Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first time Will felt that something was seriously wrong with him, he did what he thought was best, which is absolutely nothing. He figured that if he ignored it hard enough, maybe whatever was crawling under his skin would get bored and leave. Spoiler alert: it did not.

So he didn’t say anything, to anyone, not even to Mike, which in hindsight was hands-down the worst decision he’d ever made, and considering how his life turned out, that was saying something.

It was the first mistake in a long line of them and also the moment his life started going to hell. 

If he’d just opened his mouth, said something—anything—it might’ve saved him from being possessed for the next year and a half.

Unfortunately, William Byers had never been very good at speaking. So it all started on a Monday in late September, and it only got worse from there.

September 28, 1987

Will is sitting on his bike, one foot on the pedal and one on the curb, staring at the Wheelers’ front door. Mike said five minutes. That was, according to Will’s very generous estimation, at least fifteen minutes ago.

His Walkman is turned up way too loud, the headphones are pressed against his ears and Loving the Alien is playing.

He knows he’s been listening to it on loop since it came out in 1984, but he couldn’t care less. It’s still the best thing ever recorded, and it’s definitely his favorite Bowie song. 

He tried getting Mike into it before. Really tried. He remembers making him sit on his bed and putting the headphones on his head, telling him he had to listen to the whole thing without talking. It’s seven minutes long, which he guesses is a lot for Mike, because he just sat there making a face, trying to look like he was into it because he knew Will liked it, but he was definitely bored. 

Mike is his best friend in the entire world and he would do anything for him, that’s not up for debate. But God, the guy is actually tone-deaf when it comes to music. He loves him to death, don’t get him wrong, but this? This is where he draws the line. Will can forgive a lot of things, but he can’t forgive Mike being this spectacularly boring about music.

How can someone just not get Bowie?

Speaking of Mike, where the hell is he? Will can hear the song ending, the tape making that little hissing sound in the background, and as much as he loves Bowie, he’s starting to get a cramp in his leg from balancing his bike. 

Will reaches up to pull the headphones down around his neck and the cold air hits his ears. He’s about to scream Mike’s name at the top of his lungs so the whole neighborhood can hear how much of a slowpoke he is. He takes a deep breath, ready to yell, but before he can get a word out, the front door slams open hard. He barely has time to blink before he sees Mike running, and he can tell immediately he’s trying to get away from something.

“Mike, I swear to God, get back here!” Nancy yells from inside the house, and yeah, that explains a lot.

Mike doesn’t even look behind him, grabbing his bike and nearly knocking it over in the process.

Will blinks at him, still processing. “What’s going—”

“Will, move!”

He doesn’t wait for a better explanation and pulls up next to Mike as they take off down the street, moving way faster than they probably should.

“What did you do?” he asks once he manages to get closer. “Did you read her diary again?”

“No.” Mike keeps twisting around in his seat to look over his shoulder like Nancy might suddenly appear behind them, which is just dramatic of him. They don’t slow down until they turn a corner a few streets down.

“Talk. Why was Nancy trying to murder you?”

“I may have borrowed money from her emergency stash.”

“You stole from Nancy? She’s going to skin you alive when you get home.”

“That’s a problem for future me. If we didn’t have enough quarters, we’d be stuck watching the others play all night. Do you want that?”

Will looks at him then—his messy dark hair sticking out everywhere, cheeks still red from running, smile crooked and way too proud of himself. Mike looks happy and reckless and kind of stupid, and also really cute in that annoying way that makes it hard to stay mad at him.

Will sighs, but he can’t stop himself from smiling back. “Definitely not.”

Will notices Mike glancing sideways at him as they bike, not turning his head all the way.

“So…” Mike starts, staring straight ahead at the road and clearing his throat. “You spent the day with Jane, right?”

Will tilts his head, caught off guard. “How’d you know that? Were you spying on my house?”

“Didn’t have to. You guys are basically attached at the hip at this point.” 

That tone. Will watches him for a second, noticing the way his jaw is set and how he refuses to look away from the road. If Will didn’t know better, he would’ve thought Mike was jealous. But Mike gets like that sometimes, he’s probably afraid of being left out.

Still, the idea of Mike being annoyed because he wasn’t paying enough attention to him was weirdly comforting.

Will lets out a short laugh. “We’re not that bad.”

“Whatever,” Mike mutters, sounding annoyed. “So what, another movie night?”

“Kind of. We mostly just vented about the situation at home.”

“You mean Hopper?” Mike’s posture softens a little, and he finally looks at Will instead of the road. “Is it getting worse?”

“Way worse,” Will says without even thinking. “They’re gross.”

They keep pedaling, the air feels cooler now, brushing against his face, and he can already see the arcade in the distance. 

“Tell me about it. Every time I come over he’s there. Does he even go to the station anymore?” 

“Exactly! And get this, yesterday Jane was gonna bike home, but then Hopper showed up and gave us this whole”—Will lifts one hand off the handlebar and makes exaggerated air quotes—“it’s too dark, it’s dangerous speech. Which is total bullshit, he just wanted an excuse to see my mom.”

They’re pulling up to the arcade by the time Will finishes, coasting the last stretch.

“Let me guess,” Mike snorts, pushing his bike forward with one foot. “He stayed?”

“Oh yeah, so Jane crashed in my room. Again. I’m tired of listening to them eat leftovers and laugh at literally everything. Nothing is that funny. It’s disgusting.” Saying it out loud makes Will realize how annoyed he actually is.

They get off their bikes and lift them into the rack, the metal clanking as Mike locks his. Will fumbles with his own for a second because of his cold fingers then finally secures it.

“They’re so embarrassing,” Mike groans, rubbing his face with both hands. “You know if they keep this up, she’s gonna be your legal sister, right?”

Will shrugs, and a small smile slips onto his face because he doesn’t really mind that part. “I mean, it already feels like that. We’ve got a strong bond anyway, she gets me.” And that part is true. Jane understands things without him having to explain, and that matters more than anything.

“Oh yeah?” Mike teases. “And you’re totally fine with Hopper being your legal dad?”

Will makes a face immediately. “Don’t even joke about that,” he replies, pushing the door open as they walk into the arcade.

He doesn’t even have to look for them, because Dustin’s voice is loud and annoyed, which probably means he’s losing an argument he cares way too much about. The boys are standing close to each other, both gesturing with their hands, and the girls are leaning against the side of a machine with their arms crossed, weight on one hip—clearly ten seconds away from walking out. Lucas eventually notices them.

“Fucking finally,” Lucas shouts, throwing his arms up as soon as he spots them. “Where have you two been?”

“Yeah, I’m literally out of quarters,” Dustin says. “Lucas made me waste them on a shortcut that didn’t exist.”

“It did exist. You just messed it up.”

“I did not mess it up. The tunnel literally wasn’t there.”

Max pushes herself off the machine and squints at them, mostly at Mike, and Will can tell right away she notices how rumpled he looks. Jane tilts her head slightly. “What took you so long?”

“He’s a fugitive,” Will whispers, nudging Mike’s arm with his elbow. “He raided Nancy’s stash.” Mike quickly returns the gesture with an elbow to his ribs.

“Great,” Lucas says, rubbing his hands together. “Hand over the goods then.”

Mike immediately steps back. “No way, I’m not just giving it to you.”

“Are you serious?” Max laughs. “Give it up, Wheeler.”

“No,” Mike snaps. “If I’m going down, I’m the one in charge of the quarters. I decide what we play.” He turns on his heel and starts walking toward another game across the arcade, assuming they’ll follow. And of course they do.

By that point, it has been a few hours already.

Mike is basically glued to Will’s side, his shoulder pressed hard against his because they’re both leaning way too far forward in front of the screen. Will barely has room to move his hands without bumping into someone. 

“Lucas, use your potion,” Mike yells because Lucas’s character is very obviously about to die.

“I’m saving it for the next level,” Lucas shoots back without even looking away.

Will can already tell this is a bad idea—he always does this, then dies and complains about it afterward.

Max is standing right behind him, so close her chin is resting on his shoulder so she can see the screen better. Will catches himself thinking they look really cute like that. “You’re going to be dead by the next level, Sinclair. Use it or give me the joystick.”

Jane is squeezed between him and Mike, not playing this round because there aren’t enough slots. Lucas’s character takes one last hit and a collective groan goes up all at once. “Game over,” Lucas sighs.

