Chapter Text
Will has never been able to sleep during thunderstorms. As a child, the threatening growl of thunder and snap of lightning always startled him out of sleep. At first simply because he was scared of the unpredictability, then because of the too-familiar reminders of an alternate dimension with red flashes in the sky, and then because Will had to be ready at the first sign of danger, whether it posed a threat to himself or his family or any of his friends, anywhere in Hawkins.
Now, at 17, he knows he doesn’t have to be hypervigilant. He can rest easy knowing the Upside Down, to his knowledge, has been closed off. The ghostly sensation of knowing there’s something else hasn’t grazed the back of his neck in months.
Even while knowing there’s nothing left to be scared of, knowing there isn’t another monster under his bed, Will still can’t sleep. The boom resounding above his house rattles the skeletons locked as deep as his closet would allow.
Which is why, against all logic, he finds himself standing on the wooden balcony. The poor thing is held together by termites and carpenter beehives and misplaced nails, but it stands strong against the sheets of rain and bursts of lightning. Will doesn’t really know why he’s outside; it’s late into the night, he’s tired, and every other time there’s been a storm, he’s wanted to curl up in bed and stay there until it passes. But, for whatever reason this time, his room in Hopper’s cabin — formerly Jane’s childhood room, he won’t allow himself to forget — had felt too claustrophobic for him to stay locked inside of, and he had needed to get out.
A feeling Will can’t quite put his finger on had drawn him out the front door, almost in a daze. His windbreaker is dripping with water, hair drenched and in his eyes as he stares into the growing puddles like there was a chance something would crawl out. For once, he doesn’t know where it might stem from. The remnants of the connection to the Upside Down he’d had since he was twelve hasn’t latched onto the base of his skull like it typically would have by now.
Distantly, Will thinks maybe it was fate that pulled him outside. Maybe he had to do something to fulfill some destiny. Although, he can’t seem to figure out what that prophetic destiny might be, unless it had something to do with Will drowning in two inches of rainwater in his driveway.
Lightning crackles, spiking the woods around the cabin in a split second of visibility. Will takes the opportunity to scan the area as swiftly as he’d learned to over the years, listening for any broken twig trying to hide under the guise of thunder.
This is hopeless. Will sighs and tugs his coat closer to his chest. Of course there isn’t anything out here, why would there be?
Another flash of lightning.
There.
His vision pinpoints on the leaves of a patch of newly growing trees. The movement of the leaves had been unnatural, almost moving against the wind. Frozen, like a deer in headlights, Will stays as still as possible.
Something snaps in the thick of the brush.
Will’s stare stays on the source of the sound, backing up with years of silent footsteps keeping his weight evenly distributed so that plank near the steps that always alerts his family to his coming-and-going doesn’t creak. He feels blindly for the worn chairs next to the front door, and leans back far enough to wrap his fingers around the chilled muzzle of the Browning BLR hidden in the shadows. Will is long since familiar enough with the process of loading chambers, cycling the finger lever, cocking the gun to no longer tremble when confronted with the view down the sights. Blood rushes in his ears until all Will can hear is Nancy Wheeler’s voice in the back of his head, reminding him to breathe so his aim stays steady.
He clutches the rifle close to his chest. The metal seeps through the fabric of his shirt, chilling him to the core. Against his better judgment, he slowly steps off the porch. Rain whips around his body, thunder rolls to the beat of his heart thudding against his ribs. Lightning strikes above, bursting the area with electricity once again. In the fading sparks, Will thinks he might have seen… the glint of metal?
That doesn’t make sense.
Will swallows and raises the rifle, praying to whatever is listening that the click of the flashlight isn’t as loud as he thinks. There’s definitely metal, reflection blinding him temporarily. He strains to see past the bright gleam in the chipped plates, but can only make out a mop of black hair, down to the shoulders at least. Will squints, body subconsciously leaning in closer, then jumps back, rifle aimed to its center of mass as the creature — humanoid, tall, metallic — rises to its full height.
Then disjointedly stumbles, into Will.
Will’s scream is caught in his throat when he hears a gasped, “William…” through the rushing of wind, and if he were anyone but Will Byers, he might not have caught the whisper of the voice that haunts him.
“Mike?!”
• • • • • • • • • •
This is, decidedly, not Mike.
At least, not the Mike that Will grew up alongside. This is a Mike with real metal armor and a sharpened sword, steel or iron or something similar, not the cardboard crafts made as a child; this is a Mike with exhausted eyes, grown-out hair, calloused fingertips Will feels only for a brief second when wrestling with the leather bracers clumsily tied at his wrists; this is a Mike Will doesn’t know. And Will doesn’t know what to make of it. He can barely spare the extra thought.
