Chapter Text
There has been a heavy and suffocating silence settling inside the WSQK's makeshift basement war room ever since El had come out of Will's mind and said, voice uncharacteristically hesitant: "I do not think I can help with this."
This being the fact that Will is possessed. Again.
This being Will, slumped on the sofa, flushed from the neck up and sweating. Whose panting, soft but continuous puffs of breath, the only sound audible enough for everyone present to hear and acknowledge.
He lets out a wheeze, an airy whistling sound that holds an echo of malignancy at its tail end (some sick part of the Mind Flayer, probably, making a home inside him). Listen to me, it seemed to mock. You're definitely fucked now.
"What do you mean you can't help?" Mike's voice is a knife, sharpened by panic and worry, as it slices through the quiet like butter. It stabs directly at El, garners her ire, when the tone lands accusatory.
"I'm saying it is different, this time, Mike," she replies, just as cutting. "Unlike the last time I went into his mind when Vecna took him, his hold on Will materialized into vines which made it easier for me to free him. But now there is something… inside him." She gives Will a look when she says the last part.
There it was, that tone again. Except Mike's starting to think that it's not hesitance, exactly. Like El knows something—or partially understands what's really going on, at least—but doesn't quite know how to go about saying it.
What? What is it? Mike wanted to ask, but he doesn't know how to say it without it coming out as something frantic as a shout right now. And he doubts asking El to come inside his mind to somehow transmit data directly through his brain with her psychic powers is a more normal and acceptable alternative.
It's just… It's Will. Mike can't stand not knowing something about him. He can't stand other people knowing more than him. Especially in a situation as dire as this: when Will had suddenly dropped to his knees like they turned to jelly a mere three hours ago. He said it was probably from sitting too long sketching out the comic spread of their last campaign. And Mike had only hooked an arm around his waist to help him, nodded and believed him. Convinced himself that the beginnings of a reddish tinge on his cheeks was because of their sudden physical proximity. Mike had enjoyed the unusual hotness from Will's breath that fanned his neck as he sighed his thanks.
Mike was a dumb pining idiot. Looking for meaning in signs that were, otherwise, saying something entirely fucking different. His best friend was showing early signs of an oncoming possession; Mike had raked his eyes through Will's frame and catalogued every minute reaction of his body as an I want you, too.
He basked in this incorrect interpretation for an hour and a half before Will was keeling in the Wheeler's basement again. Mike was onto him immediately, and when Will opened his eyes that had been squeezed shut, he saw them: wide and shaky as they made eye contact with Mike's own, were a pair of irises so dark that it failed to even reflect the basement's overhead light. There were no signs of the hazel that Mike had used multiple papers and pens describing to be found at all.
He had called a code red immediately. And now here all of them are, sat and standing around Will whose state is rapidly deteriorating.
"Okay, then we move to Plan B," Dustin speaks up with half a shrug, a gesture meant to placate and calm everyone in the way that he knows how. His tone held the usual cadence of casualness in it, the total reliance of what is logical and achievable, but there is an undercurrent of a hurried kind of desperation that betray his voice.
"Wait, what's Plan B?" Robins asks.
"Back when Will became the spy, we got the evil Mind Flayer particles out of him by basically torching him out."
"What?"
Mike still remembers it. He wasn't there, exactly, when they finally exorcised him by surrounding him with heaters, and radiators, and basically everything that could emit heat. Although he still recalls the distinct coldness that crept into his back as he laid down on the floor of Will's room just to keep him company.
He remembers begging Nancy for the details of what happened after. Remembers the bile rising in his throat, and the anger, when he found out how much Will had suffered and he wasn't there to make it better. Even now, Mike has kept that hurt, turned it into a wound that he hadn't let heal.
But Will is possessed again, and Mike is here now.
(He doesn't need to dig deep through his memories to remember the scar left by the fire iron. He caught a glimpse of it once. It was a hot summer day, the heat was sweltering, and Will had lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his temples. He saw it then, a raised circular red scar on the side of his abdomen. He hadn't stopped seeing it in the back of his eyes even when he had looked away fast enough that it even left behind the chance to examine his own thoughts about it.)