“Because someone didn’t use his potion,” Will mutters mostly to himself, reaching into his pocket for another handful of quarters.

“Me and Jane are in,” Max says immediately. “Will and Lucas, you’re out.”

“Hey!” Will protests, even though he is already stepping back to give Jane his spot. He catches Jane’s eye and gives her a small encouraging nod. He folds his arms without really thinking about it and takes back the spot Jane had been in before, wedged between her and Mike.

“Jane, how did you do that?” Dustin asks, narrowing his eyes. “You’re definitely using some kind of cheat code Max taught you.”

“It’s called skill, Henderson.” Max doesn’t even look at him and her eyes stay locked on the screen. “You should try it—”

“No, she’s definitely cheating,” he insists. “Jane, tell me. Is there a cheat code?”

Jane frowns at the screen, genuinely confused. “I think you just suck at it.”

The comment catches Will off guard, and a snort escapes him before he can stop it. He watches her with this warm, stupid feeling in his chest. She’s getting better at this—at talking back, at joking—and he feels a surge of pride that he can’t quite put into words. She wouldn’t have said that a few months ago, she wouldn’t have thought about saying it at all.

“She’s just better than you, accept it.”

Max snorts and glances sideways at Will before looking back at the screen. “See? This is why you’re my favorite, Will.”

“Wait,” Lucas cuts in, clearly offended. “Will is your favorite? What about me?”

“You don’t count,” Max replies without hesitation.

“What does that even mean?” Lucas demands, throwing his hands up. “How do I not count?”

“You’re in a different category.”

“Yeah, a lower one,” Mike adds, more to himself than anything but he knows Lucas heard him.

“Shut up,” Lucas drags out, grinning as he leans over just enough to shove Mike lightly with his fist.

“Dustin,” Jane calls softly, “you’re dying. Again.”

Dustin lets out a gasp of horror as he realizes his health bar is flashing red. “No, my health! Will, help m-oh wait, you’re not playing. Jane, save me!”

Will stands a few steps behind Mike and Jane, watching him lean over her, pointing at the screen and explaining how the bonus rounds work—he’s kind of annoying, honestly. Will shifts his weight from one foot to the other, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Will watches the screen for a bit, but his brain doesn’t really stick with it. After a few seconds, he realizes he isn’t actually following what’s happening anymore, and he knows if someone asked him what level they’re on, he wouldn’t be able to answer.

He looks at the digital clock on the wall near the snack bar, blinks and realizes—oh. Today’s September 28th.

The date has been stuck in his mind all morning because Depeche Mode and The Smiths just dropped new albums today. Music for the Masses and Strangeways, Here We Come are finally out. He’s seen the posters for them and has been counting down the days. 

He already knows he isn’t buying them anytime soon, though. He’s spent way too much money today, and he can almost picture his empty wallet if he checked it. He’s clearly broke now—especially after buying that stupidly expensive milkshake earlier—so, yeah, he knows he’ll probably have to wait a couple of weeks before he can save up enough to actually afford to go to the record store and buy even one of them, let alone both. It sucks, but he’s still excited.

Which one would he even get first? Could he even pick? If he had to choose, he’s always been a Depeche Mode fan first, but still, The Smiths…

He wants to listen to both, all at once if he could.

He pictures himself stretched out on his bed, doing nothing else, headphones on, door shut, letting the albums play one after the other, rewinding the songs that catch him, trying to decide which one he likes best. He can already see it—convincing Jonathan to drive him to the mall, grabbing the tapes, then ending up in the car or on the living room floor, just listening all the way through.

He can’t wait to talk to him about it, to argue over the best track, to sing along off-key together. He’d point out all the little things, like how the new Depeche Mode song echoes Some Great Reward, or how The Smiths’ lyrics hit differently now.

He looks at Mike’s back again, he was dying to talk about the albums earlier that day, but he shot the idea down right away.

There’s no point, Mike wouldn’t care about either of them and he made it pretty clear he doesn’t like Depeche Mode or The Smiths at all. Last time Will put on Black Celebration in the basement, Mike made that ridiculous face. And don’t even get him started on The Smiths. Every time Morrissey sings, Mike makes this grimace and actually has the nerve—the absolute audacity—to mutter something about how he sings really badly or how the music is too depressing. The disrespect, seriously.

Will rolls his eyes just thinking about it. Honestly, sometimes he wonders if Mike listens to anything without whining.

He snaps out of his head and actually focuses on the game again, then on Mike’s hands, and wow. He’s doing absolutely anything but the right thing.

“Left—left—no.” Mike takes the wrong direction, and for some reason that doesn’t surprise Will at all. He’s always been bad at telling his left from his right. “Your other left.”

“I know my left,” Mike snaps back. He turns his head just enough to look at Will—probably because he’s standing way too close—then turns back to the screen.

“Clearly you don’t.”

Will catches himself looking at Mike for half a second longer than he probably should. Mike’s tongue is stuck out just a little between his teeth, and he hates how his brain immediately decides it’s cute. Stupidly cute.

He turns his attention back to Jane, watching her laugh with Max. It’s still a little surprising, seeing her fit in so easily like this. She was the last one to join the group, and for a while it felt like it might not work out. Jane is different—she doesn’t always get the jokes they make, she takes things very literally, and she has these quiet moments where she just stares. Some of the others had a hard time figuring out how to talk to her at first, because she’s pretty special.

Will is the one who met her first—mostly because Hopper is over at their house all the time lately—so he ended up spending a lot of time with Jane. Mike was the hardest to convince, though. He’s always been really protective of the party and how things are supposed to be. He doesn't usually like it when new people show up and change things, and he was pretty grumpy about it for a few months.

But watching them now, Will can see he’s totally moved past that. He looks genuinely glad she’s there and it makes him feel a lot lighter. It’s a relief when the people he cares about actually like each other.

He’s like two seconds away from zoning out again when the yelling—way too much of it—snaps him back. He turns his head, wondering what’s wrong with these people, and then—right, it’s just his friends being loud as hell like usual. He looks at the screen to see the victory thing flash up. 

They’re already all over Jane, starting this big, messy group hug. Will stays back a few steps, leaning against the neighboring machine. He didn’t play that round, so it feels right to just watch them celebrate.

Jane has this bright smile, and honestly she looks so cute while everyone talks over each other, telling her she did it, that she saved them. She laughs, a little breathless, clearly loving every second of it. She looks genuinely happy, and that alone makes Will smile.

Mike pulls back slightly from the group, just enough to look around—probably realizing Will isn’t in the hug—and his eyes land on him almost immediately since he’s literally right there.

Mike steps slightly out of the circle and sticks his arm out. “Come here.”

Will walks over and steps into the space Mike has made for him. As soon as he’s close enough, Mike wraps his arm around his shoulders and pulls him tight into the group. 

The hug eventually breaks apart, and Will stays close to Mike for a second before he realizes how much his legs are aching. He steps back a couple of steps and leans his full weight against the side of a Galaga machine.

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” Max says, clapping her hands together to get everyone’s attention. “We’re getting pizza.”

“Again?” Mike and Will say at the exact same time. They both freeze for a second and look at each other, already knowing Max is going to make fun of them.

“Yes, lovebirds. Again.”

“Seriously?” they blurt out—again, at the exact same time—both of them making the same annoyed face. 

Max rolls her eyes, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh my god, you guys are an old married couple,” she says, already turning around to head out. “Do you practice that at home or—”

“Can we play one more round?” Lucas calls out, and thank god he cut her off before she could say whatever she was about to say. “I’m on a streak, I can feel it.”

“No way, I’m starving,” Mike groans.

“Just one more,” Dustin insists, already halfway back toward the machine. “One last round, I swear.”

“No,” Max says firmly.

“Oh, come on.” Dustin rolls his eyes. “It’ll take five minutes, tops.”

“Five minutes always turns into an hour with you guys,” Will points out. He knows how this goes, they stay for one more game, then someone loses and wants a rematch, and they’re stuck here until the arcade closes.

“Exactly,” Mike agrees.

Max doesn’t look convinced at all, then she lets out a long sigh. “Fine, just one more. But if we stay, we’re getting pizza after. And since you two are so busy finishing each other’s sentences, you can be the ones to go stand in line and pay for it—”

“Anything but pizza,” Mike insists.

“I don’t know why you’re so cranky.” Max crosses her arms, looking between Mike and Will. “Is the pizza date not romantic enough for you guys?”