Rifle slung behind his back, he’d semi-successfully dragged a Mike with a fading consciousness back into the cabin, trying his damndest to keep the heavy footfalls to boards that wouldn’t whine at the strain. This Mike didn’t protest, leaning, with his arm strung across Will’s shoulders, as much of his weight as he could on Will, appearing like he trusted him to carry his life. Will’s only focus was keeping him upright, not on how close their sides were pressed together, not on how his dark eyes were closed and seemed to implicitly trust where Will was taking him, staring hard at the cracks under the doors for any sign of life. It wasn’t until he had securely gotten them into his room and locked the door that Will’s chest heaved with the heaviness of the breath he’d been holding.
Not-Mike sways where he stands while Will works to get his armor and furred cloak off, braced against Will’s shoulder, eyes full of reverence never leaving his frame. Grime — and blood, Will realizes with a wave of nauseating horror — mixes with rainwater, staining Will’s clothes and hands where he brushes against him. With most of the leather binds finally off, Will inspects Not-Mike as closely as possible, who is somehow still standing, and when he deems Not-Mike to not be bleeding out on his bedroom floor, he heaves a sigh of relief that practically knocks him back onto his bed when his legs all but cave on him.
Now that there’s no longer an imminent threat of death, Will can breathe. And consider the very next question that had been begging importance from the very start: what the fuck is going on?
Will rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, hunched on the edge of his bed, propped up by his elbows on his knees. Maybe this was just… some really weird dream. Maybe he’s half-awake and stuck in a state of semi-consciousness after the thunder had woken him up, like sleep paralysis, right? Because there is no way there is a version of Mike Wheeler standing before him.
When Will opens his eyes, he’s shocked to find out that he was right. Not-Mike isn’t standing in front of him.
He’s kneeling.
Looking straight at Will with those cavernous brown eyes, as though Will is a being to be worshipped.
Will’s heart shoots into his throat and he tries to swallow it down. “Um,” he starts, intelligently. Not-Mike inclines his head ever so slightly, the faintest smile toying at his lips. Will has to tear his eyes away when heat begins to burn across his skin. “What…” he trails off. Asking ‘what are you?’ feels a little too cruel, especially to someone wearing his best friend's face. Will clears his throat, his gaze sliding back to Not-Mike. “Who are you?”
The twitch of lips pulls into a grimace. Will can’t fathom why that is. “Sir Michael,” Not-Mike — or Michael, Will supposes — murmurs. His slender fingers reach forward and grasp Will’s from where his fist was knotted into his bedspread, and pulls his hand forward to press his forehead to the back of Will’s knuckles, damp skin chilled. Will freezes at the contact, unnoticing of the way Michael’s fingers tremble, and his lips part ever so slightly in a gasp. What the fuck? “Of Hawkins Kingdom.”
Will blinks once, then twice, then remembers to pull away. Lightning sparkles in the distance. Michael doesn’t react aside from dropping his hand to his lap and looks back up to Will with those somber eyes, patient and waiting. Will stalls, then shakes his head.
“Are you fucking with me?” he blurts ungracefully. “Is this some- elaborate prank Dustin or Max put you up to?”
For whatever reason, this earns a snort from Michael. “I’m not ‘fucking with you,’ no. I don’t mind your distrust, though; this does appear to be a prank Dustin could have conjured up, I have no doubt.” Will narrows his eyes at Michael, who seems entirely unphased. “But, William, it would be a stake through my heart to lie to you, you must understand.”
Mike never calls Will William. Not in a voice as grave as Michael’s. Certainly not when he’s saying things like that.
Thunder rolls overhead.
“Okay, so, what,” Will scoffs as the gears begin to turn, “I’m supposed to believe my childhood friend has a secret clone I just never knew about?” Which, well- when he thinks about it for another second, there are labs not completely explored in the depths of Hawkins. Will shoves that thought to the back of his mind and vows to never think about it again. “And- please, just call me Will.”
“Will,” Michael echoes. His name sounds sweet from his lips. Will tenses to suppress the chill rolling up his spine. “I… admit, I cannot fathom how I ended up here, in this world. Unless this is but an illusion.”
“In this world?” Will repeats incredulously. What the hell could that mean?
Michael nods, and runs a hand through his hair in that way Will recognizes as a familiar agitated fashion. Will’s eyes follow the movement, and land on a patch of drying blood, matted into his hair, and he pales. “Mike- Michael,” the name tastes weird on his tongue and he pauses before trying again, quieter. “Sorry, I should’ve checked- Are… are you hurt?”
Michael blinks slowly up at Will, then down to his lap where blood and mud lie caked under his fingernails. “Oh,” he starts, then huffs, “there was a great battle, I last recall. This blood isn’t all mine.”
Okay. Great. Not the most comforting response, especially when he doesn’t know just how long Michael has been wandering in the thick of the woods. He doesn’t think he can handle a homicide charge for a missing deer hunter on top of the rest of… this.
Will takes a deep breath. “Sure. And you aren’t some psycho murderer with a penchant for the medieval, right?”
