Chapter Text
The screaming is unusual.
Will’s nightmares rarely announce themselves like this. They usually arrive quietly, in the form of a locked jaw, trembling limbs, a desperate, instinctive commitment to silence. His fear is usually swallowed and choked back, even in slumber. He has had time- far too much time- to learn this about himself. Years of lying awake, cataloguing the symptoms of his nightmares. He remembers Owens and his intimidating team of psychologists weighing in once, years ago, speaking clinically about trauma responses and survival instincts.
Their theory had been simple enough: a small boy trapped in a nightmare world learned very quickly that sound meant death. So Will learned to suffer quietly. Learned to breathe shallow and still, to grit his teeth through the worst of it and wait for morning. In reality, Will thinks he mastered that skill long before the Upside Down, on nights when he buried himself beneath the covers and waited for his parents to stop yelling. The hell of the Upside Down had only sharpened it.
He has had countless nightmares throughout his life. That isn’t new; sleep had never really been safe. In fact, he can’t remember a time when they didn’t trail him like a second shadow, coating each night in a thin film of dread. Usually, though, he is silent. Usually, he doesn’t scream. Even his mom- attentive, hovering, endlessly loving- had not always known when he was drowning in his sleep. The dark circles beneath his eyes, the faint tremor in his hands, the way exhaustion clung to him like a cloak tended to give him away in the mornings, but only to those who look closely.
His mom.
Jonathan.
Mike.
Which is why, in the relative safety of their apartment- years after Vecna’s defeat, years after the world stopped ending, years that his unconscious mind should have learned to unclench- the scream startles him as much as anyone.
It burns.
It tears its way out of his throat, raw and unfiltered, shattering the still, November air. The sound feels wrong, like a betrayal of his own instincts, like his body has neglected the rules that once kept him alive. Another sound follows- sharp, feral- and then his limbs are thrashing, tangled in sheets and memory.
Fear ignites him from the inside out. His heart slams violently against his ribs, his chest tightening as though it might collapse in on itself. It feels as if terror alone might lift him from the mattress.
The room is washed in silvery, milky moonlight slipping through the curtains. Shadows stretch and warp along the walls, exaggerated by the watery glow and his spiralling thoughts. Every corner looks capable of hiding something terrible. They tear another sound from his throat.
At some point, he realises he is screaming.
The shame follows close behind, sharp and immediate, but still he can’t seem to stop. He’s twenty-two years old. He should not be waking up like this. Should not be clawing at his quilt, his chest, his own skin like something is trying to break free. That is a sensation he knows far too well.
Somewhere, buried deep beneath it all, he knows he isn’t in danger. But he’s learnt that not being in danger doesn’t mean being safe.
Will Byers can’t remember the last time he felt truly safe.
He’s felt pockets of it- small, fleeting clearings in the fog. In the way his mom still cups his cheek. In the way Jonathan rests his chin on the top of his head when they hug, even though they’re practically the same height now. In Hopper’s awkward pats on the back when Will comes home to visit. In the way El used to smile at him like she knew and guarded his most delicate secrets.
And in Mike.
In the way Mike cleans the kitchen when Will is overwhelmed by classes, harsh professors, life. In the way he orders Chinese takeout without asking when deadlines stack too high. The way he wordlessly puts on Will’s favourite movie despite the fact it’s his turn to pick. The way he leaves Advil on his nightstand after a rare night out. The way he gives him that familiar, crinkling smile over morning coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Pockets.
He thinks the last time he felt truly safe was the brief stretch between Lonnie leaving and the Upside Down taking him. Back then his days were filled with laughter from him mom and Jonathan as they tried to cobble together a dinner of frozen peas and boxed mac and cheese. They were filled with endless hours of D&D with Mike at the helm, weaving heroic tales. They were filled with long, meandering bike rides with his friends. With movie nights in Mike’s basement- protected by a blanket and Mike’s arm curled around him. That was safety. He’s made his peace with the fact that pockets are all he gets now.
Another cry breaks loose without permission. Sweat gathers at his temples, slicks down his back. His fingers dig into the quilt hard enough to ache. His lungs stutter uselessly, breath splintering into sharp, insufficient fragments.
It can’t have been more than a few minutes, but time has collapsed into something meaningless.
Movement cuts through the chaos. Mike slides into the room, socked feet gliding silently over the wooden floorboards. He’s holding a lamp aloft like a weapon, shoulders squared, eyes sharp with the kind of familiar fear that’s already turning into action. His brows knit together, mouth parted as he scans the room, bracing for a fight.