“Yeah, you can stare at each other just as well at the restaurant,” Lucas adds, grinning, obviously happy to back his girlfriend up.

“It’s not a date, we’re with four other people,” Mike mutters under his breath.

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

Will knows she’s just messing around. Max takes every chance she gets to annoy people, and this is no different.

Every time Max and Lucas flirt, or even breathe in each other’s direction, Mike and him are right there to make fun of them. They roll their eyes, make stupid comments, and laugh at the way they look at each other—at all the dumb, mushy things they do just because they’re in love.

And since they’re the only other two in the group who are permanently glued at the hip, Max takes every opportunity to throw it back into their faces.

She doesn’t actually know how he feels about Mike—or so Will tells himself—and he knows she’s just joking, but he can’t stop his stomach from flipping a little. He knows she isn’t serious but some part of him can’t stop caring about what she might be seeing.

The others keep bickering or playing or doing whatever they’re doing, and that’s when something goes wrong.

At first there’s just this weird tightening at the back of his neck, similar to when he sleeps wrong or holds his head still for too long. He shifts his shoulders, tilts his head slightly, waiting for the feeling to fade—because that’s what usually happens—but it doesn’t. It spreads instead, slowly and uncomfortably, wrapping around the base of his skull, crawling upward, pressing behind his ears. He swallows and suddenly realizes he’s painfully aware of his own breathing.

It’s that exact feeling on a rollercoaster, when you go over the edge and your stomach doesn’t follow right away. Everything in his body lifts and then drops all at once. For a second, he thinks he might actually fall over. His balance is off. Actually, everything is off.

The noise around him starts to fade. Dustin is still yelling, he can see his mouth moving, but it doesn’t line up with the sound anymore, everything feels delayed.

His heart starts pounding, fast and uneven, and suddenly his chest feels tight, as if there’s not enough room inside him for all the air he’s trying to breathe. He blinks again, and the arcade looks wrong. The lights hurt less, which is weird because the arcade lights always hurt. They’re too bright, too flashy and they always make his eyes ache after a while.

Will turns his head, expecting to see Mike right there, but he’s not. None of them are.

The space around him is empty. The arcade is still there, technically—he can still see the machines. He blinks hard, because this has to be nothing. Just him zoning out, it happens sometimes.

His neck feels tight, it feels like a cold, sharp needle of ice suddenly pricking the base of his throat. His heart is beating fast, he can feel it in his throat, in his ears. His hands start to shake and every breath he takes requires effort, and it feels like he’s inhaling ash. The air is thick, pushing back against him with every inhale.

He takes a step back and almost trips. The floor feels uneven, wrong beneath his feet, and panic spikes hard enough to blur his vision. His head feels full, as if pressure is building behind his eyes—something is pushing from the inside, trying to look out through him. He blinks fast, over and over, this has to be his brain messing with him, right?

Then there’s this pain right behind his left eye, and it feels like something has stabbed straight through it. Will sucks in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut, but that only makes it worse. Tears sting their way out without him meaning to, his eye watering so badly he can’t see straight anymore. It feels like his eye is being pushed from the inside and that it doesn’t fit in his skull anymore. The ache spreads out, crawling up into his temple and down the side of his face.

What if he passes out? What if he doesn’t come back? What if he’s stuck like this and nobody even knows where he is?

He squeezes his eyes shut, hard enough that it hurts, because this has to stop.

Please stop. Please—

Then everything crashes back, and the noise slams into him all at once, so loud it almost makes him dizzy.

“Will?”

He gasps, his lungs burning as they take in the real, humid air again. Everyone’s back. Dustin is mid-sentence with Jane, Max is arguing with Lucas, and Mike is—

“Will. Hey, talk to me.” Mike’s hand grabs his shoulder and shakes him slightly. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

He feels sick, his insides didn’t come back in the right order and the pressure in his neck doesn’t go away.

“You okay?” Mike doesn’t let go, if anything, his grip tightens. “Will, look at me. Are you okay?”

He swallows hard, his throat feeling like sandpaper. He can still feel that cold prickle on his skin. "I—yeah. I’m okay. Just... the lights. I got dizzy."

Mike studies him. “You looked like you were gonna pass out.”

“I’m fine,” Will repeats, forcing a smile that feels tight and fake on his face.

Mike doesn’t buy it for a second and stays right in his space, hands still hovering near Will’s arms. “You should sit down. Do you need water? Dustin, give me your bottle of wat—”

“I said I’m fine, Mike,” Will insists, though he looks anything but fine. 

“But you’re really pale,” Mike whispers.

“God, Wheeler, give him some space,” Max cuts in, stepping a little closer and checking on Will herself. “He’s fine, he probably just realized how much he hates your face up close—”

“Shut up, Max, I’m not kidding,” Mike snaps. He doesn’t move away from Will, though. “I’m allowed to be worried.”

“He’s standing, isn’t he? Are you gonna carry him to the bike rack and give him mouth-to-mouth next?”

Lucas snickers. “Yeah, chill. He’s fine now. Right, Will?” He touches his shoulder, and Mike shoots him a look.

Will manages a shaky nod.

Mike looks back at him, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Seriously, you sure?”

“Yeah.” He nods again and gives him a small smile. “Let’s just go before Max makes it even weirder.”

Okay, what the fuck just happened?

Apparently nothing happened. But it felt real, it felt so real.

God. He’s losing it.

He keeps telling himself it was nothing, but his body doesn’t buy it. His heart is still racing, his left eye still aches. He doesn’t know how long it actually lasted, it could’ve been a few seconds, it could’ve been longer. It really felt long, though. Long enough that he genuinely thought he was about to pass out. Long enough that his legs went weak, his vision warped, and he got this sudden, awful certainty that he wasn’t in control anymore.

And the worst part is knowing he can’t say anything. Because if he looks around, everyone’s fine, and none of them felt it, none of them saw anything. It only happened to him.

And that makes it worse. Because if nothing happened to them, then whatever that was had nothing to do with the room, or the game, or the noise. It was just Will.

And how do you explain that without sounding crazy? He already knows the looks he’d get, the awkward silence and the concern that doesn’t actually help. And the truth is, he doesn’t even know what he’d say, so he doesn’t say anything. He keeps it tucked inside, right next to all the other things he doesn’t talk about.

But he feels changed. Permanently. He knows it for certain.

October 4, 1987

The second time it happened was barely a week later.

At that point, Will was just annoyed, because it happened twice in the same day, which felt a little excessive, even for whatever weird curse his life was apparently under now.

Also, he decided to stick with his foolproof plan of pretending everything was fine. Because, clearly, that had worked out so well for him the first time.

They’re all crowded in front of the counter, standing much closer to one another than necessary. Mike bounces slightly on his feet, craning his neck toward the hallway that leads to the theaters, probably trying to catch a glimpse of the screen.

Lucas, on the other hand, takes his sweet time.

“Dude, hurry up,” Mike sounds genuinely stressed. “The trailers are starting, I don’t want to miss the horror ones.”

“Relax, we’re getting food,” Lucas doesn’t look at Mike at all. Instead, he turns to Max. “You want your own popcorn, or do you want to share a big one?”

“Just get the big one.” Max replies. “But I’m holding it, I don’t trust you not to eat all of it.”

Lucas leans closer to her. “I’ll let you hold it if you promise not to steal my drink every five minutes.”

“We’ll see.” 

“Oh my god,” Mike groans really loudly and throws his hands up. “Can you two just get a room?”

“Yeah, gross,” Will says, and he can’t help laughing a little. “Gag me with a spoon.”

Lucas turns around fast, looking offended. “We can hear you, you know.”

“Good,” Mike shoots back. He’s definitely more annoyed now, and Will can see his jaw getting tight, which usually means he’s about to start pacing. “Hurry up, the movie’s gonna start.”

Lucas lifts one finger in the air “Hold on, I’m getting nachos too.”

“Seriously?” Max’s mouth twists in disgust. “Look at that cheese, Lucas.”

Lucas grabs the handle anyway and presses down hard. A huge pile of orange cheese spills onto the chips. “See? Looks…” He squints at it, clearly trying to convince himself. “Okay, it looks a bit weird.”

“Told you.” 

Will shifts his weight from one foot to the other and glances toward the theater entrance again. Mike is right, they’re probably already missing the beginning, and he knows Mike is thinking about it every single second.

