Work Text:
"Careful."
Mike murmurs, adjusting his grip on Will's waist as he helps him down his basement's stairs.
An easy task, some might think, because it should be— if only Mike's best friend wasn't gone on painkillers and giggling like a lunatic.
"You have way too many stairs, Mike," is all Will replies, putting almost all his body weight on the other.
"They're not that many, Will. Just," Mike sighs, "hold on. Okay?"
"Okay," Will repeats. It's one word, but it sounds unintelligible since he kept whining around it. If Mike wasn't so focused on getting him away from those stairs and on the safe, concrete floor of his basement, he'd have the time to find it cute.
Eons later— it was a minute later, but it felt like eons— Mike finally succeeds in making Will walk properly and lead him towards the couch. He helps him lay down with caution, as though the cushions weren't completely safe, but instead another danger that could harm him.
He lets out a breath, straightening his posture and making his back crack out loud uncomfortably. He grimaces at the noise but ignores it and shifts his attention to his best friend, who's gotten himself comfortable in the meantime.
"You okay down there?"
Will nods, a soft noise escaping his lips to accompany the motion.
It turns out that taking out three Demogorgons by snapping their limbs when you're part of an hivemind that connects everything does, in fact, hurt like a bitch.
While what Will did was outstanding, the consequences were painful; his bones were fine, but he could still feel his body throb in agony as if they weren't, and the lingering feeling of fractured bones was steadily driving him insane.
Thanks to Robin and her earlier hospital harvest, though, they managed to get their hands on some pretty powerful painkillers. It took some time to decide to actually give them to him, mindful of the side effects, but in a situation so dire they really didn't have that much of a choice.
It looked like they worked, luckily enough, even if Will… well. Even if Will wasn't exactly himself.
Case in point: why they were there instead of the Squawk.
Will started lamenting about the station being too cold, how he wanted to go home. Needed to.
It took a while to realize what exactly he meant by home, but then Mike got it and asked Joyce permission to take him back to the wreck that was the Wheeler's house.
He tries not to think about the mess. Or the blood. Or what it means. For Will's sake.
Mike kneels down to his level get a proper look at him, deciding shortly after to properly sit on the floor.
Will had such a giddy, carefree expression on his face. It softened his edges and made him look more his age. It also looked alien on him, which was sad for Mike to realize— if it were a different circumstance, he was sure that he would've enjoyed seeing Will so happy, but since the real reason was, well, drugs, he couldn't help but feel concerned.
He's so lost in thought that he doesn't notice Will reach out, how his hand was getting closer and closer to his face until he felt fingertips caressing his cheekbone.
Mike flinches away, surprised by the sudden contact. He regrets it immediately, though, once he notices Will freeze and stare at him, his expression crumbling into something sad and resigned.
"Oh, right. You're not my Mike."
"…huh?"
Will sighs, moving his hand back to his chest, settling it comfortably under his chin.
"I thought you were," he continues, like what he was saying made any sense and he wasn't talking about Mike to Mike like they were two different people, "for a moment, at least. But my Mike doesn't look like you. Doesn't act like you."
Mike blinks once, twice. His confusion helps him sober up. My Mike… Will's Mike?
He moves even closer to him, close enough that he's face to face with Will. It takes him a moment, but he decides to humor him. "Well, how does your Mike act like?"
And Will giggles. Like a schoolgirl. His face lights up like he had been waiting for permission to talk about it, like the mere thought of talking about Mike— his Mike, to be exact— was enough to brighten his day.
"Oh, man, he's so good. He's always there," he recounts, awestruck, "always there with me."
Mike gulps, but the sound is drowned by Will's eulogy as it continues.
"He always checks up on me, y'know? And he's so good. Sometimes he holds my hand when he notices I'm not doing good – and he always notices me. He's funny, he makes me laugh the most. And he makes me feel safe. He keeps me safe."
Will's eyes are glassy and his speech is slurry and repetitive, yet Mike can see stars twinkle with conviction amidst that hazel. It makes his heart ache.
"Yeah?" his voice is soft, "he does?"
"Yeah," Will nods, sighing dreamily like in those cheesy romance movies Holly forces Mike to watch sometimes, "yeah, he does. He doesn't treat me like I'm weak though – and I hate when people do that. He notices that too, he always does. And even when he's– he's –"
"When he acts like your," Mike croaks, helping Will in his delirium, "like your Mike?"
"Yes! Exactly," Will seems bewildered that Mike got it, but he doesn't let it stop him, "even then, when he's crazy protective, I don't mind. I like it when he protects me, it's different when he does."
Will chuckles, then it dies down slowly. He turns on his back, setting his gaze towards the ceiling as his smile moulds into a small, soft curl.
"I wonder where he is. I haven't felt safe in a while," he whispers, like it's a secret. "I miss him."
A pang strikes Mike's chest. Screw that, he feels it scream in agony. This version of Mike –Will's Mike — he's well aware of him. That version of himself keeps him up at night sometimes, and he stares him down and glares and glares until Mike feels himself shrinking in front of the scrutiny.
But the implication that that Mike used to make Will feels safe even at his worst but not him, not anymore – it's a gnawing realization that makes his body shudder.
"You… You don't feel safe anymore?"
"I mean, sure. I guess. But it's not the same. I have lots of friends that care and my family – that eventually became enough. But it was different with him. With him gone, it's different. I don't have him to turn to anymore."
