Chapter Text
Will had been waiting for Mike's flight to California with his patience worn thin. The usually calm guy had burned through his last nerve cells trying not to start daydreaming about the break like it was paradise, adding things to his anticipation that were interesting only to him. Still, mindful of his sister, he tried to keep himself in check. After all, she was waiting for Mike's arrival no less (he hoped, no more) than he was.
Curbing his expectations, Will tried to maintain a composed expression when everything went wrong. That stupid incident at the roller rink, Jane freaking out, Mike being a complete idiot — all of it shattered his hopes for what should've been the best days of the year.
But things really went off the rails when, during an argument with Mike, he caught a faint scent of someone's body: sweet, alluring, almost making him forget he was fighting with his friend. Will didn't pay much attention to what he'd smelled, reasonably assuming the roller rink was too crowded to avoid catching someone's accidental pre-heat scent. He was too upset to remember it, but he'd inevitably encounter that smell again later.
Family dinner was unpleasant: Jane wasn't talking to anyone, Jonathan and his friend might as well have been furniture, Joyce and uninvited Murray were rambling some barely coherent nonsense.
Mike, cold and prickly, completely killed any desire to make up with him. Everything conspired to make Will, as soon as he finished clearing the dishes after dinner, escape to his room — his fortress. Barely closing the door behind him and leaning against it, he looked around his personal space with regret. He usually didn't let family members in, but he'd been ready to invite Mike — he'd even cleaned up more thoroughly than usual, even though he knew his best friend wouldn't have criticized him anyway, and had put his best recent canvases on display. He knew his skill had improved a lot since taking classes, he was proud of it, and he'd wanted to show Mike his progress. Now it all felt like pointless showing off. What did it matter what he'd excelled at, if despite all his efforts, he'd managed to lose (almost lose, Will reassured himself) his best friend?
He busied himself with his own things, trying to pretend this day was as ordinary as any other. He put away his paintings, read without absorbing almost anything, aired out the room before bed — which took a long time to come. When Will last checked the time, there was very little left until morning. So he could lie there until he heard Mom and Murray getting ready to leave, then see them off. He desperately wanted to hug his mom.
And just as he'd made that plan, giving himself a few more minutes of reprieve, Will accidentally fell asleep.
***
Will woke up closer to ten — too late for his mom to still be home, but too early to be waking up like this during holidays.
Holidays. How dreary that word sounded now.
Letting himself lie there for a bit, Will finally got up and headed into the house, which should've felt alive. That sweet scent was in the air again, but it definitely wasn't coming from the kitchen. Checking around, he found no one except Jonathan sprawled out on the couch.
"Where is everyone? Why's it so quiet?"
"Everyone's gone," his brother replied almost singsong.
"Where?"
"Alaska, dude."
"Only Mom and Murray were going to Alaska," Will said, already getting annoyed. "Where's Jane?"
"With them," Jonathan waved vaguely. "Mom asked her last minute to come along, and she said yes right away."
"What? She agreed to go on Mom's work trip to Alaska?" Will asked incredulously, half-convinced this was all just a weed-fueled hallucination. "The day after Mike got here? And where's Mike?"
"Who?"
That was the last straw. Will wasn't about to waste any more brain cells talking to his stoned brother. Checking Jane's room, he noticed the mess — clearly evidence of rushed packing. Swearing under his breath, Will stepped out, not understanding how this had happened.
Yeah, Jane had definitely overdone it yesterday, and yeah, she was clearly upset. But running away from all the awkwardness? That was such an immature move on her part.
Only one person left to check on — the one he hoped was still in the house. It would seriously suck if Mike had also run off God-knows-where on an emotional whim and he had to search the whole town for him.
"Mike?" Will knocked on his guest room door. "You up? So... It looks like no one is going to have breakfast. You still in bed?"
Silence from behind the door, but somehow Will was sure Mike was still in there and could hear him just fine. Knocking again and calling his name, he pressed his ear to the door. There was some quiet rustling — probably in bed — and then, like he'd taken a moment to decide whether to respond at all, Mike said:
"Go away, Will. I don't want to get up."