“Well,” Lucas says, “if I get food poisoning, you’ll have to carry me home.”

“Dream on.”

Mike leans closer to Will and presses a hand to his forehead. “They’re doing it again.”

“I’m getting nauseous,” Will sighs, shaking his head. “Just buy the popcorn already so they stop flirting.”

Mike mutters something under his breath—probably complaining about Lucas taking too long, or about how they’re going to miss the previews—and finally steps up to the counter. He orders a large popcorn for the two of them and one drink, like he always does. Once they have everything, they start heading toward the theater. Will glances back at the nachos again. “Let me try it.”

Max pulls the tray closer to her chest. “Don’t touch that, you’re going to have a stomach ache for a week.”

“Yeah, stay back,” Mike adds. “You have so much to live for.”

Will reaches in anyway and dips a chips into the cheese, tastes and immediately regrets it.

Max realizes she’s been holding the tray the whole time and quickly hands it back to Lucas, because it’s not her job to carry it.

“Well? Is it as gross as it looks?” Max watches his face closely.

Will makes a face and swallows. “It’s… yeah, it’s pretty bad.” Even knowing that, he grabs another chip and eats it anyway.

Mike just stares at him, completely baffled. “Then why are you eating a second one?”

“I don’t know.” He reaches the theater door and pushes it open, holding it for the others as they walk in.

Lucas slows for a second and holds the tray out toward Max again. “Want one?”

She looks at the nachos, then at him, then back at the nachos, her face twisting in disgust. “Get that away from me, Sinclair.” She actually leans her upper body away from the tray.

The door swings shut behind them, and everything gets louder instantly, the screen is fully lit, there’s no trailers anymore and the room is dark enough that Will has to blink a few times to adjust.

“It’s already started.” Mike shoots Lucas a look sharp enough to make the point clear, then starts moving down the steps without waiting for anyone. “Move, Lucas.”

“I’m trying,” he mutters, struggling to keep the popcorn and nachos balanced without spilling anything. “Max, watch out—don’t trip on my feet.”

“Maybe if you stopped staring at me and actually looked at the stairs, we’d find our seats.”

Will stays a step behind them, careful not to bump into anyone. He really hopes their seats are close, he just wants them to sit down already to stop being the loud group everyone is probably staring at. Eventually, they settle into their seats, Mike next to Will, Lucas and Max a little farther down, still whispering and bumping elbows.

They’re watching The Lost Boys. Will doesn’t really know what to expect, only that it’s supposed to be gross and scary—and from the looks of it, that part is definitely true.

At first he’s fine and just focuses on the screen. There are people screaming, blood, things that make Mike lean forward and grin. Lucas reacts out loud a little too much, and Max elbows him every time he does. Will takes a few small sips of his drink, just enough to wet his throat.

Time passes without him really noticing how much. Twenty minutes, maybe more. He stops checking the screen for how long it’s been because the movie starts pulling all his attention whether he wants it to or not.

Something shifts, and he knows it right away. He doesn’t even need to think about it to recognize the same feeling as a few days ago—the sensation from the arcade—the exact same one.

There’s this weird feeling in his chest. He tries to ignore it and keep watching, but then he gets a sudden shiver that runs straight through him, and he pulls his jacket closer without really thinking about it. The theater isn’t cold, he knows that, but he feels cold anyway, especially around his neck, right at the base of it, where the skin feels tight and wrong.

Will swallows and shifts in his seat. His hands start feeling strange—kind of numb—and he rubs his fingers together slowly, hoping it’ll stop. Obviously, it doesn’t.

His left eye starts hurting. Once again, it’s the same pain as the other day. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and breathes through it. When he opens them again, his vision goes blurry on that side and his eye can’t focus. The screen in front of him doesn’t look right anymore, the shapes don’t line up, and suddenly he isn’t really watching the movie at all—he sees that place instead.

It only lasts a couple of seconds. The movie snaps back into focus and he’s sitting in the same seat with Mike next to him. He stares straight ahead, trying not to freak out.

It was so quick that part of him wonders if it even happened, if he just imagined it, if he’s tired or stressed or just losing it.

He stops watching the movie. His teeth chatter a little and he presses his lips together. He doesn’t want to draw attention, he doesn’t want Mike asking if he’s okay.

Will hugs his arms tighter to himself and takes a slow breath, then another. His neck feels stiff and cold, the skin crawling in a way that makes him want to scratch it, but he doesn’t. His stomach flips again, that horrible drop, over and over, and for a second he’s scared he might throw up right there.

He glances sideways at Mike, who doesn’t notice him at all. Lucas laughs quietly at something on the screen, and Max shushes him again. Everything around him feels normal. Once again, he’s alone with this horrible feeling.

Mike finally notices Will shifting around and leans over a little, lowering his voice. “You okay?” he whispers, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth at the same time, completely oblivious.

“Yeah,” Will whispers back quickly, even though his skin feels clammy and wrong. “Just… the AC is really high.”

“Really? I didn’t noticed,” Mike mutters, half distracted, and then he’s already turning back toward the movie.

Will stares at the screen, trying to focus on what’s happening, but his attention keeps slipping. The cold doesn’t go away. If anything, it settles deeper, creeping up his arms and into his shoulders, wrapping tight around his neck. He tugs his jacket closer, pulling his sleeves over his hands, but it doesn’t help much. 

Another wave of that awful sensation hits him, and he grips the edge of his seat, fingers digging into the fabric, breathing through his nose as quietly as he can.

He doesn’t want to interrupt anyone, doesn’t want to be the reason they have to leave. But the feeling won’t fade. It stacks instead, layer after layer, until his body starts reacting before he can even think about it. His stomach tightens hard, twisting in on itself, and he knows immediately that this is bad.

His mouth fills with saliva and his throat locks up. He doesn’t dare swallow too hard.

He knows for a fact that if he opens his mouth, if he tries to say anything at all, he is going to throw up—right here on the floor.

He just knows he has to leave, now.

He shifts forward in his seat just a little, barely moving, trying not to draw attention. The motion makes his stomach lurch violently, and he freezes for half a second, waiting to see if he can keep it down. His hands grip the armrests so hard his fingers hurt.

Mike notices immediately. “You okay?” he whispers, leaning toward him.

Will doesn’t answer, he can’t. If he tries, he’ll throw up, and that would be embarrassing.

“Will?” Mike says again, more worried now.

He pushes himself up, fast but unsteady, his knees almost giving out as he stands. The cold spikes again at the base of his neck, and he bends forward slightly, one hand grabbing the back of the seat in front of him to keep his balance.

“Will?” Mike calls out, looking up with a furrowed brow. “Where are you going?”

He can’t even answer, hie throat feels tight and a sudden, violent wave of nausea hits him again.

“Seriously, what’s up?” Mike asks, not whispering this time. A few people in the row in front turn around to hiss, “Shh!”

He doesn’t wait for Mike to say anything else. He points vaguely toward the exit and bolts, his hand clamped over his mouth.

Will moves down the aisle faster than he should. The nausea hits him again—hard this time—and his vision blurs for a second. He clenches his jaw shut and tries to breathe through his nose. 

He starts running because the sick feeling sits right at the back of his throat, and he knows he only has a few seconds left. He doesn’t care if he looks stupid or if people in the lobby are watching him.

He spots the bathroom sign and heads straight for it, almost slipping on the floor. He shoves the door open with his shoulder and moves directly toward the last stall, forces the door open and can’t even manage to lock it before his knees give out.

He grabs the toilet with both hands, fingers wrapping around the bowl even though it’s gross but he doesn’t want to think about it. If he lets go, he feels like he’s going to tip over and smash his face into the floor.

The room tilts, and his stomach clenches violently. He barely has time to lean forward before he throws up. It’s rough and sudden—his whole body jerking with it, his throat burning, his eyes watering instantly. It doesn’t all come out at once, he gags hard, retching again, his stomach trying to empty itself completely, but it keeps coming in waves. 

His hands tighten on the toilet as another surge hits, worse than the last. Each time he thinks it’s over, his stomach tightens again and another wave forces its way up. It’s disgusting and miserable, and he feels completely out of control.

A door slams somewhere in the bathroom.

Fuck, he can’t even throw up in peace.

A flash of panic hits him, because the last thing he wants is someone hearing all the disgusting noises he’s making. His ears are ringing from the effort of trying to stay quiet, he clamps his jaw shut, and tries to get it together.

