Archive of Our Own

“So, now you know what we are. Now you know what you are. You’ll never grow old, Michael. And you’ll never die. But you must feed.” (The Lost Boys, 1987.)

When it’s all over, Mike sleeps for three days.

It’s like his body has simply decided to let go of it all. His alertness first, as Nancy drags him back to the house, only half there because his minds is still stuck on the chaos of it all. Next, his sense of balance as he stumbles up the stairs, clutching his sister’s vest between his fingers, the holsters now empty where there had been shotshells tucked inside previously. Finally, his consciousness. Five years of worry, pain and torture have taken their toll on him, and he barely makes it to his bedroom, body curling inward as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He dreams in memories—of vines wrapped around limbs and flowers with toothed petals and the distinct sting of something burying its canines into the tender back of his neck.

When Mike comes to, his sweatpants feel uncomfortably tight on his legs and there’s a dried puddle of drool on his pillow, despite his mouth feeling like sandpaper. And as soon as he wakes, sleep-heavy eyes blinking open, there’s the hunger.

He doesn’t know what it means yet, of course. The raw sensation tickles the back of his throat like an annoyingly persistent itch waiting to be scratched. It expands into a burn when he sits up, the back of his hand rubbing at his eyelids. A burn so strong, it makes his teeth ache with it.

His mouth is still wet with drool. When he goes to wipe at it, his fingers catch on something sharp—Mike lets out a hiss at the tenderness of his teeth. They’re sensitive. Aching at the softest press of his finger, like an exposed nerve. Slowly, he runs his tongue over them to soothe the sting, and his heart stutters at the unfamiliar feel of pointed corners.

When he tries to remember the end, he finds his memories hazy. His dreams make sense, in hindsight, but they’re also blurred around the edges. He recalls the other dimension. The world collapsing. The tower almost crashing. He remembers the vastness of yellow landscapes and the way Jane and Vecna fought. He recalls monsters, too. Not at first, but after Vecna was dead—Demodogs and bats chasing them down the tower, screeching as they crumbled from the inside. Their tiny claws scratching his skin on the way down, their teeth sinking into him as he shielded Holly’s body with his own.

Instinctively, Mike’s hand raises to the back of his neck. He feels a sting as his fingers trace over dried blood—two pinpricks, etched into his skin. His nails scratch at it, trying to feel out the wound, but there isn’t one. When he brings his hand down, there’s brownish red crusted under his fingernails.

Now that he’s more awake, there’s some other things. Mike feels more alert, in a sense. His ears pick up on the strangled creaks of the house; wind whipping around the roof, the thump of the floorboards downstairs. Voices that should be muffled ring out crystal clear, as if he’s right there in the living room with them.

“…just have to be patient, Karen, it’s what Dr. Owens said.” Mrs. Byers, with her rational voice on.

“It’s been three days.” His mom, slightly nasally, as though she’s been crying.

“He’ll be okay. We’ve gotten through worse. El did. Will, too.” Hopper, unusually soft-toned. He pauses and there’s rustling, and then his mom blows her nose. “It’s over. We killed the fucker.”

“Language,” Mrs. Byers chides.

His mom tuts. “No, Hop’s right. He was a real fucker.”

Mike swallows past the ache in his gums, tugs his sweaty clothes off and changes into new ones. God, he’s thirsty. He’s never been this thirsty in his life, throat raw and burning. There’s a glass of water on his nightstand and Mike chugs it down in one go, some of it dribbling down around his teeth. He wipes his mouth when he’s done, feeling no less sated than before.

With a sigh, Mike heads to the bathroom.

The boy staring back at him in the mirror is not one he recognizes right away. In fact, he looks like death incarnated—It takes a long second to find himself in the pale face staring back at him. Eventually, he does. There he is, beneath a familiar mop of curls, now flattened atop his head. Mike recognizes the well-known dusting of freckles across his cheekbones and nose; the dark, almost black of his eyes. But his face also looks sharper than before, more angular. His cheeks, more hollow. His skin, even paler than before. When he grimaces at himself, his lips pull over the most recognizable of the changes: A set of fangs, elongated canines, slotted perfectly between the rest of his teeth.

Mike stares at them. Runs his tongue over them again, if only to feel the ache in his gums, to make sure he’s not still dreaming. He has a faint inkling of what this might mean. Part of him doesn’t feel ready to think it out loud yet. The other part seems more radically accepting.

He drinks some more water, straight from the sink this time. Still, the thirst doesn’t let up. A frustrated sigh rips itself from his throat and he looks at himself for another second.

There’s no way. This can’t be… And yet. The teeth. The paleness of his skin. The burning in his throat.

As Mike descends the stairs, a new sound grows louder—a chorus of frantic, thudding pumps, some of them more hectic than others, some of them slower.

Heartbeats, Mike realizes. Five of them, spread around the living room. His mom, Mrs. Byers, Hopper. Another one, slightly faster than the rest. And a fifth, one that echoes through Mike’s own chest like a warning. Like it’s pulling at him from inside.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

It is only in the presence of the heartbeat pulsing in his chest that Mike notices the absence of his own.

He pauses for a second, presses his palm flat against his sternum and waits. There’s nothing beating inside, no rushing blood in his ears, no heat flooding to his cheeks. His hands are still freckled and pale when he looks down at them, but now, with this newfound realization, they are so unnaturally. Almost unnervingly.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

There it is again. The thrumming beat makes heat prickle under Mike’s skin, and he feels his throat burning dry, almost stronger than before. There’s saliva collecting in his mouth. Mike attributes it to the rawness of his gums, to the freshness of his new teeth.

He really needs to find some more water.

All eyes are on him as soon as he enters the living room. Mike does a quick sweep, catalogues the place—Hopper and Mrs. Byers on the couch, his mom halfway to the kitchen, Holly on the floor, drawing.

And there’s Will.

The smell hits Mike all at once.

It’s stronger than the others, more fragrant, and it makes Mike’s knees buckle with the sheer force of it. He whimpers and stumbles forward. A colossal mistake, because next thing he knows, Will comes closer and it’s all around him, all-encompassing.

And Mike is too heady with it. Too far gone to react. So he just lets him; lets Will step even closer to steady him and pull him into a tight, relieved hug.

Will is warm, almost hot to the touch. His smell—God, Mike can feel his mouth salivate at the richness of it. His head swims with it; the depth, the fragrancy. He gives another sound. A pathetic, moaning one. His whole body feels tight, like a coiled spring.

With the way Will is wrapped around him, Mike has perfect sight of the vein pulsing beneath the tender skin of his stubbornly tanned neck. And it would be so easy for Mike to lean forward and sink his teeth into it. His fangs are practically aching to. Will trusts him. Doesn’t even think twice about hugging him, holding him tight. Leaves his neck unguarded, as if the thought of Mike doing anything, taking from him, is unthinkable.

Because he doesn’t know. How would he know?

Grasping at the last strands of control that Mike can muster, he pushes off. One hand is digging into Will’s shoulder, but the other comes up to his face—Mike doesn’t think twice, can’t think, not with Will all around him, clouding his senses. He buries his teeth into the back of his hand as he pushes away, walking backwards until his back collides with the wall.

The bite stings and his eyes water, but the pain is nothing compared to the look on Will’s face; eyes wide, glistening, filled with worry and hurt. Mike squeezes his own shut and tries very hard not to breathe in more of his delicious scent.

“Sorry. God. Just. Your smell. I can’t—” His voice comes out muffled around the skin of his palm. He opens his eyes again, frantic, and finds Mrs. Byers’s. “Get him out. Please.”

Mrs. Byers—sweet, lovely, worried—nods frenziedly and moves in between them, goes to grab Will by the shoulders. Mike’s mom is in front of Holly, ushering her into the kitchen. And Hopper is up now, too. Hands outstretched toward Mike, like he’s trying to soothe a wild animal.

“What the hell is going on?”

Mike doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not with the way Will’s heartbeat is still thundering a mile a minute. His scent has dulled, turned gloomy, and Mike can’t bring himself to look at him. He can’t take the look of utter devastation on his best friend’s face right now.

“Wha—Mike!” Will cries out, clearly distressed. Mike bites down harder in response, blood gushing, running down his forearm. The sight is enough to make Hopper take a step back, eyes wide.

“It’s okay, honey. Come on,” says Mrs. Byers. Her eyes are fixed on Mike, too, shining with something he can only place as horror.

