Chapter Text
W I L L
Even with everything he had been through, Will Byers had never felt quite as scared as he did in that very moment.
All he’d done, and all he’d seen, and all he’d felt—all of it paled in comparison to this.
The waiting room smelled like disinfectant and burnt coffee, and every time a door opened somewhere down the hall, Will’s pulse spiked, his blood thrumming in his ears.
“Sir?”
Immediately, Will was on his feet, standing to attention. The nurse approaching him was wearing light blue scrubs and holding a clipboard to her chest, and she gave him a quick once over, looking him up and down.
Will knew how he looked. Charcoal smudges darkened his fingertips and streaked his hairline, left behind where he’d pushed his hair back away from his face. He was wearing what Mike had always called his artist’s uniform; a faded old college shirt and pants too small to be practical, riding up at the ankle. It wasn’t a leaving-the-apartment kind of outfit, but then, he’d barely been able to breathe when the cops had knocked on their door, let alone think about changing.
“Are you here for Mr. Wheeler?”
Mike hated being called Mr. Wheeler. Makes me sound like my Dad, he’d always said; which obviously, makes me want to die.
Numb, Will nodded.
The nurse pulled a pen from her pocket, shifted her clipboard against her arm, and scribbled a few quick notes. Will watched the movement, unable to bear the thought of looking anywhere else.
“Are you next of kin?”
Fuck.
For a long moment, Will considered lying to her. Lying was, after all, an art he’d perfected over the last ten years, though more out of necessity than anything else. A survival instinct.
“No,” he said, eventually, feeling sick.
She levelled him with an unimpressed look. “Are you his brother? A cousin?”
“Well, no, but—”
Her pen paused. “I’m going to need to speak to a member of his family.”
“I—” Will's lungs felt too small, all of a sudden. He couldn't breathe. I'm his family, he wanted to snap back. Instead, “I live with him,” he forced out. “I’m his roommate.”
“That doesn’t make you family,” she said, not unkindly.
It felt like a punch to the stomach.
“Do you know where his family are? Parents? Siblings?”
“Boston. His sister. Boston.”
She nodded, no longer looking at him as she scribbled something on to her clipboard.
“Listen, please, I have to- I have to see him, I need…” With shaking hands, Will pushed his fingers through his hair. It felt as if his entire body was trembling, shivering so intensely that it was almost painful.
“Any allergies? Medication? Existing conditions?”
“No.” Tears burned his eyes. “He needs–” Will cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump that was choking him. “Glasses. He needs his glasses. For reading. He can't read without them.”
The nurse didn’t bother to write that one down.
“I’m his— friend. Best friend. I’m his housemate. I’m his—” Will swallowed thickly, stopping himself. He clenched his hands, trying desperately to calm down. “Most of his family are at least three hours away. It’s just— it’s just me.”
There must have been something in his voice - some degree of desperation, or anguish - because the Nurse’s impassive expression softened, just momentarily, a flash of sympathy in her dark eyes.
“Listen,” she said, glancing behind him, before putting a hand on his arm and leaning in conspiratorially. “We need to speak to a family member. But. I can tell you he’s in surgery. He’s not well, Mr–?”
“Byers.”
“Mr. Byers. They think he’s broken his arm, and…” She looked past him again, and sighed. “There was also some head trauma. We won’t know anything until he wakes up, and I’m not in a position to speculate.” Letting her hand drop from his arm, she straightened back up, clearing her throat. “You just let us know as soon as his sister gets in, okay?”
“Please–”
“Sit,” she said firmly as she gestured toward the row of plastic chairs, her goodwill all but extinguished. “I’ll let the doctor know you’re here. That’s all I can promise.”
Time moved weirdly, thick and gelatinous, something he had to push through. It couldn’t have been longer than a couple of hours, but it felt like a lifetime.
The plastic chair was uncomfortable, cold and rigid against his back, but he barely noticed.
Opposite Will, a child cried quietly in her Mom’s arms, her cheeks flushed and angry-looking. There was a drunk man in the corner, muttering and swearing under his breath, his whole body splayed out across four separate chairs. Across the room, a nurse emerged from the hallway and called for a Mr. Pattinson, and a man stood, a bouquet clutched in shaking hands. Will watched them go, his chest hollow.
