Work Text:
"How did you know that Vickie wanted to..."
There's a distinctly naked feeling that comes from talking about crushes that Will has always hated. Even when he was on the cusp of puberty, before he knew that he was 'different', when his thoughts were less about liking boys and more about not liking girls, the constant background chatter of who-likes-who made his skin prickle as if he were having an allergic reaction. It's even harder, now, when he's never allowed himself to be honest about the subject; something already distinctly embarassing wrapped in layers upon layers of fossilized shame. Cracking those layers open and letting the soft parts underneath breathe fresh air feels more like tiptoeing above a three-hundred foot drop than it does any sort of freedom. But Will has faced monsters worse than a little embarassment around the only other queer person he's ever talked to, and with how things are going, he'll face more soon.
It doesn't help that Robin immediately assumes the end of his sentence was 'to make out', but knowing her, he's less surprised than he'd prefer.
Robin blinks at him, but doesn't hesitate to explain. There's something intent in her expression, determined, a dog on a trail. Except Will can't quite figure out what she's looking for, when to him, the truth has always seemed so obvious to everyone around him, like a stench he can't wash away.
"Oh. Well, we volunteered together." She looks down, bashful, cheeks pinkening with her words. Her hair looks a sickly yellow under the fluorescent hospital bulbs compared to its usual honey-blonde, falling in a protective curtain around her face, yet the happiness in her expression makes up for the shitty lighting. She speaks fast, syllables chasing each other out of her mouth. She's always reminded him of a bird in that way. Something flighty and down-feathered, hard to catch with an inability to stay still. "You know, there were, like, signals."
"Signals?" Will feels his brow furrow with confusion even as he leans forward, eager to hear more. He's heard plenty-- one could say too much-- from his male friends about the hardships of communication with the fairer sex, and had frankly put it down to incompetence himself; girls were just people, not wild animals to tame. (Well, maybe Max was, but that seemed less related to her being a girl and more related to her being Max. Thinking about her, confined to a hospital bed a scarce floor above them, makes his stomach sour.) However, he can't deny that trying to talk to Mike often feels like trying to converse with a particularly handsome brick wall, a wall that he frequently wants to bash his skull against in frustration. Despite always feeling like they'd had their own language as kids, nowadays he can't figure out what Mike is thinking between the hot-and-cold behavior and inscrutable looks, eyes seeming to follow him across every room. It's gotten better since the summer after California, at least; more like how it was when they met, before Will got taken into an alternate dimension and everything went to shit. Even so, ironically enough, Will does feel like he's trying to tame a feral stray half the time. One that settles into his lap and shows its belly only to bite and skitter away when his hands get too close.
"Yeah, you know, like a brush of the knee, a bump of the elbow, a shared look. That kind of thing," Robin explains. Will nods, enraptured. He doesn't think he's ever paid so much attention to something before, including both every class he's ever taken and all the various plans over the years to kill Vecna. "It all just kind of...accrued. Like a snowball rolling down a hill, until it was obvious."
But what was obvious? Was it when your crush told you the best thing he'd ever done was becoming friends with you? What about when he found out you were missing one day and fought through literal hell and back to find you? Or was it when he broke up with his girlfriend mere months after you'd tried to fix his relationship for him via a thinly veiled love confession of your own? Will had learned that looking into things was always going to hurt more than it was worth. There could be a million light-up arrows, and every single one would flip to a stop sign the moment he thought about following in their direction. It was always a losing game.
But god, does he want to win.
So he bites the bullet, and he can taste the metal between his teeth when he asks. "How obvious?"
Robin grins, and he spends the next thirty minutes thinking about avalanches while they steal a veritable mountain of prescription drugs.