“No, it’s not! Mike, are you—”

Will is straining against her hold. And if he doesn’t leave right now, Mike is seriously going to jump him. He groans, the sound low and almost feral in his throat, and it shuts Will up at least.

“Sorry,” Mike hisses through his locked jaw, back pressing harder into the wall. He can still smell Will, can still feel him thundering inside his head, ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, like a galloping horse. “Can’t—Sorry. Out. Now. Please.”

“Come on,” Mrs. Byers says again. Her voice is still soft, but firmer now. Will is trying to look at Mike, he can feel his eyes on him, but he keeps his own firmly on the ground until he’s sure Mrs. Byers has led Will outside, onto the front porch.

Hopper lingers for a second longer, hands still half-outstretched in front of him. He smells awful, Mike realizes now that Will is out of the room. But the contrast is strong enough that it clears his head a little bit. Enough to pull his fangs out of his hand, though he lingers for a second longer, as if just to be sure.

“Jesus Christ,” says Hopper, hands lowering.

Mike is dripping blood all over the floor. He feels like crying, but although his eyes are stinging, there are no tears in them. He’s still staring at the trail of blood running down from his arm when his mom returns, pressing a clean rag to the wound.

“My God, Michael.”

“Mom…”

He feels like a five-year-old all of a sudden. Tiny and weak and like he’s having a nightmare he can’t wake up from. Sleep paralysis. The expression on his mom’s face seems to mirror his when he finally looks up. Fear, mixed with worry and sadness. Pity.

“I wanted to… Oh God,” he whispers.

Her face softens straight away. “Michael…”

“Mom. I think I’m… I think I…”

“Shhh.”

Suddenly, he’s surrounded by warmth.

Mike breathes in the familiar scent of his mom; of her perfume, her laundry detergent, her hairspray, and beneath all of it: the slightly fragrant smell of her skin, of the pulse beneath. Somehow, it’s not as bad with her as it is with Will. Too sweet, too saccharine. Still making his teeth ache with the urge to bite down, but that’s more so because Mike is starving and she’s right there, rather than anything else.

“Dr. Owens will be here soon,” she says and Mike buries deeper into her embrace. Because no matter what he is now, he’s still her boy first.

There are no tears coming out of his eyes, but Mike still feels like he’s crying; chest heaving, mouth opening around the sounds escaping it, teeth aching with the urge to drink, taste, bite. He’s pretty sure there’s spit and blood on his mom’s shirt, but she doesn’t seem to care. Just holds him closer, running a warm hand over his hair, like she’s done since he was a little child.

Mike lets her. Buries deeper into the familiar embrace, until his eyes stop burning and the bleeding stills.

His mom gets him a BLT and water after, insists that Mike needs to eat to get his strength back up. But the sandwich tastes ashen in his mouth. The water, lukewarm against his throat despite the ice cubes clinking against the glass, once again does nothing to soothe the burn of his throat. By the time he’s finished eating, Mike doesn’t feel better at all. Just vaguely like throwing up.

He wonders where Will is. Hopes he isn’t mad at Mike, for sending him away. Mike knows he would be, if it was him. Mad, but also drowning in worry for his best friend.

And he knows Will is going to understand once he finds out what happened—is happening—to Mike. Perhaps, that makes it worse.

MEDICAL EXAMINATION REPORT [Unknown Hematophagic Humanoid]

CASE ID: UHH-01-87

DATE / TIME: 11-09-1987 / 13:47

EXAMINER: Dr. Samuel Owens (Ph.D., M.D.)

PATIENT NAME: Michael Wheeler

REASON FOR EXAMINATION (as reported by patient or third party): Pathological coma, subsequently altered state of being.

SYMPTOMS: Patient reports canine growth causing aching gums, increased salivation and burning sensation in throat. Patient states food tasting ‘like ash’ despite intense hunger, water not alleviating thirst.

PHYSICAL EXAMINATION: Body temperature: 71.3 °F. Heart rate: Absent. Blood pressure: Barely measurable. No detectable pulse via radial, carotid, or femoral assessment. Despite this, patient remains conscious and responsive. Reflexes present excellent. Note irritated gums, elongated canines. (Secreting toxin.) Note scarring at the back of the neck, appearing as healed animal bite. (Patient reports bat attack.)

SAMPLES OBTAINED: Two units of blood. Two units of saliva. Two units of toxin. [Lab.Nr. 9027-76.]

NOTES: Patient reports urges to consume human blood, erratic reaction to close friend. (Blood Type: O Negative.) Reportedly best friend, blood type OR close relationship could be influencing Patient does not seem dangerous at this point in time. Patient was left under instructions to isolate and refrain from feeding until test results are in.

DIAGNOSIS: Vampiric Undead. Undetermined.

RISK ASSESSMENT: Undetermined.

Mike goes about this as he does most things: Researching.

The Curse of Strahd: A Dungeons & Dragons Sourcebook sits waiting for him on his bookshelf, so he gets to work reading through the material. It’s a lot, but Mike has nothing if not time ever since he’s been put on precautionary house arrest.

He writes down the important things, which proves hard because all of it seems kind of important. But he manages, reading through Strahd von Zarovich’s stat block, through the Barovian lore. He jots down his spells and abilities, tries to translate them into the real world, like they did with Vecna and the Demogorgons. Pulls at his hair in frustration when none of it quite makes sense anymore and the letters start blurring on the page. Pushes through anyway, until he has read the book three times, front to back.

The Player’s Handbook is next. After that, the Monster Manual.

Then, when he’s officially run out of sensible reading material, he takes the smutty supernatural romance novels his mom hides in the master bedroom. Mike shudders at the titles—Dark Lover’s Kiss, Passion in the Shadows, Bitten by Desire. Still, he skips past the gross parts and adds the in-between stuff to his ever-growing collection of notes.

In the end, Mike filters out the most important things and carefully writes those up in a numbered list. It’s shorter than he hoped; a handful of bullet points, separated into strengths and weaknesses.

Mike looks down at it, paper crinkling at the edges with how hard he’s gripping it.

He will figure this out. He has to.

His family doesn’t smell as tasty to him, Mike learns, which makes it easier to be around them. Neither does Max, her smell always slightly more bitter than the others. It reminds him of licorice.

“I wouldn’t let you come near my neck with a ten-foot pole anyway,” she says when he tells her this, and Mike just snorts because she was the one who asked, and it’s such a Max answer.

He wouldn’t mind drinking from Lucas, Mike realizes when he comes over one day after a run with his pulse hammering in his throat. (Because that’s a thing Lucas does now, staying in shape.) He smells like oranges and cinnamon. Mike locks himself in his bedroom for an hour straight after, trying very hard to breathe through his mouth.

Dustin smells good in the way a new book does, sharp and clean, fresh off the printer. It’s oddly comforting in a way, but still, Mike tries not to get too close, if only to be safe. Besides, Dustin has the self-preservation instincts of a toddler, always turning his back on Mike. It makes his baser instincts act up with the need to stalk, hunt, jump. Which… yeah, makes Mike feel like a rabid animal, and no, he doesn’t want to get into further.

Of course, none of his friends and family smell as delectable as Will does.

Mike doesn’t know what makes his scent so different from the others. Dr. Owens asks him about it one time, but Mike finds it generally hard to describe to others how things smell to him. It’s why he makes these comparisons in his head, these associations. Licorice for Max. Oranges for Lucas. Ink and paper for Dustin.

The best analogy he can settle on for Will is this: To Mike, every breath he takes around him tastes like bottled sunshine. Like the warm heat of a summer day, like a fresh breeze whipping over a field of daisies.

And then, sometimes, when he can hear Will’s heartbeat pick up slightly, drumming away in his chest, he smells good enough to eat. Sweet like pears, spicy like peppermint. Delicious, like all of Mike’s favorite things combined into one thrumming pulse underneath the tenderness of his fading summer tan.

Mike is starved for it; the mouthwatering hints of it, trailing through the house. Most days, he has to hold his breath when he passes through anywhere that isn’t his room in order to be able to function at all.

It doesn’t help that Will’s scent has a tendency to linger—in the hallway, the fogged up bathroom after a shower, or in front of the stairs leading down into the basement. Mike hasn’t been down there since he turned. He’s afraid of what he might do if he gets to smell the place where Will spends most of his time; where his scent has seeped into every crack in the wall, settled into the worn leather of the couch and dusted over the dirty carpet.

So, he stays away.

