Chapter Text
Mike wakes and instinctively opens his eyes.
There's still nothing.
Opening them doesn't really mean anything anymore, his brain just hasn't learned that cruel lesson yet. Every morning, it stubbornly sends the exact same command: open your eyes, as if trying hard enough might somehow force those blurry fragments of light to gather themselves back into a coherent image.
But they never do.
This morning, though, the heavy warmth anchored beside him pushes away the thoughts that so easily drag him into despair.
Will's arm is draped securely across his waist, the weight of it just right—not enough to make it hard to breathe, but more than enough to remind him that he is no longer alone. Will's breathing is soft and rhythmic, carrying that warm, sleepy humidity that brushes across Mike's forehead with every exhale. Mike buries his nose into the hollow of Will's neck and takes a deep, grounding breath.
There is the familiar scent of Will's soap, and underneath it, something distinctly woody.
"Morning."
Will's voice rumbles from above, heavy and rich with sleep. He yawns, his fingers threading gently through Mike's overgrown hair, the movement slow and unguardedly tender in that way people only are right after waking up.
A pleasant shiver ripples across Mike's scalp. It travels all the way down his spine, making his toes curl involuntarily against the sheets.
"Morning, boyfriend."
A small giggle escapes Mike before he can stop it. It sounds even sillier and higher than he'd intended. He immediately buries his face deeper into Will's shoulder, trying to conceal what is definitely a ridiculous, looping grin.
Will is his boyfriend.
Boyfriend.
"What did you just say?"
Will suddenly sounds much more awake, his fingers freezing in Mike's hair.
"Morning?"
"Not that. The part after."
Heat floods Mike's face in a violent rush. He can hide his face in Will's shoulder, but he can't hide the way his ears are burning by the second. Will definitely sees them. Will is definitely staring at them. His ears probably look like bright red Christmas ornaments right now.
"...Boyfriend," Mike mumbles, the word nearly swallowed by the heavy blankets.
Will lets out a soft puff of air, sounding as if he's just been struck directly in the chest. Then, he buries his face into Mike's hair and wraps himself around him like a koala, tightening his arms and throwing a leg over Mike's hips until Mike is completely pinned beneath him.
"I can't breathe when you do this," Mike huffs. But there isn't a shred of complaint in his voice.
His hand finds Will's back, patting the fabric of his shirt. Will's fingers start moving again, sliding from Mike's hair to the curve of his ear, slowly, tracing its shape.
"Boyfriend," Will repeats, as if testing the weight and taste of the word on his tongue. His voice is low and rough, threaded with something so soft it feels almost reverent. "Boyfriend."
Mike's grin must look incredibly stupid right now, but Will only pulls him tighter against his chest.
"What are you smiling about?" Will asks, the amusement obvious in his voice.
"I don't know," Mike says honestly. And he doesn't. He only knows he can't stop. The smile feels like something that has been locked away in a dark basement for three months, finally finding an exit and rushing through it without restraint. "I just..." He laughs quietly. "I think it's ridiculous."
"Ridiculous?"
"Yeah. Three months ago I was sitting downstairs convinced I was the most pathetic person on the planet. And now I'm lying here, blind, laughing like an idiot because my..." He pauses. The word still feels beautifully unfamiliar in his mouth. "Because my boyfriend snores right next to me."
"I do not snore."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
"Mike Wheeler, I do not snore." Will pinches the back of his neck. Not hard, just enough to feel like a playful, affectionate punishment. "You're lying."
"Yeah," Mike murmurs, a smile in his voice. "I am."
Laughing, Mike lifts his face from Will's shoulder. His blind eyes point toward where the ceiling should be, his dark lashes still trembling slightly. His cheeks actually ache from smiling so much. And somehow, he doesn't mind the ache at all.
They spend the next few minutes teasing each other while navigating the bathroom, brushing their teeth, and washing up. The house downstairs remains exceptionally quiet. They had gone to bed early last night, which meant they'd woken up with the sun.
Since breakfast isn't ready yet, they end up crawling right back beneath the blankets. Mike immediately curls into Will's arms again, breathing in the radiating warmth that always seems to cling to the other boy.
A comfortable, heavy silence settles over the room.