It appears that he wasn't the only one whose memories resurfaced at the mention of Will's exorcism. Joyce placed a hand on Will's cheek, her face pale at the idea of putting Will through it again.
Will seemed to react at the touch, pushing his face further into his mother's palm. Mike noticed that, too. How touch seemed to soothe him even if only for a second, before he's restless again. Like it could only offer a momentary relief, like it wasn't enough. Eyes closed, he lets out a loud sigh, more disappointed than content.
"So we just subject him to extreme heat all over again, is that it?"
Before anyone could confirm or agree, El is speaking up again. "We can try, but I do not think it will work."
"What is it that you're not telling us, El?" Mike doesn't know where it's coming from, but it is there anyway. The impatience thrumming in his veins, accompanied with a vague sense of knowing. Of what, exactly, he's not quite sure. But it's there, like a particularly large debris lodged in the back of his teeth, demanding his attention. It's an innate sixth sense, banging on his brain, flashing SOMETHING BIG IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN! in large neon letters, like the WSQK sign outside. Maybe in a different circumstance, he could tone it down, set the feeling aside until he can articulate it clearly. But this time it's got something to do with Will, so he's not keen on delaying his intuition.
El glares at him. Probably done with his bullshit. Mike can't blame her, he's been a piece of work ever since he brought Will inside the station, practically yelling in everyone's ears to do this and contact that and for El to immediately start with this and to get on with that. It's just this specific situation that called for the urgency and Mike's particular brand of meanness, really. The break-up was mutually agreed upon and civil, Mike promises to anyone who asks.
"El's right."
Mike freezes. That was Will, who was clutching his middle with white-fisted hands. Who spoke in breathless pants. His eyes are glazed when he finally opens it. Mike feels his breath get knocked out of him as Will directs shaky, unfocused eyes at him.
"I already feel hot, but I don't feel it wanting to get out anytime soon," he continues.
"That can't be true," Mike says. "You felt cold the entire time I dragged you here." Even when Will was flushing red when they got here, his skin was distinctly cold and clammy. Joyce, who is currently within touching distance, voices her agreement.
"Inside," Will whispers, squeezing his eyes shut again as he slumps further into the couch. He is squirming now, turning his body side to side with as little movement as he could make, probably trying for discreet. His legs are a pair of restless limbs, as he tries to raise a knee close to his chest, plants the heel of a foot on the edge of the sofa, only for it to slip down. He clamps his thighs tight against each other instead. He looks like he's trying to hide something; trying to hold something back (he looks like he's failing).
"It's so hot inside."
A moan that Will didn't notice had escaped him.
Mike feels a shock of electricity run through his spine in a quick zap, sending a jolt that straightens his back. Will's appearance and the sounds he keep making offer enough stimulation to make the synapses in his brain to start firing, and he's beginning to understand something that he doesn't think he could admit to just yet.
Another bout of silence passes through the group as they exchange looks.
His skin prickles and a feeling begins to make itself known. A sensation like battery acid sours his chest that he holds back from manifesting into something biting, something that sounds a lot like Don't think about Will like that! Because he can see it in their faces. In the silent conversation in Steve and Robin's eyes; the knowing looks between Nancy and Jonathan; the queasiness between every fold and wrinkle of Hopper and Joyce's face; and the wide eyes of their party, Max looking bewilderingly at Lucas, then turning to Dustin, then at El, and then finally at Mike.
They're all thinking the same thing and Mike hates it. Absolutely despises that they're all perceiving Will like this, when they aren't allowed to. When Mike, and only Mike, can think about him like that.
Because Will doesn't look like a vessel possessed to spy on them again—Will looks sexually frustrated.
Horny, the ingrate residing inside his skull supplies.
Will, oblivious to the fact that Mike's entire worldview is collapsing under the weight of the things his body is involuntarily showing to everyone, continues on. Maybe struggles on would be more appropriate, with the way he's shuddering: "It's like back then, inside the trailer. I felt like I was burning alive, except this time it's inside. And I don't— I don't feel connected to the hive mind."