He feels horrible about it. Because they live in the same house, mere rooms away from each other, and yet it feels further than they’ve ever been apart. All of this reminds Mike so much of Lenora. Of the lack of letters, the missed calls. The time spent with things he deemed bigger and better at the time, if only to lull himself into a false sense of innocence and good will.  

And he knows it’s hurting Will, too.

But the hunger is still there, clawing at his throat from the inside, so the decision is made.

Mike’s family, too, seems to notice the way he goes tense whenever Will enters the room. They stick around every time, not letting him out of his sight. It should be demeaning. But their lack of faith isn’t personal, it’s rooted in the unknown, and truthfully, Mike doesn’t trust himself either.

Still, Will’s sad eyes follow him into his dreams at night.

1) Regeneration

“Strahd regains 20 hit points at the start of his turn if he has at least 1 hit point and isn’t in running water or sunlight. If he takes radiant damage or damage from holy water, this trait doesn’t function at the start of his next turn.” (Curse of Strahd, p. 239.)

The hunger gets worse day after day, and Mike knows they need to figure something out soon.

He still refuses to even entertain the thought of actually biting anyone, especially since Dr. Owens clearly warned him of his unpredictable situation. Surprisingly enough, it’s Hopper who comes up with the solution.

Five days after Mike wakes up, he stops by the house and tells Mike to get in his truck. When he does, Nancy is in the front seat. Mike slides in the back and spots a shotgun carefully stacked in the back, next to him. He swallows around the rawness of his throat. It’s swelled to a throbbing sensation that kind of feels like an open wound festering near the back of his tongue. Mike lifts his hand to his neck and presses there, hoping to ease the pain. He catches Nancy watching him in the rearview mirror, and drops it again.

His sister is the only one in his family who isn’t weird about it. Nancy regards Mike with the same professional curiosity she reserves for all her investigative subjects, and he is thankful for the shred of normalcy amid the crash landing that is his current situation. Even now, she shoots him gentle yet mildly concerned glances through the mirror. Mike tells himself it’s because Hopper drives like a maniac, but deep down he knows better. She’s worried.

He turns his head and looks out the window.

They drive for a while, to the edge of town. Mike hasn’t been here since everything went down, but he knows they’re near the cabin somewhere. The sun is obscured by white clouds, drowning the landscape into dusk by the time Hopper pulls onto a gravel path leading up to the forest and climbs out of the car. Mike watches him round the car and open the door opposite him to grab the shotguns. He looks at Mike, mouth pulled downward underneath his thick mustache.

“C’mon.”

“Where are we going?” Mike asks, following the two of them.

“Less questions, more doing,” Hopper grunts, which is code for: You trust me, kid?

Mike does. (Unfortunately.) So he follows.

They don’t go far before the trees start swallowing the road whole. The gravel thins into dirt, then into nothing but an invisible path that Hopper seems to follow. Branches snag at Mike’s sleeves as he walks. The air is cooler here, damp. It smells like pine and, distantly, something else. Something Mike can only hear if he strains his ears enough, a barely there pattering of heartbeats in the distance.

He swallows hard.

“Hop,” Nancy says after a while, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What exactly is the plan?”

Hopper doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even look over his shoulder, really. “Be there in a minute.”

“Are you—”

“Don’t wanna give him time to overthink,” Hopper adds, jerking his chin back towards Mike.

Mike bristles. “I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” Hopper says. “And we’ll need you in a minute. Until then, you stay put.”

They walk a little farther in silence after that. Mike tries to focus on the sounds of the forest around him, the gentle breeze surrounding them, the sway of the treetops. But he gets distracted by rustling and the pitter-pattering of tiny hooves in the distance. It makes the ache in his throat worsen.

Hopper stops. Turns toward Mike. “Tell me where.”

Mike is about to reply something—Tell you what, exactly, old man?—but he’s interrupted by a new sound. Faint, distant. The snap of a twig. Then, the rustle of something moving through the brush, coming closer.

“There you go,” mumbles Hopper, eyes trained on Mike. Mike’s head tilts, almost involuntarily. Everything feels sharper all of a sudden, his senses activated. The wind shifting through the trees, the direction of it. It’s layered. He can hear something moving off to the right, maybe fifty feet out. Light. Quick.

Alive.

Mike’s mouth floods with spit.

“Mike?” Nacy’s voice is closer now, still careful. Always careful. She puts a hand to his shoulder. “You okay?”

Mike doesn’t answer. He can’t, because his senses are locked tight, focused on the one thing he hasn’t let himself do these past few days—track, scent, hunt. He smells it now, too. A warm animal, blood rushing under its skin. It smells so different to his family, his friends. Earthier, more muted. Not half as good as Will did, back in his living room. Still, something lurches within Mike, tugs at him. He feels hungry in a way that makes his chest tighten with panic.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he slurs, taking a step back. “I don’t—I can’t—”

Hopper moves fast. He steps in front of Nancy, hands her the shotgun. Then, he presses his palms to Mike’s shoulders. Nods toward Nancy. “You’re not biting anyone or anything. That’s the point, got it? That’s why we’re finding another way.”

Mike nods. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“Damn straight I’m right. Now.” He turns to face Nancy. “You ever shot a deer before?”

Nancy shrugs. “Do Demogorgons count?”

“Different anatomy,” Hopper grunts form underneath his mustache. Letting go of Mike, he throws him another glance, as if to make sure he’s not about to bolt. “So. Wheeler says there’s a deer coming in.”

“From the right,” Mike throws in. “About thirty feet now.”

He doesn’t know how he knows this. Hopper nods.

“Usually, you’d try and get it by the broadside, right behind the shoulder. Kills ’em quick, and you can’t really miss.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Nancy quips.

“Yeah, well, as good a shot as you are, it would also make it bleed out quickly. Too quickly. ’Cause we want the blood.” Hopper pauses, holding his hand out as if to shush them. He lowers in the grass. “We could snap the neck, but that’d mean trapping, and that takes time.”

“So what do we do?” Mike asks quietly.

Hopper doesn’t smile, not ever, especially not at Mike. But the expression on his face right now is the closest he’s ever gotten. “We shoot it straight in the heart. You stop the heart—”

“You stop the bloodstream,” Nancy interrupts with a nod. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Think you’ve got this?”

“I know I do.”

“Alright then.” Hopper sounds almost intrigued. “You know what to do.”

Mike focuses back on the sound. The rise and fall of the deer’s chest. The way the heart pounds inside its ribcage. He watches Nancy get in position, lowered to the ground, fingers tightening around the gun.

Sometimes, Mike wonders how different his sister could have turned out if all of this had happened to different people. If Barb hadn’t died, would they still be friends? Would Nancy still be pretending to “study” with Steve Harrington, same excuse, only for a college syllabus now? Maybe they would be married by now. He always took Nancy for the type of girl to marry young, like their mom.

Then again, she’s also always been like this, Mike thinks as he watches her in the grass, one eye squeezed shut as she looks through the viewfinder. Incredibly bossy, a perfectionist through and through. Never the perfect lady everyone always assumed her to be. He’s jealous of Nancy sometimes. Because she managed to break out of whatever cage society tried to lock her in—their parents, the teachers, boys—and made a thing of her own. Something to be proud of.

Mike doesn’t know how long they’re squatting in the grass for, but when it finally does happen, it goes incredibly fast. The deer steps into the clearing, leaves crunching underneath its hooves. He taps Nancy’s shoulder when he hears its rapping heartbeat come closer, holding his breath to steel himself. Hopper nods.

Nancy gives a quiet exhale and pulls the trigger.

Bang.

The bullet lodges right into the deer’s chest. Quick and painless, it drops to the ground with a soft thud that rings in Mike’s ears. There’s no more pulsing heartbeat. Just a humming sound in Mike’s ears and the smell of gunpowder around them.

For a moment, none of them move. Then, Hopper exhales, slow and heavy. “Good,” he mutters.

Mike is still staring at the lifeless animal on the forest ground. His throat burns worse than before at the sight and he turns away. Hopper seems to have the same idea.

“Let’s go.”

The walk to the cabin isn’t far, but it’s slowed by Nancy and Hopper heaving the dead deer along. They refuse to let Mike near it, “just to be safe” (Nancy’s words) and tell him to stay a couple feet behind “so you don’t go feral with the smell” (Hopper’s). Mike thinks to himself that if anything were to happen, it would have already. But he knows they’re just looking out for him, so he doesn’t say anything and keeps his distance.