Mike reaches his hand out, searching. His fingertips find Will's chin first, then the sharp line of his jaw, and finally his lips. Warm. Soft. His hand stops there, hovering.
"Can I...?" His voice comes out tiny, as though he's terrified of startling a fragile bird.
Will doesn't answer with words. Instead, his lips part slightly, brushing a ghost of a kiss against Mike's fingertips. A permission. Or maybe a nod.
Mike slowly leans closer.
It's much harder than he expected. Because he can't see, he has to navigate using everything else—the rhythm of Will's breathing, his body heat, the scent of him. His nose bumps Will's cheek first. He shifts upward carefully, brushing against the bridge of Will's nose.
Then, their foreheads knock together with a dull thud.
"Sorry!" Mike immediately tries to pull back, his cheeks burning.
But Will's hand settles firmly against the back of his head, stopping him. "It's okay."
Will's voice is very close. Close enough that Mike can feel the faint, warm shift of air against his skin when he speaks. He's smiling.
Will kisses him.
A small kiss. Brief. Gentle. Nothing more than lips pressing softly against lips.
Mike's brain goes completely, brilliantly blank for about three seconds.
Oh. So this is what kissing is supposed to feel like. Like the final piece of a puzzle sliding perfectly into place.
Will pulls back just a fraction. Mike can feel his breathing, a little faster than usual, warm against his upper lip.
"You okay?" Will asks, his voice wavering slightly.
Mike licks his lips. Will's warmth is still lingering there, along with the faint, sharp taste of mint toothpaste.
"Again," Mike breathes.
Will laughs, a soft huff of sound that Mike can hear less than an inch from his own mouth. Then, Will leans in and kisses him again.
This time, it's longer. This time, Mike parts his lips slightly, letting the sensation wash over him. Will's fingers slip deep into his hair, and somewhere along the way, Mike's hand fumbles until he grabs a fistful of the front of Will's shirt, holding on for dear life.
His heart is beating entirely too fast. And for the first time in his life, he finally understands why romance novels always talk about butterflies in your stomach. Because this—this electric, fluttering weightlessness—is exactly what it feels like.
They kiss for a long time, letting the morning drift past them. Eventually, Will pulls back just enough for them to catch their breath, though they're still sharing the same air. Will's fingers continue to comb through Mike's messy curls.
Does Will really love touching his hair this much? Mike makes a frantic mental note to steal some of Nancy's expensive conditioner the next time he's in bathroom.
"Did you sleep well?" Will asks quietly.
"Yeah." Mike thinks for a moment before adding, "I haven't slept that well in a long time."
It's the absolute truth. For the past three months, his sleep had been shattered into agonizing fragments. Two hours asleep. Awake again, gasping. Another two hours. Awake again. The nightmares never left him alone, and neither did the crushing emptiness.
But last night... last night, he had Will's heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Like an anchor keeping him tied to the surface of the world.
"Me too," Will says softly.
Mike absently rubs at the soft fabric of Will's T-shirt. He hasn't paid attention to calendars or dates in a long time. He had completely missed the start of high school. In the suicidal state he'd been in, there was no way he could have gone anyway. He has no idea how his mom had handled all the paperwork and phone calls.
"Will."
"Hm?"
"What day is it?"
"Saturday, actually."
Mike nods slowly. "So... what are we doing today?"
Will's fingers pause near his temple as he ponders. "What do you want to do?"
Mike opens his mouth, the automatic response rising to his throat. I want to write. But the mere thought sends a sharp, physical ache through his chest.
Back when he used to write, he'd always make a pot of hot drink first, letting the aroma fill the house. Then he'd sit right by the window and let the morning sunlight spill across the blank paper, watching words materialize beneath his pen, one ink stroke at a time. He had never realized how incredibly precious those mundane things were until they were ripped away.
"I want..." Mike swallows hard, fighting the lump in his throat. "I want to try writing something. Not a whole story. Just... try."
His voice comes out much quieter than he'd intended, raw and vulnerable.
One of Will's hands continues its soothing rhythm through his hair. The other finds Mike's hand under the covers, threading their fingers together perfectly.
"Okay," Will says without a shred of hesitation.