He pauses, lets out a hnngg that does something to Mike's sanity in that it splits his thoughts into halves. One is savoring the sound, cataloguing it for later to think about and replay over and over like a vinyl record that he'd never take off from the turntable. The other half, the part that's responsible for jealousy and possessiveness and the innate desire to hoard everything about Will, is rearing its ugly head. No one should be able to hear Will sound like that. Not when he is laying flushed and defenseless on the sofa, pretty even with the possession ruining him from the inside out.
"I don't think it wants me to spy again. I think it just wants to punish me."
A beat of silence again, where Will opens his eyes but doesn't look at anyone. He looks at the floor instead, tugging the hem of his shirt further downward.
"I don't think I have long."
The silence, stretched almost thin and accumulating tension, snaps.
The pretense of not acknowledging the implications of Will's actions shatter and everyone is talking: discussing plans and theories, strategizing the next move. Their blended voices is the hum of a well-oiled machine with its engines cranked up by the possibility of Will Byers' life in fatal danger.
"How do we help you, baby?" Joyce asks, voice determined despite the worry marring her face.
Mike watches intently at the way Will reddens even further, looking helpless and miserable. Ashamed. It's a look that was once familiar, had lived in the hollows of his under eyes all those years ago when he was barely allowed to help with anything that had to do with the crawl. The downcast eyes, the devastating furrow of his eyebrows. The same face he'd worn one fragile night, when Will admitted that he felt useless. A burden. Another thing to worry about, rather than someone to confide in and rely on.
Mike suddenly wanted to approach him. To take him off from Joyce's hold and offer his own soothing touch. Maybe it would work better, ease him longer, if he were the one to do it? He'd not cup only his cheeks, but would trace every nook and plane of Will's body where it hurt.
It's El that answers for Will, and for every word that she utters lands a truth so weighted that it could match every heavy thump of Mike's heart as everything begins to click into place. "Will needs… a different way to remove the Mind Flayer inside him."
More silence. This time, knowing.
"Wait, how are we so sure about this? Can't we at least just try the heaters to see if it does anything?" Joyce interjects, looking around at all of them, not appreciating the insinuation at all.
"Because it's what he's telling me, mom," Will says and lets it hang in the air. He gives El a pleading look and she nods.
"Will would need someone to help him."
And there it finally is, said in El's monotone inflection that she never quite got rid of, was the undeniable truth: Someone needs to fuck Will through it. It doesn't land like a sucker punch to the gut that would have left him winded like Mike had expected. Instead, the fact consumes him like a sudden blast of cold wind, eliciting a tingle in his skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake to travel from his arms up to his shoulders and to his nape, at the back of his ears. He feels it settle in his scalp like a hundred pinpricks from a needle.
In this, he feels sorry for Will. He's sure that the goosebumps Will gets doesn't include the sick sense of thrill coursing through Mike's body right now.
It immediately turns sour, however, when at the corner of his eyes he sees Max place a hand on Lucas' bicep, her face set and decisive. Like she's about to offer her own boyfriend to help Will get through the night.
Mike's mind goes a mile a minute, flashing with unwanted images, scenarios, possibilities that he had never entertained and never thought of but were all suddenly very probable. And then something that came from deep within him rushes through his throat, comes out of his mouth:
"I'll do it."
Mike signs his death sentence in three words. He finds it hard to regret—even poor bastards due for the executioner's block are granted their last meal, after all.
Multiple pairs of eyes snap to him, but it barely lingers, because just as fast as he'd said it, Will says, "No."
"No? What do you mean, 'no?'"
"Mike, I can't—"
He doesn't let him finish. It's easy enough to cut him off, anyway. Will has gone increasingly breathless, eyes glazing over. And Mike has come far enough to admit that he loves Will, he does. He will always put Will's best interest at top priority over literally anything else, and that's why he's willing to fight him over this, and frankly, Mike Wheeler isn't going to lose a verbal argument with a guy who looks like he's distracted by a thousand different things happening inside and outside of his body.
"You're going to die, Will. And I'm literally right here," he motions with his hands in increasingly frantic movements, the way he always ends up doing when he's trying really hard to make other people see his point. "I can help."
