Work Text:
Will Byers had always been an emotional child.
There was never a day in his life someone didn’t feel the need to point that out, one way or another.
At first it had been his father, who’d screamed at him every time his lip began to wobble, every time he spotted the shininess in his big brown eyes, every time the hurt struck Will so suddenly that he couldn’t hold it in. And so he got used to the screaming, to the stinging on his cheeks, to the fear when he couldn’t stop the tears from spilling out, however much he wanted to.
But eventually, he’d learned to do it quietly, hiding in closets (how ironic), stifling his sobs in his tiny hands just so his father wouldn’t hear how weak he was. And sometimes, there’d been Jonathan, his big brother, who’d sworn to always protect him against bullies. Even if his bully was the one who’s blood flowed through their veins.
But Jonathan hadn’t always been there to protect him.
Then there were the bullies at school, of course, with their cruel words and their shoving, who made him hate everything about himself he so desperately wanted to change. And even his friends, who’d all been bullied, who little Will had found comfort in because they‘d all been shunned by the people around them… Even they had accepted that he was… different.
Sure, they were never weird or malicious about it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t make him feel anxious, sometimes, like they all knew some terrible secret about him. Or just slightly out of place, even when surrounded by friends he loved so much. It wasn’t their fault, he knew that. Of course he knew that. It was all him.
(There had once been a person who’d never made him feel that way. Who made him feel better for being different. But look at them now.)
He just… couldn’t understand why everything hurt so much, as a kid. Why every little thing seemed to punch the air out of his lungs, weigh so heavily on his chest that the only thing he could do was burst into tears. He didn’t understand why everything seemed to come so easily to everyone else, why they could all handle everything so much better, why he wasn’t normal.
He was weak, a crybaby, an emotional, sensitive child.
Yet there were only two times that he’d truly lost control.
That one night, two years ago during that dreadful summer, when he’d finally let everything out. When his heart truly realized that he’d lost everything, in the most agonizing way possible. When the hurt and anger that had been burning up his insides for months finally got ahold of him. And he’d screamed, he’d cried, he’d cursed the heavens for himself and for his youth that was so violently ripped away from him. He’d taken that stupid, fucking bat that he’d somehow kept, even if it was a reminder of all the times his father tried to force him to ‘be a man’, and destroyed the last remaining thing that was his. His safe place, his youth, his friendships. Gone.
That was the first time, a moment of weakness that he’d sworn would never happen again.
And then there was… now.
It had been quiet for a while now, ever since Mike had dragged him downstairs, into the bathroom, and asked him to sit down on the edge of the tub. Will didn’t dare to rip his eyes away from the water droplets hitting the bottom of the bathroom sink, drip, drip, dripping in a steady rhythm, in fear of disturbing the tense atmosphere laying like a thick, suffocating blanket over the Wheelers’ basement bathroom.
Still, he was very aware of Mike before him, crouching down to rummage through the cabinet under the sink, looking for the first aid kit he’d stored there once for emergencies. They'd been rowdy kids when they were little, and sleepovers rarely ended without anyone getting a little hurt. Will suddenly, absurdly, wondered if the dino bandages were still there. They’d been his favorite, once. The thought somehow hurt. (God, everything hurts. Why does everything–)
A hand on his cheek interrupted him, gently guiding his head to move to the left, to get access to the part of his face where the fight had left most of its marks. Will had to hold himself back from letting out an audible, sharp breath with the way his friend was so suddenly in his vicinity. He hadn’t noticed him standing up.
He’d been zoning out again. (Don’t be weird, come on, Will–)
Will stubbornly let his eyes fixate on the wall to his left, the proximity of Mike’s face somehow both tempting him to just look, yet scaring him away at the same time. He didn’t know being alone with Mike again could be so terrifying. But they were here now. Alone, in a bathroom, in a suffocating silence while his friend gently inspected his face. Will was admittedly becoming a bit light-headed, trying to quiet his breathing, that irrational fear racing through his body setting every nerve alight.
And still Mike’s hand lingered on his cheek.
He let go, and Will swore he’d heard him let out a shaky breath as well. The tension remained, even as Mike took a step away to take something out of the medkit, so thick yet fragile you could shatter it with one audible breath. Will couldn’t help but follow his movement, eyes drawn to Mike’s soft hands that had been lingering on his cheek merely seconds ago. In the corner of his eyes, he saw Mike open his mouth, then close it again, as if debating what exactly he was going to say to break the silence building up for seemingly hours now. Will prepared himself for a conversation he knew he couldn’t avoid forever, shoulders tensing involuntarily.