♡♡♡
Will is running on about forty-five minutes of sleep, three granola bars, and a fuck-ton of adrenaline the next time he gets anywhere close to being alone with Mike. The sun is high in a robin-eggshell blue sky and the rusted spire of the radio tower behind them cuts a foreboding shadow against it. He feels clammy all over with dried fear-sweat, and the only thing keeping his hunger pangs at bay is the persistent nausea creeping up his throat like an oil spill. Yellowed grass crunches under his shoes as they make a steady trek towards the treeline. He's more than practiced at keeping his eyes away from Mike, at covert glances and quick look-and-aways, but Mike is walking so close that their elbows keep knocking together, and Robin's voice is haunting the back of his mind in a mantra, whispering signals, signals, signals. Coupled with their recent conversation about Will's alleged antenna and its ability to pick up on Vecna-related waves, his brain is full to the brim with radio metaphors.
He's about to finally give in and glance at Mike when the other boy speaks and gives him the reason he needs to move his eyes from their stagnating position on Lucas' back.
"Your mom and Robin are getting along better." Will can't help but grin; the animosity between the two women was so obvious even Mike had picked up on it, but it seems that for now the two of them have come to some sort of understanding. He traces the bridge of Mike's nose with his gaze. The edges of his face limned in sunlight, and he allows himself to admire his wayward curls for a split-second before he responds.
"Well, it didn't hurt that she scared off that Demo." His chest warms with pride. "Saved Robin's life, everybody's lives."
The conversation pauses for a moment, but Will spots the furrow in Mike's brow; he still has something to say. It comes a moment later, in the tone he uses when he's trying to figure something out, his thinking-out-loud voice. It's almost unbearably cute. "So, when your mom had her axe, you could see her? Like, through the Demo's eyes?"
Will has to curb a shudder at the memory. "Yeah. And I was...so close to the Hive it's like I could feel what it was feeling, like this anger that I was still in there too." If he were Mike, he'd be able to explain what it was like perfectly; as it is, he's struggling to find the words to even begin to encapsulate the experience. It was as if he was in a wasps nest, or an ant hill, deep in its recesses, behind enemy lines. Except the wasps were on fire and also roughly seven feet tall. Perhaps not the best analogy. "And I was afraid. Afraid for my mom."
"You wanted to protect her."
"Yeah. But I...I just couldn't." He hadn't even realized he'd turned to face Mike, imploring him, trying to tether himself to those warm, dark eyes, to keep himself from getting lost in his thoughts. Like the only thing he needs is Mike's absolution. He feels his face flush, and quickly looks away, only to be drawn in again like a fly to honey. "It was like this scary movie that you just can't turn off." A movie you can't look away from, not even allowed the reprieve of shutting your eyes. Mike hums, and they drift into silence again. It only lasts as long as it takes for Murray to heave the trapdoor open before Mike is speaking again, pulling Will's attention away from the others with his voice alone.
"Are you positive you didn't?" There's an urgency in his tone, in the way he slows to a stop and faces Will directly, searching for something in his expression.
The question is confusing. He wants to give Mike what he's looking for, but isn't sure how. "Didn't...what?" Will asks, feeling lost.
"Turn off the scary movie. Protect your mom, not the other way around." Mike's expression is so damn earnest, free hand gesturing as he talks like it's the only way he can get his point across. "I mean, no offense– I know she's badass and everything, but you know."
Will snorts. "Yeah, she's five foot three."
"Yeah! And Vecna likes to control the Hivemind like a puppet master. So, maybe when you tap into the Hive, you can pull the strings too."
Strings. Will thinks of Max again, held up in the air by some invisible hand as her bones snap like twigs. The nausea resurfaces again. "Except I'm not Vecna," he argues, hating the way he sounds unsure, like he's trying to convince himself as much as he is everyone else. The words reflect his deepest fears, when he lies awake at night staring at the ceiling and holding his breath until he can't anymore, fingernails digging into his palms just to prove that the pain he's feeling is happening to him only. Standing in the shower and turning the knob as hot as it goes as if he can exorcise the terror from his body by will alone.
"You sorta are." Mike squinches his face and lifts his eyebrows, pupils puppy-like and honest even as he outright insults him. Will can't bring himself to be mad.
"You're trying to say that I'm evil and hellbent on destroying the world?" He huffs, disbelieving.