“Why would I…” Michael frowns, “William, it would violate my Oath to you, my Oath of Devotion, if I were to ever lay harm to your mind or body.”
Will balks. It’s way too late for this. …His Oath of-
“Okay. Okay! You can… sleep on the floor, of my room. And- take a shower. Please.” Michael bows his head in an acknowledgement that makes Will’s stomach flip. He abruptly stands from his bed and skirts around Michael, still on the floor, to unlock his bedroom door. In hindsight, not the smartest move to lock himself in a room with a guy who might be crazy. Will hadn’t let his Browning BLR out of his reach, though, for that exact reason. While Michael had appeared with a sword and a lot of heavy armor and blood that allegedly wasn’t all his own, he hadn’t made a single move against Will, and, if anything, seemed offended by the idea of it. And when Will returns with an extra towel and a change of comfortable clothes, Michael still hadn’t moved, as though he were holding vigil. It’s not until Will gestures for him to stand that Michael does, eyes remaining on him.
After a swift change of clothes and cleaning himself of the remnants of Michael in the kitchen sink, Will lays on his bed, hands folded behind his head atop his pillow, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of rain hitting his window and the faintly audible swearing from Michael as he tries to use the shower. The exhaustion of the whirlwind of tonight is beginning to catch up to him, and he’d long since prepared Michael’s temporary sleeping situation: a bed of fluffed covers and pillows Will had sacrificed from his own mattress. But, Will knows it’d be stupid to sleep with this- this stranger, no matter how familiar, in his house, with his family asleep only feet away.
God. What has he gotten himself into now?
Will sits up and slides off of his bed, praying that Michael is absorbed in the task of washing away the dirt. His eyes are set on the pile of armor and leather he’d haphazardly hidden under his desk earlier. Honest intrigue getting the best of him, he crouches before the pile of metal, scrutinizing yet almost in awe of the craftsman ship. Real or not, the handiwork was magnificent. He drags his fingers along an edge of the breastplate, nails catching on each indented chip and scar, telling stories Will can’t read. It seems to be in relatively good condition, though, for whatever it was from. The fur lining of the cloak, layered over the armor like it were its own kind of protection, catches his eye. The tanned tufts are impossibly soft and plush when he experimentally pushes his hand into the fur. Will can’t exactly place what kind of animal it was meant to replicate, or might even be from, but it’s absurdly warm. Way too warm to comfortably wear around in the spring of Hawkins. Since the gates splitting the town into quadrants had been sealed off, the weather had been almost too warm, as if the world began making up for lost time and overcorrected. The fabric of the cloak itself is enchanting in its own right, inky black, smooth and velvet; it feels expensive.
“Nice, right?”
Will jumps out of his own skin and nearly bangs his head on the underside of his desk in his scramble to drop the cloth. Michael's too-familiar laugh rings from behind him, not unkindly, and crouches next to the desk, amusement dancing in the light of his eyes. His hair is damp and in his eyes, towel slung around his shoulders. In the shadows cast by Will’s measly desk lamp, wearing Will’s old band tee and sweats, Michael is the spitting image of Mike Wheeler, if you ignore the scarring and tanned skin Will hasn’t been able to get past yet. And he’s very close.
“You may try it on, if you so wish.”
Will shakes his head fervently and clambers backwards to his bed, almost tripping over the pile of blankets he’d arranged on the floor. Michael only sits back on his haunches with an impressive amount of balance that Will never imagined Mike could possess. “Sorry,” he manages, lamely, forcing it out around the lump in his throat. “It looks cool.”
“‘Tis. I received it for my coming of age not too long ago.” Michael runs his fingers along the hem of the cloak, embroidered with gold threading, with an air of reminiscence. “I regret that I won’t be able to wear it in my time here.”
Will cocks his head to the side. “What?”
“William,” Michael starts with a breath of a laugh, then falters, and corrects himself. “Will, I’m not a drunk you picked up off the road. I know I am not of this realm. There is no truthful way I could wear the clothing of my time and not be gaped at.” And, Will can admit, Michael is right.
“Sorry,” Will murmurs, unable to help the coating of guilt.
“Not your sin to bear,” Michael shrugs it off and makes himself comfortable in the nest of warmth on Will’s floor. “You need rest, my liege. I will, for better or worse, remain by your side on the morrow.”
Sure. Yeah. Will can also admit he is on the precipice of sleep, thunder and lightning far into the horizon. The rain provides a soothing lullaby as he adjusts himself to lay down, and Michael does the same. As ludicrous as the idea is, there’s a sickening sense of trust Will can’t swallow down, and a sense in the back of his head that Michael is just as tired as he is. Maybe he’s delirious.
As he does, begrudgingly, begin to doze off, Will thinks that Michael speaks a lot like Mike did during their D&D campaigns.