“I’d like to say you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to”, is what eventually broke the silence. Mike’s voice was quiet and gentle, seemingly aware of the suffocating tension possessing the bathroom. He still didn’t look up, eyes trained on the box. “But please, just… talk to me.”
His eyes found Will’s, like a rubber band snapping into place, and there in that moment, Will clearly saw the hurt swimming in those dark eyes he knew so well. He avoided his gaze, breaking the connection. His hands gripped the edge of the tub with surprising strength, as Mike moved closer towards him again, question unanswered. He couldn’t get himself to answer. Not yet. Maybe never.
“What happened?” Mike asks him then, a bit desperately, trying to get him to break through his silence.
(He’d been silent for so long. For months– years, even. Why couldn't he just–).
Will sucked in a breath as the antiseptic touched the open wound on his cheek, closing his eyes to get away from the pain and that look burning on his skin. He felt Mike’s hand pause for a moment, like an apology, and then resume again. Very carefully. He stayed quiet, patiently waiting for an answer Will knew he was not ready to give.
When had it become so difficult to talk to his best friend? When had he become like any other stranger, someone he could never trust with the knowledge of the storm raging in his head? (You know when.)
Will squeezed his eyes even more shut, trying to stop the traitorous tears he felt welling up again in the tenderness of the moment; the way his friend, that stupid Mike Wheeler was talking to him in that stupid soft voice, with those stupid careful hands and–
He held his breath, trying to push everything down, again and again and again, like he always did. Like he’s always had to do.
He couldn’t let his emotions control him. One time, two times was enough. He was so sick of not being in control of himself.
And yet–
There was a traitorous part of himself that had felt... good, just letting everything go. A tiny part of him that had felt liberated when he’d let the anger course through his veins, hitting his fists over and over and over again against the body of that pathetic person who enjoyed making their lives a living hell. He'd enjoyed shutting up his horrible comments, seeing the blood on his face and the fear in his eyes–
And for a moment, he’d felt like his father.
Maybe that was what scared him the most.
He’d barely registered when people tore him away from the bully’s body, barely registered the blood running from his own nose or the bruises swelling on his cheek from the hits the other had managed to land on him in return. He’d taken refuge in the numbness that’d spread throughout his body. Until he’d gotten home, or whatever was closest to a home he didn’t have anymore, and his friend had dragged him silently towards the bathroom.
“I lost control,” Will settled on eventually, barely more than a whisper. He said nothing more.
Mike breathed in heavily at his answer, nodded his head softly and continued to wipe the cotton pad on his cheek. He’d already begun to get used to the sting. It just felt cold now. In the corner of his eyes, Will saw the thoughtful frown on Mike’s face, his hand trembling a bit as he wiped the last bit of blood off Will’s cheek. (Suddenly, it dawned on him that he couldn’t remember the last time they’d ever been this close to each other.)
The hand on his cheek paused, and then lowered. Mike looked down, folding the bloodied pad in half with surprisingly unsteady hands.
“I’ve never seen you that angry,” he whispered quietly, breaking the silence again.
There was… fear in his voice, Will realized, and that revelation should’ve probably affected him more. Yet all he could feel was the tension, the energy buzzing all throughout his body. It was all he could feel anymore. That and the anger. Still, his eyes flicked towards his friend’s face, the little child inside of him desperately seeking approval, looking for any sign that something was amiss, so afraid that the people he loved would leave him again.
And… the fear was there, very small, swimming through confusion and worry and carefully concealed hesitancy. Not enough to leave him. Enough worry to keep him tethered to him. (You’ve already lost him. Let him go, Will.)
“Turn your head,” Mike then said, still not raising his voice, still not getting angry at Will’s radio-silence, still not looking at him. And Will complied, a hand on his chin guiding it to the right. The touch somehow burned more than he’d anticipated, yet Mike’s hands were ice cold. The bathroom was ice cold (he likes it cold).
There was that silence again, gentle breathing and the drip, drip, dripping of the tap the only sounds filling the room.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Mike whispered, a hand wiping another cotton pad on his eyebrow, disinfecting the cut that had been bleeding sluggishly an hour before. It stings. It’s so cold.
“He was hurting you.”
Will’s voice came out louder than he’d expected. It was only the second thing he’d said in probably hours by now, and the words feel weird on his tongue. Will pretended to not hear the sharp inhale at his voice filling the room. The hand continued on.
“I– I can handle it, Will.” A pause. “I always have.”