The door to the waiting room opened, and another family joined the wait, the icy chill of a New York winter following close behind them.
Beside him, the vending machine hummed. Distracted, he fed it more coins and bought another Coke he didn’t actually want. He cracked it open, took one sip, and set it on the low table next to him to go warm.
When he closed his eyes, he could see Mike as he’d been that morning, before he’d left for work. Barefoot in the kitchen, with pastry crumbs around his mouth and a coffee in hand. Will couldn’t even remember what they’d talked about—probably the weekend, or Mike’s deadline, or no, Mike, coffee on its own doesn’t count as breakfast. I’m serious!
Will pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst into his vision, and willed himself not to cry. The palm of his left hand was already littered with crescent moon shaped indents from his fingernails, from clenching his hand into an anxious fist. Squeeze, release. Squeeze, release. Squeeze.
Will knew that if he could just see Mike, if he could just hear his voice and touch his skin, it would be okay. It would all be okay. They'd lived through worse, after all.
He just needed– him.
The next time the doors swung open, they did so with a resounding thump against the wall. Without even looking, Will knew that it was Nancy, probably with Jonathan in tow, and before he even realised he was moving, Will was halfway across the room to them.
Something inside Will crumbled the second he saw his brother. Jonathan was at his side in seconds, pulling him into a crushing hug. Trembling, Will buried his face into Jonathan’s chest, breathing in the familiar smell of leather and cigarette smoke as his brother tried to keep him together. The arms around Will tightened, before Jonathan pulled back, putting both hands on his shoulders instead to look him in the eyes.
“Are you all right?” Jonathan asked, his eyes searching.
Just from the look in Jonathan's eyes, Will could tell there was so much more that Jonathan wanted to say to him. There was so much that Will wanted to say in return. But there were people everywhere - medical staff and security staff and patients and families and janitors and it wasn't safe.
Not trusting his voice, Will just nodded.
Somewhere behind them, Nancy was already talking, sharp and clipped, using what he now knew to be her journalist voice. There was a sharpness, a keenness to it that was almost wolf-like.
“C’mon,” Jonathan murmured, placing his arm over Will’s shoulders to guide him to where Nancy was interrogating a nurse in scrubs. “Before she eats them alive.”
An attempt at humour. Will tried to manage a small smile, but his lips wobbled. Jonathan gave him another squeeze.
“Your brother had a fall,” the nurse was saying, her gaze flicking briefly to Jonathan and Will as they approached. She hesitated, but Nancy made a brisk, go-on motion with her hand. The nurse cleared her throat, then continued, “He’s stable.”
Stable. Will didn’t even really know what that meant. It sounded good, but Nancy’s face was still sharp, pinched, and it made Will’s skin crawl.
“We won’t know more until he wakes up.”
They were led down the hall together. The floor tiles gleamed under the fluorescent lights. No one spoke. Will counted the doors as they passed.
At the end of the corridor, the nurse stopped.
“The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said. And then she was gone, and they were alone.
“Fuck,” Nancy breathed out, under her breath, and it was so unexpected and so not Nancy that it made Will smile, just barely, for the first time in hours.
They weren’t alone for long; the nurse had been gone for just moments when a man in a white coat approached, chart tucked under his arm. He looked as exhausted as Will felt, but he still managed a smile for Nancy as he approached.
“Miss Wheeler?” he asked, extending his hand. “Doctor Harris.”
“Hello,” Nancy said, taking his offered hand—and from the grimace on the doctor’s face, Will could tell that she hadn't held back with her handshake. “Nancy.”
The doctor turned to her, orienting himself in her direction. Family. Will could feel Jonathan’s eyes on him, but he kept his own eyes straight ahead, focused on the doctor, even if the doctor was yet to even look in his direction.
Doctor Harris opened Mike’s chart. “Your brother sustained a significant head injury,” he said evenly. “There was swelling and some internal bleeding. We’ve stabilised him, but he’s currently in a coma.”