"You're upset about Jane? She... she left, you know that? She's not here. Mike?"
"Please, just leave me alone, Will," came quietly from behind the door, like Mike had his face buried in a pillow. His voice sounded... pained.
"You feeling sick?" Byers guessed. "Bad reaction to the flight?"
"No."
"Well... there's a first aid kit in the bathroom. I can get it. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Mike," the constant refusal was starting to get on his nerves, and Will wanted to tell this whole reconciliation attempt to screw off, but a nagging worry kept him there. "Can I come in?"
He rested his hand on the doorknob but didn't turn it. Somehow he was sure it was locked, but he couldn't bring himself to check. After standing there for a minute with no answer, Will decided to give up and had already stepped back when he heard the lock click. He turned just in time to see the door crack open.
In the gap — barely seven inches — Mike appeared, looking genuinely...
Delicious was Will's first thought, surprising even himself, but a second later he assessed the situation more clearly. Mike was unwell. Really, really unwell.
He could barely stand, leaning against the doorframe like he'd been hit by some kind of agonizing fever. Sweaty, burning up, trembling, he looked at Will sharply — almost like he was bracing for judgment.
"Oh," was all Byers could breathe out as the open door unleashed a scent that knocked the air from his lungs and every single thought from his head. His head spun when he met the feverish gleam in Mike's eyes, and instantly he remembered yesterday — fighting, glaring at each other exactly like this.
He understood immediately, and immediately cursed himself for not noticing yesterday when he'd caught that unfamiliar pre-heat scent from somewhere. Actually familiar, he corrected himself, remembering this had happened once before, and somehow that made him feel even worse.
"You..." Will started, not even knowing what he was going to say, but Mike cut him off — hoarse and quiet, almost slipping into pleading notes but trying to stay coherent:
"I need to get to the bathroom. Can you... help me get there? My legs won't hold me."
Will didn't say a word, afraid he wouldn't be able to hold back the choking sob that rose unbidden at the pained sound of Mike's voice — Mike, suffering through fever and sensitivity. Pushing the door open, he ducked under his friend's arm and pulled him close, guiding him toward the bathroom. Mike's cold, sweat-slick shirt slid under his palm against his overheated, inviting body, and for a moment Will thought he'd never be able to let him go.
Pushing the door open, he helped Mike climb into the bathtub fully clothed, turned the water on over him, and crouched beside him, asking carefully:
"You good from here? You can use this towel — it's big enough to wrap around yourself."
"Y-yeah," Mike's teeth chattered as he tried to pull his shirt off. Will helped him.
"You've had this before, right?"
"This is only the second time. I don't know why it suddenly started, I wasn't... I was hoping it would never happen again."
Will fell silent, still stubbornly — even in his thoughts — avoiding the word heat. Omega heat.
Right before the Byers family moved to Lenora, not long before they were separated, Mike had gone through it for the first time. Back then, he'd just disappeared for a few days, only responding to Will on the walkie once to say he'd explain later. Holed up at home under Mrs. Wheeler's supervision, he'd finally shared the discovery of his secondary gender, devastated and disappointed in his fate. Will knew Mike hated the very existence of bonds that formed physiologically, without the involvement of "brains" — as he put it — psychological and emotional connection. He thought it was unfair that humans had evolved as rational beings but were still forced to participate in these glitches of nature, submitting to forces of attraction to another — often completely unfamiliar — being.
When they were younger and secondary gender presentation was still far off, Mike had told him he hoped to be a beta — like his parents and most people — and never be controlled by illogical instincts. When he learned his sister was the first alpha in their family in several generations, he'd been shocked and terrified that his own fate might not turn out the way he'd imagined.
Discovering he was an omega and going through his first heat had crushed and devastated Mike. He hated himself even more than before — and he'd already had a thousand grievances with himself — and no amount of comforting words from his mom or Will could help him accept it.