And Will stayed quiet, because how could he explain that choking anger bubbling up, taking over like a tidal wave, blackening out his vision at seeing his best friend get shoved into a locker, get hurt (again and again and again–)
He’d always been a quiet, sensitive child. Never angry, never a fighter, always the stupid damsel in distress, and Mike the hero. But the anger had been growing, for a long time now. It was in his veins, his father’s blood. It grew and it grew and it grew as his mind got infected by monsters from another dimension, by monsters from his own past, his own flesh and blood. And he’d just… lost control. For once.
(one time, two times was enough–)
“Why did you punch him?” Mike asked, his voice getting stronger, putting the last pad down on the edge of the bathroom sink. He turned back towards Will, still sitting on the edge of the tub. Their eyes met again. “You’ve never fought before.”
And Will couldn't do anything but stay quiet and look away again (avoid, avoid, avoid–)
Mike sighed, clearly getting frustrated. “Come on, Will, talk to me. What's going on with you?”
He tried to catch his eyes, dipping in front of him to get into Will’s view, but he stubbornly kept his eyes away, down towards the ground. He didn’t really know why. He just– couldn’t. The cold of the bathtub seeped into his gripping hands.
“It’s nothing,” he bit out through clenched teeth.
“I don't believe that.”
“I’m fine, I can manage.”
“I don’t think breaking someone's nose is ‘managing it’, but okay.”
The anger in Mike’s voice took him off guard, just a little bit. And– there was that familiar feeling again, his own anger stirring up again low in his gut, bubbles of frustration rising up through his body, poisoning his tongue.
It burst.
“Why are you being such a–” He stopped himself with a frustrated sigh, hand catching in his tangled hair in frustration. The bruises on his knuckles ached. The nerves in his body buzzed. The anger stirred and stirred. He couldn’t –
A pause. Will’s burning eyes found Mike’s in the sudden silence.
His eyes were slightly widened, studying him. “Is it–” Mike began, hesitantly (there was that fear again). “Is it him ? Is he influencing you?”
At those words, a glare pushed its way onto Will's face, against his better judgment. He saw Mike take a tiny step back. Away from him. (he’s afraid of you. You’re going to hurt him)
“It’s not Vecna.” He huffed, frustration leaking out. “Why can’t anyone just–” (At least, he thinks it's not him. It's not, is it?). He stood up, feeling cornered sitting down on the bathtub, his fists clenched at his side. “Why does everyone always think I'm suddenly going to get possessed again at any moment? Why can’t anyone just trust me ?” (The anger stirred and stirred and stirred. It choked him. It burned.)
“Hey, hey,” Mike interrupted quickly, rushing to Will’s side again. He was swaying a bit (why was he getting so angry ?) “We trust you–”
“Oh do you?” Will ripped his arm away from where Mike’s hand had found him, having tried to grip it to steady him, to reassure him. “Why does every time I do something that doesn’t align with your… your idea of me suddenly have to do with that stupid monster.”
He laughed. He was losing it. (Why was he getting so angry?)
“Why can’t I just be angry for once.”
“You can, Will. Of course you can,” Mike forced out, hands in the air as if he were a wild animal. There was fear leaking through in his tone. The situation was getting out of hand. “We’re just worried!”
Will tried to take a deep breath, trying to calm the burning is his chest that was threatening to take over again (one time, two times was enough. Why are you getting so angry?–)
A hand took ahold of his clenched fist, and Mike was suddenly in his proximity again. Will blinked, for a moment not understanding the sight before him. Dark eyes, swimming with worry, stayed tethered to him. A delicate hand forced his fist to loosen.
“You’re hurting yourself,” Mike said softly, breath reaching Will’s cheeks, his neck. (He’s too close). He hadn’t noticed the wounds on his knuckles opening up again, hadn’t noticed his nails digging into his palms. The pain had all become the same.
Mike’s thumb stroked the back of his hand, delicately. Tenderly. Will could only freeze, oxygen escaping him, choking on the proximity and every touch set his skin aflame, his nerves alight (he’s too close, he’s too close).
This was not how it should be. This was not how it had been before, not since– not since they were little.
A thumb stroked his hand, a breath touched his face, the stare burned and that feeling he’d tried to bury for such a long time now, that he’d tried to smother out of shame and disgust, because it wasn’t right ; that feeling, that want, stabbed his heart again with such violence his breath caught in his throat.
(He’s going to hate you, he’s going to hate you, he’s going to–)
He could not stay a minute longer in his proximity.
The anger won, the current raced.