Will felt sick.
The Doctor was speaking, but it felt distant, muffled, as if they were underwater. Distantly, Will could feel Jonathan’s arm around him again.
Swelling. Pressure. Subdural haematoma. Draining. Bleed.
Brain injury.
“Can we see him?” Nancy asked.
Doctor Harris glanced at his chart, and then back at Nancy. “Briefly.” His eyes flickered to Will and Jonathan. “Family only.”
Something in Will’s chest cracked. If Jonathan wasn’t holding him, he doubted he’d still be standing—he felt unstable, suspended by a string.
“Please—” Jonathan tried.
“I’m sorry,” Doctor Harris said, shaking his head as he tucked Mike’s chart back beneath his arm. “It’s hospital policy.”
Nancy’s jaw tightened. “Mike is my brother,” she said, voice low but firm. Her eyes flicked to Will. “And he’s family too. Mike would want him there.”
Doctor Harris raised an eyebrow, his tone professional but firm. “Miss Wheeler, hospital policy—”
Turning, Nancy levelled the Doctor with a cold look. Will had never been on the receiving end of a Nancy Wheeler stare, and he never planned to be, either. It was chilling.
“He stays,” she said firmly. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
The doctor’s gaze flicked between Nancy and Will, calculating. His lips parted, maybe to push back, but he never got the chance—Nancy took a step towards him, all five foot three of her firm with an icy determination, and his lips pressed closed, his confidence leaking from him before their very eyes.
“He stays,” Nancy repeated. “Will is as much a part of the family as I am.” Arms crossed over her chest, she held the doctor’s eyes, daring him to argue back.
Doctor Harris looked between Nancy and Will wearily before nodding his approval and clearing his throat. “Five minutes. No touching the lines or equipment.”
The first thing Will thought upon seeing Mike was that Mike looked so - small. Fragile, in a way that Will had never thought of him before. Swallowed by the standard, crunchy blue hospital gown, surrounded by wires and machines and monitors, alone on the bed…
It was jarring to see Mike like this. To see Mike - his Mike - in a hospital bed, bruised and unconscious, his skin pallid and his lips dry and cracked.
Even when things were uncertain, hopeless, awful, Mike was always in control. Confident, sometimes to the point of cockiness. A leader.
Mike wasn’t meant for this. He wasn’t meant for a hospital bed.
They’d spent too much of their lives already in hospitals. God, Will hated hospitals.
There was nothing he wanted more than to climb in beside him, to press his face into the crook of Mike’s neck and breathe him in. To hold him until he came back. But even if he could, even if it were allowed, Will wasn’t sure there was room on the bed, not with all the wires snaking across Mike’s body and the monitors crowding the narrow room.
The Mike on the bed somehow looked both just like the Mike that Will knew, but also nothing like him. Will knew Mike’s mouth, his eyes, his hands as well as he knew his own. But Mike’s lips were cracked and dry, and his eye was covered by a bandage, and his hand was limp, and cold to the touch when Will took hold of it.
Hot tears welled in Will’s eyes as he cradled Mike’s hand in his own, the pad of his thumb rubbing aimless circles over Mike’s knuckles. “Mike, it’s me,” he whispered, voice raw. “It’s Will. I’m here.”
Predictably, Mike didn’t reply. Will felt as if he was crumbling.
“What happened to you?” Will squeezed his hand, half expecting Mike to squeeze back, to pull him closer. He didn’t.
Will pressed his forehead against the cool metal rail and closed his eyes, letting himself breathe, in and out, in and out, in time with the soft beep of one of the machines—in time with Mike. Under the smell of antiseptic and hospital linen and iodine was the faintest hint of Mike, a scent as sweet and as stubborn as the man himself. Will adored it.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice muffled by the bed and the hum of the machines. Tears spilled on to his cheeks, and he held on tighter to Mike’s hand, clinging to it like a lifeline.
The waiting room was beginning to feel as familiar to Will as his own home.
Will sat hunched on one of the plastic chairs, elbows on his knees, staring at the scuffed floor tiles.