• • • • • • • • • •
The morning light hits Will like a slap to the face. He mutters under his breath as he unwillingly forces his body to sit up, away from the rise of the sun threatening to keep him awake. He’d slept terribly to say the least, waking up at every creak in the old cabin, each shift in the wood like danger sat not too far over the horizon.
Glancing over the edge of his bed, Will finds that Not-Mike — Michael — is sound asleep, curled into the warmth of the cover wrapped tightly around him. Will grimaces. Now that he’s awake and had enough sleep to clear his mind, this seems… to put it plainly, completely and utterly insane. It’s not that Will didn’t want to trust Michael, and a part of him already does, for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. But hasn’t Will had enough to do with alternate dimensions to last him a lifetime? Is this a falsehood that would soon be stripped from him to reveal the horror he might have been unknowingly living in for weeks, months, years?
Too early for nihilism, Will grumbles to himself, and steps around Michael as cautiously as possible instead to begin some semblance of a morning routine. Splashing water on his face and staring hard into the mirror, his reflection looks back with tired circles and a thin-lipped sneer. What do you think is going to come from this? it says. What do you think you want to come from this?
Will grabs his toothbrush and turns on his heel away from the bathroom.
His toothbrush dangling lazily from between his teeth, he fidgets with the coffee machine as the brown elixir that he knows will be the only reason he stays awake drips into the pot. He makes himself his usual cup, a vague estimation of creamer and a shitload of sugar — Will never lost his sweet tooth, and doesn’t believe he’ll ever get used to the dirt taste of coffee, no matter what his mother says about growing into it — but hesitates when he turns away from the machine. …Michael could probably use the pick-me-up. Each movement unsure, he prepares a second mug the way he knows Mike likes his coffee.
Will almost chokes on toothpaste when he opens his door to Michael sitting up, awake and alert. “Sorry,” he mumbles around the mint, though it was unintelligible anyway, and swiftly sets both cups on his desk to rush to the bathroom and clear his mouth. “Um, coffee?” Michael blinks at him. “You know, like…” Will flounders. How the hell do you explain what a modern drink is to a medieval guy? “It… wakes you up?”
An amused laugh comes from Michael and heat creeping up his face is Will’s reward. “I know what coffee is, William. I’ve been offered many a drink in my travels.”
“Right.” Will definitely pays no mind the brush of skin as he hands Michael his cup and sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed.
In proper lighting, Will can’t stop noticing how similar Michael is in appearance to Mike. His long fingers, the arch of his eyebrows, the curls of his dark hair, his even darker eyes flicking to watch Will over the rim of his mug, the smattering of freckles down to the placement, the angle of his sharp nose and high cheekbones. He has everything Will has spent years of his life memorizing. He briefly remembers he’s even drawn this version of Mike before, stuck in a fantasy daydream. The only telltale differences is that Michael looks older with an air of maturity the real Mike doesn’t quite possess yet, the locks of hair brushing just past his shoulders, and the few jagged scars painting the skin not covered by Will’s clothes. It really would be believable that Michael’s from another dimension, if that wasn’t enough to get him committed or found by the military again if he were to say it out loud.
“You’re staring,” Michael murmurs into his cup, but the smile dancing in his eyes says he doesn’t mind. Will blushes what he’s sure is bright red and rips his eyes away from Michael.
“Sorry, this is just… weird, for me.”
“I can imagine.”
Will sighs and blearily rubs the corner of his eye with a knuckle. “Look, this isn’t anything against you, but how do I know you’re telling the truth? About… any of this.”
Michael sets the mug on the floor next to his makeshift bed without looking away from Will. “Ask me anything. I will answer to the best of my abilities.”
This isn’t a very foolproof method, but he might as well make the best of it. “If you’re Mike,” Will starts slowly. Michael raises his eyebrows. “Name… your family.” Easy enough to start out with.
Michael is unimpressed. “Seriously?” Will doesn’t budge. “I am of the Wheeler bloodline. My mother, Katherine, and my father, Theodore, bore three children; Annis, myself, and Holly. My father is a baron, my mother a baroness. I was employed to be a knight of the realm by the time I was seven, and my coming of age was last year, when I was 16.”
Well. It makes sense that if Will’s going to ask stupid questions, Michael is going to get as detailed as possible in retaliation.
“What about your friends?”
Michael smiles faintly. “My closest companions. Dustin, our bard; Lucius, one of the most skilled archers in the land; Max, who doesn’t do much of anything besides mess with us-” Will has to stifle a laugh at the realization that grudges are held across dimensional lines. “-and Jane, an artisan, a jack of all trades. She has protected me more than anyone, and she, along with Dustin and Lucius are among the closest of my ranks. Max is… okay. Good at quick spells and stealth, I suppose.”
There’s a layer of admiration in Michael’s voice when he mentions Jane that makes Will sick. Guilt, as cruel as ever, swells in the back of his mind and threatens to choke him. How could he be jealous of a version of his dead sister?