And then he just pushed, bruised hands ripping away from Mike and finding their violent home on his chest with more force than he’d meant to. And with a deafening bang, Mike’s back hit the edge of the bathroom sink, hand catching himself on the wall and sink and mirror. It cracked, getting hit by the back of his head. There might’ve been blood, but all Will could see was red (he didn’t mean to, he didn’t–)
Mike looked afraid again, afraid of him. It was the same look he’d given him when he’d been punching the bully’s lights out.
“I’m– I’m sorry I didn’t mean to,” he stammered out, panting. He couldn’t seem to catch any air inside his lungs. The bathroom was choking him, and he’d just hurt his best friend (oh god.)
“I need to leave, I–”
“Will, please,” Mike interjected, his voice unsteady, pushing himself away from the sink, closer to him, but still a few feet away. (He’s afraid of you. Shut the fuck up.)
“You don’t have to do this alone anymore. I’m here for you”, he said pleadingly, reaching a tentative hand out to him.
“Let me through”, was the only thing Will said in return, his eyes hardening.
“What?”
“I need to go, move,” he repeated. He was panicking, he knew that, heaving breaths going faster and faster. Why couldn’t Mike just let him leave.
“No!” Mike cried out, brows furrowed in indignance. “Not until you talk to me!”
Will’s fists clenched, unclenched, clenched again. The current raced. He was drowning.
“Will, what's going on ?”
“I said move,” his voice cracked with anger as he took a step forward, daring Mike to step aside. He felt the emotion threatening to overwhelm him again. Stupid, sensitive child.
“No– no, I’m not letting you run away again!”
Mike stepped back to guard the door frame, arms crossed. In his expression, there was determination, there was resilience, yet his eyes were glossy, his lip trembling.
It was a standstill, both waiting to see what the other would do, eyes tethered to each other, like a rubber band stretched too thin. There was a chasm between them, and no bridge steady enough to cross it. It was so far from how they’d been as kids, and Will mourned.
With a choked sob, he pushed forward, trying to reach the bathroom door, his only escape before he’d completely burst apart. Mike steeled himself, holding his ground with a fierce childish determination. Hands found him, arms clenched around his torso, trapping him against his chest. He choked on a sob.
“Let me through!” he pushed out, angry, so angry. “Let me– Let me go !”
But Mike just held him, arms keeping him steady, terrified sobs ripping out of his body as Will just thrashed and hit in panic.
The current raced. He was drowning. The anger burned inferno.
And then Will just screamed.
He screamed as the anger exploded out of him, as electricity raced through his body (burning, burning, burning). He screamed in grief, in anguish, in pain, as he finally gave himself over, pushed over the edge.
The light burst, shattering with a bang that left their ears ringing, glass shards raining down on them. His knees buckled, and he fell down in Mike's arms, completely drained, breathing heavily.
In the light streaming in from the tiny bathroom window at the top of the room, Will saw Mike’s worried eyes staring right through him, and– a stream of blood running from his nose. (You’ve hurt him, why do you keep hurting everyone? ) The taste of copper on his lips, a taste he’d become oh so familiar with, told him he had a nosebleed as well, the blood steadily running down with the tears that had managed to escape him. He heaves, choking on his breath, and a tear spilled from his friend’s dark eyes.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Mike whispered softly, slowly lowering them both towards the ground. “I’ve got you Will, I’m here for you.”
And there, surrounded by the utter destruction he caused, in the arms of the one person he’d never thought would be afraid of him, he let himself go.
His arms clamped around Mike's torso, his head buried itself in his chest; And he just sobbed.
He sobbed for his mom, who almost lost a leg this past week; for Max, who still hadn’t woken up yet; for his sister, in hiding, and the terrible hardships she had to go through; for his friends and this horrible town… for his life and everything he caused by letting himself get rescued from that hellish place. He sobbed because he was just so tired of everything, tired of losing control, tired of the anger coursing through his body that may or may not be his own.
He’d sworn once he would never let anyone see him break down again. But now, he felt like a little kid again, safe in his best friend's arms, running away from the horrible world where his father and the bullies and this town never gave him the chance to get up.
For a moment, he felt safe, and he just let himself cry.
But– he knew, deep down, that if Mike knew what he felt, knew what he was like, that he would never have cleaned his wounds so tenderly. He would’ve never held him in his arms, whispering comforting things, being his anchor, letting him cry on his shoulder.
If he knew, if he truly knew how horrible of a person he was, then all of this would fall away.
And when that time came… Well, there was one place he could still go, where no one had to be afraid of him anymore. A last resort, when everything else failed.
There was, after all, no story that didn’t end well when the hero sacrificed himself.