“Will? Are you there?”

His chest tightens even more. It’s just Mike. He’s not going to be mad or think he’s gross—he’s just worried.

Will takes a shaky breath and tries to pull himself together as much as he can. He tucks his knees under him and slides onto the floor for a second, just waiting for the room to stop moving. He grips the side of the toilet again, takes one last breath, and slowly pushes himself up. He has to use the wall and the side of the stall just to keep his balance.

He turns around to open the door—he didn’t even have time to lock it when he ran in earlier, so it’s already hanging open a little bit.

“Can I come in—”

Before Will can even answer or touch the handle, Mike already has his hand on the door and pushes it open the rest of the way.

“Are you okay?” Mike asks immediately.

Will doesn’t answer right away. He just takes one more shaky breath and lifts his eyes to meet Mike’s. He gives a tiny nod, trying to convince both of them that he’s not about to pass out.

“You sure? Did you throw up?”

“I’m fine, Mike. Really,” he says, though he’s pretty sure he doesn’t sound fine at all. He swallows hard, tasting nothing but bitter dryness in his mouth.

Mike doesn’t look convinced for even a second. He steps into the cramped, gross space of the stall anyway and reaches out to grab Will’s arm, trying to steady him. He flinches instinctively and pulls away.

“Don’t—Mike, don’t touch me,” Will mutters, pushing past him. His hand brushes Mike’s chest as he shoves him back just enough to get out. “I just threw up, I’m gross. Just stay back.”

He says it mostly because he feels disgusting, but also because having Mike that close when he feels this sick makes his head spin even more.

He steps out of the stall slowly, dragging his feet because his legs feel weak and unsteady. His stomach flips again with the movement, but he tries to ignore it. He heads straight to the sink and turns the cold water on as high as it will go. He needs the taste out of his mouth, and the heat off his face.

“Will, I don’t care about that,” Mike says, following him immediately. His voice is almost offended that he would try to push him away.

“Well, I do,” Will snaps.

He lets the water run over his hands, cupping some to splash his face over and over, trying to wash away the nausea.

Mike stays behind him, just watching. He’s still really tense, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to annoy Will, but he also can’t bring himself to look away.

Every time Will opens his eyes, he catches Mike staring at him in the mirror. They keep making eye contact through the glass, and Mike’s whole face is covered in worry. Will leans over the sink, gripping the edges with his arms just to stay upright. He coughs a little, his throat still feeling raw.

Mike doesn’t listen to him—he doesn’t stay back at all.

“Hey.” Mike moves even closer than before, stepping right into his space. He reaches out and places his hand against his back, rubbing in slow circles. He’s basically pulling Will toward him, trying to get him to lean back against his chest. “Hey,” he murmurs again, voice much softer now. “It’s okay.”

Mike shifts his hand from his back to his shoulder and pulls him in until Will is practically leaning his whole weight against him.

Mike lowers his head, trying to get his eyes level with him. He stares at him, memorizing exactly how pale he looks—probably just to make sure he doesn’t get any worse. His attention makes Will’s heart do this weird flutter that has nothing to do with being sick. Part of him feels like he should pull away.

“Mike, I’m okay,” he tells him, trying to move a little. “Let go. Don’t worry about it.”

Mike doesn’t let go of him and acts like he didn't even hear Will.

One hand stays steady, digging into his shoulder, while the other lifts gently under his chin, turning his head so he’s forced to look Mike in the eyes.

“Look at me,” Mike whispers. His voice cracks a little, and it makes Will’s heart sink because he can hear how worried Mike actually is. “Does your head hurt? Are you dizzy?”

Will just stares at him for a second. His face is so close that he can see the tiny freckles on his nose. He wants to tell him again that he’s fine, but his head actually throbs when he tries to speak, so he just gives a small nod.

“A little,” he admits.

Mike’s expression tightens even more. He doesn’t move his hand from Will’s chin. Instead, his thumb brushes his skin, and a shiver runs down his spine, making him feel even more lightheaded than the nausea did.

“Go back to the movie. I’ll be out in a minute,” Will mutters finally, forcing the words out.

But Mike doesn’t move an inch, he doesn’t even glance at the door. “I don’t care about the movie, Will,” he says, almost mad that he would even bring it up. “I’m not leaving you. You look like you’re about to pass out, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Will leans into him a lot more than he probably should. It feels so much better than trying to stand on his own two feet. “Mike, seriously, Lucas and Max are gonna wonder—”

“Let them wonder,” Mike replies. He finally lets go of his chin, but immediately slides his arm around his shoulders. “I really don’t care about them right now. I care about you, okay? Just you.”

Will freezes for a second. The way Mike says it, just you, makes his chest tighten, and for a moment it actually feels good.

The flutter doesn’t last—obviously—because Will isn’t allowed to feel that, not for him, not in that way. It turns into something else, an impurity he has to get rid of right now.

A violent cramp twists his stomach, and he clamps his hand over his mouth, feeling bile rise up in his throat. He has to get back to the stall right now.

Mike reaches for him again, but Will shoves his hand away. He doesn’t have much strength, but he pushes hard enough to get past him. He stumbles back into the stall, not even bothering to lock the door. He just drops to his knees and lets it all out. He feels disgusting. He’s sweaty and pale, and he’s about to get even grosser.

There’s no way Mike doesn’t find him gross right now. Will wants him to leave, to go back to the movie, to be anywhere but here, watching him like this.

He just feels like he’s purging that stupid feeling he had when Mike looked at him.

Mike doesn’t leave, and he doesn’t even stay by the sinks. Will feels him drop down onto the cold, dirty tile floor right behind him.

He doesn’t seem to care that Will is gross or that the floor is dirty. He feels Mike’s hand press firmly against his back, holding him steady while he keeps retching. He stays right there, his shoulder pressing against his, rubbing slow circles on his back. He doesn’t pull away once.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispers. His voice sounds thick, with a really soft gentleness to it. “Just get it all out. I’ve got you, Will. I’m right here.” He keeps talking, repeating the same things over and over again. “You’re doing so good. Just breathe.”

Will presses himself into him as much as he can. He’s still shaking and his stomach is still doing that gross flipping thing, but having his voice and his hands there makes the panic fade a little. He finally stops, his chest heaving, his stomach feeling totally empty and sore.

Will folds his arms on the rim of the toilet and buries his face in them, keeping his head down and trying to catch his breath. Yeah, it’s gross, but he doesn’t care because the cool porcelain against his forehead is the only thing that feels good—besides Mike’s hand. He feels so disgusting, he’s so sweaty, his eyes are watering and he can’t even bring himself to look at Mike.

“Better?” Mike asks softly. His voice is right by his ear, and he doesn’t sound disgusted at all.

Will doesn’t even look at him and just nods. Mike doesn’t pull his hand away from his back. Instead, he moves it up to rest on the side of his neck, his thumb hovering just below his ear. Will can feel the warmth of him there, checking—he guesses—for a pulse.

“Will, look at me. Are you okay? Do you need me to get help? I can go get your mom, I can—”

“No,” Will whispers, finally opening his eyes just enough to see him. He lets himself sink a little more against Mike, tilting his head so he can rest it just above his hand. The tilt of Mike’s thumb against his neck, the warmth of his hand on his back.

“Will, can you just tell me you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Stay here,” Mike says, standing up, and he hears his footsteps head over to the sinks.

Will doesn’t want to stay hunched over the toilet anymore. He forces himself to move, dragging his body away from the porcelain and sliding over until his back hits the stall wall. He stays slumped against the wall, closing his eyes. He hears the sound of water running and the loud noise of the paper towel dispenser. A few seconds later, Mike is back, and he drops down to his knees beside him.

He’s holding a bunch of soaking wet paper towels and, without saying anything, he starts dabbing them against Will’s forehead. The water is freezing cold, and it feels incredible against his skin. Then Mike gently wipes his mouth and his chin.

“I can do it myself,” Will grumbles, trying to reach up and take the paper towel from him because it feels strange and embarrassing to have him do this. Mike just pushes his hand back down.

“I got it,” he mutters. Mike reaches out and grabs his arm, helping him shift so he is sitting a bit more comfortably.

Will watches him, and he can’t help thinking about how long it has been since Mike acted like this.

It has to be at least three years.