Will sobs harder at the sight of him. Mike’s gaze lands on the bed. On Will. The danger reveals itself for what it is. The lamp slips from Mike’s hand and clatters to the floor, forgotten. He’s at Will’s side in an instant, knee dipping into the mattress, the familiar weight of him pressing into Will’s thigh. His hand hovers uncertainly over Will’s arm, fingers trembling as if he’s afraid of doing the wrong thing.
Worry flickers across Mike’s pale, beautiful face- raw and unguarded. Fear. Confusion. And beneath it all, something fierce and protective that makes Will’s chest ache even as it tightens.
Years ago, amongst the terror of fighting monsters, Owens had sat them down in a sterile room and talked about PTSD. Trauma responses. Grounding techniques. Consent. Most of them had listened in a numb haze.
But Mike had taken notes.
Mike had leaned forward, pen moving furiously, jaw set with determination. Because Mike Wheeler loved like it was a responsibility. Like a promise.
Will’s screams dissolve into ragged gasps. His lungs refuse to cooperate, air catching painfully in his throat. Mike’s hand twitches again, his own fear barely contained as he searches his memory.
“Can I- ” His voice falters. Careful. “Can I touch you?”
The question cuts through Will’s clouded mind like a blade of light.
Will nods. Barely.
Then Mike is there, really there. Arms wrapping around him, solid and warm, his forehead pressed gently but firmly to Will’s temple. One shaking hand settles between Will’s shoulder blades, anchoring and real.
Mike’s breath ghosts against his skin as he murmurs steadily, urgently.
“Breathe with me. In for five. Hold it. Out for five. I’ve got you, Will. It’s okay. I’ve got you. Just follow me.”
The nightmare images still curl through Will’s mind, dark and violent, but Mike’s steady cadence threads through them- light interweaving the darkness. That familiar voice is something his body recognises as real. As safe. It’s deeper now with age, slightly roughened by interrupted sleep but it has brought him comfort for seventeen years.
Mike’s words sink beneath his skin, constant and grounding. It takes a few minutes of relentless instruction but eventually Will gulps in air- his lungs burning, his heart easing its frantic pace. His cries fade into broken whimpers. His body sags. Mike holds him together.
Relief comes first. It seeps in slow and treacherous, loosening something tight and overworked in Will’s chest. Mike’s arms are firm around him, his long limbs a little more toned now from lugging around endless English lit books. The slight muscle is new; the familiarity of the embrace is not. The steady pressure of his hand tracing circles between Will’s shoulder blades makes his body sag despite himself. Mike’s breath brushes his ear, low murmurs threading through the aftermath; Will feels his heart stumble- caught between wanting to lean into it and wanting to recoil.
Then the guilt arrives. It stabs through him, sharp and hot. He’d screamed. He’d dragged Mike out of sleep. He’d broken the rule he’d lived by for years- that his fear should be quiet, contained, his alone to manage.
He presses his face closer into Mike’s shoulder anyway, hating himself for needing it. For being weak.
He had been doing so well. Or at least convincing most people he was. He’d made it through the past few years mostly intact. He enjoyed his classes. He really liked the handful of new friends he’d managed to make. He revelled being somewhere new, in feeling normal. The dark circles beneath his eyes were sometimes deeper than most, his body worn thin more often than not but no one questioned that. Everyone was tired in college. Everyone accepted his flimsy excuses.
Everyone but Mike.
Living with Mike this year had been a mistake. Not because it wasn’t everything Will had ever wanted because it was. He’d dreamed about this when Lonnie’s shouting shook the house. When he lay cold and isolated in the Upside Down, counting heartbeats and imagining warmth like a prayer. When the world kept ending and he kept surviving it.
He was living his dream now. That was the problem. Mike Wheeler saw him too clearly. He always had. Saw through the careful reassurances, the quiet I’m fine. Especially this week. Will had been leaning on the words too hard, hoping if he said them often enough he would convince someone- himself, Mike, anyone. Mike knew better. The anniversary sat between them like a bruise neither of them could stop touching. Will couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt- not with Mike- because it wasn’t just his pain, it was one they shared.
And now Will was here, shaking in the dark, wrapped in Mike’s arms like he needed this to survive.
Like he needed him.
The thought burns hotter than the aftermath of the nightmare. And still, he doesn’t pull away. His fingers curl into Mike’s sleep-worn shirt, betraying him.