"Not you," Will replies weakly.
It's Mike's own version of the fire iron stabbing right through him to strike his heart and spreading pain all over like a horrible case of a heart attack. It hurts and enrages him at the same time.
"Okay, who then, if not me?" He gestures at the room, where everyone is watching the exchange go down like a train wreck waiting to happen. He's mentally crossing off each of their names as he looks around with a quick sweep, each person already paired with a justification as to why it can't be them who gets to help Will.
Will doesn't have a rebuttal for that, which is enough for Mike to assume that Will doesn't actually want a specific someone from the group. And that fact alone is enough for Mike.
The silence feels like triumph.
(Mike also feels like an asshole, and he's pretty sure everyone's glowering at him. But he'll be the bad guy if he has to be, as long as he gets to save Will this time.)
"I mean, I can-" Whatever Dustin was going to say dies in the back of his throat when he sees the downright murderous glare Mike gives him.
It's nothing personal, Mike lies to himself, It's just, compared to Dustin, Mike knows Will better. Can take care of him better. And Mike was the first one by Will's side when he was possessed in '84. He has experience, and therefore knows what to do. It's literally in Will's best interest if he chooses Mike. It's nothing personal at all. It's just the objective truth, he's sure Dustin would understand. He's the most logical one out of the party.
It's a perfectly sensible defense (although what it actually is, is a pathetic form of self-comfort he can hide behind so he doesn't have to acknowledge the real objective truth: that he's selfish. And he'd rather die than share Will Byers with anyone else). He prepares to say just as much, zero intentions of backing down, but then Will suddenly stiffens. A pained groan rips through him, far from the soft ones that had bordered on obscene earlier. His shoulders draw inward, head is snapping back.
"Will!" Mike is onto him immediately, crossing the distance between them in big strides until he's hovering over him with his hand gripping Will's shoulder, the other cradling the back of his head while his neck is still bent backwards in a near-dangerous angle.
The others are spurred into action as well and now they all surround him, but Mike sees that the effect his touch has on Will is near instantaneous. He melts into it, scrunched face smoothening a little. Despite having Joyce there handling him too, Mike knows that it was him that caused that.
It would be a crime to even think of removing his hold on him as he goes through the motions, so the gentle grasp he has on the back of Will's head turns into a grounding grip. He lets the smooth texture of Will's hair rest between the spaces of his fingers, and his thumb rubs smooth circles on the exposed sliver of skin behind his ear.
Will releases a full-body shiver in response, eyes still squeezed tight as if he's afraid of opening it. His jaw relaxes from where he was gritting his teeth to finally say out loud the one word Mike has been waiting for.
"Fine."
Mike hasn't left Will's side ever since he gave his assent. Hasn't stopped touching him since Will eventually calmed down, the possession receding again. They're anticipating that it will come back later to taunt them.
It's why one of the first things the party established when they began planning is that they—or Mike—needed to move fast.
Will's possession is a ticking time bomb. Thanks to El and Will's insights, they concluded that it will probably come for him in waves, resurfacing each time with its effect becoming stronger and stronger until it would consume him whole only to spit him out in tumultuous pieces of exposed nerve endings until his entire system gets too overwhelmed and sensitive, his mind and body would have no choice but to shut down without proper outlet.
Even when Will finally managed to calm down from his last attack, it was clear the he fared better before. And if it weren't overt earlier, it was obvious now how hot and bothered he is actually feeling. It's only the two of them occupying the sofa, the others content to sit on floors or coffee tables, or to just stand around. Will's still slumped on it, though this time he's leaning on Mike's side, like he can't help himself. The coldness of his skin is a jarring contrast to the indecent flush spread high on his cheeks and neck. He's kept his eyes firmly shut. He hasn't said a word since.
It was pure modesty and a singular surviving strand of shame that kept Mike's hand clutched only with Will's own and nowhere else, acting as a salve to his internal heat. It's a lesson in restraint trying to tear his eyes and hands away from the jitter of Will's thighs, spread slightly open, all previous attempts at closing them abandoned. Instead, there's a throw pillow in his middle. It's a small mercy that the keening noises coming out of him are soft enough that only Mike gets to hear them.
