbow, trailing a little bit higher up over his bicep.

“Oh, thanks! I always got bullied for it in school, but I’m glad you like it!”

Jamie giggles, nodding at Mike, trying to get him to join in on the two's laughing. 

Mike gives him a lazy nod before turning back to the kitchen doors. 

Jamie sucks a sharp breath between his teeth, raising his eyebrows at Will.

“Well, at least someone thinks it’s cool.”

Jamie whispers, or at least, tries to. More of, “lightly lowered his voice, but not low enough for the dead silent abandoned building.”

Mike hears his comment, lifting his head to stare at Jamie. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, playing with his hands, balling his fingers up in his palms, rotating his wrist aimlessly. 

“I never said that I didn’t. I just want to stay focused.”

Mike snaps back, his voice rough, exaggerating the words out sharply. 

Jamie stops laughing, his expression subtly shifting and tensing up.

But he plays it off, giving Will a silent smirk. 

Will hates how Mike gets around people sometimes. 

He’s such a natural leader, but is so stubborn in his ways. 

Mike’s becoming harder to understand with each passing day, and Will just knows the rest of this apocalypse won’t be helping him either. 

“We should get our weapons out.”

Mike whispers, a small glint of guilt bubbling up in his eyes. 

They all drop their backpacks from their shoulders, finding their preferred weapon. 

Mike pulls out his switchblade from his pocket, the same one he threatened Jamie with a few hours before. 

Jamie reaches for a handgun, double-checking the cylinder. Will sees a gleam of bullets in the cylinder, every empty slot filled. 

Will opens his backpack, pushing his newly found bags of food out of the way to find his crowbar. 

He pulls it from his backpack before zipping it back up and throwing it back on.

“Alright. Are we all ready?”

Mike questions, hand gripped white-knuckled around his blade. 

Jamie and Will nod, stepping behind Mike.

Mike pushes the first white door open, having to push the second one with more force due to the damage done to it from the panic of the fire. 

Mike steps in first, Jamie second, and Will last. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

The kitchen doors slam behind them, one of them getting stuck from a dent in the front of it, the metal cracked and worn. 

Mike moved slowly at the front of the line, the lack of windows and electricity in the kitchen leaving only small patches of light. 

“God damn, this is errie.”

Jamie jokes, clutching his pistol to his chest. Will laughs at his joke, trying to lighten the mood a bit, or at least Mike’s mood. 

To the left of them sits the oven, huge and well-worn, years of use showing in the rusting metal, and busted heat knobs. Two skillets sit on top, the smaller one with the broken handle holding half-cooked chicken, the larger one cooking three eggs. 

Flies cover the food, buzzing around the silent room with a vibrating sound. 

Will flinches as one lands on his arm, his nerves uneasy, ready for the worst.

The three walk deeper into the kitchen, the light fading, making Will wish they could have grabbed their flashlights from their packs before entering. 

The kitchen is rather large, with loads of heavy industrial machinery that Will can’t even pinpoint the use of. 

In the middle of the first part of the kitchen, sits a large, metal table, finished plates of food seasoned and dressed perfectly, awaiting their server of who will never come. 

Some of the dishes are scattered across the table, stray meatballs and utensils covering the cement flooring.

Jamie runs up to the table upon first look, examining the trays of dishes, the servers' notepads tucked neatly underneath. 

Jamie spots a full plate of pizza, shooing away the flies with a swat of his hand. 

“Ohhhh yeah.”

He murmurs under his breath in victory.

Will watches Mike, who is kneeling on the floor, looking through the cabinets under the table. 

He huffs in defeat with the close of each drawer, finding nothing useful. 

Will walks toward Jamie, standing beside him, from the corner of his eye, he catches Mike’s head turn. 

They both placed their weapons on the table,  but still kept close.

“This looks fucking amazing, I’m so hungry.”

The pizza is lined with a thick, pasty crust, the dough charred around the edges. It’s topped with deep red sauce, flakes of onions, and greens choppily blended in. 

Overtop the sauce sit melted balls of mozzarella cheese, the cheese now looking cracked and dry from the time. 

Jamie picks up a slice, the dried cheese no longer pulling apart. 

He shoves it into his mouth before Will can oblige, leaving Jamie eating over half of it in a single bite. 

Will laughs as Jamie chews, flakes of crust falling from his mouth, a ring of red sauce coating his pink lips. 

“Oh my god! Jamie!!”

Will crackles, his words cut off by his giggling.
Jamie joins in too, almost choking as he clutches his stomach, bent over in laughter. 

“Guys, let's keep our eyes on the prize.”

Mike interrupts, speaking over both of them. 

Jamie and Will turn around, facing a disappointed, impatient Mike, who holds sandwich bags of sugar in his arms, shoving them into his backpack. 

“Aww, come on, Mike! Don’t you want a bite?”

His voice is muffled by food as he works on chewing the last few bites.

Jamie thrusts the rest of the pizza slice out toward Mike in an offering, a huge glob of sauce falling to the floor as he does so. 

This leaves Jamie and Will laughing even harder, Will’s body pushed into the table as he tries to hold his footing. 

Mike, on the other hand, doesn’t find it amusing. 

“No. Now let's get going before something bad happens.”

“Mikey, just one bite?”

Jamie swallows, his voice now back to its usual uneven tone. 

“No. Let's go.”

Will starts to calm himself down, noticing the shift in Mike’s demeanor. 

He gets out the last bits of laughter, trying to shift the tone back to serious, without making Jamie upset. 

“Open wide, Mike!”

Jamie starts to shove the half-eaten slice toward Mike, still laughing just as hard. 

Mike’s eyebrows knit together, his posture straight and tight.
“I DON’T FUCKING WANT IT-”

He begins to scream, before stopping dead in his tracks. 

His eyes are wide and heavy, his mouth stuck open in the shape of a scream. 

Will follows his line of sight behind himself, Jamie doing the same. 

In the corner of the kitchen, across from Will, sits a demodog atop the grill. 

“OH MY FUCK WHAT IS-”

Jamie begins to scream, grabbing his pistol from the counter, pointing it at the demodog. 

Will and Mike grab their weapons, the three huddling close together. 

“Jamie, SHOOT IT!”
Mike screams, the demodogs' face opening up, exposing his long, thickly layered, sharp teeth. 

Right as it screams, bending its legs to pounce, Jamie shoots it, straight in the middle of its face. 

He gives it a few more rounds, obliterating the body, hunks of flesh and teeth, globs of blood coating the sink like spilled pizza sauce.  

“NONONO-”

Will tries to scream out over the shots, trying to keep Jamie from wasting his ammo. 

It’s no use, Jamie keeps pulling the trigger, only for a clicking sound, inaudible over his screaming, to be heard. 

“WE NEED TO RUN!”

Mike screams, pushing the two in front towards the door. 

With their weapons clutched and their adrenaline pulsing through them, the trio rammed at the door. 

It doesn’t budge. 

And Will hears another chirping sound behind them. 

Mike and Jamie keep trying the door. Mike kicks it while Jamie tries to pull.
Jamie screams while Mike stays silent, besides the occasional groan with each kick of his foot. 

Will stands guard, the demodogs rapidly appearing, and a small herd of 8 of them surrounds the boys. 

Three of them sit on the table, eating the leftover food, plates and all. 

Will doesn’t know where to look, the three on the table, quickly growing hungrier? 

The two on top of the stove? The three in front of him? 

It’s too late to run now, the door isn’t budging, and Will’s standing is clearly doing nothing to intimidate the demodogs. 

He plants his feet, squared, just as Jonathan taught him. 

He’s not dying without thanking his brother. 

The first demodog jumps, Will’s hips swing back, the crowbar smacking against the side of the demodog's face, leaving it twitching on the ground. 

Its face opens and closes, its stubby legs kicking out for balance. 

Will runs toward the two behind, the sounds of Jamie’s screaming and Mike’s kicking fading from his consciousness. 

“FUCK” 

Will screams, his voice raw and sore. 

He smacks the first demodog overtop its back, its spine gushing with blood, caving in on its hunched body. 

It tries to bite back, but can’t lift itself to do so.

He holds one hand up for balance as he reaches his arm back again, swinging the crowbar down on top of the third demodog, right before it bites him in his splint. 

He hits it again, not trying to waste time, fully killing it, when he can hear three more snarling in his ear.

Will spins to grab one of the pans on the stove, rotten eggs spilling onto the floor as he takes out one of the demodogs on top of the table. 

The pan makes an audible “thunk” sound against its thick skin, stunning one of the dogs. 

Before it can launch at Will, he tightens his grip on his crowbar, his palm wrapped tightly around the rusting, bloody metal as he hits the other demodog with his crowbar. 

Blood splatters his face with each hit, getting stuck in his eyelashes. 

Will’s body feels on fire, he feels unstoppable. 

He feels powerful.

He manages to scrape the skin of the dog's sensitive stomach, guts spilling from the open wound, the demodog screaming in pain.

“LET'S GO WILL”

Will’s attacking is interrupted by two hands on his shoulders, one being Jamie’s, the other being Mike’s. 

“NO HIS FOOT HIS FOOT-”
Mike screams at Jamie right before he takes off running.

Before Will can realize what's happening, Jamie is picking him up in his arms, bridal style. 

Will bites his cheek as his foot hits the door on their way out, a piece of stick getting caught on the door for a second, digging into Will’s ankle. 

Mike is leading the way, pushing the restaurant doors open, screaming “GO GO GO!”

Jamie is huffing in Will’s ear, his breathing rapid and uncontrollable. 

He tightens his grip around Will, almost tripping as he jumps past the restaurant staircase, landing stiffly on his feet. 

Will watches over Jamie’s shoulder, the demodog herd somehow has gotten even bigger, and is right on their trail. 

Will can feel Jamie’s arm through the thick layer of his backpack, his other arm tightly tucked under his knees. 

Will still holds the pan and crowbar, pressed up to his chest to stay out of Jamie’s way. 

Will loosens his grip on the pan, leaning over Jamie’s shoulder as he chucks it at the closest dog, almost hitting Jamie’s head in the process. 

Will can barely see, the pitch black night doing him no justice for his aim. 

The pan flies through the air, hitting the first demodog at the front of the crowd. 

They can’t die, they can’t die because of him. 

Will repeats to himself, closing his eyes. 

Mike is a few steps in front, with the weight of Will, as well as two stuffed backpacks weighing down Jamie. 

They reach the end of the town, Will can see shadows of dead bodies all around him, some being demolished by demodogs.

They make it into the forest, the town getting farther behind, swallowed up by the lessening light of the moon. 

The sound of the demodogs screeching and crying starts to fade as the trio gets deeper into the woods, the constant twisting and turning through the thick treelines losing the pack on their trail. Jamie starts to lose his grip on Will; instead of being pressed tightly to his chest, Will is now down by his hips, holding on for dear life. 

And then, he drops. 

His ass absobrbs most of the impact, leaving pain tingling through his back. 

Luckily, his foot was kicked up, out of the way of the ground. Jamie catches himself right before tripping over Will’s torso, reaching out for balance, leaning back. 

“I- I Think we- we los- lost them.”

Mike is bent over, his hands on his knees as he wheezes out his words. 

Will sits up, the weight of his backpack almost anchoring him down. 

Will stays silent as the two catch their breath, sounds of gasping, coughing, and heaving swirling through the quiet midnight atmosphere. 

Jamie lifts his arms, stretching his back. He lets his backpack fall to the ground below, moaning at the loss of weight on his shoulders. Will feels that oh so familiar guilt. The adrenaline is leaving his body, coming out with deep breathing and closed eyes, but it’s just enough space for the guilt to soak in, to drip, bleed. 

If only Will had helped them with that door. 

You’re 16 years old, being carried?

If this whole thing hadn’t happened at all. 

If only he let Vecna take him. 

Will stands up before he gets too deep in his head. 