"What am I supposed to do, Will? I don't know how to write anymore." Mike buries his face into Will's chest, trying to swallow the hot embarrassment that comes with admitting his utter helplessness.
"One step at a time," Will's voice remains an unshakeable, calm constant. "You could start with a tape recorder. Or... we could ask some adults. They'll probably know more about resources than we do." He pauses, his thumb brushing over Mike's knuckles. "We could learn Braille together."
Mike freezes in his arms. "You'd learn it too?"
"Of course I would." Will squeezes his hand tightly. "I want to be able to read your stories, Mike. I've always been your first fan."
A sudden wave of heat floods behind Mike's damaged eyes. He wants to argue that his writing isn't even that good. He wants to say that it's too much trouble, that Will shouldn't have to change his life for a broken Paladin. But every single objection dies in his throat before it can leave his mouth.
Will's hand is so incredibly warm. His thumb draws small, rhythmic circles across the back of Mike's hand, a silent, fierce kind of encouragement.
"...Okay," Mike hears himself whisper before his brain can second-guess it. "I want to try."
Will smiles against his hair. He lifts Mike's hand from the mattress and presses a feather-light, tender kiss against his knuckle.
The second knuckle of his left ring finger.
Mike's heart gives a violent, beautiful lurch. Like someone had just set off an entire sky full of fireworks inside his ribcage.
"Breakfast is ready!"
The familiar, booming Wheeler family shout echoes up through the floorboards. Years ago, that screaming used to terrify Will; he’d always think Karen and Ted were on the verge of a divorce. Eventually, he’d learned this was just the chaotic way the Wheelers communicated.
"Come on," Will's voice is thick with warm laughter as he shifts. "Let's go eat first."
Will gets out of bed first. Mike lies still, listening to the soft, muted thud of Will's bare feet hitting the carpet, the rustle of him fumbling around for his slippers, and the sharp shhhk of the curtains being drawn open.
"It's cloudy today," Will announces, his voice still low. "But it won't rain."
"How do you know?" Mike asks, shifting against the pillows.
"I just looked outside."
"No, I mean—how do you know it won't rain just by looking?"
"The clouds are gray, but they're thin. The sun's trapped right behind them, so the light is all soft and diffused." Will pauses, and Mike can hear the smile in his voice. "You know, I could tell you what the weather looks like every single day."
Mike thinks about that for a second.
He never used to need someone to translate the sky for him—he used to just look up and take it for granted. Now, he needed a guide. Yet, the realization didn't sting nearly as much as he thought it would. Maybe because it was Will offering.
"Okay," Mike murmurs. "Every day."
Will walks back to the edge of the bed and gently hands him a bundle of fabric. As Mike's fingers find the tag at the collar, he realizes Will had already turned everything right-side out for him ahead of time.
Mike lifts his arms, carefully pulling the T-shirt over his head. As the cotton slides down his face, he catches the sharp, clean scent of laundry detergent. He had never noticed how laundry detergent smelled before.
"Perfect," Will says. Mike feels a warm finger hook under his collar, straightening the fabric. Will's fingertips accidentally brush against his bare collarbone, lingering for a fraction of a second. "Need help buttoning your jeans? I can turn around."
Mike can't help the snort that escapes him. "You literally helped me shower last night, Will. What exactly haven't you seen at this point?"
Will lets out a sound that sits somewhere between a strangled groan and a helpless laugh. "That was... that was an emergency."
"Taking my pants off was an emergency?"
Will doesn't answer.
Instead, Mike hears the rapid scuff of Will's sneakers crossing the room as he apparently shoves his entire face into the dark depths of the closet, presumably pretending to look for something that didn't exist.
Laughing quietly, Mike shakes his head. He fumbles his way out of his flannel pajama pants and tries to guide his legs into his denim jeans. The process is significantly harder than he anticipated. He can't tell which direction the waistband is facing, nearly shoves both feet into the same pant leg, and takes three embarrassing tries just to line up the metal teeth of the zipper.
But he stubbornly refuses to call for backup. At the very least, he is going to dress himself.
Eventually, after a bit of silent wrestling, the button clicks into place.
"Done," Mike announces, a little breathless but triumphant.
"You're seriously amazing, you know that?" Will's voice drifts over from the closet, sounding genuinely, profoundly impressed.