A second realization crests soon after, crashing over him in a tidal wave.
“What… about me?” His voice is timid, quiet, hesitant. Will decides he doesn’t think he wants the answer when the corner of Michael’s mouth twitches into a frown before he quickly turns his head, and opens his mouth to take it back, but Michael raises a hand to stop him.
“You… William, I mean,” Michael says, though it comes out strangled. “One of the most powerful clerics across all the land. I believed you to be a sorcerer at first, with how easily it came to you. Highly sought after.”
Explains how Michael knew his name without Will ever telling him. He doesn’t want to think about the implication that, for one reason or another, Michael and this all-powerful Will in another universe aren’t friends. In the back of Will’s head, he hears Mike’s voice from a lifetime ago, repeating, he’s a sorcerer! A real life, honest to God sorcerer!
A beat of silence sits between them, building with pressure. Then, Will blinks. “Magic is real?” And immediately wants to slap himself. Of course magic is real, he’s felt it. It was stupid to doubt the existence of magic when he’d seen what sheer willpower could do from his and Jane’s minds alone. “I mean- Well, it’s real, I know that but- Max can use it? Really?”
Michael barks a laugh, previous tension dissipating into the sunlight filtering through the curtains. “Not just Max, but Dustin and Lucius, as well. Magic is in everyone’s blood, where I’m from. Some, not so much; myself, I can channel stronger spells through my sword, or whatever I may be holding.” Michael waves a hand to the sheathed sword still stashed under Will’s desk, and Will immediately feels that he’s disrespecting the weapon by keeping it to the shadows. “I can use my hands if need be, but it’s… tiring. You taught me how to use restoration magic though, once, and that has been more than useful.”
This is feeling more fantastical by the second.
Caught up in a sense of wonder, Will doesn’t think he can stop the questions from spilling from his lips if he wanted to. “So what do you guys do, then? If everyone has magic, what’s the societal structure like? Are there potions? Are there magical animals too?” Michael watches on with a gleam in his eyes that Will doesn’t think twice about, sipping his coffee while he patiently waits for Will to slow down.
A rapt knock at the shut door cuts him off and Will whips around, eyes wide. Michael’s eyes slide over to the door, then looks back to Will expectantly. Shit shit shit shit shit-
“Uh- Yeah?” Will calls through the wood, wanting to kick himself at how his voice splinters.
“Just making sure you’re awake, sweetie,” his mother’s voice answers. “Don’t be late getting ready for school! Breakfast in 10, okay?”
“Yeah, okay!” It comes out a little too rushed, Will winces, but his mother doesn’t pay any mind to it. He listens intently until he’s sure she’s in the kitchen, bustling around with plates and silverware clinking.
Turning back to Michael, Will realizes just how fucked he is if his mother or, God forbid, Hopper sees Michael leaving his bedroom when he certainly wasn’t there when they retired to sleep. One issue at a time, please.
Michael’s lips thin as though he’s holding back a laugh. “You want me to pretend to be your Michael.” Not a question, simply stating facts. Will drops his head into his hands.
“Please? It’s so much easier to explain that you’re my- this world’s Mike and not…” Will gestures uselessly to the pile of armor.
“What, do you think I’ve never done a stealth mission before? I can lie to any authority just fine,” Michael grins, and Will’s heart flutters before he remembers to stamp it down. “You may have to tell me more about your Michael, though.”
“For one, he goes by Mike. Only his dad or our teachers call him Michael when he’s in trouble, and he hates it.” Will pauses to think. “And he’s… stubborn, doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Immature and headstrong, but in the way where you know he’s just being protective. He doesn’t really talk much to other people outside of the party, including our families, and he can be pretty snarky when he does, but he’s polite enough to our parents. He calls my mom ‘Mrs. Byers,’ even when she insists on him calling her by her first name. And he’s definitely not a morning person; every time he slept over, he tried to avoid Hopper like the plague, but he tends to keep his face pretty… neutral? Almost like he’s always thinking about something while listening to everyone around him.”
Michael’s eyebrows twitch upwards in surprise. “Hopper? James Hopper? The constable?”
“...I guess?”
Michael opens his mouth, then clearly decides against asking something probably along the lines of what is he doing in your house? and closes his mouth again. Will can’t exactly explain the formation of his mother’s relationship with Hopper anyway, seemingly having been developed when Will was preoccupied with much more world-ending obstacles, but he knows they make each other happy, so he lifts his shoulders slightly in a shrug.
Michael stands and stretches his arms above his head with a quiet pop, then smiles down at Will in a way that could make him melt, or throw up, and offers his hand. Will stares at it for a beat too long, and Michael’s fingers twitch in a gesture of silent reassurance. With every instinct in his head screaming at him to not do this to himself, Will slowly glides his palm against Michael’s, and allows him to pull him up. A weak voice thanks God that he did, because he thinks he would have collapsed otherwise.