"Oh."
Mike's voice trembles. He didn't notice his fists curling up on his knees, so hard that his nails left crescent marks on his palms.
Unfortunately for him, he doesn't get a break. Will had more to say.
"But it's okay, 'cause when I miss him the most I can just draw him. It's easier, and it feels like he's close."
Will chuckles, "I think I miss him too much, though, 'cause he became such a problem for my sketchbook. Sketchbooks."
He draws out the s. Realizing how silly it was to do so, he laughs out loud again. Mike can't do anything but stare, unable to speak. Will was going at it like a madman and he saw no sign for him to join his rambling.
"I like drawing him. It calms me down," Will goes on, nodding along his words with conviction. "I like adding his freckles. And I like the little bump he has on his nose. They're my favorite details, I can't wait to add those every time I draw."
"And sometimes," Will licks his lips, "sometime, when I get really mel- melon– melanc–'
"Melancholic?" Mike finally steps in.
"Yes!" Will brightens up, "yes. Melancholic. When I get melancholic I start drawing him in armor. My paladin. Watching over me. It calms me down."
Will turns fully towards him again and that light in his eyes is sparkling again, smiling a full toothed smile.
"When I do," he concludes, "it's like he never left me."
As silence stretches out between them, Mike realizes that Will's delirious yet genuine speech had finally ended. Or at least it was put to rest for a while. Even so, he's not sure what to do or say now that he has the chance.
His hands are stuck in place and he feels like his body wouldn't cooperate if he told it to react, stuck on Will's words that lacerated him like knives over and over again.
But Will keeps staring at him with that starstruck look and honestly, Mike hates that what he's seeing is just… him.
That's when he makes a decision. Will's Mike was in his head banging on the walls, desperate to be noticed, to be let out.
So he does. He lets him come out.
He moves to grab Will's hand and grips it tight, squeezes it a few times to make its presence known.
Will lets out a small gasp, gaze turning from Mike, then to their hands in bewilderment. Mike feels him squeeze back experimentally, his brows furrowing in thought.
Mike doesn't dare to let go, and with the same intensity as Will's before, he whispers, "I'm here, Will."
It takes Will a moment to react, too wary to just blatantly accept it. He keeps looking at Mike and squinting like he's trying to figure out whether he's real or not.
Something must have clicked in his head, because his entire demeanor shifts and he starts beaming.
"You're here," he sounds extremely pleased. "Where were you? I was waiting for you."
"I'm sorry," Mike's voice had gotten low and soft, moulding into that familiar tone he always preserved for Will, only this time it's slightly strained. "I got a little lost and it took me some time— but I'm here now. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Will watches him talk attentively, eyes following every little movement Mike made, and there's so much adoration in them that Mike feels guilty under it, yet he stands his ground and looks back like Will's Mike would've done. Is doing.
"Do you promise?" Will asks innocently, like a child asking for a pinky promise. Before Mike could reply, he suddenly turns very serious, "my Mike doesn't break his promises, so I'll know if you do. I'll know for sure."
Mike can't help the laugh that escapes him. It's wet and painful and it makes him hold onto Will's hand for dear life.
"Yes, Will," he nods, teary eyed, "I promise."
Will grins.
"You really are my Mike," he sighs, content. "Thank you for coming back to me. I was so sure you were gone, but I kept waiting anyway."
Mike's thumb brushes on Will's knuckles gently.
"Thank you," he replies, "for waiting for me."
Will scoffs, looking at Mike in full offense. "Of course, why wouldn't I? I love you."
Oh.
Mike splutters, his hands get sweaty so suddenly that the one holding Will's almost slips away. Not for long, though, since Will immediately pulls him back with such force that he stumbles ahead and fails to headbutt him narrowly.
He's gaping. Will probably meant it as a friend, right? He's delirious from the painkillers, he reminds himself.
But something— someone inside his head, voice akin to his own thirteen year old self, tells him to stop being so purposefully obtuse.
His lips quiver around his next sentence, unable to fully get it out since his brain keeps cooking up something different to say.
"I– I," he stutters.
"I think you should sleep, now," is what he settles with, "aren't you tired? You look tired."
Will doesn't look tired in the slightest, but if Mike kept this going then 1) he will probably explode and die and 2) Will could say something even more incriminating with his current inability to keep control of himself.
"You just got here," Will cries, "why do I have to go to bed? You're so annoying."
"Will, you–"
Mike closes his eyes and exhales. "You need to rest, okay? I promise I'll be here tomorrow and we'll talk for real, but right now you should really close your eyes and sleep. Can you do that for me?"
He almost coos when Will pouts but eventually gives in, whining a long and painful 'fine'.
"You're staying here though, right?"
Will's eyes were getting drowsy, his blinks turning slow and sated.
"'m not going anywhere, I told you," Mike reminds him.
"Good."
Will yawns.
Time passes around them, the only sound in the basement being Will's soft breathing, the only movement being his chest going up and down rhythmically.
Mike sits next to him, on the floor near the couch, observing. His thumb keeps absentmindedly tracing the veins on the back of Will's hand.
He lets his forehead drop on the little space Will left vacant, hears him whine softly because of his dumb, dirty, dry-from-sewer-water curls tickling his nose.
Mike moves slightly, mentally apologizing to him.
What he says out loud is very different from that, though.
"Shit."