Mike's face immediately heats up. Again. He was beginning to realize that blushing was rapidly becoming a permanent medical condition, as frequent and involuntary as breathing or keeping a pulse. If there were a running counter tracking exactly how many times Will Byers made him blush, the damn thing would have short-circuited and exploded within the first hour.
Together, they make their way downstairs. Mike keeps his left hand flat against the hallway wall and his right hand firmly laced in Will's, stepping carefully over the familiar wooden risers.
One step. Another. Another.
The rich, buttery smell of pancakes drifts up from the kitchen, guiding them home.
He can hear the familiar symphony of a Wheeler morning: Karen's rhythmic footsteps, the sharp scrape of a metal spatula, the heavy thud of a glass bottle of maple syrup being set on the wood table. Then, the distinct clink of Nancy's mug. She always used the exact same white ceramic mug, the one with the tiny, jagged chip at the base of the handle.
"Mike!"
Karen's voice floats in from the kitchen doorway, carrying a cautious, fragile sort of delight, as if she were terrified that speaking too loudly might spook him right back into his basement exile. "You're up!"
"Yeah," Mike says, clearing his rough throat, not entirely sure what else he's supposed to say.
He pulls out a chair and takes a seat at the long table. Will slides into the seat directly to his left. Nancy must be on his right, because a second later, a hand grabs his wrist, squeezing gently. Mike can practically feel the sheer, heavy intensity of her stare burning into the side of his face.
"Morning, Mike," her voice trembles, just a little.
"Morning."
He still can't quite muster up a proper smile for anyone who isn't Will Byers, but he's trying. He's making progress.
"I made blueberry pancakes today," Karen says, her voice bright as she sets a thick, heavy plate down in front of him.
To his far right, Holly is muttering under her breath about something related to preschool. Across the table, Ted is almost certainly buried behind the morning paper, judging by the loud, aggressive rustling of dead trees.
Mike had honestly expected some kind of lecture from his father this morning. Something about why Will was sleeping over, or how locking himself in a dark room for three months wasn't exactly what a man was supposed to do. But Ted remains entirely silent. Maybe Mom had cornered him in the kitchen beforehand and threatened his life.
"Thanks, Mom."
Karen goes completely still for a beat. Then, Mike feels her shadow fall over him as she bends down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss directly to his forehead. It stays there a little too long, like she's trying to pour all the words she doesn't know how to say into his skin.
Will quietly places a metal fork into Mike's right hand, then nudges the plate a fraction closer. He taps his own fork against the rim of Mike's plate a couple of times so Mike can mentally chart the coordinates of the food.
"Pancakes are right in front of you, slightly to the right," Will murmurs near his ear, his voice a low, private current against the kitchen noise. "Syrup is on the left. Coffee is at your upper right. Careful, it's still steaming."
Following the audio cues, Mike carefully guides his fork to the edge of a pancake, cuts off a messy piece, drags it through a pool of sticky syrup, and pops it into his mouth.
The sharp, tart sweetness of bursting blueberries immediately explodes across his tongue, followed closely by the rich, warm lake of maple syrup. The pancake is perfect. Crisp around the golden edges, pillowy soft in the center. He didn't think he'd ever tasted anything this good in his entire life.
"Well?" Karen asks, her breathing tight with anxiety.
"It's really good, Mom," Mike says.
He hears her let out a sharp, ragged sniffle. She tries to do it quietly, but in Mike's world of absolute darkness, the sound is magnified tenfold.
Mike lowers his head, focusing entirely on cutting another piece of pancake. He pushes down the sudden, defensive flash of irritation that flares up in his chest. He hates feeling like he's made of spun glass. He hates that a simple compliment makes his mother weep.
But he forces the anger down. It's not her fault. She just loves him. She just wants to help.
Under the wooden table, Will's hand suddenly settles flat against Mike's knee, his palm warm as he rubs slow, grounding circles through the rough denim.
The touch instantly diffuses the tension. The irritation had arrived fast, but with Will there, it dissolved just as quickly.
"Mom," Mike says, breaking the heavy silence. "Can Lucas and the others come over today?"
"Of course!" Karen's voice jumps up an entire octave, practically vibrating with pure, unadulterated relief. "I'll go call their parents right now!"