"Totally," Mike teases, before shaking his head and explaining. It's...weird. Not bad-weird, but the teasing, it feels different. It isn't like he hasn't heard this kind of teasing from Mike before, but this time it's especially difficult to ignore the fluttering it induces in his chest. He feels like he's learned to read for the first time and now he can't help picking up the words on every gas station sign. Signals. "No! I'm just saying that, you know, you're like a wizard like him."
"In D&D, Mike, not real life," Will laughs, endeared. Not too long ago, he would've thought Mike was done with childhood games altogether. It's nice to be proven wrong, and he does a knock-up job at ignoring the voice in his head telling him he's only being coddled. He trusts Mike.
Mike nods, a serious expression on his face. "True. In real life, you're more like a sorcerer, because your powers don't come from a book of spells. They're innate." Will scoffs, heart pounding in his chest like a drum, but Mike continues, determined. "Listen, as far as theories go, I've had crazier. And with Eleven in the Upside Down, we really need some magic up here."
God. Arrows decked out with neon-green lights, all flashing tauntingly in his face. The skin of his elbow burns as if branded by Mike's touch. He feels like he's twelve again and high on the feeling of being the center of Mike's attention, breathless and dazed and gorging himself on enough to spoil his dinner. If he is a radio reciever, he's going haywire, overwhelmed with input and signals, signals, signals. That must be why something in his brain misfires and suddenly he's desperate to know they're on the same frequency, that he isn't listening for broadcasts on a silent channel, and his hand darts out without his permission, playfully shoving at Mike's chest. Do you hear me? Are you picking up?
Just the brush of his fingertips against Mike's clothed chest is electric, sending sparks down his palm and all the way to his shoulder. He doesn't initiate touch with Mike, not anymore, not since the Snow Ball and their fight in the rain and moving a million miles away, but that desperate longing in his chest takes over and he can't help himself. It's hardly more than a half-second of contact, over too quickly and never enough, yet he savors it like he could stretch it out into hours if he tried. The worst part is he knows he can, and he's going to. He's always been awful talented at making meals out of scraps.
Mike blinks at him, smile dipping slightly and making way for a little moue of– surprise? Confusion? Will can't tell– before the corners of his mouth lift again and he ducks his head, turning to follow after the others down into the tunnels. Will's chest is heaving like he just ran a marathon, cheeks flushing in some mixture of embarrassment and excitement and disappointment all at once. He doesn't know if that reaction was a good one, if it meant something or not, and he certainly doesn’t have the luxury of time to think about it when they're about to go on an incredibly risky mission to save a bunch of children.
His heart doesn't seem to care. It thuds all the way down.
♡♡♡
Will has had a lot of experience with plans-gone-wrong. Too much, in his opinion. Even so, this is...impressively silly. He never would've imagined he'd actually get the chance to hold hands with Mike Wheeler again. It tracks that he would get that chance only for it to be whilst trying to stem a spray of dubiously clean water from a bathroom sink.
What he really wants is a moment to sit and think about his conversation with Robin, about having the answers you needed the whole time, about being a kid and being fearless and knowing yourself intimately, inherently. He doesn't have the time for what he wants.
It's comical, in a dark sort of way, that even while panicking and sputtering at the water jetting directly into his face, Will can't ignore the searing heat of Mike's hands over his own. The entire situation is bizarre and all he can do is try for an encouraging smile as Mike rambles on about a plumbing issue to a little girl with dark pigtails and glasses. She stares at them, silent, and Will feels himself go lax with relief when the mention of Mr. Whatsit (which, by the way, is an objectively crazy name) has her heading to the hole in the floor. His body goes rigid again when one of his elbows slips against the slick floor, and he rushes to take off his jacket at Mike's bidding. They're both absolutely soaked, clothes sodden and cold against their skin, Mike's curls plastered to his forehead and his eyelashes laden with water droplets. He's still beautiful, brows set with concentration even as he bumps the back of his head against the pipe and swears. Will has to bite back a hysterical bark of laughter at how attractive he finds the sight.