Once they do arrive, Hopper drops the cadaver to the ground in front of the porch and begins readying some supplies.

“Here,” he says, passing some rope to Nancy. She grabs it. “Hold this.” Hopper hands Mike a hunting knife.

Mike grins. “Cool.”

“You be careful with that.”

Mike twirls the knife between his fingers in reply. (So what if he’s still a little salty about the flare gun?)

Nancy walks up next to him, crossing her arms and nudging his shoulder. “So.”

“So.”

“How are you? With… everything?”

“You mean the dead deer?”

Nancy snorts. “Yeah. That.”

“It’s weirdly fine.” Mike looks down at the knife, balances it between his thumb and forefinger. He assesses the burn in his throat—stronger, yes, but also manageable, for now. “I feel… in control.”

“Good. That’s really good, Mike.”

He turns his head to give her a small smile.

It happens quickly. He’s always been a klutz, Nancy could attest to that, really. One second, he’s fiddling with the knife, twisting it between his pale fingers as he waits for Hoper to hoist the deer up by its legs. The next, the knife is tumbling out of his grasp, and Mike is trying to catch it, and—Fuck, that fucking hurts—He hisses as it cuts a gash, right down his forearm, the blade slicing through his jacket, then his skin like butter.

Mike curses as it clatters to the ground, gripping his arm to stop the blood from trickling out. “Fuck!”

“Jesus, Mike!” Nancy is on him fast, pulling her sleeves over her hands and pressing them over his.

It’s different how he bleeds—not pulsing out, it more so trickles. The blood is darker too, thicker. Like it’s been sitting inside his veins, waiting. Almost unmoving. Mike feels a little dizzy at the feeling, at the unfamiliarity of it.

“That’s a nasty cut.” Hopper comes closer, takes a look at their hands clutched over his arm.

“It’s not that deep,” Mike insists, despite the blood dripping out from underneath their fingers.

Hopper tuts and bends down to pick up the knife. “Go wait in the car then. I don’t wanna risk you… well… jumping the dead deer when I cut its throat. Or worse.”

Hoppers words are harsh, but Mike appreciates the honesty at least. He nods.

“But you better not bleed all over my seats.”

Well, there’s the Hopper he loves to hate. Mike gives a singular huff, but Hopper’s not even looking at him anymore, instead moving to grab two large buckets from the back of his truck. Even in his unlikability, it’s good to know that some things haven’t changed after all.

“Are you okay? Do you feel lightheaded?” Nancy’s eyes are worried in that specific way of hers, eyebrows raised as she glances at Mike.

“I’m okay. Barely even hurts anymore.” It’s not a lie—the stinging has let up almost completely.

Carefully, Nancy removes her hands from where she’s still holding tightly, the sleeves of her jacket stained a deep crimson. Mike unwraps his fingers as well, wiping them on his forearm.

Oddly enough, there’s no cut when he looks down. Just a jagged, bloody line where the knife sliced him, almost completely healed over.

“Huh.”

“That’s…” Nancy blinks down at his arm. “Um.”

“Something to add to Owens’ file, I guess,” says Mike, flexing his hand as if to test. His tendons move underneath the skin, freckled and pale, blood coating the spaces in between his fingers.

“Come on then,” Nancy says, tugging him along. “Let’s wait in the car.”

Mike waits until he’s alone to drink it.

He can’t stomach the thought of having it warm. Something about it is too primal, too real for him. So, he waits until the glass bottles have cooled in the freezer, gets a straw from the third drawer next to the stove and plops three ice cubes into a glass alongside it.

There’s two opposing natures battling inside Mike. One of them, the human one, squirms at the sight of the dark liquid pouring into it, slightly thicker than water. The other one, the hungry part, is utterly captivated by the smoothness of it; the earthy yet metallic smell, vaguely subdued by the time spent in the fridge. He can feel his mouth starting to salivate, and it should be disgusting, really. But all Mike can think about is finally putting the burning sensation inside his throat to rest.

The drink sits on the counter, dark red and opaque. If Mike squints, it almost passes for a juice of some sort—beetroot, maybe. He grips the glass with shaking fingers. It doesn’t feel cold against his own skin, barely even chilled.

Mike takes the straw between his lips and sucks.

It’s different than he expects. Earthy, like fallen leaves and grass. Tangy, slightly metallic. Thick, not enough to clog the straw, but enough that he has to pull harder, cheeks hollowing around it. The chill dulls its taste, flattens it, makes the thought of it easier to bear. For a second, Mike thinks maybe he can pretend that it’s something else he’s drinking.

Then, it hits his bloodstream.

Suddenly, Mike’s senses feel activated. The room seems to stretch away from him, walls pulling back as if retreating, like they’re being pulled taut. He can feel the taste of it rush into his circulation, kickstarting it, and there’s a singular, heavy thud from his chest that spurs his heart back into beating. Mike feels goosebumps break out on his skin, rippling down from the back of his neck as the blood rushes through him, suddenly warmed by the motion. The sensation is odd, but not unpleasant.

And the blood—God, it tastes amazing. Mike knows it’s only a fraction of what it could be like, if it was warmer, fresher, more alive, more human. But it’s so good regardless. Soothing the ache in his throat like balsam, calming the burn. He drinks it in greedily, relishes in the effects of it as it settles into his bloodstream.

It’s what Mike imagines a drug trip to feel like. Sharp, slowed-down, pupils blown. Pure ecstasy.

He sucks harder on the straw, until there’s nothing but the slurping sound of the remnants at the bottom echoing around the kitchen. It’s not enough. Mike puts the glass down on the counter, eyes locking on the bottle with the remaining blood inside. God, he’s so thirsty. Before he can think, his hands are already moving, grabbing it. This time, he foregoes the straw entirely. Just tips the bottle towards his mouth, head leaning back as he swallows it down ravenously.

He’s vicious with it, frenzied even. His own heartbeat thrums in his ears and it’s such a foreign feeling that Mike stumbles forward with it, one hand grabbing onto the counter for purchase.

The empty glass tips over on it, but he doesn’t even care. Seemingly insatiable, he swallows down every last drop, tongue lapping out to lick at the bottle from the inside when it’s empty.

Mike’s chest is heaving, palms sweating as he puts the emptied glassware down. He wipes the back of his hand over his lips as an afterthought, still dazed from the high that came with his first taste of crimson. When he looks down at his fingers, there’s red smudged over them, standing out darkly against his milky white skin.

All of a sudden, Mike feels stone cold sober. He catches his reflection in the window above the sink and shudders at the sight: Wide eyes stare back at him, pupils blown. Swollen lips, smeared with the dark red remainder of his frantic state. A wild look on his face, evidence of what just transpired. Mike doesn’t recognize himself. Instead, his features seem warped, like those of a strange being he’s never laid eyes on before.

The shame kicks in quickly after that.

You’re an animal, his head screams at him. A monster. A supernatural abomination. This is what you are now. This is who you will be for the rest of your life.

Mike swallows. Despite the lack of a burn in his throat, it feels like there’s something lodged there, heavy and bitter.

He’s glad there was no one to watch. He doesn’t think he could stand to see this strange and twisted version of himself reflected in someone else’s eyes.

December 1987

The chilly months are fine. Mike’s always been pale, his skin is just colder now, fingers like icicles. He finds he doesn’t mind the cold as much as before, but his sweaters are just too comfortable to give up.

They also provide a much-needed security blanket for the moments Mike can’t avoid. The inevitable confrontation with Will’s scent when they pass by each other in the house. Mike detests it. He can taste it in the air—the way Will’s mood sours as soon as he lays eyes on Mike. But he can’t blame him. They’ve been weird since everything—the Squawk, their conversation on the tower, Tammy, Tammy, just his Tammy—and Will’s probably scared, still, from the way Mike nearly lost control that first time after he woke up.

In the first few weeks, Will douses himself in Jonathan’s cologne, which somehow only makes it worse. Because he doesn’t quite smell like himself anymore, and yet Mike can still find him below the heavy clouds of musk. His whole body shudders with the urge to be closer, to lick it off him until he can taste underneath it.

There is one time, in the hallway. He and Will haven’t spoken, have barely seen each other since Mike woke up. It’s one of those days where Mike feels heavier than usual—a couple of days since his last feeding, and he can feel the now-familiar tension beginning to rise in his body, the recognizable ache of hunger pulling at his teeth.