It reminds him of the sleepovers back when he used to have those bad nightmares, and Mike would stay up with him until he stopped shaking. But then things got weird, and they drifted apart, and Mike stopped being this kind.

It’s frustrating because Will has spent so much time being mad at him for changing, and now he’s being so gentle and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

It’s strange having him this close after so much time where they barely touched at all. But he’s missed this so much that he just sits there and lets him do it. Will doesn’t really understand why he’s doing it now, but he’s too tired to care.

“Sorry for ruining the night.”

“Shut up, you didn’t ruin anything.” Mike shoves his shoulder lightly, trying to play it off. “You saved me from having to watch Lucas and Max flirt for another hour.”

Will let out a laugh, but it immediately turns into a wince because his stomach is still really sore and his muscles feel all tense.

Mike’s smile disappears instantly. “Seriously though, did you even eat anything today? Like, before the popcorn?”

“Yeah, of course.” Will wipes his face with the back of his hand. “I mean… I just threw it all up, but yeah. I ate.”

Mike doesn’t look like he believes him. He keeps his eyes on him, searching his face for any sign that he is lying.

“Look,” he says, reaching out and grabbing Will’s hoodie, pulling the zipper up just a little more. “How about we just go home? You need to lie down.”

“Yeah.” Will nods. “Okay.”

Mike glances down at the bike key dangling from Will’s belt, then back up at his face. “Do you… do you think you can even ride your bike? I can leave mine here and we can walk, or I can double you on my seat.”

“What about the others?” He’s feeling a bit overwhelmed by how much Mike was hovering. “We can't just leave them.”

“They’ll survive,” Mike says, giving him a reassuring smile. “They’ve got each other. I’m taking you home. I’ll go tell them we’re heading out, okay?” He reaches out and squeezes Will’s shoulder gently. “Stay right here. Don’t move until I get back, okay?”

Will nods. 

The bathroom door swings open with a loud thud against the wall and Will flinches instinctively.

“Okay, what the hell?” Max marches in with Lucas right behind her. “You guys have been gone for like twenty minutes. We’re missing the best part.”

Mike steps in front of Will automatically, partially blocking him from their view. “He’s sick,” he sounds defensive. “He just threw up.”

Lucas stops chewing his popcorn and looks past Mike at Will’s pale face. “Was it the nachos? We told you the cheese looked—”

“I don’t think it was that,” Mike snaps, and he sounds really annoyed now. “He’s freezing, and he can barely stand. We’re leaving.”

Max’s face changes the moment she sees him. For the first time that night, genuine worry replaces her usual teasing expression, and she steps closer. “Do you need us to call your mom? Or Jonathan?”

“No,” Will says, waving a hand weakly. “I just… I think I need to go home and sleep. I’ll be fine.”

Mike’s jaw tightens as he watches him. “I’m taking him home. You two stay and finish the movie, there’s no point in all of us leaving.”

Lucas glances between them, eyebrows drawn together. “Are you sure? I can help. We can double him on my bike, it’s got the—”

“No, I’ve got it,” Mike cuts in, already reaching for Will’s arm to keep him steady. “You guys just enjoy your date.”

Lucas opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, but then he stops. He looks at Max, and she gives him a look that tells him to just drop it. Neither of them says anything for a second.

“If he gets worse, you better call us,” Max warns.

Mike doesn’t even really answer. He just gives her a quick nod, then turns back to Will and wraps his arm around his waist. “Ready? Let’s get out of here.”

Will is sitting on the edge of the couch, wrapped in a thick wool blanket that smells exactly like Mike’s laundry detergent. The basement door creaks open, and even though it’s just Mike, the sound makes him flinch. He hates how jumpy he has been lately, but he can’t really help it.

“It’s just me.” Mike says quickly. He comes down the stairs carefully, carrying a glass of water in one hand and a small white pill in the other.

Mike walks over and sits on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of him. Since the table is much lower than the couch, Mike ends up sitting a little bit below him. It forces Will to look down at him, while Mike has to look up from below.

“Here.” Mike says, handing him the water and the aspirin. “Take this. It’ll help with the headache.”

He takes the glass and swallows the pill. It tastes gross and chalky for a second, but he gets it down. “Thank you.”

“I called your mom,” Mike doesn’t take his eyes off him for even a second. “I told her you were already half-asleep and that you would just crash here. I didn’t want you riding home alone tonight.”

Will just nods.

Mike takes the empty glass from his hands, setting it on the table. Then he leans forward and rests his hands on Will’s knees. Will can feel the heat of his palms through his pants. “Do you want more blankets? Or I can turn the heat up? Tell me what you need.”

“I’m okay, Mike,” he whispers. It’s a total lie because his head is still pounding and he feels like he might cry for no reason, but he doesn’t want him to worry more than he already is.

Mike reaches out and grabs the edge of the blanket, pulling it a little tighter around Will’s shoulders. His fingers brush against his neck for a second, and it feels so warm. “I’m setting up the sleeping bag right here on the floor next to you. If you don’t feel good, you just wake me up, okay?”

“You don't have to do that. I'm okay now, I'm not gonna throw up on your carpet or—”

“I don't care about the carpet.”

“Okay.”

They just sit there for a second. Mike still has his hands on his knees, his thumbs rubbing slow circles over the fabric. He’s wearing Mike’s old gray sweatpants—the ones he always gives him when he stays over, because they’re too short for Mike now but fit him just right.

Then Mike seems to realize what he’s doing. He clears his throat, pulls his hands back, and wipes them on his legs like they’re suddenly sweaty.

“Wait,” he says, pointing at Will to make sure he stays exactly where he is. “I know how to make you feel better.”

He blinks at him and raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

Mike walks away with this huge smile on his face, and Will can’t even help it—he starts smiling too, just watching him. Mike crosses the basement, past the D&D table, heading for a stack of boxes near the back wall. He stays where he is, waiting, his fingers picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of the oversized T-shirt he’s also borrowing from Mike.

A minute later, Mike comes back and sits on the edge of the coffee table right across from him. He’s wearing this really dumb, lopsided grin, and both of his hands are hidden behind his back.

“What are you hiding?” he asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I forgot to give you these the other day,” Mike says, his smile widening even more. “But I figured now was a good time.”

“Mike, what is it?”

“Ta-da.” Mike finally brings his hands forward, holding a tape in each hand and sticking them out for Will to take.

Will reaches out and takes the tapes from him. His fingers brush against Mike’s for a second as he grabs them, and the warmth of his skin lingers. When Will looks down at the covers, his brain takes a moment to catch up and his heart gives a little jump. He just stares at them for a beat before looking back up at him, and he can feel his smile stretching wide before he can even stop it. It’s Music for the Masses and Strangeways, Here We Come.

“No way.” 

He holds one tape in each hand, turning them over carefully as he reads the tracklists on the back. The plastic cases are brand new, still shiny, still untouched by scratches.

“I couldn’t figure out which one you wanted more, so I just got you both.”

“How did you even know?” he asks, flipping the Depeche Mode tape over in his hands. “I haven’t even told you these were out yet.”

“Come on, Will. I know you.”

That huge smile spreads across his face again. He’s exhausted, and his stomach still feels tight, but looking at him right then, all of that fades away.

Will knows the tapes don’t mean what he wants them to mean. Mike just likes buying things for his friends, he’s always been like that. Will made his peace with it a long time ago—the fact that Mike’s version of affection is never going to look like his own. That’s just how things are.

But having Mike so close, he doesn’t even care. He’s too tired to be sad about it or to overthink it the way he usually does. Mike is being so sweet, so attentive, and God—he has that specific softness in his eyes, that gentle look Will knows too well.

“Stop smiling like that, you look like a dork,” Will mutters, even though he’s definitely smiling back.

“I do not,” Mike retorts, even as his grin only grows wider.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. Do you want to listen to one now?” he asks, nodding toward the player. “To help you fall asleep?”

Will looks at the tapes, then back at him. “You hate them both, Mike,” he reminds him.

“True,” he replies with a shrug. “But you like it and you’re the one who’s sick, so you get to pick the music.”

Will leans his head back against the couch. “I think I’m too tired.”

Mike’s expression softens. “Fair enough.” He takes the tapes from Will’s hands and stacks them neatly on the table.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Mike mutters and finally lets out a long breath as he pulls his sleeping bag onto the floor, right next to the couch. “Just try to sleep. I’m right here.”