Their knees knock repeatedly from their sprawl on the floor, crouched together awkwardly to both fit underneath the counter. He knows it isn't intentional and feels crazy for it all the same. There isn't anything beautiful or fairytale-esque about this moment, no golden light or easy solutions, and Will treasures it anyway. Not in spite of its imperfection, its sheer ridiculousness, but because of it. It feels like they're a team, like they're doing something to prevent another disappearance. Another Zombie Boy. And after so long of being treated like glass by everyone but the boy beside him, like his safety is more important than the lives of others, it's liberating. In the harried few moments before they get caught and they're left scrambling to their feet to barricade the door, it's almost like things are going to be alright. Almost.
♡♡♡
"Can you see them, William? Can you see the children?"
The worst thing of all, the thing that haunts Will most come Autumn, is mundane in comparison to the rest of it all. Silly.
"Do you know why?"
When he's held in the air like this, paralyzed under Vecna's control, unable to do so much as look away, even his pupils frozen, his lungs continue to move in his chest.
"Why I chose them to reshape the world?"
While he's completely stuck like a mouse in a trap, unable to so much as wiggle his toes, he breathes in and out without his consent. He's sure Vecna could turn his airways to stone just like the rest of him, but he doesn't. He chooses not to.
"It's because they are weak. Weak in body and mind."
Will can pretend, later, that the rest of his body wasn't moving because he wasn't trying hard enough. That he had the option to break free, had he only made a greater effort. He can convince himself that it his lack of movement came from personal weakness rather than lack of control.
"Easily broken. Easily reshaped."
But when he breathes, when he blinks, all done without his input, movements mechanical and directed by a mind outside of his own, he can't even begin to pretend, because his body knows. As if from some primal instinct, it knows the air being cycled through his body is given by a foreign hand. It's the same feeling that he had when he was being possessed by the Mind Flayer. He can't trick himself into thinking he's the one choosing to steadily inhale the smell of smoke and ash and burnt flesh through his nose. He knows intimately, innately, that he's being puppeted. Being–
"Controlled."
Henry's eyes are pale and fathomless. He's so entirely inhuman that his fearsomeness almost borders on absurdity, if it weren't for the bone-chilling emptiness in his voice. Will has no choice but to listen to his words while he writhes internally, desperate for even a twitch of a finger, a stutter in his breathing to indicate he isn't entirely gone. It's entirely selfish, because in these moments, he isn't wishing to escape. He isn't even wishing to survive. He's just begging for the smallest scrap of strength, the most miniscule sign that he has any sort of free will. It's the only time he ever talks to God. He makes deals, over and over again. Just let me move my legs, once, and I'll never swear again. Just let me turn my head away, and I'll pray every night. Just let me close my eyes, and I'll go to church for the rest of my life.
Just let me hold my breath, and you can let him kill me and I won't be angry with you about it.
"And you...Will. You were the first." Henry speaks slowly, like he has all the time in the world. "You broke so easily. You showed me what was possible, what I could achieve. Some minds, it turns out, simply do not belong in this world."
The base is silent. Will hated the gunshots. He hates this more, because he knows what it means.
"They belong in mine."
Everything releases, and he drops to the ground, suddenly gasping and choking as Vecna walks away. Will can still feel him, feel the Hive crawling beneath his skin, nesting in a home it made itself inside him years ago. There's a distant scream that he barely hears above the ringing in his ears. He rolls over, vision flicking between a sky orange with firelight and the red haze of Demogorgon vision like a rolodex, and just like every time, he's sure that this is it. That he's going to die.
Then, like he's coming up for air after a long dive underwater, he breathes.
Will always found it cheesy when books or movies talked about time slowing down. For him, it always feels as if the world is going by too fast, slipping through his fingers before he even has time to register what's happening. He spends hours agonizing over every interaction with Mike because it's the only opportunity he gets to stretch them out into something he can comprehend. Every bit of happiness is more a rationing of the memory than it is the moments themselves, an aftertaste of the real thing that he didn't know how to appreciate while it lasted. He's blindsided and left reeling by the good things in life. Like he's never a part of them, just an afterimage.