Jamie and Mike are now breathing properly, and the sweat on their foreheads now dried off. 

“Thank you guys, and Jamie-”

Jamie’s eyebrows raised at the mention of his name.

“Thanks for carrying me.”

Jamie giggles, swatting at hand at Will.

“Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry. I mean, I’ve gotta get my workout in somehow!”

Will laugh as Jamie mockingly flexes his biceps, bending his elbow in front of himself and gripping his wrist, grunting as if he’s lifting invisible weights. 

Mike stands to the side, awkward and out of place. 

“Mike? You alright?”

Will questions, Jamie drops his arms. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m glad you’re- I’m glad we’re all ok.”

Mike nods in acknowledgement at Jamie, smiling at Will. 

“I-I’m sorry for lashing out at you back there, Jamie.”

Mike apologizes like a kid getting confronted by a parent for stealing a cookie, all avoidant eye contact and a flustered face. 

“Hey, no worries man, I was being an ass.”

Jamie holds out a hand, dirt stuck under his fingertips and deep in his palms. Mike complies, his hand almost bent in half from the size of Jamie’s. 

“I can’t believe we saw one!”

Jamie’s serious tone now shifting back into his familiar, playful one. 

Will and Mike look at each other for a split second, holding in laughter, and side eyes of concern.

“I mean holy shit! Those demagordans were so much smaller than everyone was saying!”

Jamie sporadically flings his arms out as he speaks, his hands moving in time with the pronunciation of each word. 

“And Will, the way you hit that one with the pan?!?! That was so cool, dude!”
Jamie rocks back and forth on his hips, his hands pointed at Will, only dropping one for a second to adjust his glasses higher on his face. 

“And-And the way they shrieked?!? Oh my god! The news said they were ‘demon-like creatures, driven from the deepest depths of hell itself, ’ Which I think is PERFECT, they were terrifying!”

Jamie imitates the shrieking of a demodog, his voice shrilling loud and clear.

“Let's keep moving, it’s not good to stay in one place after the demodogs just found us.”

Mike instructs. 

As Will has been standing, he’s kept all his weight in his right foot. 

He leans slowly to the left, one of the sticks of his splinter ripped in half from their escape. 

The pain is bearable, only a slight increase since his last steps, but luckily, still an improvement from before. 

Jamie slings his backpack over his shoulder again, adjusting the straps to release some pressure. 

They make their way deeper into the woods, Jamie still rambling on about his interest and “knowledge” of the “demagordans.”

“But Will, how were you NOT scared?!? I was crying like a little girl!”

Jamie pushes Mike’s shoulder, laughing. 

Mike couldn’t care less about Jamie’s jokes.

“I just wasn’t, I guess.”

Will shrugs, luckily, Jamie takes the answer, aware that Will doesn’t want any further questioning. 

---------------------------------------------------

It’s about thirty minutes later, according to Will’s watch, the time now reading “1:00.”

The trio has debriefed into casual chatter, a few topics about their pre-apocalypse life, and future plans being thrown around into conversation, before quickly being turned into something else, before things get too personal. 

The three carry their flashlights tightly in hand, taking turns shining so as not to waste battery. 

Mike adds a few words of input, or more so, answering Jamie’s questions, so he’ll stop talking to him. 

“What's your last name, Mike?” 

“Wheeler.”

Mike would reply blankly.

“What school did you go to?”

“Hawkins High.”

He would answer. 

Will couldn’t tell what his issue with Jamie was. 

Jamie was objectively a sweet, likeable guy. 

Sure, he made jokes during inappropriate times, or yes, he has the fight-or-flight of a fly, but he was a likeable guy!

And yet, Mike still, even after his apology, shot him daggers when his hand lingered on Will’s shoulder too long, or when Jamie laughed a bit too loud at Will’s jokes. 

Will wishes he understood the ever-changing mind of Mike Wheeler, he wishes he were still a code he could decipher. 

But yet, he can’t seem to trace the reasoning of the attitudes and stale remarks. 

Will has dealt with the unknown since before he even knew; he’s experienced the paranormal, the inexplicable, and the just plain evil.

He has questions he’ll never answer, he looks for reasons he’ll never receive. 

But Mike Wheeler remains the greatest mystery of it all. 

Because no, Mike isn’t driven by some great, evil hive-mind that preys on the weak; he isn’t a deal of innocence or sin, Mike’s motives can’t be simply explained with a cycle of the world's endless suffering. 

No, Mike Wheeler is driven by himself. He doesn’t listen to what he “should” be, he won’t become who he’s told. 

He’s simply just Mike. 

And Will won’t ever figure out how. 

“I think I’m going to split with you guys here.”

Jamie interrupts the silence. 

The three are about five miles from the town, the demodogs long gone, yet Jamie’s buzzing excitement is still chasing after. 

“Are you sure?” 

Will and Mike stop walking. 

“In all honesty, I want to go find my dad, and according to your map, Will, I don’t think we’re going the same way.”

Jamie states, he shows no signs of changing his mind, a solid intent of finding his father. 

“What if the demodogs come back?”

Mike concerns. 

That's the Mike that Will knows, all tough and strong on the outside around new people, but in reality, he just wants to keep everyone safe. 

“Then I’ll just find another frying pan!”

Jamie laughs at his own joke, his glasses almost sliding down his strong, rounded nose. 

“In all honesty, it was nice to meet you both.”

Jamie steps toward Will for a hug. 

“I hope we see you again.”

Will announced. 

He wraps his arms around Jamie’s middle, Jamie’s biceps tight around his shoulders. 

He smells of something sweet, with the underlying scent of dirt and sweat. 

His hair tickles the tip of Will’s ear, their legs square together. 

Mike watches them over Jamie’s shoulder, his face unreadable. 

Jamie hugs Mike, pulling him into his body before Mike can protest. 

Will notices the slightest smile on the corner of his lips, and Jamie squeezes him. 

Jamie stands just a few inches over Mike, the combat boots maybe helping with that. 

Jamie pulls away with a sigh, clapping both boys on the shoulder. 

He steps closer to Will, his mouth hovering beside his ear, and his hand on his shoulder pulling him closer. 

“You have fun with that one, alright? I hope you guys can sort things out.”
Jamie winks at Will, nodding. 

“Things.”

“Sort things out.”

Things were too general. Were the things this awkward, loud silence always hovering between their words? Were the things the Upside Down? Or were the things the feelings Will refuses to fully face, yet knows won’t ever disappear?

Things.

Will shakes himself out of his overthinking, giving one last smile to Jamie, the moonlight reflecting on his glasses, giving Will a look at himself. 

His reflection is distorted and barely visible in the thin glass, but he can make out the soot deep in the lines of his face, ash in his eyelashes, and nose. 

Jesus, he needs a shower. 

He’ll find a river, hopefully. 

“See you guys later!”

Jamie calls over his shoulder as he walks away, his flashlight turned on high, pointed forward. 

Will turns his back on, directing it at the floor. 

He watches Jamie’s backpack turn toward him, stuffed to the brim just like his own. 

Will notices a small, round pin on the left corner of Jamie’s bag. 

He directs his flashlight a bit closer, not pointed toward the bag, but directed close enough that some stray rays of light can hit the bag, illuminating Jamie’s pin. 

Will almost gasps when the light hits it perfectly, reflecting the small detail on the pin. 

A tiny, pink triangle. 

Will can make out the words “ SILENCE=DEATH” on the bottom, written loudly, like a demand, in bold, black lettering.

Maybe that's what the “thing” was, the feeling Will feels, a subtle hint of Jamie telling him to speak of it. 

Before it kills him in the end. 

---------------------------------------------------

The walk to their next camping spot was almost silent. 

Will couldn’t let the thought go, Jamie’s pin, the “thing.”

Was Jamie…Gay? 

No, he couldn’t be, could he?

Will has known his entire life that he sees women in a different light than his normal male counterparts.

He feels it deeply. 

He’s a queer. 

A freak. 

A fag.

But he keeps it silent. To speak is to acknowledge it, to accept it, to let it free. 

And Will can’t let himself free just yet. 

No, this is shameful. 

The way his eyes linger on Mike’s body for seconds too long is nothing worth speaking of; it

It was all too much, too many uncomfortable, unsafe thoughts at once. 

Mike has been stuck in his own thoughts as well, Will can tell by the way he chews his nail beds, and how he drags his feet with that oh so familiar, Mike Wheeler pout. 

Yet, he can’t keep his eyes away. 

Mike keeps sneaking glances, glances he thinks Will is oblivious to. 

But Will sees. 

He can’t help seeing. 

He wishes he could close his eyes, but he keeps looking back in return. 

---------------------------------------------------

“2:41,” reads Will’s watch, his flashlight pointed towards the watch hands. 

The two stand on the edge of a small waterfall, the drop only reaching about 7 feet before plummeting into the running stream underneath. 

They’re off track from their destination, Will is suddenly hit with his fears once again, the silence giving them space to obliterate, to take over. 

Jonathan.
Joyce. El, Hopper, Lucas, Dustin, Max, NancyVickieRobinSteve-

An endless list of endless worries, names with different stories, different possibilities. 

He takes a breath. 

Tomorrow they’ll get back on track. 

Tomorrow. 

Will looks around, pointing his flashlight at the different areas of the scene. 

They’re perfectly in front of the moonlight, a dazzy hue casting over the water. 

Thick, tall trees line the river, with heavy shrubbery around the shore. 

The ground is covered with rocky dirt instead of plush sand. 

Will sits down on the edge of the drop, the waterfall a few feet away to his right, loud and gushing.

The river extends miles behind them, as well as miles in front, getting lost in the expanse of the dark morning. 

It reminds him of the quarry, only more water, and less deadly. 

Will smiles at the thought of his comforting, childhood hangout spot, ruined by a fake body and a kept secret. 

He dangles his feet over the edge, spare waterdrops hitting his wrapped ankle. 

Mike sits to his left, sliding his backpack off behind him. 

Will lets his fall off as well, sighing in pleasure at the released weight on his sore body. 

Mike lifts his bag into his lap with a grunt, dirt caking his green pants from the dirty bottom of the bag.

Mike wraps his arms around it, pressing it close to his body. 

He lays his head down over the top, his cheek pressed against the stuffed pockets. 

His head is faced toward Will, silence between them. 

Will tilts his head toward Mike, his face straight. 

He wants to ask everything. 

He wants to ask about what happened between them, he wants to ask why Mike hated Jamie so much, and why they don’t understand each other anymore. 

But he’d rather die. 

His fears and uncertainties override any mortal projections, any possible happiness and peace. 

So they sit, silently, for just a moment longer. 

“How are you feeling?”

Mike questions Will, a smile poking at his lips. 

“Scared.”

Mike chuckles, nodding in agreement. 

“Yeah.”

He whispers. 

“Earlier, you said we should go through our bags.”

Will thinks back to their conversation yesterday morning. 

“Oh, yeah, I remember.”

Mike sits up, his posture still caved in and slouched. 

“How about you show me one thing you brought, and I’ll show something I brought?”

Mike inquires, suggesting a game to lighten the mood. 

“You bet, Michael.”

The two open their bags in synch, giggling as they dig through them. 

Will digs through wipes and pills, pushing over his clothes, walkie-talkies, and their new food found a few hours ago. 

He pulls out his handgun, buried at the bottom of the bag. 

Just as his hand comes into Mike’s view, Mike pulls out a small, mint-sized metal tin. 

“Jesus Byers, you gonna take me out with that?”

Mike jokes, playfully shoving Will’s shoulder with the mysterious container still in hand, the same shoulder Jamie touched not even two hours ago. 

“Not unless I have too.”

Will remarks, showing the gun off to Mike, spinning it in his hand. 

“I didn’t even know you knew how to shoot!”

Mike remarks, his tone sounding intrigued, interested. 

“Yeah, Jon taught me.”

Mike nods, the mood now shifting from playful bantering to serious pondering. 