Perhaps that’s why he’s more irritable. Less alert. He’s already halfway down the stairs to the kitchen when he hears it: Will’s footsteps coming up from the basement, the soft flutter of his heartbeat behind the door. Mike knows it’s him, even without the recognizable thrum of his heartbeat. He would have been able to identify Will’s footsteps in a sea of people long before he became… this.

He steps back just as the basement door opens and they both freeze.

Mike smells it for the first time then. Sharp and bitter, a stark contrast to the gentle sweetness of Will’s blood. He chokes on it, mouth dropping open to take a breath without inhaling the new fragrance irritating his nose.

“You’re wearing cologne.”

Stupid. The first words Mike utters to Will since he almost bit him, and this is the best he can come up with? He fights the wince off his face and stands his ground, back to the wall, eyes on Will despite the growing urge to look away.

Will flushes—a charming, delicious sight—and clears his throat. “Yeah. I, um, thought it might help.” He swallows. “With the smell.”

It doesn’t. Mike tells him as much.

“Sorry,” he tacks on after, as if that makes it better. As if it can erase the established fact that Mike feels like eating Will; feels like biting him to drink his blood like an animal. “Kind of makes it worse, actually.”

“Oh,” Will says, eyes dull. “That’s… I’m sorry. I’ll stop using it.”

And it’s so ironic. Because Will isn’t the one who needs to apologize. It’s Mike, for all of it. For being a bad friend. For looking at him the way a monster does. But something about the devastating expression on Will’s face makes the words catch in his throat.

The cologne. The avoidance. Will clearly doesn’t want Mike near him, is doing anything to get him to stop looking at him like he’s his next dinner. And Mike gets it, he really does, but it also doesn’t make it hurt any less.

So, reluctantly, Mike looks away. He nods, breathing shallowly through his mouth. Will, mirroring his gesture, turns to head back into the basement. The door shuts behind him and to Mike, it feels awfully final.

It stays like that. Distant. Cold. Lonely. And since he’s afraid of hurting anyone, but his friends especially, he embraces the solitude with open arms. Tells himself it’s good, really; that he’s fine on his own. That he doesn’t need much, staying cooped up in his room for the most part. He only takes his blood rations late at night, when he’s sure everyone else is asleep, so as not to freak anyone out.

And he stops writing. He can’t bring himself to, and it’s not like he has much to say, anyway.

What he does continue to do is read. Just about any vampire-adjacent literature he can get his hands on. Holly brings home some less than satisfactory Myth and Folklore books from the school’s fantasy section, but he appreciates the gesture enough to skim them anyway. Nancy finds an occult Wiccan store in Indianapolis and drops a stack of pseudo-academic nonfiction off in his room when she gets back from there. Having exhausted all his other sources, Mike loses himself in them for two whole afternoons.

As Christmas draws closer, Mike begins to wilt. This time, it’s noticeable even from the outside—a gradual development, but he notices the way his body feels weaker most days, the way his mind fuzzes around the edges with exhaustion. Truthfully, the deer blood, while doing its job, is getting a little old. But Mike doesn’t dare think about that too much.

This one is the first holiday after the end. The first one without Jane, and the first one where Mike won’t be able to taste his mom’s homemade roast as they all come together around the dining table. The first one he won’t be alive to witness. (Ha ha.)

Needless to say, he isn’t in much of a festive mood by the time Christmas Day rolls around.

Mrs. Byers, who evidently feels bad for still taking up space in the Wheeler home, has made it her mission to create the most expansive Christmas feast they’ve ever seen. There’s lots of meat dishes, all deer, because the freezer is filled with it these days. The roast smells amazing in a way that makes Mike feel a bit wistful. Still, Mrs. Byers gets him his own steak, raw and bloody, and he chews around his sharp teeth in small bites, letting the taste wash over him.

Mike knows his mom doesn’t mind the Byers staying here as much as his dad does, but with him still at the hospital it’s not even like it matters much. It’s still far too cold for Mrs. Byers and Will to move back into Hopper’s cabin, and at least Jonathan and Nancy have moved into an apartment of their own now, so there’s more space.

Besides, Mike has never minded having them here. Quite the opposite, really. Even under these new circumstances.

He throws a glance at Will across the table. He’s not wearing the cologne anymore ever since their talk, and he smells all the more delicious for it again. But with the steak filling his stomach and fueling his bloodstream, Mike doesn’t feel like jumping him at least.

He’s pondering this, eyes trailing over Will’s face, when the other boy looks up, eyes widening when he finds Mike’s already on him. Mike watches the pink rise to his cheekbones. Then, ever so quickly, Will’s gaze darts down to Mike’s mouth.

Mike watches him watch Mike. As if subconsciously, Will’s tongue darts out to slip over his lips. His gaze lingers. Mike feels a funny flutter in his chest that isn’t because of his bloody dinner at all.

“Michael,” his mother’s voice rings across the table, in the same chiding tone she usually uses when one of her children is doing something wrong. “Wipe your mouth, dear, please. It’s not very appetizing.”

Mike scrambles for his napkin. There’s blood on it when he pulls it from his lips, and oh God, well, that must have been the reason Will was staring then. Gross.

When he looks back up, Will is pointedly avoiding his eyes. But the flush on his cheeks has darkened almost imperceptibly.

Dinner passes with laughter and nostalgic childhood stories. After, they all rub their bulging stomachs and move to the couches. They’ve decided to skip church, for obvious reasons. Instead, Mike’s mom takes Holly and Nancy to visit his dad. Mrs. Byers and Hopper start cleaning up in the kitchen, which is more Mrs. Byers washing the plates and Hopper slapping her butt with the dish towel while pretending to help. Jonathan and Will disappear into the basement together to check out a new record Will got him for Christmas.

So, Mike heads up to his room. He isn’t mad about staying behind at the house or not hanging out. Everything got a bit much at some point—people talking, plates scraping—and he’s glad for a bit of quiet time after dinner.

The Party comes over later, when the sky is long dark, bringing dishes filled with leftovers, covered in aluminum foil. They settle on the carpet in front of the TV together and dig into the tiramisu Dustin’s mom made, and though Mike can’t taste it, it’s nice that they got him a serving anyway.

For a second, it almost feels like before. Then, Mike remembers everything, the whole scope of it.

He excuses himself for a breather and heads for the back porch.

The quiet of outside is an overwhelmingly stark contrast against the commotion inside. With the black sky in front of him, Mike can breathe a little easier. He lets it wash over him and tries to ground himself in the frosty air whipping at his hair and sweater.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching the night pass by him, but at some point, he hears the distinct sound of Max’s wheelchair rolling out onto the wooden porch. Her heartbeat is a slow counterrhythm to the wind rustling through the bushes. Mike clears his throat to alert her of his whereabouts, and Max comes to a stop next to him, only slightly turned away from him.

“Still brooding, or are you ready to come back inside now?”

It’s such a Max thing to say. Mike can’t fight the snort from bubbling up his throat. “Still brooding a little, I think,” he says. Then, because his own words make him grimace, he adds, “Sorry.”

“Eh,” Max shrugs. “What’s a Christmas party without that one depressed guy hanging out on the porch?”

This time, Mike’s grin turns a little sadder. “Hey. I can see at least two depressed guys out here.”

“Well, I can’t see any.” Max’s face looks smug, like she’s waiting for the sting to play, and well, Mike kind of walked right into that one, didn’t he?

He blows out air from his cheeks in reply.

“Come on then,” she says, and her voice is too soft compared with the words she’s saying. “Let’s get this over with. No more beating around the bush.”

“You know what this is about, anyway.”

“Of course I know. But I need you to say it.”

Mike doesn’t even know what to call it, is the problem. He buries his hands in his pockets. They don’t even feel cold, despite Max shivering next to him.

“I don’t know. Everything’s just so fucked.”

Max gives a vague grunt of affirmation. “Oh, trust me. I know.”

And that’s the thing with Max, always has been: She does know. It’s like she sees right through him, every little layer that makes up Mike as a person carefully sliced apart under her scrutiny. It’s what startled him about her back when they first met. Max is fierce. Intense. Real. A lot of things Mike is scared of, now more than ever.

He stays quiet for a moment. Max waits.

“I keep thinking that it would be different if El was still here,” Mike finally croaks out. He feels more than sees Max straighten up next to him. “I mean, obviously it would be. I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid. But I feel like she’d know how to… fix this.”

The bushes bristle in the wind. Mike is glad for the sound filling the momentary silence.