Will had felt his grief — that sense of betrayal by his own body that Mike was experiencing. He'd told Mike that if he turned out to be an omega too, they could ride out the difficult days together, and if they got their routines down in time, they could get used to it and not feel obligated to find an alpha — since pharmacology already offered ways to ease the symptoms.
But deep down, Will had been busy silencing an annoying little whisper that raised goosebumps on his skin — a whisper insisting that if he actually turned out to be an alpha, he'd have a real chance at binding his life to Mike's.
Now, looking at his friend — not in sweet anticipation of hypothetical coupling, but in genuine agony — Will cursed himself for those thoughts, and his heart broke knowing he'd once thought he could somehow help his friend if he were an alpha. No, unfortunately, he understood perfectly that even if Mike experienced euphoria from the physical act of bonding, later he would hate Will for indulging this unethical system.
"And last time it wasn't like this," Mike continued, voice cracking, pulling Will from his thoughts.
He was weakly rubbing soap over himself. He still hadn't taken off his pajama shorts, defeated by the ache in his muscles. Will didn't dare offer to remove them himself.
"Like... I don't know, it didn't hurt this much and wasn't this hot. I've jerked off like six times, I think. Thought it would help, but something feels wrong."
"I'll ask Jonathan — maybe he has something that could help," Will tried to think clearly, standing up. "He's out of it again right now, but I'll try to get a coherent answer out of him. Wait here, okay? Don't try to get out by yourself."
"Okay, dude," Mike trembled. "Thanks."
After closing the bathroom door behind him, Will could finally breathe freely again. He was almost swaying on his feet from how deeply that enticing omega scent penetrated his nostrils, wrapping his entire brain in a kind of haze.
First thing — he needed to air out Mike's guest room, otherwise he wouldn't be able to think straight, and then he definitely wouldn't have the strength to verbally interrogate Jonathan.
The scent in the bedroom was thick, concentrated, almost commanding. Throwing open the curtains and pushing the window wide, he turned back to the room and couldn't help letting his eyes sweep over it, assessing the situation. The bed was tousled like someone had been wrestling in it; next to it, a crumpled water bottle, drained to the last drop; and on the floor...
The realization hit Will like a punch to the gut. Several thick, wet droplets formed a trail leading to the door, glistening pearly in the sunlight, demanding attention. His imagination involuntarily supplied an image — a thin trickle of slick running down Mike's leg as he walked toward him. He'd deliberately avoided looking below Mike's waist, even when helping him into the bathroom, and he'd assumed the bed might be damp, but realizing Mike had been leaking slick right here, right here while opening the door and looking him in the eyes — it was too hot, too suffocating a feeling.
He desperately wanted to drop to his knees and touch his tongue to that enticing fluid, concentrating all the seductive pheromones of the person he so deeply...
Will shook his head, throwing off the spell. No. He wouldn't betray his best friend by giving in to this lustful side. He wouldn't sexualize him, no matter how much nature itself intoxicated him, no matter these damn rules dictated by secondary gender.
Holding his breath, he pulled back the bedding, trying not to look at the damp stains that clearly indicated a mixture of heat slick and come, stripped the soiled sheets, and used them to wipe up those treacherous drops marking a dotted line all the way to the bathroom door.
He put on fresh sheets, then opened the windows and doors in his own adjacent room too, so fresh air could flow through the hallway and both rooms.
When Jonathan had heats, the whole house would fill with a scent like someone had decided to brew a human-sized pot of warm milk and honey. It smelled warm, cozy, completely homey — not arousing in the slightest.
Besides, without Nancy around, Jonathan had only gone through heat a couple of times, and as far as Will knew, he got through it by just holing up at home, a few pills, and more than a few weed hits.
But the scent spreading from Mike's secretions was complex, layered, tangled — much like Mike himself with his eternal whirlwind of thoughts and feelings that even he often couldn't sort out, sinking into them like a consuming abyss.