Joyce is finally out of Will's proximal orbit, and is instead standing beside Hopper. She had relinquished her hold on him when it became clear that Will needed something different; that there was a reason why Mike was more effective with his measures of comfort compared to hers.
Mike allowed himself the gratification of calling it (No offense to Mrs. Byers, of course). He knew it, thought of it, even before they understood the entirety of Will's possession. A sixth sense honed to near perfection, its foundation built upon knowing what Will needs and deserves before Will and even Mike himself is aware of it.
"We, or, well, you guys," Robin refers to both him and Will, "can set up camp at the office. That's where we put the bed the last time we pulled an all-nighter here."
"Wouldn't it be better if we just leave them here, while we move upstairs in the lobby to wait them out?" Steve suggests.
"For what?"
"Uh? For privacy?"
"This isn't a romantic escapade to fulfill a night of fiery passion, Steve. It's an exorcism, albeit admittedly a very, very abstract approach at one," comes Dustin's snarky reply. "We need to be able to hear them, in case Mike calls for help or if something goes awry,"
Hopper mutters a Jesus Christ.
Mike wrinkles his nose, not too keen on the idea of people interrupting them. He's got this.
"Okay. Fine." Steve holds his hands up in surrender. "How about supplies, then?"
"There's a heater or two upstairs. I know El and Will said we can't fully rely on external heat to drive the Mind Flayer's possession out, but it can probably help weaken it. It might make the process easier," Nancy says. She's been trying hard not to look at Mike ever since he shamelessly blurted out his willingness to volunteer earlier. He understands.
"No. I mean yeah, I guess, but no. I meant supplies."
There's a collective look of confusion.
"Ever heard of condoms? Lubricant? Has no one here ever had sex before?"
Will makes a noise, his hand—the one Mike's holding—twitches. Mike squeezes it, then slips his thumb in a slow motion between the closed space where their palms meet. It's innocent enough to pass as a comforting gesture. The intention is anything but.
"We'll get the damned heaters ready," Hopper grumbles, pulling Joyce with him as they make their escape. Jonathan mumbles a me too, and follows them up. Nance looks tempted to take off after them, but stays put.
Only when they're out of ear shot do Mike speak up. "I don't have anything with me like that right now."
Nancy stands up to leave. She looks ready to gag.
Steve nods, puts both hands on either side of his hips. "I have some stocked up in my car. I'll go get them now."
With only a few people remaining in their meeting room, the quiet settles again, this time landing tense and awkward. Robin puckers her lips like a duck and drums her fingers on her jean-clad knees.
Upstairs they hear the thudding of heaters being transferred room to room.
Mike turns to Will whose breathing has gone labored, but is trying very hard to maintain normalcy by inhaling and exhaling deeply, his lips slightly pursed. He squeezes Will's hand again and asks softly, a question just for his ears, "Hey, you okay?"
Will shakes his head. Bites his bottom lip in consideration, and then—
"I need to be tied up."
Mike's breath hitches.
His heart skips a beat.
His dick twitches in his pants.
"What?" He asks, almost matching Will with how his voice go breathless.
Will finally opens his eyes. It's still a deep pool of dark brown, but it's wide and glassy, his long eyelashes are curled up.
He looks like a cute, miserable, doe.
"I need to be tied up, Mike," he repeats. A little louder now, with stresses in his intonations. Drives the point in further for Mike.
It registers to Mike that Will didn't mean it like that, but it is already too late to stop his imagination from running rampant.
"No, Will. You don't have to, you'll put yourself in a more uncomfortable situation than what you have to endure." Mike tries to give him an out, it's the least he could do for the lecherous way his dick reacted at the thought of him asking to be restrained.
Max joins in, looking at Will with her eyebrows raised. "Mike's right. You could hurt yourself."
"I could hurt Mike."
It does things to Mike's heartstrings, and he feels almost guilty at the physiologic reaction Will's concern had done to his body.
He gives him a reassuring smile. Knocks their knees against each other. "It's okay if you do. I promise."