Will lies back and stares at the ceiling, but his eyes stay wide open. Mike doesn’t lie down right away and stays seated on his sleeping bag, knees pulled up to his chest, his back pressed against the side of the couch—only a few inches from Will.

“Will?” Mike’s soft voice breaks the silence.

“Yeah?”

Mike hesitates, fingers worrying at a loose thread on the edge of his sleeping bag. “I’m not an idiot, you know. I know you’re not actually sick. I mean—okay, you puked, but it wasn’t a stomach bug or anything.”

Will shifts under the covers, and his heart skips a beat. He tries to think of a lie, but Mike is looking at him with so much honesty that the words get stuck in his throat.

“You can tell me,” Mike pushes. He leans his head back against the edge of the couch, right near Will’s arm, and looks away from him. “I’m not gonna call your mom or whatever you’re worried about.”

Will swallows hard. He looks away too, focusing on a tiny crack in the ceiling. “It’s hard to explain. It was…” he hesitates. “You know that sensation on a roller coaster? That part where you drop and all your organs just fall?”

Mike turns his head back toward Will and nods slowly, leaning in closer.

“It was like that,” he continues, “Except it didn’t stop. And it was cold. That’s why I— that’s why I threw up, I think.” He shivers just thinking about it, even with the thick blankets wrapped around him.

Mike sits in silence for a long moment, probably trying to figure out what that means. “Maybe it’s like an inner ear thing?” he says finally. “Does it feel like that now?”

“No,” Will looks back at him. It stopped when you found me. He doesn’t say that part.

Mike manages a tiny smile and reaches out, placing his hand over Will’s arm through the blanket. “If you feel that drop again, you tell me. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning, okay?”

“I will,” he lies.

Mike notices him squinting against the light and reaches over to turn off the main lamp. He leaves only the small desk light on in the corner—just enough so the room isn’t dark, but dim enough that it eases his headache.

“Okay. Sleep now,” Mike says, finally lying down on his sleeping bag.

“Night.”

Mike is quiet for a long time, long enough that Will really believes he’s drifted off. He starts to relax, his body sinking into the mattress, when he hears Mike move. He shifts like he can’t get comfortable, the sleeping bag rustling, and then he sighs.

“Hey, uh…” Mike starts. Will keeps his eyes closed, a little smile playing on his lips because this is—what—the third goodnight? Fourth? And Mike still can’t stop talking. “Remember back in fifth grade? When you were out for two weeks with that pneumonia?”

Will turns his head slightly on the pillow to look down at him. “Yeah, of course.”

“Everyone at school was saying you weren’t coming back,” Mike continues and his voice is getting all tight and weird. “They said you were going to have to go to a special hospital in the city. I used to sit here in the basement and try to hold my breath for as long as I could. I thought… I really thought that if I could feel what you were feeling, I could take some of it away and you’d get better faster. I know it was stupid.”

Will just stares at him because he had no idea that he’d ever done anything like that. He doesn’t really know what to say, either.

“Even last year,” Mike goes on, “when you broke your arm, I wished I’d broken mine too. We could’ve both had casts and been high on the hospital meds together after your surgery.”

“You really wanted a broken arm?” Will lets out a weak laugh, shaking his head. “The cast was itchy as hell, you would’ve hated it.”

“I would’ve managed, at least we could’ve signed each other’s casts first.” Mike sounds a bit bitter. “That’s how it should have been.”

“Oh my god,” Will groans, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Are you still on that? Seriously?”

“Well, yeah,” he replies, still clearly annoyed. “Some random girl got to sign it before I even saw you and she drew that ugly-ass pac-man on it,” he mumbles the last part, and Will can’t help it—he lets out a tiny laugh.

“It wasn’t a random girl. It was Robi—”

“Whatever,” he mutters, cutting him off. He finally lets out a small breath of a laugh too, though he’s trying to hide it. “The point is, I’ve never let you do the hard stuff alone. It’s like we said back then, remember? About the pact?”

Will felt a small smile touch his lips. “Crazy together.”

“Exactly, okay?” He reaches out and pats Will’s leg through the blanket. “I’m never gonna judge you for anything. You can tell me whatever’s going on. We’re in this together. No matter what it is.”

We’re not, Will thinks. He’s alone with all of this.

He looks at him—at how sincere he's being—and he feels this heavy sink in his stomach that has nothing to do with being sick. He's completely alone with everything in his head, and Mike doesn’t have a clue.

There's so much he wants to say. So much he keeps tucked away because he knows it would change everything. If Mike actually knew the truth, he wouldn’t be sitting here next to him, he wouldn’t be being this nice, or giving him tapes, or talking about going crazy together.

But Will can’t say anything. Not tonight and probably not ever.

“Yeah,” his voice sounds a little forced and fake even to him, but Mike doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll tell you if anything happens.”

“Good,” Mike says, looking satisfied. He settles back down, and Will listens to him aggressively rearranging his pillow to get comfortable. Will closes his eyes for real this time. The last thing he hears is the muffled sound of Mike finally stopping his fidgeting in the sleeping bag.

Will is on his back on the couch and he can’t move. He knows for a fact he’s awake, but his body stays stuck there, staring at the ceiling. He tries to call out for Mike, but his mouth doesn’t really work. The word stays trapped in his throat.

It’s dark—way darker than it should be. He looks at the basement windows and they’re just total black. There isn’t any moonlight coming through them at all, which doesn’t make any sense.

That same feeling from earlier crawls back into his chest, and he starts breathing too fast without meaning to. His chest jerks up and down, and he can’t slow it down, no matter how hard he tries to calm himself. He forces himself to move, and finally he manages to sit up, but his head spins as soon as he does.

The first thing he does is look down at the floor, because that’s where Mike’s sleeping bag is supposed to be. But there’s nothing there. Will frowns and pushes himself up a little on his elbows to look again, maybe he missed it somehow because of the dark, but there’s still nothing.

He just stares at the empty spot on the floor, waiting for Mike to move, or to sit up and say something—nothing happens, of course.

Then he looks at the table, and it's completely bare. The two tapes are gone. He stares at the wood, confusion tightening in his chest, and then he searches for the glass of water he remembers drinking half of earlier, and it’s gone too. He blinks several times, trying to make his eyes behave, but the room remains empty.

Okay, this is probably just a dream. 

He keeps telling himself that he’s not fully awake yet, but the problem is that everything feels far too real. The couch beneath his hands feels solid, the air presses cold against his arms, and he can hear his own breathing. He doesn’t feel fuzzy or distant the way he usually does when he’s dreaming.

He can’t take a full breath no matter how hard he tries. His hands begin to shake, so he presses them into the couch cushion to make them stop. He swallows hard and swings his legs off the couch. When his feet touch the floor, the cold goes straight through him. That is another thing that feels far too real for this to be a dream.

Will takes a step toward the stairs and immediately regrets it because he feels like he’s going to throw up again. He stops moving because clearly this place has opinions about him walking around. His eyes go straight to the basement door, and he sees a dark line under it. There is no light coming from the other side, which is weird because Ted always falls asleep in front of the TV, and he can always see the light from it under the door.

Okay, sure, maybe the power’s out. Maybe—

Something starts to slide under the door, and he freezes. His heart starts pounding so hard he can feel it in his throat. This dark shape creeps forward, spreading across the floor and reaching farther into the room.

“No,” Will breathes. “Absolutely not.”

This is not happening. He just wants to sleep, is that such a crazy fucking request?

He stumbles backward until his legs hit the couch and he just drops down. His hands are shaking even harder now, and he can’t get them to stop, which makes him feel angry on top of being terrified.

He squeezes his eyes shut and shoves his hands over his ears. If he doesn’t see it, and if he doesn’t hear it, then it’s not real. That logic is flawless and he refuses to think otherwise.

He curls in on himself and pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. He only wants to hear his own heart and his own breathing. He stays like that, shaking and begging. Opening his eyes feels impossible, and he knows deep down that this isn’t a dream he’s about to wake up from.

“Please,” he whispers, over and over. “Please, please, please. Stop this, let me go. Please, please—”

“Will! Will. Hey, wake up, please.”

His eyes snap open and he sucks in a breath so hard it hurts. His body jerks, his throat burns, and he coughs hard. He’s tangled in the blankets, his skin slick with a cold, clammy sweat. Mike is right there, kneeling on the couch, and his hands are gripping Will’s arms so tightly it almost hurts.