Nancy had left some time ago on a coffee run; it could’ve been hours or minutes, Will was struggling to keep a grasp of time. The waiting room felt emptier without her in it.
Beside him, Jonathan sat slumped back, staring at the ceiling. Neither of them spoke at first.
The hospital hummed with life around them. Distant footsteps, an announcement over the intercom, the soft whine of a vending machine down the hall.
Jonathan nudged his knee against Will’s, once. “How you holding up?” he asked quietly.
Will let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted. He’d never been all that good at words. That had always been Mike’s job, after all. He tried to smile, but it fell flat. “He’s— Mike—” Will swallowed thickly. “I’m okay.”
Jonathan smiled sadly at him. “No, you’re not.”
“I just—” Will struggled for the words. He licked his dry lips, still staring at the floor, following the path of one of the cracks in the tile, if only to keep himself from breaking apart completely. “What if he doesn’t wake up?” Only then did he look up from the floor, only to find Jonathan already watching him. He let his eyes fall back to the floor. “Or what if he wakes up, and he’s not—he’s not Mike.”
Jonathan didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was steady; “Hey. Will, look at me.”
Blinking away tears, Will looked back at his brother.
“He’s going to wake up, okay?” Jonathan’s lips twitched. “Do you seriously think someone like Mike is going to just stop being Mike? He’s Mike to his core.”
That earned a weak, breathy laugh from Will. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Just think about it,” Jonathan said, nudging his knee again. “He’s so Mike, he could never not be Mike. You know?”
“Not really.” Will wiped his hand over his cheeks, brushing away the tears. “Is this how you try fixing things when you fight with Nancy? By making no sense?”
Jonathan shrugged, his eyes warm and his smile small. “We’re still together, aren’t we?”
Then, Jonathan slid an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in, quiet and close, as they had so many times before.
Will let himself be held, and let himself believe Jonathan, too.
Mike was too Mike to be anything else. Somehow, somehow, it made sense.
He just hoped it was true.
By the time Nancy returned, four more families had cycled through the waiting room, coming and going and coming and going.
In her delicate hands she had two steaming coffees in polystyrene cups, and a can of Coke tucked under her arm; Will’s chest ached with it, with being known. He took the Coke gratefully but didn’t open it, instead cradling it in his hands, letting the icy cold of it center him in on something other than the thrum of his own pulse.
“I spoke to the police,” she said, matter-of-fact, the same tone she used when hunting down a story. To the point. In control. Will straightened.
“And?” Jonathan prompted, as he took the cup from her. “They say anything?”
“They said...” It was there that Nancy faltered, her brow furrowing. “They said that he slid on ice.”
Silence. Will let the information filter through him, remembering Mike; the wires and the monitors and the bandages and stitches. Ice?
“Apparently there were witnesses,” she continued, her thumb tracing circles around the lid of her cup. She looked distracted, and Will wondered if she felt as numb as he did. “He was just. Walking. Black ice. He slid, hit his head on the sidewalk.”
She looked up then, and met Will’s eyes. Will knew just from her expression that Nancy was thinking exactly the same thing as him: ice?
There was something almost funny about it all. Almost.
Mike had survived so much— throwing himself from the edge of a cliff, fighting interdimensional monsters with nothing but a candlestick, slipping between worlds like it was nothing. And in the end, it was a patch of ice on the sidewalk that had taken him out.
Will wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
"That's..." Jonathan trailed off, before he'd even begun. Speechless.
“You idiot, Mike,” Will choked out, laughing, even as tears welled in his eyes. “You idiot. You go toe to toe with a demogorgon, and this? This is what gets you?”
Next to him, Nancy laughed wetly. “It’s very… him, isn’t it?”
Not trusting himself to speak, Will just nodded.
If Will knew Mike half as well as he thought he did, then Mike had probably been thinking when he’d slipped. In his own world; plotting his next novel, most likely, or sketching out some sprawling fantasy world only he could see. Mike had a habit of disappearing like that, retreating so far into his own head that it sometimes took effort to reach him.
Will had always known how to bring him back. A joke only the two of them knew the punchline to, or a brush of his thumb to the inner dip of Mike’s wrist.