Something behind Will's dark eyes fracture into a million fond pieces, bleeding hurt unto his waterline until tears collect, but don't shed.
He shakes his head further and insists. "I don't know what's about to come for me and I don't want to hurt you. Please Mike, I want to be tied up."
And Mike, well Mike is just a man whose throat has gone dry until all he could manage is a scratchy, "Yeah, okay."
Max sighs as she turns around to call the others. "Okay, we'll find you something that won't give you a friction burn, Byers." The rest of the party scatters around the WSQK's makeshift basement war-room.
From upstairs comes Hopper's booming voice, trampling through the storage room and down the stairs until it lands in their ears sounding like a final decree. "Room's ready!"
Mike and Will share a look. He stands up first and whispers a gentle C'mon to Will when he leans down to guide him up by an arm wrapped around his upper back.
It's a bit of a struggle, the throw pillow falling off of Will's lap down onto the floor, right by their shoes. Will's knees turn weak, legs shaky that he almost stumbles standing up. Mike wraps another arm, this time around his waist to keep him upright.
The maneuver forces their body against each other, and with the pillow gone, Mike finally feels what Will had been struggling to hide.
He goes rigid when Will's erection brushes his hip. Will reacts immediately. He's probably already been sensitive all this time, with the possession acting as some sort of aphrodisiac, his tactile senses are heightened, every part of his body an erogenous zone. His forehead drops to Mike shoulder as he lets out a low shuddering breath. Mike can feel how hot it is even through his shirt.
And because he has finally established that he is one selfish motherfucker, a fact that he immediately came to terms with the moment he began living the truth that he gets to have and hold Will starting this night (because he's never letting go after this), he pulls Will even closer to himself with the arms—once supportive, now purely possessive—he's got around him.
Will turns to putty in his hands. He doesn't know how they'll manage to make it up the stairs.
"Hey, uh, you need some help in there?" Someone asks from behind them. Could be Dustin, could be Lucas. He doesn't know, nor particularly care. It could be God asking that question, and he still wouldn't let them lay a finger on Will. Nor would he let it distract him from the sensation of Will's bulge pressed up against him.
"No, I got it." He means it as a reply, but he says it right next to Will's ears. Testing if even his voice, and his breath landing on the shell of an ear would do something to him. It does.
He can hear Will swallow like he is physically staunching the sounds from getting out of his throat and into the ears of their friends.
That's the only thing that stops Mike from provoking him further.
He leads them up the stairs slowly, one arm still around Will's middle, the other holding on the railings. If Will's life weren't on the line right now, Mike reckons they could stay like this forever, just pressed as close as they can.
They finally make it all the way to the station's pantry, the office the room right next to it. The door is left open, and he can see a desk with a heater placed on top of it and a chair pushed into a corner to make room for a single-size bed in the middle.
Jonathan and El are already inside, tying coiled up pieces of cloth around the bedpost to act as restraints. They're tightening and tugging at them to check if they would give.
"Hey, Wheeler!" Steve calls, emerging from the hallway leading out. He motions for Mike to come over. The sound alerts the people inside setting up the room with their presence and Joyce comes out to give Mike a look, communicating that she wants to speak to her son for a bit before he spends the rest of the night defiling him.
He figures he kinda owes it to Joyce, so he lets go of Will, but not before saying, "Hey, I'll be back quickly. You'll be okay?"
Will gives him a tired, little smile and finds it in him to pull of an exasperated eye roll, then he's swaying to his mother and into the room.
Mike watches him sit in the bed and run his fingers through his restraints before walking to Steve, who's pulling several things out of his pocket.
"Use these," he says, dumping three packets of condoms on Mike's hands. "Uhh, I don't know if these'll fit you and I have zero desire to know, but anything's better than nothing. You'll just have to make do, buddy."
Mike gives a disinterested little hum as he puts the foil packets on one hand to clasp over.
"Oh, and this. Don't want you forgetting this." It's a small white tube that Mike turns over to examine. Johnson & Johnson, the packaging reads, K-Y Jelly Personal Lubricant 4O ml. Barely used. Probably new.