"That's okay, Mrs. Wheeler," Will cuts in smoothly, a thread of easy amusement coloring his tone. "We can handle the phone calls ourselves."
From across the table, Ted lets out a low, irritated grunt, the newspaper rattling. "Can't you kids hang out at somebody else's house for once? This place is turning into a community center."
"Dad."
Nancy's warning tone is instant and lethal. Mike can practically see the sheer, unmitigated violence of the Wheeler sister death stare across the table—it was practically a Hawkins legend.
Honestly, though? Mike doesn't even mind his dad's complaining. If anything, it feels incredibly grounding. It means things are finally resetting. This was already going a thousand times better than he had ever dared to imagine.
For once, Ted actually shuts his mouth, letting out one final, violent snap of his newspaper in protest before retreating back into his sports section.
After breakfast, Will helps Mike back to the living room couch.
Mike tracks the familiar texture of the upholstery until his fingertips find the stiff little ink stain, letting them linger there for a long moment.
"I'm gonna go grab the supercomm." Will says softly.
He gets up to retrieve the walkie-talkie from upstairs, and the radiating warmth beside Mike vanishes instantly. The space beside him hollows out, growing impossibly cold, and an involuntary shiver wracks Mike's frame before he can stop himself.
He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to focus entirely on the familiar background noise of the house: Karen and Ted arguing in hushed, practiced tones in the kitchen; Nancy explaining something patiently to Holly.
You can do this, he tells himself fiercely. You are not allowed to burst into tears just because your boyfriend left the room for three minutes. That would be pathetic.
Only when he hears the soft footsteps of Will's returning down the stairs does Mike finally release the breath he'd been holding captive in his lungs.
"They're already on their way." Will says, settling right back into his spot on the cushions. The old springs let out a familiar, welcoming groan.
Mike nods, his chest loosening. By the time the doorbell actually rings, Mike is actively preoccupied with the Herculean task of not pulling his ridiculously cute boyfriend into a kiss. Ted had already left to play golf with his country club friends—men Mike had never actually seen—and the rest of the family was scattered throughout the upper floors. But they were in the living room. Doing it here was a lot different than making out in the safety of his bedroom.
Will gets up to answer the door. Mike listens to his footsteps crossing the linoleum, the heavy click of the front door swinging open, and Dustin's voice, loud and unmistakable.
"Where's Mike?" Dustin sounds eager, carrying a frantic, bubbling excitement that he is trying very hard—and completely failing—to suppress.
"In the living room." Will replies.
Then come the footsteps. A small army of them.
Dustin's heavy, dragging sneakers. Lucas's stride, noticeably steadier and more measured than Dustin's. A rhythmic, metallic scraping sound cutting through the noise—Max's crutch. And another, much lighter set of steps following closely behind. El.
Suddenly, Mike's throat feels incredibly tight. He can hear them. Every single one of them. The voices he had missed so terribly, voices he had spent the last three months half-convinced he would never have the right to hear again.
"Hey, asshole." Max's voice cuts through the air from the doorway, dripping with her trademark, unshakeable attitude. "Heard you finally decided to crawl out of your pathetic cave."
Mike snorts, the tension breaking instantly. "Screw off, Mayfield."
"You still look terrible, by the way." She walks closer, the rubber tip of her crutch tapping a steady rhythm against the hardwood floor.
"You too."
"That's absolute bullshit. You can't even see me."
Someone behind her—probably Dustin—lets out an audible, horrified gasp at the joke. Mike doesn't even blink. Instead, he smoothly flips her off, aiming his middle finger exactly toward the center of her voice.
"You've never had a good hair day in your life," Mike fires back. "I don't need eyes to know that."
Max huffs, a sharp laugh escaping her, and lightly whacks his shin with the flat of her crutch.
"Mike." Lucas's voice comes from his left. It's deeper than Mike remembers it being before, carrying a mature weight. A broad palm settles gently on Mike's shoulder, pressing down with a carefulness that suggests Lucas is terrified of accidentally shattering him. "Hey, man."
"Hey, Lucas."
"You've lost a ton of weight."
"Max got heavier to make up for it. Her footsteps are vibrating through the floorboards."