In an attempt to break the silence he so created, Will points towards Mike’s container. 

“What's in there, Wheeler?”

Will turns to his left, burying his gun back into his bag, pointing his flashlight inside. 

He turns back around and immediately notices the suspicious smile plastered on Mike’s face. Will looks down, his eyes narrowing at the item, his flashlight directed toward Mike’s line of sight. 

The lid is popped open on the rusted metal container, revealing 8 tightly wrapped joints. 

Will looks up towards Mike, his mouth wide open, stunned and unmoving. 

Mike just laughs, closing the lid, his lips perked up in a mischievous smile. 

“W-w-what?!? HOW-?!?”

Will whispers, looking around in fear of someone coming, but he knows no one will. 

“I stole them from Jonathan!”

Mike answers, shrugging his shoulders. 

“You WHAT?!?”

Will stings at the mention of his brother, but he brushes it off. 

If he sees him again, he’ll steal the weed from Mike, returning it to Jon before he even notices. 

If. 

“Oh, relax! He didn’t even notice!”

Will snatches the container from Mike, shaking it. 

“Careful! It’s not like I can go grab some more!”

Will rolls his eyes at Mike’s inappropriate remark, trying his hardest to keep a straight, serious face.

Will opens the container, peeling the lid off slowly, as if he’s keeping a creature locked inside. 

“I just snuck into his room, that one day after group meetings, the day Nancy made us all pack ‘survival bags.’”

Mike air quotes, hands flailing. 

“I just stole some from his bag, I’ve always wanted to try it with you, and it gives us something to do.”

Mike turns back to his bag, opening the front zipper. 

“ With you ” carries the implication of Mike doing weed by himself. 

Will hates the jealousy he feels. 

He shines his flashlight inside, pulling out a sleek, black lighter. 

Will picks up a joint, examining it. He holds it to the moonlight, watching the light cast around it, the joint too tightly packed for it to shine through. 

Will’s no stranger to his brother's stoner habits; he’s seen him smoke, even been right next to him as he did so, listening to their old CDs from before the move. He’s watched the way Jonathan’s anxious jittering has slowed, how his humming of The Clash’s “Combat Rock” album has become less rhythmic, louder, less predictable. 

Jon was always clear with Will, to “never get into smoking, it’s a terrible habit,” with a joint rested between his lips, eyes red and bloodshot. So thus, Will has never asked. 

“What if we get in trouble?”

Will expresses, giving another look around. 

“By whom? It’s just us out here.”

Mike eases Will’s worries. 

And he’s right, only layers of forest and the gushing of rivers surround them now. 

They’re completely and utterly alone. 

“So, you're going to join me?”

Mike proposes lifting two joints out of the tin and presenting them to Will, held between his fingers. 

Will understands the risk; he’s seen it in his brother, he fears it in himself. 

Will has always hated the possibility of continuing that Byers family tradition, the substance abuse, the hatred. 

But it’s a risk he’ll take, the weed offering a remaining reminder of his brother. 

And fuck, even his dad.  

Will nods, earning an excited “yes!” from Mike. 

He gives Mike the tin back, and  Mike places it to the right of him, a few inches away from the cliff their legs dangle from. 

Mike lifts the joint to his mouth, the skinnier side tucked between his lips. 

Will follows, doing the same. 

Mike lifts the lighter to his joint, Will watches as the amber flames lick at the thin paper, catching onto the joint fairly quickly. 

Next, it’s Will’s turn. 

Mike lifts the still-lit lighter to Will’s face, Will’s arms tight by his side, flashlight pointing at the water pooled down the drop. 

Will flinches back as the flame almost hits his joint. 

“Hold still!”

Mike says, his joint held between two fingers. 

He places it in his mouth, yet to take a breath of smoke, instead, holding it. 

Mike’s now free hand grabs Will’s chin.

Will straightens his posture as Mike’s cold fingers press into his cheek, tilting his head in compliance with Mike’s demands.

He looks everywhere but at Mike’s eyes. 

He can’t let himself see. 

Mike triumphantly cheers as the flame hits Will’s joint. 

Will can feel the flame's heat on the tip of his nose, but it remains colder than the growing warmth of his face. 

Mike’s fingers linger for a second longer. 

He stays, waiting for Will to look up. 

But he can’t. 

“Take a deep breath.”

Mike instructs. 

In synch, the two both inhale. 

Will can feel the smoke run down his throat, he can feel the added pressure in his lungs. 

He starts hysterically coughing, luckily, grabbing the joint from his mouth before it drops. 

Mike shakes his head, laughing. 

As Will catches his breath, he watches how Mike slips the rolled paper between his lips, the cave of his throat filling out as he exhales. Will has a fascination with the smoke curling in the air, casting over Mike’s face like a fog. 

It’s so freeing, the sight of it. The smoke moves with no connecting ties, a lack of barriers to hold it in place, and the perverted fluidity of it mixing in the night air. 

Will leans his head back, mimicking Mike’s movements. 

In synch, Will’s second hit and Mike’s fourth, the two lift the joints to their mouths. 

Will’s front teeth graze the thin paper, his leftover spit from before leaving a cool taste on his tongue. 

He takes another breath, slower this time so as not to overload his lungs, nor himself. 

This time, he’s prepared as the burning weed fills his body, Will predicts its twists and turns, through the map of his body. 

He lets the smoke fall from his mouth, rolling off his tongue like words he’ll regret. 

“Are you…. Scared?”

Mike sits with his knees tucked under his chin, his jeans dyed brown from ash, red streaks of blood near his ankles. 

His shoes toe off the edge of the cliff, heels digging into the solid rock underneath their bodies. 

Will lets the words linger for a second, like exhaled smoke finding its place in the world. 

Will stares down at the water below, he admires the soft overlapping of water, the sharp, hazy lines of moonlight reflecting the subtle waves. 

Was he scared?

Will takes another hit, closing his eyes as he inhales, his mouth feeling drier with each breath. 

“Yeah, I think I am, but not for my life anymore.”

Will finally replies, smoke trickling out of his open lips as he does. 

Usually, Will would sit in the silence of his mind after saying something like that. He’d be faced with a feeling of regret,  an even deeper fear than the question itself. 

But he can’t find himself feeling as deeply, the weed making him feel as if his irreplaceable sensitivity has been tamped down, like a weighted blanket was thrown over his mind. 

He feels slower, the waterfall beside him suddenly moving in slow motion, Will feels his blinking become unpredictable, his eyes watering. 

“Do you miss her?”

Will finally looks at Mike, he moves his head before he can pull it back away. 

Mike’s eyes are glossed over and heavy, but just as beautiful as ever, even with the tints of red seeping into the clear white of his eyeball. 

“Yeah, I do. I messed up.”

Will feels nonexistent, his words coming without a thought, his body simply just that. 

His body. 

Not feeling like him anymore. 

“Do you love her, Mike?”

Will knows he shouldn’t ask it, he knows how Mike’s immediate response to vulnerability is to lock himself inside his endless, wandering mind. 

But Will’s heart throbs with something instant, it’s beating feeling slow, but ever as heavy with Will’s feelings. 

Eleven. 

She’s so perfect where Will is so flawed. 

Will sees the way Mike’s hands lose their grip on his legs, leaving his legs dropping over the edge. 

The two stare endlessly and unwavering, their souls tied by something. 

“I think she's so much better than me.”

Mike starts to giggle, a high-pitched sound circling Will’s dizzy head. 

“But do you?”

Will starts to giggle as well, he wishes he wouldn’t as he knows nothing's funny, but he can’t keep himself from doing it anyway, his control completely lost. 

His throat feels rough and itchy, his skin crawling with paranoia and warmth. 

Mike scoots closer to Will, using his arms to drag himself over the rock. 

Everything sounds silent, besides the unbearably loud beating of Will’s heart. 

“I wish I felt differently about her than I do.”

Mike’s giggling stops, a wave of sadness flushing his reddening face. 

Will blinks, automated and meticulously. 

They’re so close, and yet, remain so far. 

Close enough to inhale the second-hand smoke whispering through each other's lips, close enough for Will to count the freckles of Mike’s cheeks (if only he were sober enough to count.)

But so, oh so far away. 

Far enough for this supposed “thing” to keep them miles away, far enough that the though of Will tasting Mike’s lips becomes a horny, disgusting fantasy, so far that they feel worlds apart, their heads light and fuzzy, carrying them to some place unknown. 

Mike turns his head, only to lift another joint from the forgotten container to his right, eyes still locked on Will’s as he lights his joint, the other one discarded to the river below. 

Their fingers brush, for just a fragment of a second, with the passing of a joint and exchange of a lighter, but yet the touch grounds Will’s entire world. 

Their lips, a mere inches away, the question of Mike’s touch, only a brush apart. 

An empty vast of space and time between them, their bodies becoming a single vessel for their souls. 

“I don’t want to feel what I feel anymore.”

Mike lets the words fall. 

And nothing is left ot catch them anymore. 

Will suddenly wishes the two would get high every second of his day, so as to make Mike’s words come so much easier. 

The fear of Mike’s words is the biggest fear Will feels of them all, Mike, English-obsessed, talkative Mike, now turning himself into something unrecognizable. 

Will wants to suppress his emotions into something he can never reverse, if it means the possibility of Mike loving him comes just a bit closer to the planet of his mind. 

“I wish I didn’t keep silent anymore.”

Will whispers.

The waterfall beside him takes his words away.

Mike nods, slowly, looking utterly out of it. 

Will’s hands twitch, whether it be the want or the weed, he can’t decide, nor, feel like placing at all. 

As the two sit in heavy silence, Will thinks of Jamie. 

He thinks of his pink little pin, a badge of honor and a promise of remembrance. 

He hopes he’s ok. 

He’d like to see him again. 

He’d like to see that pin again. 

Will wants to hear Jamie speak. 

His parents, his family, and friends. 

A revolving door of faces and love, with Mike at the center of it all. 

It’s undeniable. 

Will knows it’s true, his feelings towards Mike. 

But he knows his fear is even truer. 

Words drilled deep into his head from those he’s loved, 

Words from Mike. 

“Why didn’t you like Jamie?”

Will says it before he can stop, and he curses himself for ruining the moment. 

“I just want to protect you.”

Mike says it like a promise he can’t keep, like a blood-borne oath. 

“You mean the world to me.”

The words stay drilled into his skull, all of the pain Mike’s caused Will overran with his insistent need. 

Will’s such a freak. 

Mike, sweet, loving, protecting Mike. 

How he’d hate Will if he knew. 

If he knew how Will craves the feeling of his skin, how he holds his pillow at night wishing it were him. 

And god, how he’s gone crazy. 

Mike would hate Will if he knew the things he felt.  

The things he does. 

If he knew how his face and his hands had become the soul object of Will’s desire late at night, Will’s hands under his pyjamas, his eyes wet with tears. 

He could never be El. 

He could never be perfect. 

Will wants to speak, but all he can muster out is silence. 

But the thought of himself dying, no longer something he fears. 

But rather, he fears Mike’s inanimate death, he fears the silence will kill him instead. 

Will can live with silence, he can force himself quiet, only speaking when he’s three joints deep. 

But Mike’s death is something he can’t face the thought of. 

Whatever this “thing” may be, Will hopes he can keep himself quiet about it long enough to die. 

Chapter Text

-1979-

Michael Wheeler was a good son. 

A good son of the lord, a good son of his parents. 

Now, sure, he would get into fights with Nancy and Holly at times, every once in a while, he would use the Lord's name in vain, or even accidentally open his eyes during pre-dinner prayers. (he couldn’t help it! He wanted to make sure everyone wasn’t just lying to him!)

But Michael Wheeler was a good son. 

He was normal. 

Today's Sunday morning mass was predictable, as always. 

He plastered on a smile while shaking hands with the fellow church-goers around him, trying not to lose that said smile when random old ladies who smelled of dust balls squeezed his cheeks and kissed his forehead. 

