Chapter Text
The morning arrives wearing a raincoat.
The sky hangs low and dank, a lid pulled tight over the city; icy water lashes steadily against the window. When Will was small, he used to like the sound of rain. Back then, it meant he could hide away in his room, door shut, sketchbook open on his knees, the rest of the house muffled and distant. He could lose himself in lines and shading, absorb the noise until it became nothing more than a steady, comforting hum. That changed the night he was taken.
Now, on this damp, aching morning, the rain feels less like shelter and more like it’s mocking him- each drop echoing the way his thoughts keep circling, dripping.
He didn’t really sleep after Mike left. Instead, he hovered in that miserable in-between place where the body is exhausted but the mind refuses to loosen its grip; half-dreaming, half-alert, still buzzing with the residue of fear and adrenaline. Every time he drifted, his thoughts snagged on the memory of warmth leaving the bed, on the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall.
Across the apartment, Mike’s alarm starts buzzing.
The sound seeps through the walls, thin and persistent. With a slap of a hand, it stops. Will lies still, staring at the swirling ceiling, wondering dimly whether Mike managed to get back to sleep at all, or if he’d spent the rest of the night lying awake too, replaying it. The thought settles uncomfortably in his chest. He hopes Mike slept.
He blinks and turns his head toward his clock. The green digits glow too bright in the dim room. They seem to glare back at him.
8:00.
Tuesday.
He doesn’t need to think about it to know what that means. Mike will be dragging himself out of bed for his early lecture, hair messy, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. Gothic literature. A lecture he doesn’t adore but tolerates. Will knows the rhythm of Mike’s week the same way he knows the shape of his own breathing. It isn’t Mike’s favourite topic, not really, but he’s always been eager about anything to do with writing, willing to show up even when it costs him an hour of sleep.
Will’s own lecture isn’t for another few hours. Technically, he could lie here a little longer, allow his tired bones to seep into the mattress. He gets up. Lying there feels worse than moving. His body protests immediately. Limbs heavy, joints stiff, like gravity has doubled overnight. There’s a sour pit of nausea lodged in his stomach and his head feels stuffed with cotton. His eyes burn, dry and scratchy, his throat rough as if he’s swallowed sand.
He sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, letting the room tilt and settle, then forces himself to stand.
The walk to the bathroom feels longer than it should. He turns the shower on hot, too hot, and steps under the pounding spray without hesitation. Thick steam fills the air around him, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of the room until everything is reduced to heat and sound. The water drums against his shoulders and down his spine, relentless and unforgiving; he stays there longer than necessary, until his scalded skin tingles and his thoughts become pliable.
Eventually, reluctantly, he shuts the water off and steps out, towelling himself dry with slow, careful movements. Getting dressed feels like another small negotiation with his body. When he reaches into his closet, his fingers catch on familiar fabric. He doesn’t really think about it when he pulls the faded, sage hoodie on- one of Mike’s, he realises distantly, only because the sleeves fall past his hands the way they always do. It smells faintly of detergent and something else, something comforting enough that his shoulders ease without him quite realising. He tugs the cuffs over his hands and moves.
In the kitchen, the apartment is quiet. Mike is already gone. Relief and embarrassment twist together in Will’s chest, sharp and sudden. He’s grateful, selfishly, to be spared the awkwardness of facing him so soon.
The barbed memories of last night press in regardless.
Then he sees the mug. It’s waiting for him on the counter, steam curling lazily into the air. Coffee. Two sugars. A dash of milk. Exactly how he likes it. Beside it sits a slightly curled sticky note.
I thought you might need this. Be kind to yourself today.
-Mike
Will stares at it longer than he needs to. His eyes prickle as he takes a careful sip, the heat sliding down his throat, settling something restless inside him. He folds the note and tucks it into his pocket, like it’s something he might need later.
The day drags.
His Art History lecture is interesting as always but today his professor’s words slide past him without sticking. He makes vague notes in the margins of his notebook, diagrams half-finished, dates trailing off into nothing. Mostly, he doodles: mugs of coffee, rain dripping down windows, a pair of kind eyes. Without thinking, he tucks his nose briefly into the collar of the hoodie, breathing in, grounding himself. A small, tenuous pocket of safety.
Lunch comes and goes. He can’t bring himself to eat. The idea of food sitting heavy in his stomach makes a wave of nausea crest over him so he settles for water and pretends it’s enough.