“Will? You’re okay,” Mike says, his voice shaking. “Just breathe. Come on, look at me.”

He can’t stop trembling. His legs are still jerking a little against the sofa cushions, and he tries to pull in air, but it feels like his lungs are stuck or something. He looks around the room quickly, trying to make sure where he is. The tapes are back on the table, the glass of water is right there, and most importantly, Mike is there.

“Everything is okay,” Mike whispers, and his voice cracks. “You’re fine. I’ve got you. It was just a dream.”

But it wasn’t just a dream. It felt real to him.

His throat still feels like there’s a hand around it, and his chest is so tight he can’t even take a full breath. He stares at his hands, pressing his fingers together until his knuckles turn white and tries to feel something that isn’t the cold from that place.

Will is not crazy, he knows he’s not. He can tell the difference between a normal nightmare and whatever the hell that was. He knows what real fear feels like in his bones.

He chokes again and starts coughing because his throat is burning. His body keeps jerking, and Mike tightens his grip on him—just enough to keep him from knocking into him or falling off the couch.

“Hey, hey, slow down. Breathe, okay? Please.”

Will tries to do what he says, he really does, but the air won’t go in right. “I—I can’t—” he manages to say, and then he coughs again.

“Yes you can. You’re okay,” Mike says, talking as fast as he can. “You were just having a nightmare.”

He finally manages to get one full breath in, and then another right after it. He doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out anymore. His legs and arms gradually stop twitching, one small movement at a time, until he’s left still and quiet.

Mike doesn’t let go of him, his hands still gripping his shoulders, and his thumbs press into Will’s skin through his shirt. Will looks at him properly then. His eyes are wide and shiny, his hair a mess, his mouth still half-open, and he looks so terrified.

Mike lets out a huge breath and runs a hand through his hair, but he keeps the other hand on Will’s arm. He releases a shaky laugh of relief—one that doesn’t sound happy at all.

“Oh my god, Will, you scared the hell out of me. You weren’t breathing right, you were choking and I tried to wake you up and I couldn’t and you were convulsing and I thought—” He stops himself and swallows, his eyes dropping to Will’s mouth for a second before snapping back up to his eyes. “I thought something was really wrong—”

“I’m fine,” Will says, even though his voice sounds terrible, all rough and cracked, and he has to cough again. He presses a hand over his mouth to try and stop it.

“Okay, slow down,” Mike whispers. He moves closer, his knee brushing against his. “Just breathe, alright?”

Will doesn’t say anything back. He can’t really look at him anymore, so he just stares at the floor. 

“Will?”

Mike hesitates for a second, and then he leans in anyway. Will doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he sees him move out of the corner of his eye. Before he can say anything, his hand is already there, wiping the cold sweat off Will’s forehead. His palm lingers there for a second longer than necessary, probably checking to see if Will has a fever.

It takes him a moment to actually feel Mike’s skin against his. By the time he does, his hand is still there, and all Will knows is that he doesn’t want this. 

He can’t handle Mike being this close. He feels dirty, his own skin no longer belongs to him and Mike’s touch only makes it worse.

He doesn’t understand why his mind is reacting like this, especially when he normally wants nothing more than for Mike to be near him. In that moment, though, none of that matters. 

“Don’t,” he shoves Mike’s hands away harder than he means to.

Mike freezes. “Will, I was just—”

“I know. Just— don’t.” He sits up and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to scrub away the memory of that shadow leaning over him. 

He blinks at him. “I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Will says immediately.

“I don’t want you dealing with this alone.”

Will lets out a dry laugh. “Little late for that,” he mutters.

“What?” Mike sounds confused and a little hurt. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Will sighs and looks away from him because he doesn’t want to see his face right now, and he definitely doesn’t want to start an argument. “Can we please just… not right now.”

Mike shifts where he’s sitting, clearly trying to figure out what to do now that he’s not allowed to touch him. “I just wanted to check if you were okay.”

“I know, I’m fine,” he says even though he very clearly is not.

He thinks he said the words I’m fine more in the last twenty-four hours than he has in his entire life.

He also never lied this much before, and it makes him feel kind of sick.

Mike, of course, doesn’t buy it. He moves a little bit closer to him on the couch, being really careful this time.

“That didn’t look fine at all.” Mike stays on his knees, but he doesn’t reach for him again. “I thought you were having a seizure or—”

“I just had a bad dream, okay? It happens.” Will reaches for the glass of water—it’s back on the table now, thank God—and his hand is shaking so badly he has to use both hands to hold it. He takes a sip, trying to get his throat to stop burning.

“What did you dream about?”

“Mike, drop it.”

“It’s just… I haven’t seen you have a nightmare in years. Not since… you know.”

Will finally looks up at him, and he knows he has that annoyed look on his face. Because seriously, how is it supposed to help to bring up his abusive dad at, what, four in the morning?

He sets the glass down with a loud clack. “Since what, Mike? Just say it.”

“Since Lonnie,” he says quietly. “Is that what it was? Was it about him?”

Will rolls his eyes. He’s actually getting annoyed now. “I haven’t had a nightmare about him since middle school. You know that. Why would I be dreaming about him now?”

“I’m just asking. You’ve never had one like that, not even when things were really bad. And you used to get nightmares when he—”

“That was a long time ago,” Will cuts him off. “I don’t even think about him anymore. It wasn’t Lonnie.”

“Then what was it?” Mike asks. He doesn’t back off at all, he actually leans closer and looks Will right in the eye, which makes it harder to look away. “You were choking, Will. And I heard— you were pleading for it to stop. If it it wasn’t him, then what—”

“I don’t know!” Will throws his hands up. “It’s just a dream. People say stuff in their sleep all the time. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Mike snaps.

“I’m not—”

“You’re obviously lying,” Mike says, hurt and annoyed at the same time. “You used to tell me everything. You used to talk to me about this stuff.”

Something hot and bitter rises up in Will’s throat. He looks Mike right in the eye. “Oh, now you want to hear about it? You didn’t seem to care about any of that when you were being a total asshole for a year, did you?”

Mike flinches as if his words bruised him. He opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it, just staring at Will.

“So just go back to that. Go back to ignoring me,” Will adds, because apparently he’s on a roll.

Mike’s eyes get really wide. “Will, come on. Is that what this is about? Is that why you’re pushing me away right now?”

“I'm not pushing you away. I’m going back to sleep. Go back to your sleeping bag, please.” He yanks the blanket up, but Mike reaches out and grabs the edge of it, forcing Will to look at him.

“You are,” his voice cracks a little. “You’re bringing up stuff from last year? I thought we were past that.”

“We are,” Will mutters, he finally manages to pull the blanket free from Mike’s grip. “Look, I’m sorry for waking you up and scaring you, and for snapping at you too. But I’m just really tired.”

Will turns his back to him and pulls the blanket all the way up to his ears. His heart is still hammering against his ribs, and it won’t slow down. He can feel Mike standing there, just a few feet away, but he refuses to turn around or look at him again.

“Will—” Mike starts, his voice a lot softer now.

“Goodnight, Mike.”

He pretends to fall asleep after that and stays like this for hours, staring at the back of the couch until the fabric pattern feels burned into his eyes. He makes sure his breathing stays slow, pretending to be asleep so Mike will finally stop staring at the back of his head. Eventually, he hears him give up and crawl into his sleeping bag. 

Will doesn’t sleep at all. Every time he closes his eyes, the oily coldness from the nightmare creeps back up his legs.

His mind keeps looping back to the look on Mike’s face when he snapped at him earlier—that stunned, hurt expression that would normally have made him apologize instantly.

He didn’t even mean to say what he said. The words just flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. Will feels terrible about it, but at the same time, he doesn’t exactly regret it. For once, he wasn’t lying. He really is still angry about last year. He’s still hurt that Mike ignored him for months, and it feels strange that he’s being so clingy now.

Still, he wouldn’t have said any of those things under normal circumstances. Especially not tonight, when Mike has actually been this gentle to him. He doesn’t understand why he’s acting like this, why he’s so irritable for no reason.

As soon as the sun started to come up, Will grabbed his shoes and jacket, crept upstairs, and got on his bike.

He feels like a jerk for leaving without a word, and he knows he’s probably making everything worse, but he just needs to be in his own house.

He did grab the tapes before he left, though.