“For the record,” Will’s voice sounds hoarse to his own ears and he swallows, “Mike doesn’t do that either.”
Michael’s laugh echoes like a melody to Will’s ears, ricocheting through his head and making him dizzy, and waves his arm for Will to lead the way. “I’ll answer your inquiries when we’re alone once more, to not compromise myself. Deal?”
“Deal,” Will agrees in a daze.
He somehow manages to put one foot in front of the other, and Michael shadows behind him, expression schooled into one of airy disinterest. Glancing over his shoulder to Michael, now dressed in a loose hand-me-down graphic T-shirt layered over long sleeves, hands shoved into the pockets of the light acid-wash jeans that were the first thing Will had grabbed, Will almost trips over himself. It’s nothing Mike would typically wear, all ironed polo shirts and jeans, but- this version of him looks really good in this style. Maybe he could convince Max to corner Mike into updating his wardrobe… Michael spares a glance to Will from where he was inspecting the cabin’s interior, and sends a sly smile his way like this was some special secret the two shared. In a way, it kind of is. Will nearly runs into a wall.
“Okay, toast is in the toaster, eggs are on the table, and-” His mother stops in her tracks. “Oh! Mike! Nice seeing you here.”
Michael stares at her until Will elbows him, out of view of his mother. “Good morning, Mrs. Byers,” he coughs with a look to Will. Will subtly nods in encouragement.
“If I’d known you were going to come over, I would have set a spot for you!” Joyce bustles around the table to grab an extra plate and silverware for Michael for the empty seat besides Will. “Did you boys hear that storm last night? That was a rough one, right?”
Michael doesn’t answer, so Will stiffly nods as he sits at the table, his shadow following suit. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Michael’s hands twitching at his sides, as if he wants to do something and is thinking about doing it, but is overthinking it instead, and has to bite the inside of his cheek to hide his smile. Yeah, this would work out just fine.
“Oh, baby, what’s the scar from?” Michael and Will both freeze. I spoke way too soon, Will kicks himself mentally. He hadn’t really thought about the scar struck across the edge of Michael’s nose; if he were honest, he’d been trying to avoid staring at Michael again.
“Uh,” Michael starts unhelpfully.
“D&D!” Will blurts out. Michael nods in fast agreement. “We’re… planning a new campaign and… stole some of your makeup to test special effects. Sorry, we should’ve asked-”
Joyce leans closer to Michael and tilts his face to the side with a motherly touch to his chin, and for a second Will is scared she’s going to lick her finger to try to smudge the very real scar off Michael’s skin, but thankfully she lets go with an approving hum. “Wow, Will, you’ve outdone yourself! You could work on movies with this kind of artistic talent! I can barely draw a stick figure, you know, I have no clue where you got all of this skill.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Will mumbles, and reaches across the table for the eggs. Michael’s fists unclench from where his nails were digging into his thighs.
“What’s this about working on movies?” Will looks up from where he was trying to dissolve himself into the buttered toast Joyce had handed him, and forces a smile and a nod of a greeting to Hopper. Michael, instead, slides his eyes to Will without moving his head from where he was, to put it lightly, devouring a fistful of bacon.
Hopper stops in his tracks, coffee in hand and already dressed for work, and Will knows whatever peace this would be considered was over. “...What is that Wheeler boy doing in my home.”
“Oh, Hop, he just slept over,” Joyce swats a dishrag at his chest. “Let them be kids while they can.” Will kind of wants to die, heat creeping up the back of his neck.
Ever since Will had come out to the party in a hopeless attempt to stave off Vecna using his fears against him, and ever since Hopper adjusted his understanding of what being queer meant with a few very pointed words from Joyce and Jonathan, there had been a strange atmosphere in the cabin anytime Mike had visited that Will could only pray to God Mike wouldn’t notice. Hopper would cross his arms gruffly and hover more often and Joyce would tease him about how often he’s with Mike, like it meant something that Mike was now knowingly hanging around their queer son. Will can’t decide what’s worse: his entire family seemingly having unearthed one of his greatest secrets just by his outing, or that everybody seems to think that Mike is interested, when he couldn’t be any less. Nothing between them had changed after Will had come out, and Will would prefer it to stay that way.
“No warning, no heads-up, no nothing?” Hopper grits out, staring daggers into the side of Michael’s head. Michael meets his eyes without hesitation, a shrewd smile playing at his lips.
Scratch out Will wanting to die. Now he has to keep Michael from dying at the hands of Hopper. He knew this was going to be a humiliation ritual. Why he didn’t have Michael climb out of his window and wait outside is a mystery to him.
“Sorry,” Will mumbles in an attempt to split the silence, “I would have asked but it was… kind of a surprise?”