Mike followed his family towards the front of the church, as he did every Sunday. The pastor leaned over him to tap a cold finger on his forehead four times, then placed a flavorless wafer on his tongue, murmuring, “ God bless you .”

“God bless you.”

Mike liked the idea of being blessed. Now, sure, had he ever met god? Well, of course not! Only dead people meet god, according to his parents. 

But thus, Mike liked to know he was blessed by him. 

He didn’t exactly understand what a “blessing” truly was; he would just hear the phrase tossed around as people complimented Nancy’s perfect straight A’s, and baby Holly’s nonsensical babbling for colorful blocks and toys. 

Mike would get called a “blessing” from time to time as well, his dark hair was a blessing from his father, his straightforward demeanor from his mother, or as he has been told. 

Yet, he was a blessing nonetheless.

Mike was a true child of god, 

“A blessing.”

-------------------------------------------------

“May the lord guide you through all your suffering, may he walk beside you and grant you an eternal life of salvation. The lord will repent all sinners, and guide thee to a holier future. 

Amen, and god bless.”

About an hour later (more like four years), and mass was finally over. 

Mike had to hold back the sounds of his stomach rumbling, his parents insisting it was a better idea to eat after church than before. 

Mike didn’t fully listen today; mass has become repetitive; he’s noticed himself slowly starting to drift off, only to be shaken away by the pastor's horrendous singing voice. 

Yet, he still kept up with his prayers, always kneeling beside Nancy to clasp his hands together, his mom rocking Holly in her lap to keep her crying at bay. 

Mike stands up, pulling at his shirt collar to try and take a breath, the buttons always leaving red dots on his pale neck when it’s time to change.

He follows his sister out of the pew, running his hands overtop the backboards of the seats, feeling the wax coating on the oak wood coat his fingers with a slim film. 

He stands in the back of the crowd behind his family, his father leading the way outside. 

Mike admires the huge windows around him, the beautiful ombre of glassy colors shining diamonds of pigment over his face. Mike makes out the images the glass creates, a photo of Jesus and Mary, and another one of a lamb. 

Above the entrance of the church shines a rendition of a dinner scene involving Jesus, one of which Mike can’t remember the name of. 

He almost trips over the thick red carpet lining the middle of the walkway, his shoes feeling a few sizes too big, “ room to grow in, ” as his mother claims. 

Almost every Sunday morning of Mike’s life has been spent at this church, driving up the gravel path to park beside this large white building, making his way through the inviting doors, only to be met with overly friendly strangers and friends of his mother. 

Mike couldn’t imagine a life without it. 

He knows it’s a sin. 

Now that mass is over, lots of fellow church-goers have congregated into their own circles on the church lawn and near the entrance, chatting about mindless topics Mike can’t comprehend. 

Seriously, who cares about jobs anyway?

Mike currently has three options. 

One- Follow his father, and stand outside the conversation uncomfortably as he is less than half their height, and not intimidating enough ever to add anything to the discussion. 

Two-Nancy. 

Immediately no. 

Mike has tried that before, only to get met with his screaming sister and a giggling group of teenage girls who somehow seem even more intimidating to Mike’s young mind than his father's friends. 

And finally, his mother.

This is Mike’s usual option and his safest. 

But today, Mike isn’t in the mood to endure the nagging from his mother's friends and their weird obsession with Holly. 

So instead, as a way to rebel from this pointless family dynamic, Mike decides to find a person of his own. 

He begins his journey by walking back inside the church. 

It’s a little hard to see any outliers his age, his height not offering him many advantages, no matter how much his doctor praises him for being so tall for such a young age. 

Mike walks through crowds of people, having to say “excuse me” so many times to the point he gives up trying, and instead endures the turning heads. 

After walking around the entire interior, Mike has little hope. 

He makes his way outside, the giant church making him feel as if he is stepping out of a spacecraft as he steps down the uneven brick stairs, the world seemingly growing smaller with each drag of his feet. 

Church feels communal to Mike; he feels uneasy at times, locked in a spacious building with people who are mainly much older than him, singing songs of guidance and rejoicing, terms Mike still doesn’t exactly understand. 

But he understands the sin it is to deny the church, to criticize, to depose; his father reminds him of it with each sigh Mike admits during Sunday mass. 

Very rarely does Mike let himself feel this type of animosity towards the building his heart has been chained to. Mike admires the floating type of lift he feels when the big metal piano plays its sweet harmonies as his mother weeps silently beside him. 

Mike likes the idea of being “saved.” 

How exactly will he be saved? 

How much longer will Mike question the life outside of these four walls, outside of an outdated book, and mumbles his parents swear by?

Mike Wheeler is a good kid. 

Nobody else feels this way but him. 

And Mike Wheeler is normal. 

He shakes the thought from his head as he walks around the parking lot. He’ll pray it off later. 

Just as Mike turns back around to go sulk next to his mother and beg her to leave, Mike spots a boy around his age. 

He sits on the side of the church, leaning his head back against the brick wall, his face covered at this angle. 

His knees bent under him, his frail arms wrapped around his legs, and a busted pair of jeans covered his skin.

Mike takes a deep breath and walks up to him. 

As he gets closer, he can make the boy's face out better. 

The first thing Mike notices is the boy’s eye color. 

One eye, his left one, is an explosive color of green, with streaks of amber and shades of lime trailed through earthy undertones of his iris. 

His right eye reminded Mike of Lover's Lake on a summer day. The color was a deep blue, swirls of gray circled around teals and aquas, and Mike was completely mesmerized. 

So mesmerized, to the point he hadn’t realized he was creepily standing over the boy's looming figure. 

“H-Hello?”

The boy stutters. Mike notices his top lip seems as if it has a chip in it, almost. 

His front left tooth is exposed in the lack of skin covering it, something Mike’s never seen in his life.

“What's wrong with your mouth?”

Mike points to the boy's lip, not understanding why his response is an uncomfortable shift in his tone, or why this interesting boy is seemingly trying to back himself into a corner to free himself from Mike. 

The boy furrows his brow, some pieces of his blonde hair moving with it. He resembles a kicked puppy, a look Mike finds familiar in reminding him of Will. 

Mike sits beside the boy, awaiting an answer. 

“Was just born this way, you gotta problem with it?”

His accent is deeply southern, something Mike isn’t all that used to hearing, besides around the sheriff's office and sometimes at local farms, the people who usually have these accents are always decked out in hefty clothing and cool hats that Mike envies.

The boy adjusts his shoulders to sit up straight. Mike only now realizes how much of a height advantage this boy would have if he were to stand. 

“No.”

Mike replies, shaking his head, trying not to lose his only church friend. 

Or, hopefully, a friend. 

“Name's Arthur.”

Interesting boy, or rather, Arthur states. 

Mike nods, adjusting his body to lean his back against the rugged wall beside Authur, the two now parallel.

Mike suddenly realizes he should probably say his name as well, something his mother scolds him about during first-time conversations. 

“My name is Mike. I’m seven!”

Mike replies, all smiles and unnecessary energy.

He thought his age was worth stating; he didn’t want Arthur to accidentally mistake him for a scary adult! After all, his mother's friends are always complimenting how big he is for his age!

Arthur still seems timid, looking around constantly as if he is in trouble, waiting for his parents to come and punish him. 

“I just turned nine, my folks say I’m smart for my age.”

Arthur replies, his lips perking up in a sly smile. 

Mike looks over the boy's outfit, it looks just like those cool horseback guys in the movies!

He wears a brown button-down, black stripes crossing over his body in a checker-like pattern. 

The shirt is a bit too big, and not something appropriate for church, especially with how his elbows poke out of the material, all bruised up and bloody. 

But it is a sin to judge others, so thus, Mike pushes the thought down. 

He keeps that thought down as he notices the mud stains over the boy's knees, leading up into his thighs, with a cracking pair of black boots with intricate flower designs on the sides, leading up into the rounded top of the shoe. 

“You look like those guys in the movies!”

Mike gestures at Arthur’s outfit, Arthur finally giving a full, toothy smile, his lip curved over his top tooth. 

“Thanks. Pa sometimes tells me I look like a bad thing.”

Arthur's mood changes, his hands, once covered over his legs to tuck them tight under his chin, now drop, digging into the grass below. 

Intrigued, Mike asks, 

“What thing?”

Mike watches as Arthur leans closer to Mike, giving another look around before placing a hand on his shoulder. 

Mike can’t understand why Arthur keeps looking. The main group of churchgoers is all toward the front, the two boys sit over to the side of the building, only a few small groups of two-or-three women around. 

“A faggot.”

Arthur whispers into Mike’s ear, his breath hot, warming his veins and sending a shock over his spine. 

Mike’s mouth almost drops at that word, a word he has been sworn to never repeat. 

Sometimes, he hears it being thrown around in late-night kitchen conversations between his parents; sometimes, that word is used by bullies in school. 

And even, sometimes, Mike hears people say it to Will. 

Hears Lonnie say it to Will. 

Mike doesn’t know what it means, only that it makes Will cry and his mom yells. 

He knows the word is used when his dad is very angry, or the one time Nancy put some of her makeup over Mike’s face.

Now, Mike looks around too, checking for any prying eyes before continuing this sinful conversation. 

“That's not nice of your dad, I don’t think that about you!”

Mike comforts Arthur, placing a hand overtop his knee in a comforting manner. Mike tries his hardest to ignore the flashes of electricity that overtake his body, piercing his veins, as he wraps his fingers overtop Arthur's denim-covered skin.

He can feel the warmth of his body through the stringy holes his skin pokes through the battered jeans, all red-marked and bruised.

“Thanks.”

Arthur answers, his accent and childish lisp making the word sound more like “tanks.”

Mike is used to uncomfortable conversations and comforts such as these, always offering a helping hand and listening ear to Will after long fights with Lonnie, or bad days of bullying at school. 

This conversation in particular seems to hold a similar underlying factor to some of the more late-night confessions he and Will share, teary-eyed and sleep-ridden in Mike’s basement or Castle Byers. 

Both conversations hold a type of weight in the air as if the boys are talking about something they shouldn’t be even thinking of, a sinful behavior deemed only the most intense sessions with a priest for repentance. 

Mike can’t decide what exactly this “thing” is, whether it’s the way his heart flutters with both Arthur and Will or how Arthur's disheveled blonde hair has a striking resemblance to Will’s tousled chestnut strands. Mike feels that whatever this lack of space holds is something wrong. 

He gets sudden feelings of discomfort, feeling watched and analyzed by something, someone unknown. 

Mike feels wrong, like something's crawling under his skin, a bug of sorts, except the guilt of it almost feels enjoyable, a gained independence from something wrong. 

“My Ma died.”

Artur whispers overtop the soft church chatter surrounding them. 

Some groups have already started to disperse, Mike now noticing a lack of people around them, leaving the two almost fully secluded, a thought that makes Mike feel even more rebellious. 

“Auntie Dolly says that's why my Pa is so mad all the time.”

Mike nods, silently. 

Will always told him he was a good listener, and he hopes Arthur believes that as well. 

Mike wants to pry; he wants to ask all the invasive questions that start to take over his mind, but this feels different from simply asking what's wrong with someone's face; this feels more inappropriate, more intimate. 

“My best friend Will’s dad is angry too.”

Arthur seems to perk up, with a hopeful demeanor that makes Mike wonder just how much loss Arthur has truly been exposed to. 

“R-really?”

Mike knows it’s not the best idea to go around spilling Will’s business like this, but Arthur seems different; he seems like Will, both boys quiet and kept to themselves, yet holding a weight of pain in their stances and the drags of their voices. 

“Yeah. I don’t really like his dad much.”

Arthur leans his head on Mike’s shoulder, his hair smells like overburnt cigarettes and the slight chemical smell of the church underneath. 

“I don’t really like my Pa either.”