“It’s not stupid.” Max says. Her voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “I think of her, too. All the time. She saved me, and now she’s just…”

She trails off. Mike nods, even though he knows she can’t see it.

“I got really lucky, Mike. When she saved me, I mean. I know it’s ironic, coming from a blind girl who can’t even walk anymore.” She hesitates. “But… That’s the odd thing about it. Because she didn’t find the perfect way out for me. I mean, she kind of didn’t really have a plan at all. And even if she were here right now, that wouldn’t mean that we’d have a solution for this. Or maybe it would be another really shit one, like her having to die in order to save the world.”

Max’s hands grip the armrests of her chair.

“And I get it. She was your superhero. She was… the coolest person I’ve ever met. But she was also just a kid, like us. A girl. And she didn’t have the answers to everything, like you always seemed to think. She saved us, yes, but she didn’t fix anything, because she’s not here anymore, and a not-broken world would have her in it. It would. I wish she could have accepted that.”

Mike’s eyes are stinging at Max’s words, but it’s once again just that—a tearless prickle. Max reaches out for him like she just knows and instinctively, Mike grasps her hand in his.

“So maybe, in order to fix this, you need to start accepting it first, Mike. Trust me, I’m learning all about acceptance with this, too.”

She sniffles. Mike huffs out a weak laugh. “Sounds tiring.”

“Oh, it’s exhausting.” Max is smiling too, but her cheeks are wet. “Most of the time, I still kind of wanna die a little bit. Seems like you do more than me though.”

“So that’s reason you’re tolerating my company out here, huh? Suicide prevention?”

It’s a poor attempt at diversion; they both know it. A retreat into safety. Max lets him have it regardless, because he’s not ready for more, not just yet. She lets go of his hand with a final squeeze.

“Yeah,” she says, and for once, Mike is glad she can’t see his face. “Let’s call it that. Or else, people might think we’re friends or something.”

2) Darkvision

“A creature with this trait can see in darkness as if the darkness were dim light, so areas of darkness are only lightly obscured as far as that creature is concerned. However, the creature can’t discern color in darkness, only shades of gray.” (Player’s Handbook, pp. 183-185.)

New Year’s passes quietly for Mike, as expected. He watches the fireworks from his bedroom window, overwhelmed still by the bustle of the holidays just passed. In front of the house, he can see the others—mom and Holly, Nancy and Jonathan, Joyce and Will—tucked arm in arm, watching the spectacle in the sky. There’s a small moment where Will turns toward the house, glancing at Mike’s window over his shoulders. Despite the distance, Mike is sure he can see the bursting lights reflected in his irises, as if they were standing right in front of each other.

One thing about needing less sleep than everyone else is that Mike gets used to moving around in the dark, and as quietly as possible. It’s kind of ironic, really; him, being the nocturnal creature of the house, creeping around in the shadows while everyone else is fast asleep in their rooms. But he doesn’t like drinking around people, and nighttime is the best time to do it without anyone breathing down his neck. Today, he has to wait a bit longer for everyone to retreat to their bedrooms, what with it being New Year’s eve and all.

Mike waits until the house is quiet before slipping downstairs. It helps that he can see well in the dark. Makes it easier not to wake anyone as he prepares his blood ration in the kitchen. Three ice cubes, glass straw. Mike has his little routine down by now, and he knows better than to face the kitchen window anymore. Instead, he leans with his hip against the counter as he swallows down the cool liquid, enjoying the now-familiar spike of delight it leaves behind in his veins.

He’s halfway finished with his drink when he hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps ascending the basement stairs. Mike is facing the hallway from his spot in the kitchen, standing awkwardly in the dark when Will appears from behind the door, his hair ruffled with sleep. Blinking heavily, he walks into the kitchen and klicks the light on, only to jump when faced with Mike hovering by the sink.

“Jesus!”

“Sorry.” Mike grimaces. The blood suddenly tastes bitter in his mouth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, no.” Will’s hand is still pressed to his heart, which Mike can hear thundering away inside his chest. Dangerous. Mike can feel his pupils dilate at the sound, and he has to look away.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Will slowly lower his hand. “Just wanted some water.”

Very stiffly, Mike steps aside and gives a small nod. The movement makes the ice cubes clink together, and the sound is unnaturally loud in the quiet of the room.

Will’s eyes flick down to the glass in Mike’s hands. They widen almost imperceptibly.

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” Mike says again, because apparently he’s forgotten literally any other word he’s ever known. Will’s heart is so loud still, and he smells good. Really good. Mike swallows and quickly takes another sip to ease the sudden ache in his teeth, but the sight of him sucking the blood through the straw only makes Will’s heartbeat speed up more.

So, Mike puts the drink down again. Watches quietly as Will gets himself a glass of water and takes one careful sip before turning towards Mike.

“You know, you don’t have to wait until we’re asleep to drink this.” He motions towards the cup, still clutched tightly in Mike’s hand. “It really doesn’t bother any of us. You mom was just being weird at Christmas.”

It’s an olive branch, Mike knows this. Will’s face is all soft and hopeful and God, Mike is a terrible person. He’s terrible for shutting him out, but he also doesn’t know what else he is supposed to do in a situation like this.

He hesitates. “I’ll… keep it in mind. Thanks, Will.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Will’s shoulders slump a little as he turns. He glances back over them. “Um. Happy New Year.”

“You too,” Mike says. “Happy New Year, Will.”

With a nod, Will disappears back downstairs.

Mike doesn’t linger in the kitchen for long after that, too afraid that Will might come back upstairs. He cleans up after himself quietly and methodically, rinsing his glass and straw before setting them in the dishwasher. (His mom said it was okay to do so if he rinsed first, and Mike is lazy. Sue him.)

Back in his room, Mike feels like he can breathe easier again—metaphorically, of course. He opens his window, letting the cool air wash away the remnants of Will’s enticing scent still lingering in his nose.

He hates the awkwardness. The continued silence. The way his body betrays him every time Will is near. Frustratedly, he flops down on his bed, his head loud and overwhelming.

Throughout all of this, there’s been one constant: The familiar and reliable beat of Will’s pulse. Mike can hear it echo through the house at night, calm and slowed to match Will’s sleepy breathing. He imagines him, safely asleep in the basement, and it eases the ache in his chest a little bit.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

He knows it’s an odd source of comfort. But Mike supposes if he can’t be around Will, this is the second-best thing. So, he slips under his covers, closes his eyes and lets the soft rhythm lull him to sleep.

PSYCHOLOGICAL EXAMINATION REPORT [Unknown Hematophagic Humanoid]

CASE ID: UHH-01-87

DATE / TIME: 01-26-1988 / 15:34

EXAMINER: Dr. Samuel Owens (Ph.D., M.D.)

PATIENT NAME: Michael Wheeler

The following document is a recorded transcript of an interview conducted for diagnostic purposes. The examiner notes that standard diagnostic criteria may not be applicable. Unauthorized distribution is prohibited.

DR: —start recording. Alright. This is just for future review of our conversation. There will be a protocol. Nothing fancy.

PA: Okay.

DR: So. How have you been feeling?

PA: Better. The deer are good. It … helps.

DR: But?

PA: It’s never really gone. The thirst. But it’s better after I drink.

DR: Hm. How often would you say you need to consume blood?

PA: Every three days to feel good. I can stretch it up to a week if I need to. After that, it starts hurting. I get weaker.

DR: And that’s the longest you’ve gone without?

PA: Yes.

DR: Can—Sorry, let me write this down properly. Okay. Can you elaborate on the effects of the blood consumption?

PA: Sure. Um. I mean, I just feel more … alive, I guess? Like, literally. Sorry. I know how that sounds. My heart starts beating again when I drink, is what I’m trying to say.

DR: You’re good. Keep going.

PA: Okay. Uh. The throat gets better, for a bit. I’m less foggy. Less sensitive to smells. To people’s smells, too, I don’t want to, um, bite as much after. Let’s see, what else … My reflexes are better after I drink. I, uh … I’m stronger. Broke two glasses so far when I put them in the dishwasher after.

DR: How about other … abilities? Any changes in the ones we discussed last time? Any new ones?

PA: I can see in the dark, kind of? Or, well, better than I used to, I guess. I need less sleep than before. I think that’s tied to the blood somehow … Like, I usually sleep more when I haven’t drunk any in a while.

DR: M-hm.

PA: The biggest one I’ve noticed is probably the healing.

DR: From what you’ve told me, it’s accelerated?