He hates that he woke him.
Hates that he needs him.
Hates how desperately he wants him to stay.
And still, he lets himself be held. Eventually, his breathing evens out. The sharp gasps soften into something steadier, his body settling before his mind can catch up.
Sensation creeps back in around the edges.
The crumbled sheets beneath his thighs.
The weight of the quilt.
The warmth of Mike’s hand against his back.
The faint, musky scent of him- detergent and sleep and something indefinably Mike.
The brush of Mike’s lips in his hair.
Only then does Will realise what he’s doing.
Grounding. Owens had explained it once, years ago, in a lecture delivered in that steady, monotonous voice. Anchor yourself to what’s real. Will hadn’t meant to do it- his body had reached for something solid before his mind could spiral again.
Somewhere in the back of his thoughts, he has the fleeting sense that Mike would be quietly proud of him for remembering. Somewhere deeper, he’s proud of himself.
Mike’s murmuring stops.
Silence settles between them, brittle and careful, like something recently mended. In it, Will notices the pale glow of early morning light creeping through the thin curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in its path.
They’ve been like this for a while.
Mike’s hand remains splayed against his back, fingers warm and unmoving, as if lifting them might undo everything they’ve steadied. There’s tension there- not fear anymore, but something watchful.
“I-” Mike starts, then stops. A breath. A hesitation. “You okay?” he asks at last, his voice low and deliberate, like he’s afraid of startling something fragile.
Will tries to answer and fails. His throat burns, scraped raw. He swallows and nods instead, curling inward, instinctively taking up less space.
Mike doesn’t move away. If anything, his hand presses more firmly between Will’s shoulder blades. Not restraining. Not demanding. Just there. A pocket.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks quietly.
Will forces himself to look up. He drinks the sight of his best friend in.
Mike’s chocolate eyes are tired and painfully warm, rimmed red from broken sleep. His curls stick up at odd angles. He’s wearing an old blue-and-yellow, striped T-shirt, the fabric thinned with age and use. Soft. Will realises hazily that it’s one of his, they must have gotten muddled in the laundry he thinks. He buries his cold nose into it, rests his ear over Mike’s steady heartbeat.
Another pocket.
Concern radiates from Mike in waves, tender but fierce, his body tilting closer as he repeats, softer, “Do you want me to stay?” As he speaks, Mike’s arms encircle him, snug and deliberate, curling around him like a shield. A soft cheek comes to rest against the crown of his head, warm and cradling. A hand settles on his scalp, fingertips tracing small, careful patterns through his hair.
Yes.
The word rises sharp and aching. Yes, always. Yes, please don’t go. Yes, I want you to stay.
But the shame, the embarrassment, is swifter. It floods in with memories of the screaming- how raw it had been, how quickly Mike had known this was wrong. Different. Will knows Mike has noticed his nightmares before. Not like this. Not loud. Not demanding rescue. He chokes the yes back down, swallows it whole.
“No,” Will says finally. “I’m so sorry, Mike.”
The words come out hoarse and fractured. “You should- you should get some sleep.”
It hurts to say. Will forces his eyes meet Mike’s.
Mike’s expression shifts, something conflicted flickering across his face. For a moment, Will thinks he might argue.
Instead, Mike exhales slowly. “Okay.”
His arms loosen hesitantly. They have to untangle themselves because over the minutes, maybe hours, they’ve merged- bodies fitting together seamlessly. Mike gives Will’s shoulders one last squeeze, then leans away with reservation.
Will keeps his eyes on the quilt, afraid that if he looks up he won’t be able to keep the words yes, please stay, from bubbling out of him.
“I’m sorry,” he says instead. The words crumble between them.
Mike’s breath hitches, like he wants to protest and thinks better of it. Will’s probably imagining it but as Mike pulls away, Will could swear he feels the faintest brush of lips against his temple- warm, barely there, like a thought Mike never allows himself to finish.
Then he’s gone.
Sock-muted footsteps cross the floor. The door clicks shut softly. The room exhales. The bed feels larger immediately. Colder. The air where Mike had been thins, warmth bleeding away.
The pocket of safety collapses.
Will stares at the pale early-morning light creeping higher up the wall. He swallows past the ache in his throat and tells himself this is better. This is what he asked for.
He sinks back into his sweat-dampened, lonely sheets and resigns himself to the fact that sleep will be elusive. If he listens closely, the ghosts of his screams still echo faintly around the room.