Arthur whispers it once again, with more fear than before. 

Mike wonders if the blue bruises that line his exposed knees are caused by the same feelings of anger as Will’s. 

He can’t find it in himself to ask. 

Mike feels guilty as Arthur rests his head. 

He feels guilty as if Will might feel replaced if he sees, guilty as if Arthur is offering a quick one-stop replacement for Will and Mike’s connection. 

But Mike knows nobody in this world will ever mean more to him than Will, he’ll never seek out his jealousy, nor provoke his insecurities. 

Arthur could never be Will, but he is somehow a piece of him, the less intense heartthrob Mike feels for Arthur, just offering as a toned-down version of Will. 

The two sit in a shared silence, the early morning sun beating down on their faces, a comforting warmth held between the two boys' bodies. 

“Arthur. Brooklyn.”

Both boys immediately look up, to see a large, intimidating man lurking over them, blocking the sun with his shadow. 

Arthur scrambles to his feet, pushing Mike off of him, almost tripping as he props himself up. 

“What the FUCK are you doin'?”

Mike follows, standing up immediately as Arthur is grabbed by the strange man. 

“Pa- I-I-I was just talkin-”

Mike doesn't know whether to run or stay put. 

Will has told him of situations such as these. But never has Mike been this close to witness them, to hear the sharp pinch of every word on skin, the drag of the man's voice alongside the weight of his anger. 

“Just talkin?”

The man looks over to Mike, who now has his head bowed down in fear. 

The man has the same color of blue in his eyes as Arthur's right, but instead of holding a purity, an edge of innocence within his eyes as Arthur holds, Mike feels as if he can read the man's mind through his pupils, pure anger piled upon that purity he seemed to once hold. 

“You were touchin' that boy, weren’t ya, Arthur?”

Mike realized who “that boy” must imply. 

“N-N-No Daddy-”

Mike jumps as the man shakes Arthur's shoulders, his hands landing swiftly to grip the small boy. 

“Hey! Stop it!”

Mike tries to grab the man's hands, but it’s no use. 

Two of Mike’s hands don’t even amount to half of Arthur's father's, nor will his grip ever be able to tighten with such anger. 

His father pulls Arthur closer, out of Mike’s failing grip. 

Mike is frozen. 

He feels useless. 

“Daddy- we were just playin' around!”

Mike can hear the crack in Arthur's voice, even with his head turned away, he knows he has started to cry. 

“MICHAEL”

Mike looks up, relieved to see his father coming to save the day. 

Mike runs to his dad, crying, “Daddy, stop him, stop him!” while flailing his arms in the direction of Arthur's father. 

Ted grips Mike’s arm, pushing him in the direction of his mother.

“Go find your mother.”

Mike runs off, turning the corner of the church. 

A crowd has gathered, the few remaining people clutching their purses and children in hand, some giving Mike concerned looks, others sympathetic. 

Mike takes one more look behind at Arthur. 

Their fathers are talking, an expression of distaste on both their faces. 

Mike can’t tell if he will be met with open arms or a cold shoulder from his father. 

All Mike knows is that he feels guilty about the situation. 

What he was doing was wrong, whatever it truly even was. 

He hates himself for it, for sinning.

He hates himself for failing Arthur. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car ride home was practically silent. 

Mike doesn’t know what happened to Arthur, to his father, or even what will happen to himself. 

His mom isn’t answering his questions, nor is his father uttering a single word.

Nancy looks just as confused, her eyes darting between the window and Mike's sullen expression. 

He’s used to stupid arguments and boring business talk between his parents after church, never pure, devout silence. 

The only sound remains Holly, her murmuring, the passing of dolls between her hands, and some short-term crying in between. 

Mike still wishes his own crying would gain him as big of a reaction from his parents as Holly’s does. 

“Dad what-”

Mike tries to question, to sort any of this nonsensical nightmare out within his brain. 

“Drop it.”

His dad replies. 

Mike turns back to the window, the smell of cigarettes that Arthur carries still staining his soul.

The warmth. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dinner didn’t help.

Nothing has been addressed and It’s driving Mike crazy. 

Thus, this is simply just his father's demeanor. 

Problems are never addressed in the Wheeler household; they’re simply ignored and pushed away until they become easier to bury. 

Piles upon piles of unspoken words and meaningless arguments that somehow mean more in the grand scheme of relationships, all buried on top of useless “I love you’s” and practical silence. 

Mike knows it might never be spoken about again. 

But there was something about Arthur, some sort of energy that he carried, that somehow made this silence all the more overbearing. 

Arguments are easy to ignore; this feeling towards Arthur is something different. 

Mike focused on the dragging of forks so as not to dwell on his feelings. 

Ignorance is bliss, as his mother says. 

Whatever that means. 

His parents exchange their everyday topics of conversation, life carrying on as if nothing truly happened, as if there is nothing to confront at all. 

Nancy is quiet, as usual, and most of her dinner-time conversations mainly involve fighting with Mike and mentioning simple achievements that have happened at school. 

Today, she’s silent.

Nancy hasn’t stopped staring at Mike, hours later, and she continues her observant glances. 

Mike wants to say something, but can’t find any words worth bringing to the table. 

Instead, he sits, staring. 

His plate is unappetizing, and his stomach hurts too badly to digest anything anyway. 

Every noise is overbearingly loud, and every breath he takes pounds in his skull. 

Something is going to break. 

Someone is. 

Whether it be Mike, his father, or even Nancy, something will finally be addressed. 

Mike can feel it. 

Yet, until then, Mike waits for something to change. 

For something to finally get better. 

He can’t escape the ever-consuming guilt, the pit deep in his stomach that weighs down his every breath, 

He’s done something wrong, he knows he has, and he knows he sinned in some way. 

He can’t find it in himself to repent, because what's the point? 

Maybe he isn’t all that normal after all. 

Mike tries to let it go, he tries to drown out the noise of his own head with the sounds of the silence surrounding him. 

But it doesn’t work anymore. 

He can still feel the weight of Arthur's head on his shoulder, the smell of ash and grass that surrounded his body, and the captivating sight of his eyes, the pools of warmth Mike could get lost in. 

Whatever this is, he can’t lose it now. 

He’s already losing Will.

“Dad please just-”

His dad stands up, slamming his fist on the table. 

“I TOLD YOU TO FUCKING DROP IT MICHAEL!”

Holly starts sobbing, her fork falling off the plate from the shock of his father's anger. 

Nancy and his mom stare at each other, Nancy looking seconds from jumping him. 

And Mike and Ted. 

Mike looks at him silently, his dad's face warped in distaste. 

He speaks no words as nothing is worth saying, 

Mike just watches. 

Watches as his dad's expression begins to waver, as his hands flutter uncomfortably. 

His jaw releases its tension, his hands finding solace at the sides of the table as his dad drags his body back into the chair. 

This must have been how Arthur felt,

Mike thinks. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bedtime. 

His mother has continued to talk to Mike as if nothing has happened, as most arguments in this household go. 

He would expect the same from his father, for him to pick up where the two left off before all the screaming and yelling started up. 

But he hasn’t.

And that's how Mike knows he’s done wrong.

His father has kept his cold demeanor; he’s been turning his head away from Mike as if his presence within the room is overbearing. 

An insult Mike’s grown up with receiving. 

Mike brushes his teeth with robotic-like movements, almost missing his toothbrush entirely when applying the toothpaste. 

He slips into his matching DND pajama set, tightening the loose elastic to fit snugly around his hips. 

His mom kisses him on the head, as always, insisting he must “get to sleep soon,” as “A young boy like you needs his rest!”

Mike tries his hardest to keep a deadpan expression, but can’t help how the corner of his lips tug up into a smile as his mother pulls his blankets to his chin, and places a comforting kiss on her son's cheek. 

She slowly walks out of the room, a weight seeming to drag in her profoundly slower steps. 

Mike wants to ask, but can’t find the words to speak. 

So he simply utters a quiet “night’ love you,” as she flips the light switch beside his door. 

In the split second of glow on his mother's face, Mike can see an expression of sympathy, similar to the one Nancy has been shooting him all day. 

But his mother, rather, carries her face with a slight edge of worry, creasing into her smile lines and under her eyes. 

Mike closes his eyes, the smell of his mom's perfume leaving his grasp. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The arguing wakes him up. 

Mike checks the clock beside him. 

“9:34 PM”

He doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been out for, but the weight in his chest and the heaviness in his eyes suggest it’s been a few hours.

Mike can’t make out his parents' words but can catch a few.

“He-”

“It’s”

“Right!”

Mike knows they’re talking about him.

Every once in a while, when his parents get into bigger, late-night arguments such as these, Mike is able to tuck the covers over his head and drown out the sounds. 

Sometimes, even having to go join Nancy in her room, and fall asleep to the sounds of the pop music faintly playing on her radio. 

And Mike knows that’s what he should do, what the right decision would be.

But he’s rebelled once today, so won’t god might as well forgive him for a second? 

And plus, Mike has some itching desire to finally hear what he did wrong. 

The sin of eavesdropping for the heavenly practice of self-improvement. 

Perfect. 

Mike slips out of the blankets, his legs catching on his heavy sheets. 

The dark still scares him, so he runs over to his light before getting distracted by the terrifying dark corners of his bedroom. 

He twists his doorknob, the sounds of the argument instantly carrying as the door slowly opens. 

Beside him, he sees Nancy’s door, wide open, and her bed, fully made. 

Holly’s door is shut tight, the lights still off.

But with how increasingly loud his parents are becoming, Mike isn’t so sure how much longer Holly will be asleep. 

He drags his feet through the carpet, inching his way closer to the kitchen. 

He spots Nancy. 

At the top of the stairs, she sits. 

She leans against the railing, her body tense and tight. 

Her hair is done up in curlers, and her eyes seem dewy with tears.

Her hands are covered with the sleeves of her sleep shirt, and the wrinkles in the fabric suggest she’s been pulling at the shirt for a while now. 

It makes Mike wonder just how long she’s been here. 

He sits across from her, silently. 

Their legs touch on the top stair, a faint brush. 

For an accident, it seems all the most intentional. 

A silent reminder, an exchange of comfort between the two. 

For as long as their parents waver back and forth, the brush of skin between the siblings serves as a reminder of how strong they’ll stand. 

Together. 

Mike closes his eyes, ready to finally listen. 

“You just don’t understand him, Ted!”
His mom screams. 

Mike can’t see her, at this angle, but can still feel her anger. 

His mom always carries a layer of exhaustion covered behind chipped nail polish and bottles of drinks Mike isn’t allowed to touch. 

But he still feels it, surrounding her.
And in moments like these, it feels as if this exhaustion might swallow her whole. 

“And you DO?!?”
The room goes silent. 

Nancy looks up. 

And Mike looks down. 

The argument has continued, but Mike’s thoughts have stopped. 

For a second, just a split second, he lets the words weigh. 

Before he continues to listen in on the conversation, before he continues to hear the weight of his parents' anger an entire room apart, Mike basks in the solace of it all. 

“And you do?”

The argument goes quieter, Mike and Nancy now leaning closer, hands placed on the stairs to hear the whispering. 

“Just one time. One meeting.”

 Meeting?

Mike flinches. 

He finally looks back at Nancy, and her expression isn’t promising. 

“They want to take you to the pastor.”

She whispers. 

A rush of anger overcomes Mike. 

What did I DO?

He feels on the outside of an inside joke like he’s re-reading a passage from a paper over and over, only to never understand it fully. 

“NO. AND THAT IS FINAL!”
His mom screams, now at the top of her lungs. 

In the room behind them, Holly begins to cry, her sobs as piercing as his mother's screams.

What have I done?

“Get to bed, Mike.”
Nancy says, pointing over to Mike's bedroom.
It’s not demanding, as if he is being punished, but instead, Nancy states it, a simple suggestion that is the best possible option. 

So Mike complies. 