By the time he heads home, the rain still hasn’t let up. It soaks into his hair, darkens the shoulders of the hoodie, seeps coldly through the seams of his shoes. He doesn’t notice how wet he is until he’s standing in the doorway of their apartment, keys still in hand.
The fabric clings unpleasantly now, damp and heavy. He hesitates before pulling it off, fingers lingering for half a second longer than necessary before reluctantly dropping it into the laundry basket.
The room feels colder, emptier without it. He tells himself he’s being ridiculous. He pushes himself forward to change into something warm.
He spends the next few hours sinking into their worn couch, swathed in a blanket. The apartment around him is small, cluttered, lived-in and undeniably theirs. Faded pictures hang crookedly on the walls, stacks of worn textbooks and sketchbooks crowd the shelves, a Ghostbusters poster leans against the wall unhung, paintbrushes sit in jars on the counter, a fountain pen Will had given Mike last Christmas rests on a notebook. The faint scent of coffee mingles with the damp chill from the rain. The pale-blue couch he sits on sags in the middle, threadbare at the edges, cushions forming a nest that envelops him. Their home is like a bright, vivid jigsaw puzzle. Yet, one piece remains missing; he hasn’t walked through the door yet.
Outside, rain lashes the windows, a steady drumbeat that mirrors the drizzle of thoughts he can’t quite corral. Shadows flicker across the floor as the gray light struggles through the blinds; the hum of the heater seems to match the restless rhythm of his pulse.
He’s faced Demogorgons, the Mindflayer, Vecna himself, but none of that is as terrifying as the thought of seeing pity in Mike Wheeler’s eyes. The anticipation of it nearly engulfs him. It feels like a danger he can’t endure and the one he fears he might have brought upon himself by letting Mike comfort him so completely last night.
The front door opens with a jangle of keys. Will inhales sharply, stiffening, tense in ways he hasn’t been in years; it is off-putting, unusual- certainly not his normal reaction to his best friend coming home.
“Hey,” Mike’s voice fills the room, steady and calm, reaching across the apartment and into Will’s chest. It spreads slowly, settling into the cracks of him that the nightmares and anxiety of the day have left exposed. Will lifts his eyes cautiously. Mike’s gaze carries a weight that’s impossible to name, a mixture of attentiveness, care and concern. It isn’t unfamiliar, yet for a moment, the rawness of it makes Will flinch.
“How was your day?” Mike continues, his tone casual, light- chosen deliberately. Ah. So they aren’t talking about it. Not yet. Good, thinks Will. He doesn’t want to talk about it; anticipation blooms acridly in his stomach.
Mike has clearly opted for normalcy, trying to pretend like nothing had happened, like nothing was wrong. Because Will had fucked up. Because last night nudged too close to a tenderness Will hadn’t meant to cling to. He’d created the dull, awkwardness that now made the air fizz. And now Mike was attempting to be normal. Nothing was normal.
“Fine,” Will mutters, flat, wavering. His pencil scratches absently over the page, leaving behind vague images, shapes he can’t name. Mike’s shoulders stiffen ever so slightly, his mouth turns down, there is a minute twitch of his brows- subtle, almost imperceptible, but Will notices. Years of knowing Mike have taught him these tiny tells. He likes to think himself an expert on the language of Mike Wheeler. He can tell Mike wants to say something to break the tension, to bridge the distance but he swallows it.
“Do you fancy pizza tonight?” Mike asks, voice wobbling faintly before he smooths it out. “I was thinking we could try that new place down the street?”
Will desperately wants to respond properly. Wants to laugh, to leap up and grab the menu shoved under their door last week, to argue about toppings and tease Mike about combining pineapple with pepperoni. He wants the apartment to feel normal again. But his body is dense, leaden. His mind fogged and sluggish.
“Sure,” he says quietly, almost robotically, eyes dropping back to the page. He doesn’t really draw- just presses the pencil too hard, scratches meaningless lines across the paper, anything to avoid looking at the faint flicker of disappointment he knows Mike cannot quite hide before turning away.
To his credit, Mike doesn’t push. He orders the pizza, changes into sweats and eventually settles beside Will on the couch. He lifts the blanket, tucking himself under it, curling his legs along the edge, socked feet squishing gently beneath Will’s knees, seeking reassurance and connection in the quietest way. A pocket of safety. The apartment, with its leaning novels and scattered sketchbooks, its faintly musty rug and little ghost of coffee aroma, feels complete now- the last piece of the puzzle has clicked into place. A brief kernel of warmth nestles into his heart.