The thought stuck painfully in his chest. What if Mike was still somewhere like that, thinking and dreaming; but the way back was gone? What if Will was standing right here, saying his name, and Mike wouldn’t know how to return?
“He’ll be okay,” Nancy declared, as determined and self-assured as she always was. “It was just some ice. He’ll be okay.”
“Totally,” Jonathan said quickly, glancing at Will, nodding. “Totally.”
“Totally,” Will echoed, but even to his own ears it sounded weak.
One Coke turned into two, and then three, and then four.
The woman at the front desk was sweet-looking, with warm eyes and full, flushed cheeks. She kind of reminded Will of Dustin’s mom. She’d been watching them for hours now; had seen every time they stood when a member of staff walked by, only to sit back down when they inevitably stopped to speak to someone else. She’d seen every can of Coke he’d bought from the vending machine, only to let it go flat on the low table beside him, and the cafeteria sandwich he’d dropped in the trash after just one bite.
“Oh, honey,” she’d said after his fifth can of coke, smiling sadly at him. “You must be so worried about that brother of yours.”
Brother. The vice around Will’s neck tightened.
“Apparently,” Nancy said, from where she was sitting next to him, “He can hear what you say, even if he’s not awake.”
It was just the two of them, alone in Mike’s room. They’d been allowed another short visit, just them, with Jonathan sent off in search of some kind of dinner for them both. Not that Will imagined he’d be able to eat it.
It had been a whole day since Mike had first come in, and he was still unconscious. He looked as if he was sleeping—his chest rising and falling steadily, his dark eyelashes fanned over his bruised-purple cheeks.
“Yeah?” Will murmured, not looking at her, too focused on watching Mike.
Nancy nodded. “Do you want to—?”
“No.” Will shook his head, shooting her a quick, small smile. “He’d probably rather hear from you, right?”
The look Nancy shot him said don’t be stupid.
“I think we both know the answer to that, Will,” she said. “Come on.”
Will swallowed. His fingers tightened around the arms of the plastic chair he was sitting in. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted. “What if I say the wrong thing?”
“You won’t.”
He let out a quiet, humourless breath. “You don’t know that.”
“You won’t.” Nancy huffed, halfway between exasperation and humour. “You two spent thirty minutes arguing about that robot movie, Will. At your brother’s birthday. I think you’ll find something to talk about.”
Despite everything, Will’s lips twitched into a small smile.
Terminator Two, Judgement Day. Admittedly, they had spent a good amount of time talking about it; they had only seen it the day before, after all, first release. Will could remember sitting on the wooden floor of Nancy and Jonathan’s living room, uncomfortable but entirely wrapped up in Mike. Could remember the way their knees kept bumping together, voices low and animated as the rest of the party ate cake and took turns passing around Jonathan’s new camcorder.
They would have talked for hours, probably, if Nancy hadn’t rolled her eyes at them and pulled Mike away to help with clearing some of the dishes. I’ll be back, Mike had said, awful impersonation of Schwarzenegger and all, grinning at Will as he was tugged away, and Will’s heart had burst with affection and fondness and love.
The future is not set. There is no fate but what we make for ourselves.
Will had loved that film. They’d loved that film.
The chair scraped softly against the floor as he pulled it nearer, then sat, hands folded tight in his lap. For a moment, he just looked at Mike, taking in the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips.
“Hey, Mike.” Will gave him a shaky smile. “You’ve been asleep for a while, which—” He let out a laugh. “Is so on brand, Mike. You sleep so much already, you idiot. Did you really have to do all this just for a nap?”
Nancy let out a small, strangled sort of laugh.
“We’re all waiting for you, okay? Me, and Nance, and Jonathan. And the others will come, too. When they can. Okay? So.” He cleared his throat, swallowing against the burn of tears. “Take your time, okay, but not too long. Don’t make us wait too long.”
For a moment, his voice failed.
I love you, he wanted to say. “We’re here with you,” he said, instead.
On the second day, Will returned to the apartment.
Jonathan had pulled him to one side and given him a pained look. “Bud,” he said, gentle, “You’re starting to smell.”