He stands up, gaining his balance back by gripping the sidebars.

As he drags his body back inside, his head spinning in circles, Nancy calls him one more time. 

“Mike.”

She says, the same statement-like suggestiveness in her solemn voice.

“I understand you.”

No words are exchanged between the two as they stare, but no words are worth saying anyway. 

Words would undermine and override Nancy’s own, and Mike wants to feel that comforting weight before it gets replaced right before his eyes. 

And so, he turns back into his room, tears pricking at his eyes. 

What did I do wrong?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He can’t sleep. 

Mike lies with his stuffed animals wrapped around his body, his blankets snug on his skin, yet he can’t shake the questions from his mind.

What did I do? 

What unspeakable action led to such a tragedy? What happened? 

What happened ….

To me?

The questions linger in the same manner the silence does, the same bodily reaction that the ghosting feeling of Arthur's skin leaves on him.

Mike has been told his entire life to “leave it,”

To drop arguments and suppress them until the problem is forced to become digestible, ignorable. 

But that never changes how the problems stay stuck in his throat.

Mike rolls over, facing his door. 

The answers seem so close to him as if they’re on the tips of his fingers, and yet, he still can’t grasp them at all. 

 “You were touchin' that boy, weren’t ya, Arthur?”

The words vibrate in his ears, Arthur’s father's face distorted in anger, the slight shake in his hands, and deep redness in his cheeks. 

Many factors within this man could be directly connected to Lonnie, simply from a brief interaction. 

Mike already fears for Will’s safety; he can’t stomach the thought of having to fear Arthur’s as well. 

Suddenly, his door opens. 

Before the light even highlights the figure's face, Mike can immediately tell it is his father. 

Instead of the slight turn of the knob his mother performs to enter his room, his father always barges in, without a second thought, let alone a first. 

“Get up.”

Mike tries to pretend he’s asleep but to no avail. 

“Dad-”

Mike tries to bargain. 

“Come on, It will only be a second.”

Mike wants to ask, but can’t find the space. 

So instead, he complies.

He follows his father out of his room, silently creeping while his father's footsteps stomp loudly, carrying through the sleeping house. 

As he figured, his mother had left the living room, and Nancy was no longer on the stairs. 

“Put your shoes on.”

Mike doesn’t bother arguing. 

“Where-”

“Just down to the church. I need your help.”

Mike’s heart drops, as does his sly sliver of hope. 

Whatever this is, he knows it won’t be good. 

He places his feet in his shoes, trailing a few steps behind his father, as Mike has just recently learned how to tie his shoes. 

He slips one lace around the other, remembering the saying his mother taught him. 

His laces come out uneven and imperfect, but Mike jogs on, catching up with his father, who is already out the door. 

He closes the front door behind him, watching the light from the house fade away. 

“Get in the car. We’ll be back in about an hour.”

Mike slips into the back seat, directly diagonal from his dad. 

He stares at his expression, feeling some sort of discomfort wafting off of his body. 

The air of the car is tight and tense, and Mike’s muscles fit within it perfectly. 

He squeezes his hands together, staring out the window as his father turns the steering wheel. 

“You’re going to be a good kid, Michael.”

As Mike watches his house get smaller behind him, he stares at the faint lines of his reflection in the mirror. 

What about me, isn’t already great?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mike’s never seen the church this late at night. 

There is a lack of people outside the doors, even a lack of bright lighting.

Within the parking lot sit three cars, one of which is Ted's. 

Mike recognized the car beside them as the pastor's. Sometimes his father stayed so late at church that only the Wheelers and pastor Noah remained. 

The third car, the pickup truck, is new to Mike. 

It’s busted on the sides, the right door bent in at the corner, and the shiny blue paint has turned dull and scraped over in copper-colored rust. 

Mike follows his father closely into the church, the lack of lighting making Mike uneasy. 

They slip in through a side door, one Mike has never seen open until this moment. 

Instead of bright streaks of colorful stained glass light or the giant chandeliers and candles illuminating the Church, it is almost completely dark. 

All that remains is one buzzing hallway light, illuminating a part of the church Mike has never seen, besides a few glances during mass. 

Mike follows his father down the hall, his eyes grazing over the black-and-white photos surrounding them, the smell of paint still lingering in the air despite the building's ancient age. 

The two stop in front of a solid door, a cross nailed on the wood. 

Without a word, his father opens the door. 

Instead of the typical weight he holds when opening doors inside their house, his father seems more delicate with it, almost with a touch as soft as his mother's. 

Almost. 

The first face Mike meets is pastor Noah. 

It’s eerie how even in the dead of night, he still manages to plaster on a smile and the feeling of warmth. 

The imitation of warmth. 

Next, is Arthur’s father. 

His expression holds no resemblance to pastor Noah. 

Even now, in this silent, holy room, Arthur’s father never seems fully calm. Mike could never imagine seeing him fully happy, either. 

And finally, Arthur. 

It provides Mike with both relief and unease to see his face. 

Relief, that he is safe, that Mike hadn’t messed up that bad. 

But unease, unease in Arthur’s widened eyes, unease in the uncertain situation. 

“Take a seat.”

Pastor Noah gestures at the two office chairs in front of his desk. 

Mike takes the one in the middle, beside Arthur, while his father sits to his left, at the end. 

The room rings in Mike’s ears. 

The light buzzes above his head, the giant cross behind the pastor's head beacons Mike’s overthinking, and the fabric of the chair's armrests scratches up his wrists. 

Pastor Noah’s desk is neatly scattered. 

Papers all over, his handwriting is too tiny for Mike to read in the lack of sufficient lighting.

Picture frames sit on the sides, the photos facing away from Mike’s sight. 

In the back corner, is a huge phonebook, with layers of sticky notes peaking out from various pages. 

His desk holds many shelves and drawers, which reminds Mike of Nancy’s dresser, as if it would hold clothes and pajamas, instead of papers and pens. 

A bible sits between pastor Noah and Mike. 

It looks well used and prayed upon, the corners tearing slightly, and pieces of cardboard underneath the wrapping are slightly visible. 

“Thank you all for coming, I am sorry, boys, that this meeting is cutting into your bedtimes.”

Looking at Arthur feels wrong, Mike feels too analyzed to even tilt his head, so he nods silently, focusing his eyes on the cross in the back instead. 

Mike caught on the way pastor Noah apologized to him and Arthur only, rather than their fathers as well. 

Someone has planned this, and Mike doesn’t want to admit that he knows it is his own father. 

“Your fathers would like me to talk to both of you boys about so pressing issues that have suddenly come up recently.”

Mike stares at the cross.

His shoulders hurt. 

“Now you see..”

It’s wooden. 

Long and skinny. 

“Your fathers believe that you two boys…”

It’s rare to see crosses that lack Jesus within the Hawkins church.

Yet somehow, this one does. 

The light keeps buzzing. 

“Have strayed away from god.”

The cross looks as old as the bible, having the same battle scars and chips. 

“Now, don’t worry….”

The groves of the wood seep deep into its skin, knots of wood appearing as black specks. 

“This is common in boys your age…”

The light won’t stop buzzing. 

The cross won’t stop staring. 

“And I believe, by the end of this meeting…”

Sweat lines Mike’s forehead. 

His eyes have started to cross. 

He can’t look away from the blurry cross. 

“You boys will be back on your track to the Lord! I believe…”

The cross is hung up by one silver nail. 

The head of it is mushed, seemingly from a few too many smacks of a hammer. 

The nail doesn’t look as strong as it used to.

“You two are lost lambs…”

The nail looks weak. 

The cross dangles. 

“And after a few pointers…”

One strong gust of wind within the stale office, 

Just one shake of the wall.

“And a bit of easy homework…”

One shake and the cross would fall. 

One. 

“You two lambs…”

Simple.

“Will be guided back to the herd…”

Push.

“No longer easily tempted by…”

The cross would shatter. 

“The devil…”

The wood is too brittle to survive that fall. 

“Your past sins…”

It would snap in half. 

“Will be forgiven…”

The light keeps buzzing.

“God forgives all his children…”

The wall has a yellow tint. 

“So as long as…”

Mike can feel Arthur’s elbow brush his arm. 

“You repent for your past sins…”

The cross will somehow survive longer than Mike. 

“And I have hope for you boys…”

The cross means more than Mike. 

“You two will be good kids...”

He’ll die under it. 

“You just need redirection..”

Never above.

“But there is nothing wrong with that....”

That cross is so close to falling. 

“So, let's begin.”

Yet, it never does. 

Mike’s head is spinning, and the pastor's words are mumbled in incongruity and unimportance. 

“Strayed away from god.”

“Forgives all your sins.”

“Lost lambs.”

“Will be good kids.”

Will. 

Will.

“Michael!”

His father's groggy voice snaps him out of his head. 

He finally redirects his vision away from the cross and instead, over to his dad's displeased face. 

“He asked you a question.”

Mike looks over to pastor Noah, who tries to cover his confusion and the slight sliver of fear with that predictable, fake smile. 

“Huh?”

Mike shakes his head, his vision returning to normal. 

The cross was covered by the pastor's head. 

“Do you know why you two boys are here, Michael?”

Mike stays silent, a beat too long to be normal. 

Arthur still hasn’t moved his arm. 

“I’ve sinned.”

He states abruptly. 

Mike can’t find it in himself to say “We’ve,” 

He can’t see Arthur doing anything less than holy. 

Only a day of knowing each other, and Mike’s seven-year-old brain can’t seem to comprehend someone as perfect as Arthur, being on the same level as such a grave sinner as himself.

“Do you know why?”

“No.”

Mike replies immediately. 

Pastor Noah is taken aback by this, giving a light chuckle and a shake of his head to both the grown men in the room, in a half-assed way to ease the tension. 

Tension Mike caused. 

“Now, Mr. Brooklyn and Mr. Wheeler had both brought to my attention that you two boys hold a certain connection, it seems?”

If this “connection” is certainly a sin, Mike wonders what he and Will could become. 

Arthur nods out of the corner of Mike’s eye.

Mike stays still. 

“Michael, do you not understand?”

Mike shakes his head, his father clearing his throat beside him. 

“Alright, well,”

Pastor Noah closes the bible in front of him, a sudden “thud” sound shaking the table. 

He slides it to the side, his hands steady. 

Next, he pulls his chair closer to the desk, Mike now able to smell the exact same scent of mothballs and dust that the church carries, wafting off of his green button-down. 

The cross is pointing out from the top of his head. 

“Mike, these two men believe that you and Arthur were coming close to sinning against same-sex relations.”

The clock sounds like it has now stopped. 

Or rather, Mike’s head has gone silent. 

He wishes he had a greater reaction. 

Mike wishes some surge of anger could have overtaken his body, making him shred this entire office into pieces. 

Maybe even a wave of sadness, surging inside his entire soul until he’s sobbing into his father's arms. 

Or perhaps, some deep feeling of regret to bubble up inside his throat, leaving him on his knees, begging for forgiveness. 

But instead, nothing happens. 

Only the tiniest twinge of guilt presses against his chest, 

He somehow lacks surprise, unfortunate remorse, and even lacks the biting urge to repent. 

All he feels is the dissatisfaction that the cross still hangs, while Mike knows his life will soon fall. 

Now, does the guilt pull at his nerves due to Mike’s actions of betrayal against his savior? Or instead,

Does the guilt pull him apart simply because it is supposed to?

Simply because the balloon was placed between his ribs, and now slowly inflates, each inch of air begging against his bones, popping and exploding from his mouth. 

Mike feels guilty; he feels disgusting because he should. 

He should. 

Not because he does. 

For there is no guilt to feel when Arthur rests his head against his shoulder, entrusting him in the matters of a few quick minutes. 

However, Mike has always been inclined to push things down. 

So he knows he can pull the guilt up. 

He can be saved. 

Like he is supposed to. 

He can be normal. 