“Oh! A surprise! In the dead of night, in the middle of a thunderstorm, on a school night? Great!” Hopper throws his free hand into the air and turns away to mutter obscenities into his mug about how he should have killed Mike three years ago when he first considered it, because how dare his family allow this level of disrespect from this boy. Michael pays the rambling no mind, returning to his heap of scrambled eggs. Will wants to drop his head against the table in hopes of a concussion and bites into his toast instead.
Joyce rolls her eyes and kisses Will’s temple as she grabs her keys from the countertop. “Hop and I are heading out, you boys stay safe driving on these roads, alright? Put your dishes in the sink before you leave!” And they’re out the door before Will can begin to reply.
Michael watches them leave, and turns to Will with an amused glint as soon as the door shuts behind them. “What was all that?”
“Shut up,” Will groans, dragging his hands down his face. “I don’t want to talk to you about it.” A pause. “No offense.” Michael bows his head and guilt strikes Will through his heart. It’s not Michael’s fault he’s wearing the face of the source of Will’s most present torture.
“Where are we leaving for?” Michael asks instead.
Will blinks, then squints to the clock hanging above the table, and curses under his breath. “School,” he winces, standing up in a rush to scrape the rest of his food into the bin and dump their dishes into the sink. Michael follows his lead a pace behind, though he steals the rest of the bacon to chew on off of the plate as Will grabs it, not entirely understanding of Will’s urgency.
Backpack slung over a shoulder, Will waves for Michael to follow, who does so unthinkingly. “I don’t really know how I’m going to explain you, but we’re going to make it work,” Will mutters, partially to himself, but Michael responds with a soft hum of compliance that makes Will almost drop the keys to Jonathan’s old car.
He misses the keyhole the first time, but successfully jams it in on the second try and throws his bag into the backseat. When he stands upright, Michael is frozen at the start of the driveway, taken aback by the car in front of him, staring at it in abject wonder. And Will remembers all of a sudden, halfway into the driver's seat, that Michael isn’t from this world, and might have never seen a car before in his life. “I know how to drive, I passed my test a few months ago,” he says lamely, because he can’t even begin to try to explain what a car is to someone who might not even know what mechanics are.
Michael breaks out of his trance to look up to Will with sparkling eyes. “I trust you,” is all he says before he gets into the passenger side, in that Mike tone that sparks heat in his chest. Will thunks his head against the steering wheel.
Michael looks even more mystified by the radio when the car starts, reaching his arm across Will to run his fingers along the various buttons and knobs. Will simply lets him, steering by moving his arms under and around Michael’s, amused if not endeared by his reaction to modernity. He does have to push Michael away from the gear shift, though.
“So,” Will starts. Michael retracts his arm and, out of the corner of his eye, Will can see him turn his head to look at him with his full attention. “If you’re here, where’s Mike? He’s not…” Will gestures as he trails off, trying and failing to think of words that don’t taste sour in his mouth, and clears his throat instead. “He’s not trapped somewhere, is he?”
Micheal tilts his head, eyebrows knotting together. “I should hope not. That would make returning far more difficult.”
“You don’t know?”
“How should I?” Fair enough.
“I don’t know,” Will sighs, staring at the blinker light flashing on his dashboard. “I’m just… worried. This is total fantasy, zero science. I don’t know what would happen for sure if you two met. What if you guys touch and one of you, I don’t know, disappears entirely?”
He can hear Michael stifle a laugh and gives him a stern look, because while it sounds ridiculous, Will is worried, to which Michael instantly composes himself with an overly serious expression. “I can assure you, my liege, no harm shall befall me or your Michael.”
“You don’t know that,” Will mutters, rubbing his face with a hand off the steering wheel. He doesn’t think he’ll get used to anything Michael calls him. Michael only hums again.
“May I ask something of you, then?”
Will glances to Michael, then back to the street. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Michael contemplates for a moment. “What are your companions like?”
“Not too far off from yours,” Will snorts. “You already heard about Mike, but there’s Dustin, Lucas, Max… No magic here, though, obviously. Dustin’s super into engineering, and mechanics, he’s funny and great at science and he’s saved us more than a few times. Lucas is kind of a jock nowadays, but he’s still a nerd, don’t let him lie to you. Headstrong, fast thinker, quick on his feet. Max might come off as a dick, but she means well, most of the time. Her and Mike argue constantly but have this weird bond despite it that no one else understands, so if she’s a little weird to you, just… expect it, I guess.”
Michael is silent, dutifully absorbing everything he says. The car falls quiet for a beat, only broken by the engine, before Michael whispers, “And Jane?”
His knuckles whiten around the leather of the wheel, squeaking under his grip. The silence drags on until Will chokes out, “She’s- She passed away. Last year.”