PA: Yes.

DR: How so?

PA: I still bleed, obviously. But the wounds heal up within like, minutes. There’s usually just a small scar, like with the bite on my neck. I had a, uh, hunting accident—Wait, let me—Here.

DR: Ah. That must have been a bigger wound.

PA: Yeah. Cut myself with a hunting knife. But it healed in, like, five minutes.

DR: Impressive. Let me just … Sorry, I’ll be done in a second. Just getting a picture for your file.

PA: ’Course. You’re fine.

DR: Alright, there we go. So, Michael. How are you dealing with the emotional side of all this?

PA: Sorry?

DR: I mean, it must be a big adjustment. A lot of change. It can rattle the mind.

PA: Oh. Um. Yeah. I guess so.

DR: Have you found it challenging?

PA: Uh. Sorry. I’m thinking about it.

DR: Take your time.

PA: I mean, it has been kind of hard, I guess.

DR: I can imagine. How so?

PA: Just. With the smells. I don’t know. I miss when I didn’t want to bite my friends all the time.

DR: Understandable.

PA: I’ve been keeping my distance, I don’t want to… Scare them, I guess? Or scare myself. Sometimes, it’s like this thing inside me just takes over and I, like, think about jumping Dustin from behind, just because he turned his back to me.

DR: Would you say that you feel like these … more primitive instincts control you?

PA: Not … Not like that. They’re just present. I mean, it’s worse around Will, I’d say.

DR: Yes, you’ve told me how his scent affects you differently.

PA: Yeah. So. I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t have control, necessarily. But, that could change, I guess? Like, how would I stop myself from just going on a killing spree if the opportunity arises? I mean, that’s an extreme example, maybe. But you know what I mean.

DR: Yes, I understand.

PA: And his smell, it’s like … It’s everywhere, kind of. All the time. Drowns out the other smells? I don’t know, maybe that’s a good thing. Means I have to get used to it. But it doesn’t seem to help. I still react the same way every time.

DR: That’s not a bad approach at all. I definitely want to encourage you to spend more time with your friends again. It’s good to desensitize yourself to being around them. Maybe they can even help you in discovering more about the nature of your condition. It would be helpful for you to understand it more. For me, as well.

PA: So I’m not on house arrest anymore?

DR: I think we’ve established that you’re not an active danger to yourself or the ones around you. Even William. And socialization is important. Human or not.

PA: Cool.

DR: Well, this has been immensely helpful already. Ah, before I forget—Your samples have been examined. It seems that your cells have mutated in a way that’s foreign to human matter entirely. We don’t know yet about the toxin in your canines—

[End of recording. Duration: 27:45:03.]

February 1988

Despite his lack of a beating heart, Mike is very happy to report that he does, in fact, still feel things. Disgust and defeat, toward himself. Happiness, around Holly. Gratefulness, toward Nancy. Annoyance and amusement at Max, more annoyance and amusement at Lucas and Dustin. And a whole, complicated knot of all of the above, anytime he is in the same room as Will.

He also feels grief, for El. Though that last one takes a while to settle into his bones, into the hollow of them between his ribs. But once it does, it’s hard to ignore.

Mike misses her. Not in the way he expected—in smaller ones. Her laugh. Her dry humor. The way she’d hum along to her favorite songs and mouth the words to the cheesy movies she liked. Sometimes, Mike feels way too happy in the way he remembers her. Like he should be sadder. That’s when he does actually get sad. Sad, and angry.

Though, part of him still lingers on his conversation with Max. He wonders which chunk of all that is felt for El, and which is felt for himself. Because now that she’s gone, there’s no one to save him. He can never return to who he was before the end; for obvious reasons, yes, but also because she’s not there anymore to welcome him back. Sometimes it feels like she was everything holding Mike together. Stitching him up by his ripped seams, much in the way she closed that portal way back when.

His friends all cope in different ways.

Lucas goes jogging whenever it all gets too much. He says it’s to clear his head, but Mike knows he likes to brood in it sometimes, when no one can interrupt him. He’s seen the cassette tapes for Lucas’ Walkman, the ones he listens to while running—lots of Echo & the Bunnymen.

Then there’s Dustin, pretending everything’s fine, they’re fine, when clearly, they’re not. Mike suspects it’s because of Eddie. El’s death is bringing him up a lot for Mike, too, and he can’t even imagine what it must be like for Dustin. So, they let him hold onto the shreds of normalcy they still have left; movie nights and debating the Star Wars franchise and trying to get Cerebro back up. It helps in the way a band-aid does for an open fracture, but still.

The coping is worst for Max, because they can’t take her everywhere they go anymore. The not-being-able-to-see, the not-being-able-to-walk. It’s frustrating for all of them, but her especially. Sometimes, she gets mean, throwing things at them from her wheelchair. (Despite her lack of sight, her aim is still annoyingly good.) Mike would be pissed at her if it wasn’t all so understandable. She deserves to be angry, if anything. At the very least.

Maybe that’s why the quiet days are worse—the ones where she gets all sad, where he doesn’t even need to see her milky eyes behind the pair of red-rimmed sunglasses in order to know she’s been crying. They usually stick close to her on those days. Near enough for her to reach out and hold their hands in the rare moments she feels like it.

Max and Will have become much closer through all of this. It’s an unexpected thing, but a nice one nonetheless. Mike likes knowing they have each other to lean on, especially when he can’t be the one that’s there for Will. Still, he wishes he knew what it is that Will does when the thoughts get really bad.

Some days, Mike thinks about reaching out. Then he remembers the way he could almost taste Will on his tongue that first day. How powerless he felt in his arms, so close to doing something he would have regretted for the rest of his life. The memory makes him shudder, weighing his ribs down enough to make him keep his distance.

He doesn’t really know what his own way of dealing with all of it is, yet. Maybe it’s in the way he stumbled headfirst into his research of whatever’s wrong with him. Maybe it’s in the way he quietly stares at his bedroom ceiling at night, when everyone else is asleep, letting the sounds of the house, of Will's pulse, of his own thoughts wash over him.

Whatever it is, Mike lets the feeling—tight, achy, heavy—linger inside his chest for now. There’s lots of space for it, after all, what with the lack of a beating heart and all.

3) Hematophagy

“Theories suggest that animal blood would sustain a vampire well at first, but in an exponentially less satisfying way, eventually preserving just motion and awareness but little else. Specimens maintained on such a diet would appear progressively weakened: pallid to the point of corpse-like, physically diminished, and prone to irritability and fixation. While capable of restraint, they might exist in a state of persistent deprivation, their hunger never truly satisfied.” (The Vampire Enigma: Between Fact, Flesh and Folklore, p. 28.)

Mike is in the woods. It’s night, but he can’t see the stars through the crowded treetops. Though that doesn’t matter, because it’s not where Mike is looking at all. Instead, his eyes are laser focused on the large stag grazing on the clearing in front of him.

He doesn’t know where Hopper is, but Mike knows he wants him to do this on his own. His fingers tighten around the shotgun, looking sickly pale in the barest hint of moonlight shining through the canopy. When he shifts his weight, a twig snaps beneath his shoe and the deer freezes, heartbeat speeding up to a thundering drum.

Mike curses inwardly. He’s starving—desperately needs this, can’t even remember the last time he had a blood ration. His fangs are digging into the tender flesh of his lip, bruising it from the inside. Mike attempts to position the shotgun how Hopper taught him, but the movement is loud enough for the stag’s ears to twitch in anticipation, so Mike lowers it again, focuses on the sound of its heartbeat, the smell of blood rushing beneath warm skin carrying over toward him.

Then the deer bolts, and suddenly, Mike is all instinct.

He rushes forward without thinking. His shoes dig into the dirt as he sprints after it, faster than lightning with his newfound strength. The stag is quick, but Mike catches up just as swiftly. And, God, he feels powerful—His body is vibrating with reflexes, reacting before he can even figure out why or how.

He’s so close—almost there—he can almost taste the sweet stutter of a pulse on his tongue already. Mike stops thinking and pounces, impossibly fast, catching the stag between his arms as he jumps it from behind. He digs his fingers into the fur and the animal gives a surprised yelp. They topple to the ground, a flash of limbs and fur and squeaking sounds before Mike manages to pin the animal to the ground with his hands and legs.

Only when he looks down beneath himself, it’s not a deer that is trapped there.

It’s Will.