“Do you two understand why this is a sin?”

Instead of avoiding eye contact with Arthur for fear of being discovered, as it’s too late to go back now, Mike can no longer look at Arthur. 

He can’t face the same expression of disappointment that his father faced him with. 

“No.”

Arthur finally speaks. 

He sounds like he’s crying. Mike notices the shaking in his light breathing and the uncertainty in his tone. 

The type Will speaks with, as if every statement is whispered as a question.

“Artie.”

His father commands sternly. 

Mike looks past Arthur, instead, analyzing his father. 

They lock eyes, and Mike can feel his disappointment crawling over his skin. 

His clothes hold the same wear as Arthur’s own; this time, he is in a different outfit than the one Mike met him in this morning. 

He wears brown jeans with an orange button-down to pair. 

The belt buckle around his waist is comedically opposite from the rest of the outfit. 

Without a speck of dirt, the engraved silver shines bright. 

At least as bright as it can be in this stale lighting. 

Pastor Noah smiles sympathetically. 

He opens his bible, landing on his designated page instantly as if he were waiting for this moment. 

Pastor Noah runs a finger over the page, landing it on one highlighted line. 

“Leviticus 20:13”

He begins, giving one more glance to the group in front. 

“If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman,”

This time, his stare narrows down to the two young boys in the middle. 

“Both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to…”

He looks back down at the page. 

The cross becomes visible once again. 

“Death.”

Silence. 

“Their blood will be on their own heads.”

The book is closed again.

He slides it over beside the picture frame, leaving an empty space on the desk. 

“I do not wish to scare you boys,”

Pastor Noah begins. 

Mike's father adjusts his seat beside him. 

Arthur stays still. 

“I rather wish you to be aware. ”

He nods with his words as if he had just finished an inspirational speech, instead of a death threat. 

“I know this seems extreme, but same-sex relations are something we do not take lightly within this family.”

“Family.”

Mike wants to laugh. 

Never in his life has he felt fully loved within this place. 

Because “family” threatens each other. 

“Sin is easy to give in to, so it is best we nip it in the bud upon the first signs of it!”

“Mhm” 

Arthur’s father agrees. 

Pastor Noah clasps his hands together, that same smile still unwavering on his face. 

His eyes are too lifeless to match it. 

“Now, boys, what are some things we could work on at home?”

Mike can’t stand the sight of the cross anymore; instead, he opts to stare at his feet. 

“I know! We could understand that other boys are our friends, and our friends only!”

Pastor Noah says after a period of unanswered silence. 

Deep down, Mike enjoys how anxious the man has been portrayed.

He wishes he felt what was truly right. 

“Any other suggestions?”

Mike feels a pinch of pain in his right arm. 

He looks over to see his expressionless father, nudging Mike to answer the pastor's questions. 

Before he can think of anything, Arthur beats him to it. 

“We could focus more on ourselves and our prayer?”

Then the regret begins to hit. 

It was one thing when the three older men were demanding answers from the boys; it was easy to ignore, easier to betray. 

But it’s something new when it’s someone Mike would never have expected a true reply from, a breakage in the cover. 

He can’t call it betrayal if Arthur is the one doing it. 

Mike finally feels it, hit him. 

No longer hovering over, but falling. 

The cross stays still on the wall. 

“Mike?”

Pastor Noah nods at him, encouragingly. 

“We could repent.”

He whispers, his father saying, “Good job.”

Mike hasn’t heard that one in years. 

Perhaps Mike truly means it, he’ll beg for forgiveness for as long as it takes for his father to be proud. 

Because he is a good kid. 

He is good. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The meeting ended with the Lord's prayer. 

Mike and Arthur were about to clasp hands together before Arthur’s dad suggested they swap the seating arrangement. 

His hands were cold and rough. 

Mike wished he could have felt Arthur’s instead. 

They now gather themselves to leave the office, the adults murmuring apologies to each other and pastor Noah, as well as thanks and “god bless you.”

Mike gets his first look at Arthur. 

He is tucked behind his father's leg, on the opposite side of the room from Mike. 

The cross hangs between them, dripping its words over the wall. 

Arthur looks empty. 

Not lifeless, as there is no life to lose in his enchanting eyes. 

But empty. 

As if life has been drained- replaced. 

Mike wants to hug him, to wrap his hands around his waist. 

But no longer does he know if Arthur’s hands would do the same. 

Mike notices a keychain hanging off Arthur’s belt. 

A tiny rabbit's foot, dangling off a metal clasp. 

Before he knows it, Arthur’s father is dragging him from the room, mumbling aggressively under his breath. 

The entire time Arthur follows his dad, his gaze stays still on Mike’s eyes. 

There is so much life to live within them. 

His head flashes with a thought of Will. 

If it comes the day that Will loses grip on the life he lives, on the promises held in his pupils, then comes the day that Mike will never find another promise to make in his life. 

If Will loses his spark, Mike fears he’ll lose his own meaning as well. 

A pair. 

A clasped-together locket of secrets.

Mike stares at the cross as his father and pastor Noah finish their hushed conversation. 

He has never felt more anger for an object in his life. 

How does this manage to be the reality he has found himself in? 

A cross, holding more meaning than any word Mike could ever scream. 

The cross is what keeps him screaming. 

Mike and his father walk down the hallway silently. 

The only sound is the steps of their shoes, the carpet absorbing most of it. 

Mike lives by an “amen” and a broken promise. 

He lives by a truth he has been forced to accept, by a god he has never met. 

His prayers have never been answered no matter how loud he screams to the cross, as he will die being told he is still “not praying hard enough.”

How much harder must he pray? 

How much more must he repent? 

This sin, this thing deemed as a “same-sex relation,”

Will keep his prayers unanswered until the day he dies. 

If Arthur can do it, so can he. 

He just needs to pray. 

Outside, the air is crisp, the unidentified time of late-night giving a breeze over Mike’s sweaty frame. 

As they trail closer to Ted’s car, Mike’s head turns with a noise. 

“Daddy, I’m sorry!”

He hears a cry. 

Arthur. 

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ARTHUR-”

“Get in the car.”

Mike’s dad wraps his hand around his wrist, pulling Mike into the vehicle. 

As they pull away from the scene, Mike finally spots it. 

Right beside the church, the same spot where Mike and Arthur once sat, stands him and his father. 

Arthur’s father has a hand tight on Arthur’s forearm, and Mike can feel the squeeze from afar. 

His hand is raised, and Mike watches as it comes down on the young boy's face. 

As Arthur jumps back, Mike sees the rabbit's foot around his waist glimmer in the moonlight. 

He wants to save him but knows he can’t even save himself. 

Who is truly worth saving anyway? 

Mike just hopes Arthur’s prayers are answered if god won’t answer his own. 

“Let's get out of here.”

His dad mumbles, his hands gripping the steering wheel even tighter. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mike quietly steps back up the stairs. 

His father sent him on his way with a pat on the shoulder and an incoherent mumble. 

His legs are heavy, and his head is even heavier. 

Nancy’s door is wide open. 

Mike turns his head slowly, expecting his sister to be dead asleep in her bed, her lights turned off. 

Instead, they’re on, glowing. 

And his sister sits on her bed, journal in hand. 

She sees Mike. 

He stands silently, staring. 

And silently, she watches. 

Her eyes widen upon some realization, her journal slowly falling from her hands. 

Mike leaves before she can speak a word to him. 

She knows. 

And so does he. 

God's words echo in his thoughts, and prayers in his soul. 

Mike will die a child of the lord. 

No matter how much he questions his life outside. 

Chapter Text

They don’t talk about it. 

Will doesn’t know if they ever will. 

The soft sounds of the morning bring a sense of calmness to his shackled nerves, one he had felt in an artificial light, from the weed the night before. 

Will sits to the side of the creek, Mike still asleep behind him, his legs sprawled out, and his hair a poofy mess. 

Will has been up for about an hour, the hot feeling of the sun beating on his forehead waking him from his sleep. 

His head holds a slight pounding feeling, the wild rambling of the river in front of him soothing his heavy mind. 

Within this hour, Will has managed to wash himself in the river (while constantly checking to make sure Mike was still asleep), eat enough granola bars to last him the next few hours, and change his clothes. 

Instead of the worn and ragged shirt he had caked in dirt before, he now wears a yellow tee-shirt with green horizontal stripes, 

One his mom had picked up for him as a birthday gift. 

One he hopes to keep clean, in her honor. 

Will sits staring, watching as the soft and stubble waves crash over each other, admiring the resilliant flow of the pure water.

His head is perched on his knees, his weight shifted towards the right leg, in order not to put any more unnecessary pressure on the left. 

His thoughts come and go, one like the water, the changing and ever-passing motions of nature. 

He thinks of his mother.

The way he used to love playing with her watch as a child, always messing with the glass cover, constantly tugging on the leather strap. 

While now, he sees it as an artifact, one not to be toyed with nor damaged any further, a beacon of light in this hopeless ideal. 

He thinks of Jonathan, the scent of last night's smoking sesh still fried into his nose, the way the fuzzy feeling in his head made him feel more connected to his brother than he as felt in years. 

His mind follows up with his dad, his heavy fists, and his short tongue. 

He thinks about Dustin and Lucas, El and Max, pinpointing specific little qualities about each of the people he loves, in an attempt to try and confine them back to him. 

It doesn’t work. 

It is only Will and Mike out here, or rather, Will and his feelings. 

So much of what he feels is derived down from Mike, it would be a waste of space not to group the two in their own. 

Besides all that Will feels, that is within the nature of himself, the solace of the bonds of his mind. 

He thinks about Jamie and just how much Mike seemed to hate him. 

Jamie was a nice guy; he was impressionable, with jokes that somehow made rooms feel lighter, and steps with sprained ankles less heavy. 

Will could feel the pure intentions radiating off of his wide smile, but Mike has always been the more cautious of the two, always the first in the crowd to keep the other tucked safely behind his back. 

But Will no longer desires that safety as much as he did as a clueless child; he’s managed to find the urge to explore on his own, and make his own wrongs turned to rights. 

But losing that netting of care is losing Mike. 

Will can only feel the depths of Mike’s self-proclaimed love towards him when it comes with safety and unity. 

Will is lovable when he is safe. 

So until then, he will ignore the itching feeling deep in his ribs, the ache of the art that yearns inside of him, the person he will one day become. 

But there is nothing monumental to come from teenage boys out here, only the everlasting fears of death. 

When he escapes, he will be fully gone. 

Will sometimes dreams the child-like fantasy of getting out of the forsaken town of Hawkins.

He’s imagined the city like that of New York, or the calm breezes in Italy. 

He hates the idea of being the hopeless victim for the rest of his life, the “zombie boy” with the unfortunate past. 

In some perfect world, the sympathy he would receive would be towards losing awards and partners, not because he has been to other dimensions. 

Will’s meditative-like trace is broken by Mike waking up. 

“Will?”

He calls, groggily rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

‘Down here!”

Will replies, trying to ignore the way Mike’s face seems to light up upon the twos shared eye contact. 

Mike drags his things together, fixing his shirt before pulling himself up to stand. 

He sways slightly as he walks down to Will, his balance still deterred by the feeling of sleep within his long limbs. 

Mike comes to sit beside Will, the two staring at the river silently, without a word said about last night. 

“I need to get changed. What's our plan for today?”

Mike breaks the silence, standing back up before the lack of conversation becomes an invitation for something much worse, 

thoughts.

Will sighs, both to himself and as a final calling plea. 

In all reality, all he has planned is for the two to begin their journey to Jerkins' gas station.

But who knows how long that will take. 

Will has written random scribbles and red circles on the map in his morning of solace, trying to find any greater conclusion to this hellhole of a life. 

“We have to find our families.”

Will states it as a fact, leaving no room for questioning or logical conclusions. 

“Alright, let me change, and then we can go.”

Mike stands, staring expectantly at Will. 