An indecipherable emotion shadows over Michael’s expression as his mouth forms an ‘oh.’ Will stares straight ahead, willing the traffic light ahead of them to turn green. He doesn’t like talking about Jane’s death, likes it even less when everyone seems to skirt around the topic like it’s still a fresh wound. But, in part, it could be considered as such when no one had allowed for any healing.
Will misses his friend. His sister. He wants her to be remembered.
He takes in a trembling breath of air, whisked back to the present from the burning of tears welling. He’s no longer standing before the gate, no longer trying to rip out of the grip of military personnel. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he mumbles with a wet laugh, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his flannel and trying to refocus on the road ahead of them. Whether he’s apologizing for crying or apologizing for Jane’s death or apologizing to Michael for having to tell him, he can’t really say. “It just… sucks, a lot. I’m sorry.”
Michael doesn’t answer, but, after a quiet moment, his thumb unexpectedly swipes Will’s cheekbone to dry the wetness there, and Will all but flinches away. Michael drops his hand.
Will sniffles, and considers himself pathetic for it. He clears his throat with a plastered smile. “You said she’s alive in your- your universe right?”
Michael hesitates, watching with uncertainty in his gaze. “She is alive,” he finally confirms, voice soft in a way Will doesn’t know if he can handle, “and well. She… she’s happy.”
Will thinks he might shatter, and still forces himself to say the words that feel like glass shards embedded in his throat: “Can you tell me about her?”
Michael bows his head, eyes now on his lap, picking at the skin around his nails. “She’s… magnificent, to be honest,” he says, slowly, like he doesn’t know quite where to begin. “Her hair is long, midway down her back, and she loves layering all sorts of skirts and accessories, and braiding ornaments into her hair, and painting on her skin, though it always stains. Townsfolk and travelers alike pay her good money for her craft. She can weave, cook, paint, write, sing, all with the brightest smile on her face. I can’t recall the last time I haven’t seen her in a smock or an apron of sorts and stained in all shades of paint or flour. She loves life, no matter what scum it throws her in, and she is forever selfless. And everything about her reflects that; her work, her magic, her friends… The whole village loves her, each kingdom and castle she visits, she brightens every room she’s in, and she gives everyone gifts even if they don’t know her. I’ve seen her befriend even the unruliest of drunkards. She’s gotten quite good at portraits and jewelry as of late, and strangely knows exactly what everyone may want, as if she has some sort of seventh sense, outside of the physical and outside of her magic. And she’s powerful, her magic bursts at the seams of every breath, her very existence breathes life into the world around her. Even the flora and fauna adore her,” Michael smiles as he talks, like he can’t help it, “and I don’t know how she does such a thing. Even the sun dims without her to greet it every morning, and the moon wanes without her to bid it good night.”
Crookedly parked in the senior lot of Hawkins High, Will pushes his face into his hands, and sobs. Hiccuping through each gasp of air, the heat of tears spreads down the back of his neck and shuddering shoulders and heaving chest, and he cries like he’s never cried before. For the life his sister couldn’t have, for the life a version of her is having, paving it herself with every step she takes.
Michael slides his arms around his trembling body, and Will collapses into the unwavering strength of a Mike who cares. His arms remain tight around him, even with Will’s fingers bunching the fabric at the back of his shirt and clutching onto him as he were his last lifeline, his face buried into Michael’s shoulder. A strange sense of security, safety, comfort ebbs and flows through Will’s bloodstream to his heart, a feeling he can’t really remember if he’d ever felt before. But he doesn’t want to leave it.
He reluctantly retreats when the first bell rings across the high school, and Michael looks toward the sound from where he had been resting his cheek on Will’s hair. His arms only drop from around Will when Will is the one to pull his arms in first, fists bunched into the fabric in his lap.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles around the lump in his throat.
“Don’t be,” Michael smiles, despite the circumstances. “It’s… reassuring to know she’s so loved here, as well.”
Will tears his eyes away from Michael and catches the sob lingering in his chest with a hand over his mouth.
“My friends are going to start looking for me if I’m not there soon,” he says eventually, eyes on the trickle of students heading through the entrance. Michael tilts his head, hair falling into his eyes, and Will looks back at him. “We kind of have to tell the truth about you, to them. It’ll be hard to believe you’re this world’s Mike when he’s standing next to you. But just to them. No teachers, no other students. Sound… fair?” Michael nods, brown gaze roving over Will’s flushed face, then reaches forward to brush now mussed bangs away from his eyes. Will freezes at the contact, unbreaking from Michael’s gaze, focusing almost way too much on the breeze of Michael’s fingertips grazing his skin, and feels a part of himself want to curl in on itself and wither away.
He breaks first under the gravity and averts his eyes, clears his throat. Michael drops his hand again, instead simply watching on as Will tries to compose himself and look like he didn’t just cry into someone’s arms for seven minutes.
“Just follow me, okay?” Will doesn’t miss the twitch of Michael’s lips, like anything else he would be doing would be preposterous.