"Cool, thanks," he says, motioning to the lubricant by raising it briefly before pocketing everything.
He's attempting to return to the pantry when Robin yanks him aside. "Wait, there's something else!"
"What?" He asks, impatience bleeding through. Didn't they already establish that Mike needed to work fast?
"There's something we haven't covered yet, and this is going to be a painfully awkward conversation, but to be honest this whole night already feels like an awkward conversation anyway, so I'll just get this out of the way, also," she raises her pointer fingers up. "I am not supposed to be the person giving you a talk, or rather The Talk. Or maybe I am? I can't imagine your parents sitting you down to talk about—"
"Robin."
"Gay sex!"
She continues, "You didn't hear this from me AND don't ask me how I know, but it's an entirely different mechanism than, say, when it's between a boy and a girl. For one, you are really going to need that lubricant. Don't be stingy with it, alright?"
"I know how lube works, Robin, I'm not stupid." Robin makes an mmm sound that Mike chooses to ignore. "Is that all?"
"Second." Mike groans. "Second," she repeats, voice going soft, and looking earnest, "I know time isn't on our side, but you need to work him slow, okay? Be patient, start with your fingers—multiple fingers, actually—before, well, before. Or else you'll hurt him."
Mike has no idea how to assure Robin that he knows how to take care of Will properly, has a grasp on how this whole thing actually works, without having to reveal the fact that he knows because he's imagined it and wanted it so bad that the thoughts he used to contain only deep within the night, under the suffocating environment of his blanket to hide not only from the world but even to himself, had become so all-consuming that it manifested into sheer motivation and bugging curiosity to research just how, exactly, he could have it with Will, and to do right by him.
So instead Mike settles for looking at Robin directly in the eyes. Not to communicate years of pent-up touch-starved longing and repression which is a topic so complex, no eye contact in the world could ever hope to put it across accurately, but to, at the very least, disclose the fact that Will Byers has been his best friend long before he could even name the feelings he has for him and put it to paper every night he's left wanting. He's already loved Will when he hadn't known what the word meant. And when 'love' became a word he felt required to say (and, on most days, something he couldn't say if he tried)—sticking superficial to his skin, something that could be washed off after a day's shower—the unnamed emotion he had for Will was real, and it was visceral, imprinted into his cells, so that it may never come off no matter how hard he worked to scrub it off. Even when he refused to put the word 'love' next to the name 'Will,' he still loved him, by feelings only. It was one of the first things he knew how to do, ever since a young Mike Wheeler met him on the swings.
Brown eyes meet blue ones and it says, as clear as day: have your doubts, but if you can trust me on one thing, trust me with this. I won't fail Will.
Out loud, he underscores: "Robin. I know."
A look of realization tugs at her eyelids so that it widens her eyes, then, it softens. "Oh."
Mike nods, a quick jerk of his head, then mirrors, "Oh."
"Then you're probably going to hate the next thing I'm about to say."
He looks around briefly in disbelief. "What now?"
"I don't think it will be easy getting the 'Mind Flayer particles' out." She gives Mike a look like she's asking if Mike's picking up what she's putting down with a tilt of her head.
"I mean, yeah. I think we all assumed that," he replies sarcastically, patience running thin. And maybe because of that, Robin retaliates with something that makes Mike's world turn upside down.
"Okay, so who are we sending in when your stamina eventually runs out and his hasn't?"
The realization doesn't really dawn on him more so that it comes for him with the force of an anvil dropping down on his head.
"No one," he hisses after experiencing a slight lag at the inner workings of his brains before it's up and running again with a terrifying kind of speed that borders on panic and desperation as it tries to grapple for a solution that isn't that.
Mike's sure his mind has never worked this fast before. Eventually, the electrical activities inside his brain reaches an acceptable-enough conclusion that could prompt a light bulb to go ding!
"Look, I'll have it under control. Don't worry."
And then he's stepping out of the conversation, feet taking him towards the office's door, left ajar. He saw Will's family leave at his peripherals when he'd been caught up in conversation earlier.
"Mike!" Robin calls after him. "We need a plan!"
"I have a plan!" He shouts back, then he's pulling the door open completely.