Will quickly catches his request, and stands up to move himself further into the woods, giving Mike privacy. 

Will stares at the ground, keeping his eyes and mind at bay. 

He hates knowing how easy it would be to turn around, 

Just once, 

Just one glance-

He shakes that thought out of his head, adding it to his ever-growing list of things he should forget. 

Or rather, has to.

But deep down, that desire to speak itches at him once again. 

To speak of anything, any type of word that will tame this fiery tension pulsing through their eyes and into their aching hearts. 

Some sort of thing to mend all bad, to fix this wobbling bond they have found themselves sharing. 

Will’s balance is falling, the branch is bending, 

And soon, he knows it will all

snap.

-------------------------------------------------------

Mike had only taken about ten minutes to get ready, a concerningly short period of time for Will’s neat freak taste. 

After some awkward eye contact and Mike’s uncomfortable jokes that somehow never land, the two had packed up their things, set out for their next stop. 

Jerkins.

Will had done one final look around at their base, double-checking for any traces of themselves or anyone else. 

After both picking their weapons of choice to carry in hand, (Will goes for his crowbar, while Mike picks his trusty pocket knife), the two start their journey. 

Will’s map is placed in his back pocket, his hands always shaking slightly the second he unfolds it, only to see the terrors that approach them. 

What if they get lost?

What if this map is outdated?

What if they get killed in the process?

All fears that drown out any of his rational thoughts, the unfortunate reality of an untimely death, having a chance of approaching them is far greater than much else in his head. 

Much else besides Mike. 

They have fifteen miles to go, and Will doesn’t know how much he can trust his mouth to stay shut. 

-

Will watches as their late-night campsite becomes smaller and smaller over his shoulder. His foot twinges with pain, but not enough to deter his determination to get out alive. His shoulders are sore from his backpack, and his throat still stings from the weed. 

But he’ll get out of here alive, and soon, he’ll see his family again. 

-------------------------------------------------------

Five miles can do a lot to a person. 

Will’s used to hearing about people running for fun, something Mike’s mom used to do before Holly was born. 

He’s heard of three miles, even ten, just for the sake of doing it, for the chase of the all-familiar feeling of self-satisfaction and the glory of grace. 

But those five miles seem a lot less enjoyable when you haven’t had a good night's sleep in over forty-eight hours. 

But Will’s used to that. 

Mike trailed behind, not far, but a big enough gap that Will is starting to double-check their surroundings every once in a while, 

Just to be safe. 

“Let's- let's break here, alright?”

Mike stands haunched over, his palms wrapped tight around his shaking knees. 

“I’m the one with the splint, and you’re calling it quits?”

Will turns around, walking toward Mike. 

He’s starting to get used to the cast, quickly learning the most efficient ways to lift his leg with the least amount of struggle or pain. 

Mike sits down, his back leaning against a wide oak tree, his backpack smushed behind him. 

“Whoa there, Byers, I’m not cut out for this like you are.”

Mike waves a hand at Will’s body, his breathing slowly settling back to normal. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Will sits across from Mike, taking a bit longer to get down onto the floor. 

He swings his backpack into his lap, the bottom of it getting soaked in moist forest dirt. 

“I mean, look at you! Jeez, California treated your body well.”

Will’s face swells up at the mention of his body, the thought of his noticeable muscle gain becoming something of Mike’s attraction. 

Will shakes his head, trying to come up with the perfectly calculated response to leave him satisfied, but not to leave him scared. 

“Yeah, what happened to you?”

Mike gives a mock gasp, clutching his chest like an old Victorian seeing an ankle for the first time. 

Will laughs at this, his body tight with pain, but his chest just the smallest bit looser. 

He grabs two water bottles from his bag, tossing one to Mike, as well as a bag of chips for them both. 

“I can’t believe you.”

Mike cries, chuckling as he gulps down his water. 

Some strands of his hair had gotten caught within the thickly layered tree bark behind him, just for a moment, Will wondered what would happen if he reached out to touch it. 

The forest is still, the only sudden sounds being of chewing and panting. 

The birds have decreased, an odd silence nowadays, one unfamiliar to such a lush terrain. 

Will can never shake the pit of dread that drags him down.

The nauseous feeling in his stomach that it will all one day fall.

That edge has never truly left him, even in California, or his first time back from the Upside Down. 

He’s never felt like he was truly living a life of his own, but rather, a spectacle of performances to ease his mom's worries and his friends' mumbled chatters. 

But Mike’s always seen through those lies, he’s never needed rose-tinted glasses to secure himself in a sizeable pair of shoes. 

“We’re going to be alright, Will.”

Mike states, as if on queue. 

His free hand has gone limp in his lap, Mike now opting to stare at it with an avoidant gaze. 

Will’s conditioned to reply to questioning statements with false enthusiasm, always having a “yes we will!” and “I know!” on the back burner of his suffocating mind as a way to bite those people's worries in the bud before they fester into action. 

But the performances run dry when you have no one to truly perform for anymore. 

Will can stick to the nervous blushing and shifting of his pants when it comes to Mike, instead of the tension-easing half-assed words. 

“I hope so.”

He replies.

Mike doesn’t look up in surprise, nor hunch back in fear. 

He sits. Silently, Will’s reply came to no disbelief. 

Sometimes Will finds himself urging to ask Mike just how much he knows.

Does he know the way Will stares at his ceiling at night, hands clutched tight around his body in a bone-rattling fear?

Does he understand the words he’ll never say, does he hear the anxious calling of his yearning heart, the final act of love he can’t seem to muster up the courage to portray? 

Mike understands Will in ways others never could, 

But where is the line between solace and solidarity drawn?

What is Will from Mike, which of his fears go slack, and which bubbling feelings of love are shared? 

This newfound fear leaves something pooling deep inside him, and Will dreads the moment that it all pours out. 

-

Rather than an eerie silence, the two boys have found themselves in the midst of their typical chatter. 

The feeling, sitting across from Mike as his face swells up in laughter, observing the slight nervous twitches he does with his hands, - it’s all a reminder of before. 

It reminds Will of that safe period between now and then, that preparation for the apocalypse, but the uncertainty of when this planning will be brought to the forefront. 

But there was a beauty within the chaos of it all. 

It was nice. 

Not safe, nor calm, one could argue fun, 

But nice. 

It was nice when everyone called each other every day, the constant house visits, and check-in letters. 

It was nice to see the team back together, the acknowledgement of just how much everyone is bonded together, no matter how far they may be. 

It was nice to be together, even if the reason for it was one of a tragic tale. Like the feeling of seeing a relative you love while at a funeral, it’s beautiful, how loss and misery can shape a person, 

A family. 

But even as Will rocked himself to sleep, as the nightmares grew stronger and Max never seemed to grow better, 

It was nice to know he’d be sleeping alongside Mike at the end of it all. 

Mike has always been the anchor in the sea, the one thing he knew he could find, 

Even if it meant parts of either of them went missing in the process. 

-------------------------------------------------------

It was getting darker.

Will’s nerves started to circuit down that all familiar path; it wasn’t even five o'clock yet, and still, the air began to fill with a heavy tension, as Will’s heart filled with dread. 

There was no mistaking the blue particles surrounding the boys' tired bodies, each step promising more and more uncertainty. 

There was no reason for it to be this dark; the gate was the other way, the tear it had started miles apart, 

So why was the air so hazy?

They both knew the implications but feared speaking of them. 

But Will still noticed the way Mike sped up in order to be by his side, and the way he clutched his knife even tighter under his pants. 

“Only two more miles, it has to clear up soon.”

Will stated.

Mike hesitated, his body becoming stiff, but Will was too determined to slow down now. 

Two more miles. 

Two more miles until he can return his mother's watch. 

Two more miles until Jon can hold him in his arms. 

Two more miles until Hopper can give him a better splint, one made with more precision rather than care. 

Only two more. 

And Will won’t let anything come between him and that pleasurable glory and relief. 

Mike lifted his neckline over his face, enacting a make-shift mask to keep the particles from his system. 

Will followed, his fingers tight in his cotton tee, the dirt and sweat smell masking the cool silence in the air. 

They were both on fight or flight, their heads snapping every which way at the smallest tumble of a pebble. 

There was no going back now. 

“Will…”

Mike stutters, his shirt soaked in sweat, and his hands clutched tightly. 

“No.”

Will snaps back, his patience wearing thin, only to be replaced with a deep, guttural fear. 

Mike shakes his head, his steps getting slower. 

“WILL!”

He yells, instantly looking around in regret. 

Will turns around, the unexplainable mix of emotions leaving him in a drunken trance. 

“We are not going any further.”

Will ignores him, turning back around with a roll of his eyes and a fearful gulp. 

Mike stomps forward, reaching for Will’s shoulder and spinning him around. 

“Do you not see the gate!?! Will, we can’t get across!”
Mike points forward, the shirt falling from his face, revealing his reddening face below. 

And there it is. 

Just as Will squints across the dark plane of land, through the thinning layers of trees, he sees it. 

Like a giant river, hellish red light pours from the scar-like slit in the earth. 

And the particles just keep coming. 

No. 

Mike backs up as Will frantically checks the map, unfolding it so hard it rips in the corner. 

No. 

He throws his backpack off, ignoring Mike’s desperate shushing. 

Will yanks the zipper apart, clutching his compass in his hand. 

NO.

They’re exactly where they’re supposed to be. The map leads the correct path, and the compass is frantically spinning. 

There's no way to get across. 

“FUCK!”

Will screams, a deep, shrilling sound coming from far away in response. 

He drops to his knees, his vision going blurry. 

“WILL WE HAVE TO LEAVE!”

Mike yanks at him, but he won’t budge. 

NO.

It can’t be true, all this work, their sole satisfactory goal, their final act of escape, all falling apart in seconds. 

His mom.

His brother. 

His family.

His friends. 

Now, just sit as simple nostalgic reminders; he has no way of returning to them, no way to confirm their well-being anymore. 

Will’s hands shake as they reach toward his face, his tears dripping clean trails down his dirt-covered palms, his wrists feeling loose and flimsy. 

This was his last chance. 

Mike’s desperate calls just serve as white noise, the air is getting thicker, and the screams, from Mike and something else, both get louder, 

But it doesn’t matter anymore. 

Mike tugs on Will’s body, but he stays still, like an anchor tied down to his sorrows and the mud seeping through his jeans. 

“We can’t wait anymore, Will, WE NEED TO RUN!”

Will slowly stands up, almost tripping over his own shoes. 

“I NEED TO FIND THEM!”

He screams at Mike, running toward the gate. 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he can’t think of any logical reason to do it at all, but he no longer can find that logistical part of his brain. 

Mike tackles him, his sharp elbows and bony fingers poking and prodding every which way as he drags Will’s kicking body to the floor. 

“NO NONO-”

Will falls to the ground with a slam, a deep sting of pain exploding in his lower back as he hits something solid inside his backpack. 

Mike shakes Will’s shoulders, his knees digging into his bile-filled stomach. 

“SNAP OUT OF IT!!!”

Mike’s fingers slipped over Will’s neck in a deafening grip of his collar, Will’s vision still hazy from the tears streaming down his face. 

But Mike is not in the mood for comforting. 

Will watches as Mike’s eyes widen in fear, his face snapping to the side. 

And within the split second, Will’s getting yanked to his feet, his shoulder aching from the sudden tugging on his wrist. 

The two are running, Will’s pain and anger getting subdued with pure, raw fear. 

He takes a quick look behind him, only to be met with a giant demobat above his head. 

“WILL! DUCK!”

Mike screams, his voice raw and shaky, almost inaudible from the screeching. 

In a quick autopilot decision, Will reaches for his crowbar, half-shoved in his pocket. 

As his running slows, he smacks the demobat right in the head, its teeth just barely grazing his scalp. 

But his short-lived victory comes to a sudden halt, as Will sees the entire swarm around Mike.