Will could detect notes of fresh lavender, but also tart blueberry sweetness, and something else sparkling like caramel bursting on the tongue. There was so much that his sense of smell couldn't find peace. Carrying the crumpled sheets to the laundry bin, he almost gave in to temptation and buried his face in them — but finally, forcing himself, he shut them under the lid, hoping it would help.
"Pills, Jonathan, pills! What do you take to ease the heat symptoms?"
"What? Bro, are you in heat?" Jonathan's sleep-slurred words tangled together. "Didn't know you were an omega."
"Not me, Jonathan, Jesus Christ... Never mind, just tell me where they are."
"Bedside table," came the answer Will's frayed nerves had been waiting for. "Little pink ones..."
Pushing open his brother's door, he winced at the mess. This room needed airing out too — which he did first. Praying there wouldn't be anything too personal in that drawer, Will yanked it open and started digging through the contents. Finding a foil strip with tiny pink capsules, he read the name on the back and searched the same drawer for the box to check the instructions.
Struggling through the complicated explanations, he eventually deciphered the fine print and headed back to the bathroom with Mike. Knocking, he immediately heard a weak response and carefully peeked inside.
Exhausted Mike sat on the edge of the tub, wrapped in the towel Will had left so tightly that only part of his face and everything below his knees were visible. He was leaning against the only support nearby — the wall — and even so, he was trembling faintly. The pajama shorts he'd started washing in lay on the floor.
"I found the pills," Will tried to reassure him. "The instructions say you can take two every eight hours, and they start working within half an hour."
Mike extended a hand from his cocoon, conserving energy for words — he still had to make the trip back to his room. Steadying Mike's hand, Will helped him swallow the capsules and drink water from the rinsing glass. It was hard to look away from that always-pale arm, now covered in red bite marks all along the forearm. He must really be in pain, to resort to self-harm as a distraction.
"I think you should lie down again," he said uncertainly. "You ready to walk? You can get dressed in your room."
Supporting him by the shoulders from both sides, like guiding someone blind and disoriented, Will steered his weakened friend toward the guest bedroom — but as they passed Will's own door, Mike suddenly stopped and turned his head toward it, inhaling deeply.
"The hell is that amazing smell coming from your room?" he asked almost coherently, throwing Will off balance. "Can we stay in there for now?"
"Sure, if you want," Will helped him inside and onto his own bed, thrown by the fact that Mike was finally seeing his personal space under these circumstances. "I'll grab you some clothes, if that's cool. Did you unpack?"
"No. Just... grab whatever. And underwear."
Will left, amazed at how in such a short time he was now going through yet another person's belongings. Returning, he couldn't help freezing at the sight of Mike sitting there, face buried in his pillow. The embarrassed teenager in him screamed that Wheeler was trying to smell his scent, but another, more worried part of his brain suspected Mike might be trying to suffocate himself.
"Anything else?" Will asked casually, setting the clothes down next to Mike like nothing unusual was happening.
"Yeah, can I get more water? Please," came the muffled response.
And although Will concluded he was just being sent away so Mike could change in private, he still climbed up to grab the biggest pitcher they had from the top cabinet, washed it thoroughly, filled it with cool fresh water, and grabbed the nicest glass. Taking his time, to give Mike more space.
Returning, he set the pitcher on the nightstand, trying not to stare at the odd sight of Mike gathering up his pillows, blankets, and even his pajamas — pulled out from under the comforter — around himself. He tried to remember if he'd ever seen Jonathan do anything like this, or if nesting was actually a myth. It didn't seem like Mike was doing it consciously, because when he actually registered what he was holding, he practically threw them aside with something like disgust — which stung Will a little.
"Water," he reminded, making sure Mike didn't drop the glass. Then he refilled it twice more, starting to get genuinely concerned about his friend's level of dehydration, and finally settled into the armchair in the corner of the room, which automatically triggered the memory of Mike sitting by his hospital bed in the lab when he was sick.
Pushing away almost every thought, he began to wait.