"I did not!" Max explodes from somewhere near the armchair. "Lucas, tell me he's lying! Is that true?"
"Of course not, babe." Lucas answers instantly, his voice dripping with smooth survival instincts.
Leaning slightly against Will's side, Mike can't help the genuine laugh that bubbles up from his chest. This noisy, overlapping chaos—everyone shouting over each other at the exact same time—was the most comforting soundtrack in the world.
Then, a soft, trembling hand touches his bare knuckles.
"Mike."
El.
She practically launches herself at him. One second she's just a presence standing in front of him, and the next she's crashing directly into his lap, her slender arms locking in a vice grip around his neck. The sheer momentum sends Mike falling backward onto the couch, taking Will down with him, who ends up entirely crushed beneath the sudden pile of limbs.
"El—" Mike wheezes, his ribs aching, though he doesn't care. "You scared me." her voice is muffled, her face buried completely into the hollow of his shoulder.
Mike hesitates for a fraction of a second before placing his palm against the fabric of her coat. One pat. Two. Three. The exact same rhythmic pattern he used to comfort her with when she first climbed out of his bedroom closet all those years ago. Back then, she barely knew how to form sentences. Back then, he had thought his job was to protect her from the world.
Now, he realized what she really needed was simply the freedom to find herself, and a circle of friends who would refuse to let go of her hand.
"I'm sorry," Mike whispers softly into her hair.
El lifts her head from his shoulder. Even without sight, Mike can feel the sheer, heavy weight of her gaze exploring his face.
"Your eyes," she says quietly, her voice dropping to a fragile register. "Do they still hurt?"
Mike pauses, internalizing the question. Do they? The agonizing, physical burning had faded a month ago. But a different kind of phantom pain remained. A dull, heavy ache that flared up deep inside his ribcage every time his brain forgot and tried to see.
I can't see anymore.
"Sometimes," he admits truthfully.
"I hate to interrupt this beautiful moment," Will's muffled voice grunts from somewhere beneath them, "but I literally cannot draw oxygen into my lungs right now."
El gasps, immediately scrambling off Mike's lap and stammering out apologies. Mike just laughs and stays exactly where he is, shamelessly sinking back against Will's chest. If anyone asked, he would stubbornly maintain that this was perfectly normal, standard-issue best-friend behavior. Besides, he and Will had always been notoriously clingy.
"Dustin?" Lucas's voice sounds sharp with concern.
Mike turns his head toward the sound. He hears Dustin's breathing, uneven and shallow.
"I'm here," Dustin says, his voice rough and thick. "I'm just... I'm just looking at you, man."
Mike frowns slightly, shifting uncomfortably. "There's not much to look at right now."
"Don't say that." Dustin's voice cracks hard on the last syllable. "You've always been a good-looking guy, okay? Even now... you're still..."
The living room suddenly falls into a heavy, suffocating silence.
Max breaks it without a shred of hesitation. "Dustin, are you seriously trying to confess your undying love to him right now?"
Will's arm tightens around Mike's waist from behind, his chest vibrating with a suppressed chuckle. Trying not to laugh himself, Mike pats Will's knee. Anyone with half a brain cell knew Dustin didn't mean it that way.
"No!" Dustin sputters, his voice cracking even worse now. "I just—I just..." He sounds halfway between a sob and a laugh. "I'm just really damn happy you're alive, okay? I thought..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
Mike hears a pair of rapid strides, and then the couch sinks violently on his right side. A heavy arm wraps awkwardly around his neck, pulling him into a fierce headlock. Dustin buries his face into Mike's shoulder, his unruly curls brushing roughly against Mike's neck.
"If you ever do this to us again," Dustin mutters fiercely into his shirt, "I... I don't know what I'll do. But it'll be terrifying for everyone involved."
Mike reaches up, his fingers finding the back of Dustin's head. The curls feel exactly the same as they always had. Coarse. Stubborn. Like the fur of a small, wild animal.
"Sorry." Mike murmurs.
"Don't apologize," Dustin sniffs, his nose sounding entirely stuffed up now. "Just... let us in, okay? Don't shut the door on us again."
Mike doesn't answer with words, but he doesn't pull his hand out of Dustin's hair, either.