He doesn't feel that way now. In fact, he feels like all the moments spent with the people he loves most have been stored inside him for just this very moment. Cherished and worn smooth from reminiscing, but so deeply woven into his core that they're a part of him. Something no one else can touch or take away. Something all his own.
Robin had spoken of a little kid who was carefree and fearless and loved every part of herself. Will sees that, now, in a thousand different moments kaleidoscoped inside his mind.
He's on a swingset, kicking his feet back and forth when someone sits beside him. He turns and sees a dark haired, dark eyed boy who he recognizes from his kindergarten class. The boy smiles. He's missing his front teeth.
"Wanna be friends?"
All this time, he's been looking for answers in everyone else. Answers about who he should be, what's right and what's wrong.
He's holding a red crayon tight in his little fist, coloring a carefully drawn rocketship. When he finishes, he gives it to his mother with a shy smile. She gasps like it's the best thing she's ever seen.
Vecna has tried to take everything from him, again and again and again. He's sewn darkness and doubt into Will's body, irreparably tainted his childhood, hurt those close to him. Left a child broken and called him weak for it.
Jonathan hammers the final nail into the Castle Byers' sign, still wet with bright yellow paint. He holds out his palm for a high-five, covered in dirt and sweat and looking like he's never been happier.
Vecna keeps trying because he keeps failing. Because no matter how many times he tells Will that he's helpless, worthless, powerless, he can't respond to questions that Will already has the answers to.
If Will is a radio, picking up signals and getting overwhelmed by the frequencies, maybe that's because he's spent so much time worrying about what's coming in that he's forgotten about what he can send out. Maybe it isn't about what he can't control, but what he can. Maybe it's less about rejecting the parts of himself that he's scared of and more about understanding them.
Something crackles in his veins, hot like electricity and sparking his entire body alight. He grabs onto it, doesn't shy away, relishing in how it burns his palms. He feels the Hive thrumming in his chest like a second heartbeat and rides the wave instead of fighting against the current. It's instinctual, animalistic, the way he senses the Demogorgons poised to attack Robin, Lucas, Mike, and takes control. He sees through his own eyes into theirs rather than the other way around, and feels that they are vessels, creatures created to bend to the will of a greater master, and he bends. Bends until they break, limbs snapping like twigs, flesh pulping off the bone and spurting thick, black blood like ichor, torn apart by his resolve alone, frozen between the competing intentions of two minds. He doesn't feel cold; rather, he feels like there's a raging inferno within his belly and he only has to stoke it.
It's both a lifetime and a split-second between the rush of power and the exhaustion of the comedown as Will slumps to his knees, eyes rolling back into place as he falls into his own body. He doesn't feel the otherness anymore, only a sense of wholeness in his limbs, his lungs. His fingers curl against his palms, cramped and bloodstained, and the first thing he sees is Mike.
Mike is staring at him like he's never seen him before. Like he's fascinated. His mouth is hanging open, the corners of his lips upturned as his chest heaves. The flames around them carve harsh shadows onto his face, yet the light in his eyes is so bright it stands stark against the darkness. His cheeks are pink, spattered with blood, and in the haze of his fatigue, Will thinks he spots a halo over his head in the blur of the headlights behind him. It looks like it belongs there. Will wishes he could take a snapshot of this moment in his mind and save it like a photo in a locket to look at when he can't sleep.
"Will!" He hears as suddenly the world tilts and he's collapsing onto his side, cheek scraping against the concrete. All the energy has been sapped from his body, but he doesn't feel drained at all. He feels light, free. Like he could float up to the ceiling.
He thinks it's Mike who makes it to him first, pulling him up into a sitting position and then throwing his arms around him in a tight embrace, tucking Will's face into the junction between his neck and shoulder. The skin there is soft and damp with sweat. He's saying something, but Will can't make much out besides the high rasp of his voice, which is soon joined by another as who he presumes to be his mom joins them. He thinks of weekends playing D&D in the Wheeler's basement and movie nights with Jonathan and algebra homework with El and making a presentation on Alan Turing and making dinner with his Mom and Mike, and Mike, and Mike.
He thinks, as he slips into unconsciousness, that it really is like flying, after all.