They both pretend everything is normal. They both know it isn’t.
The conversation they aren’t having hovers over them, heavy and unspoken, like a storm cloud refusing to break. Rain lashes the windows, relentless and insistent and Will can’t help the bitter edge of humor at the irony.
When the pizza arrives, they eat mostly in silence. Well, Mike eats; Will nibbles a crust reluctantly, the smell alone making his stomach twist. He prays Mike doesn’t notice. Grease-slicked napkins pile on the coffee table. Eventually, the TV flickers on, a monotonous game show filling the background.
Only then does Mike speak.
“So,” he says quietly, letting the word hang between them, glowing like a fractured light. “Do you… want to talk about it?” He doesn’t look at Will, gaze fixed on the screen, shoulders hunched, fingers fidgeting. He seems nervous, tentative, small. Mike Wheeler rarely looks small.
Will’s chest tightens, tension rising in his shoulders, stomach fluttering. A sharp flare of panic threatens but it softens, replaced by a warmer, more painful recognition of reality when he catches Mike’s understanding, insightful eyes: he is cared for, seen, tended to. It unravels him.
“Not really,” Will breathes finally, voice quiet, almost lost in the pitter patter of the rain. “I don’t… I don’t really know what to say. My nightmares…they aren’t usually like that. It surprised me too.”
Mike’s mouth quirks into a faint, crooked wry smile. “Surprising is one way to put it.” He leans back into the couch, head turning toward Will, now close enough that the air between them feels shared, intimate in a way that makes Will’s chest constrict.
“Yeah,” Will huffs a soft, anguished laugh. The dam bursts; words tumble out before he can filter them: “I- I’m really sorry, Mike, I mean, for all of that, for waking you, for, I don’t know, for needing you like that. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to burden you.” The words feel murky as they spill and rest between them in a mortifying pile. He sniffs, then adds one more vulnerable confession on top of it. “I can’t tell you how thankful I am for you...”
He falters, lungs burning, chest fluttering. Mike’s eyes soften, unreadable for a moment, but he says nothing. Just sits, steady, attentive. That quiet patience is relief itself, a pocket of safety Will hadn’t realized he was seeking.
Mike hasn’t always been the best at controlling his onslaught of words. He’s usually ready to pounce with an intricate diatribe that has been sitting ready on his tongue. He’s gotten better at controlling it with age. Mikes eyebrows bend in almost as if he’s in pain. He chews on his lip like he’s trying to formulate just the right response. His face flickers with a thousand emotions. He breaths like he’s about to speak but then shakes his head as if the words would be inadequate. Fear erupts in Will’s chest.
There’s a pulsating beat between them. Then warmth. Mike’s large hand wraps around his, fingers curling Will’s. Solid, anchoring, deliberate. Will flinches slightly at the contact, overwhelmed but does not pull away. Can’t. Wouldn’t. Mike’s thumb circles the back of his hand.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Mike murmurs quietly. The words are simple. A fact, offered gently.
Will breathes through the trembling in his chest, feeling the room soften around him. Rain drums a muted rhythm against the window.
“Let’s… hope it was a one-time thing, yeah?” Will whispers raggedly, turning toward the TV to avoid Mike’s earnest gaze.
Mike squeezes his hand lightly, a silent agreement, steadying both of them. Their fingers remain intertwined for the rest of the show, a protective tether. A small, tentative pocket.
Time stretches, pliant and heavy. Will’s eyelids droop despite himself.
“Hey,” Mike whispers against the hum of the apartment, breath brushing Will’s ear, “Do you want to go to bed?”
“No,” Will says too quickly, too sharply. Sleep isn’t safe.
Mike studies him a beat, then nods. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t press, just resumes slow, grounding circles against Will’s hand.
The game show drones on, laughter canned and distant, the rain beats steadily, unrelenting. Will stares at the flickering TV without really seeing it, jaw tight as he fights the downward pull of sleep. Exhaustion pools in his limbs after the long, hollow day. He sinks despite himself, muscles giving in one by one. Sleep hovers above him, around him. Finally, he succumbs.
Later, Will is vaguely aware of movement: his legs being lifted carefully onto the couch, a cushion tucked beneath his head, a blanket arranged over his shoulders. Light fingers comb through his hair, lips brush his forehead. “I’m thankful for you too,” Mike whispers. “More than you’ll ever know, William Byers. Sweet dreams.”
Will doesn’t respond. He’s already suspended somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, held in the quiet certainty that maybe he is not alone.