Lucas joins the pile next, throwing his arms around both of them. The old couch lets out a sharp, terrifying groan in protest. With this many teenagers piled onto it, the structural limits of the furniture were rapidly being pushed to ground zero. El squeezes her way back into the center of the mass, her soft hair brushing against Mike's bare arm.
Wedged securely in the absolute middle of the pile, Mike lets out a muffled, squashed complaint. "Oh my God, you people are absolutely suffocating. Get off."
"This is disgusting," Max's voice drifts over from the armchair, sounding profoundly horrified. "What are we doing today? Sitting in a circle being emotional, or are we actually going to do something normal?"
"Get in the damn hug, Max!" Lucas shouts from somewhere near the bottom of the dogpile.
Max lets out a sharp noise, clearly deeply offended by the directive. But a second later, Mike hears the distinct clatter of her crutch hitting the floorboards, followed by the weight of her launching herself onto the very top of the pile.
Six people, crammed onto one tiny, collapsing living room couch. It was completely, beautifully ridiculous. They must look like a ridiculous colony of penguins huddled together against the winter.
Suddenly, someone cracks a laugh, and then the entire pile explodes into a fit of breathless, booming laughter. Loud enough for half of Hawkins to hear through the walls.
"So," Max says first, finally extricating herself from the knot of limbs before she suffocates. "What are we actually doing today?"
Mike thinks for a long beat. He swallows hard, his throat tight, his fingers tightening instinctively around the fabric of Will's shirt beneath the blankets.
"I..." His voice catches, raw and vulnerable. "I want to try writing again."
The entire room goes dead silent.
"Writing?" Dustin lifts his head from Mike's shoulder, his eyes wide. "How?"
"I don't know," Mike's voice comes out much smaller than he intended, the old embarrassment creeping back in. "That's why... that's why I need help."
Mike Wheeler had never spoken those words to the Party before. He had always been the Paladin, the leader, the planner who claimed to have everything under absolute control. Admitting his utter helplessness to the group felt like exposing an open wound. Asking them for help was a thousand times harder than asking Will. Not because they weren't incredible—they were the people he trusted most in the universe—it was just... different.
But Mike wanted to take that second step. For himself. For Will.
Dustin is silent for three solid seconds. Then, with a surprising, fiercely protective seriousness, he says, "Okay. Then we'll figure the damn thing out."
The cushions shift as Lucas nods in agreement. "I can ask my cousin. She's taking special education courses in college right now. She'll know about tools."
"I can ask Steve," Dustin adds, his excitement returning. "He knows some... uh... I forgot the professional word for them. The people who train blind people how to navigate stuff."
"Orientation and mobility specialists." Will supplies smoothly from behind Mike.
"Right! Those guys!" Dustin sounds delighted. "Wait, how the hell do you know that term, Byers?"
Will doesn't answer out loud. But under the messy pile of limbs, Mike feels Will's hand slip into his, his thumb brushing lightly against his palm.
A silent, private message: I've been researching since the day it happened.
Max lets out a soft snort from the armchair. "So, what, we're officially forming the 'Save Mike Wheeler's Writing Career' Task Force now?"
"That sounds incredibly stupid," Mike says, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
"Yeah," Max replies, her voice softening just a fraction. "But we've always been stupid."
Mike's laugh lasts a little longer this time. It feels like a rusty, long-forgotten gear inside his chest finally getting greased, turning slowly, stiffly, but moving forward nonetheless.
Will's fingers shift, interlocking perfectly with his own. Mike feels Will's thumb trace a slow, grounding circle against the sensitive skin between his thumb and index finger.
We're here, the circle says. We're all right here.
Mike takes a deep, clean breath of the living room air—the blue-raspberry scent of Dustin's hair gel, the lemon hand cream lingering from his mother, the crisp air clinging to Lucas's jacket—and carves this exact moment into his memory as deeply as humanly possible.
He didn't need eyes to know what his world looked like anymore.
Dustin's unruly curls brushing his neck. Lucas's broad shoulder pressing against his knee. Max's crutch resting against the wooden coffee table. El's soft hair draped across his arm.
And closest of all, holding him steady against the dark, was Will. Will's hand, warm and unshakeable in his own.
There had to be a way forward.
There will be.