Will hadn’t argued. Couldn’t—because he could smell himself, un-showered and exhausted. A bad sign.
Their neighbor had let herself in a couple of times, to water Will’s carefully lined-up collection of houseplants, and to top off Bowie the cat’s food bowl. Otherwise, the apartment was untouched. Exactly as he’d left it, just two days ago.
Their cups—coffee for Mike, tea for Will—still sat by the sink, unwashed, rings dried dark at the bottom. The bed was unmade, a tangle of sheets. Mike’s favorite sweater lay draped over the back of the couch, one sleeve hanging loose.
Will showered, and brushed his teeth, and ate something more substantial than half a hospital cafeteria sandwich.
The exhaustion hit all at once; bone-deep and heavy. With a weariness he hadn’t felt since leaving Hawkins, Will collapsed into the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
A moment later, Bowie padded into the room, tail flicking once before he leapt up and curled against Will’s side, warm.
It broke him. Will turned his face into the pillow and cried, angry tears that soaked through the fabric.
When Will returned to the hospital, it was dark outside and bitingly cold.
The city was alive with noise and people, and it followed him into the hospital, muffling only when the doors closed behind him. The waiting room was quieter now, emptied of most of the day’s chaos. A man slept curled awkwardly across three chairs. Someone coughed into their hand.
The elevator ride up to the ICU dragged on for what felt like minutes, and by the time he arrived on Mike’s floor, there was an itch under his skin.
Mike’s room was dim when Will stepped inside, lit only by the soft glow of machines and the faint spill of streetlight through the window. Nancy and Jonathan weren’t there—he’d given them the keys to the apartment and strict instructions to shower, to eat, to sleep.
Will hovered in the doorway, suddenly feeling unsure of himself. Without Nancy there, he didn’t feel as if he belonged. In truth, he probably didn’t—but no one had stopped him, and so he stayed.
Slowly, he crossed the room and took the chair by Mike’s side again. Pulled it up close and, after glancing out to the hallway beyond, reached past the handles of the bed to take Mike’s hand in his. His hand was warm this time. It felt grounding.
Mike looked the same. Peaceful, and still. Will squeezed his hand. Mike didn’t squeeze Will’s hand back.
“I had a nap,” Will said, voice low over the steady hum and beep of the machines. “Kind of. Bowie was on the bed again.” He paused, as if waiting for Mike to answer, then cleared his throat, moving closer so he could slot their fingers together. “I know I said I don’t like it when he sleeps on the bed, but it was— nice, this time. It’s like he knows, you know? That’s you’re— I think he knows. He misses you. We all know you're his favorite.”
“I kept thinking you’d wake up, you know. While I was gone.” Will ran his thumb over Mike’s knuckles, tracing a gentle pattern. “I was scared I’d miss it.”
Will desperately wanted to bring Mike’s hand to his lips, to press a small kiss there, as Mike had done for him so many times. Outside, the hallways buzzed with people. He swallowed thickly.
“I’m here, okay?” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Will didn’t mean to fall asleep.
He’d told himself he was going to close his eyes, just for a moment. The chair he was sitting on was uncomfortable; cold and rigid, the red vinyl cracked and stiff. But Mike’s hand was in his, and exhaustion loomed, and the dull, rhythmic beep of the machine lulled him in.
At some point, his chin tipped forward.
When he woke, the room felt different. Thick with something. He felt as if he was being watched.
Will blinked, disoriented, neck stiff from the angle he’d slept at. The room was dimmer now, washed in the blue-grey light of early morning that peaked through the slats of the window blinds.
He looked up.
Mike’s eyes were open. Hazy, and exhausted, one covered with a bandage and the other bruised—but open.
“Mike,” Will breathed out, his heart hammering in his chest. “Mike.”
Mike didn’t reply. Slowly, uncertainly, Mike’s gaze travelled down, to their joined hands, to where Will’s fingers had curled around his. When he met Will’s eyes again, confusion flickered in his eyes, and Will’s heart sank.
For the first time since the accident, Mike Wheeler was awake.