Eyes wide, panting, he looks up at Mike. The same hazel-colored doe eyes Mike has known all his life—they are the only resemblance Will bears to the deer Mike was about to tear into. They are looking strangely at Mike, filled with something he has never seen directed at himself, not from Will, not ever. But now, pinned underneath him, he sees it clear as day, even in the dark of night: Will is scared.

“Mike.”

His lips part to whisper the name. Mike finds his gaze pulled there, following the way they shape around it. Then, it drops lower, down to the thrumming pulse against the side of Will’s neck.

“What are you doing, Mike?”

He doesn’t have an answer. It’s like he can’t speak with the need to bite down and drink at the forefront of his mind, and he unwillingly pushes down harder, presses Will into the dirt, hair splayed out over the rotten and damp leaves. Will whimpers, and the sound makes Mike’s fangs ache.

“Please, Mike,” he cries, his voice high and thin, and for a second Mike almost thinks it’s permission, but Will follows it with a desperate, “Please don’t hurt me.”

He wants to listen. He really does. But there’s another part of him; a bigger, more dangerous one that’s not letting him pull back. So, Mike leans forward and bites down.

Will wails, thrashing beneath him, fingernails catching onto Mike’s skin, pulling at his hair, but he doesn’t let up. Just drinks and drinks and drinks, greedy and quick and absolutely filthy. He feels the blood run down Will’s neck and sucks more of his skin into his mouth so he can catch every single drop. It feels warm down his throat, settling in his stomach, which only spurs Mike on more—he wants more, needs more, needs everything Will has to give.

So he takes. He keeps taking, even as Will’s sounds of protest and pain grow quieter; even as his fingers untangle from Mike’s hair and drop to the ground with a low thudding sound. Mike doesn’t even notice. He’s too far gone, too entranced by his senses going crazy with delight.

When he finally does pull back, Will has stopped moving entirely. There are only the faintest smudges of blood left on his skin, around the two small pricks in his neck. He looks pale, gaunt almost, and his breath is coming shallowly as he reaches a weak hand out for Mike.

“Please,” he wheezes before his jaw goes slack and his hand drops back down. His eyes are open, but they’ve dulled, still caught in that final display of pure, unadulterated terror.

Mike feels that same terror mirrored inside his own chest. He stares, frozen, at the mess beneath him; at what he’s done.

“Will?” Mike reaches out to him, but his skin has grown cold. Slowly, dread seeps into every crevice of Mike’s being. The forest swells around him, treetops closing in from above. “Will! Wake up, Will! Wake up, please!”

It’s no use. Will lays dead beneath him.

Mike wakes with a gasp and his clothes sticking to his body, despite his inability to sweat any longer. His body feels strangely hot, but maybe it’s just the blankets—he kicks them off, trying to will the air into his lungs if only to feel the way they expand against his ribcage; presses his palms flat to his chest to calm himself. He can feel the phantom beat of his heart drumming inside of his chest, like an echo of the dream he just had, and it hurts, making his lungs feel tight and small.

His breathing calms, but as soon as Mike closes his eyes again, he sees the haunting pictures of Will, bloodied and lifeless on the forest floor. He rips them open again and starts over, counting his breaths.

Instinctively, he listens for the now-familiar sound of heartbeats around the house. His ears find the one in the basement quickly. There’s Will, probably soundly asleep on the pull-out couch. The familiar flutter of it calms Mike down enough to slump back against his headboard, eyes drifting through his room.

It’s not real. You didn’t hurt him. It was only a dream. He’s fine. He’s sleeping. It wasn’t real. You didn’t hurt him.

The shame kicks in soon after.

Mike feels it expand inside his chest, speeding his carefully slowed breathing back up. He tries to drown it out, but it’s no use. The sight of Will’s dead body underneath him seems imprinted onto the backs of his eyelids.

So, he tries to distract himself with other thoughts. He thinks about Dustin, about the movie night they have planned over the walkie, now that he’s allowed to see his friends again. He thinks of Max, who pretends to enjoy not having to hang around him so often lately, but who he knows still misses him. He thinks of Lucas, who made him promise to play basketball with him at least once before he leaves for college.

Despite his best efforts, Mike’s thoughts are still racing, wanting to revert to Will. To biting him. Tasting him.

It’s hard, so hard, because for the most part, it’s only Will he feels this way about. Mike has tried imagining it, drinking from his other friends, but he just doesn’t want to—still wants to bite them sometimes, when they smell good, their pulse spiking in a heated argument or while they’re watching a scary movie. But not in the way he does Will. Not at the barest hint of their scent lingering in the house, not at the smallest glimpse of an exposed neck under a stretched out shirt collar at breakfast.

“Fuck,” he whispers into the dark. This isn’t helping. Sitting up, Mike lets his eyes wander over the pictures and photographs tacked to his walls. He dreads shutting his eyes, so he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets them catch onto a familiar sight. The gray-washed outline of a painting in the dark, hung up over his desk.

Mike has stared at it for hours, trying to dissect every brushstroke in it. He doesn’t know what it is that he’s looking for, but he knows he hasn’t found it yet. Instinctively, his eyes trace over the small knight ahead of the group. The mighty Paladin, leading his Party into battle. It’s a comforting thought that this is what Will used to see him as. A protector. A loyal friend. A leader. The heart.

His breathing slows. Mike clicks his bedside lamp on.

The Sorcerer. The Bard. The Ranger. Even the angry red of the three-headed Thessylhydra calms Mike down the more he looks at it. He has thought often before how Will must have spent hours on it. Knowing his ever-perfectionist best friend, he probably wanted to get it done flawlessly. Sometimes, Mike can almost see the tenderness in his brushwork, the care embedded into the canvas, the raw emotion hidden within the vibrance of colors.

Mike lets the image wash over him, eyes trailing over the familiar scene until they’re too heavy to keep open any longer. This time when he falls asleep, he dreams of a Paladin braving a bloody fight alongside his three companions. And despite the three-headed monster they are attempting to slay in this one, swords slashing away at its scaly skin and hacking off its tail, it’s a lot less scary than the one before.

4) Garlic?

5) Forbiddance

6) Shapechanger/Misty Escape maybe

➛ Reminder: Don’t let Dustin add shit to the list!

Like many things in his life, Dustin views Mike’s “situation” (as he affectionately calls it over the walkie) as more of a science experiment than anything else. He’s the first to test his standing theories that Mike is repelled by garlic (false), can’t enter homes uninvited (false again) and could possibly transform into a bat, raven or shadow cloud (false so far, but Mike is keeping his fingers crossed for that one).

It seems Dustin has conducted his research a bit differently than Mike did—namely, it seems he scoured every vampire movie ever created (and currently available at their local Family Video), sorted them by relevance and compared them for overlapping tropes and stereotypes. Vampyr, Nosferatu, Dracula, Fright Night, Near Dark. And those are only a few of the VHS cassettes Dustin brings over to the Wheeler house and makes Mike sit through in the living room.

Most of them are atrocious. Some of them make Mike want to crawl into a hole and die. And decidedly all of them carry a certain sensual undertone that would make his face flush red if he still had a properly working blood circulation system.

The whole religious motif proves to be a theme Dustin keeps getting hung up on. Probably because Mike has never been a religious person—mass during the holidays, yes, but he’s never sought out a church just for the sake of it—and ever since the whole almost-destruction-of-the-world, none of them have really had the time to deal with questions of faith. But it seems Dustin has latched onto it as a staple in his ‘Research of the Undead’. (Yes, he has a folder. Yes, there’s diagrams in it. Mike doesn’t ask too many questions. Just hands Dustin a pen whenever he asks.)

He learns of Dustin’s fascination with the topic when he bikes over one day to shove a copy of The Lost Boys into Mike’s face. “Holy water,” is all he says, hair frizzy and eyes wild in that way they only ever seem to get when Dustin thinks he’s onto something.

Mike is not particularly thrilled to potentially get his face burned off, but he also missed hanging out with his friends. So, he indulges Dustin in his strange antics, grabs his dusty bike from the garage and follows him.

“What if I go up in flames as soon as we enter?”

“I brought water and a blanket.” Dustin motions toward his backpack, as if that’s the obvious solution. “Worst case, I’ll put you out.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Cut the sarcasm, Batman. This is actual, important research.”

“Still not a bat. Unfortunately.”

Dustin waves his hand at him. “Semantics.”

They bike out at sundown. Mike feels transported back to their childhood—the scrape of tires against asphalt, the cold air whipping the hair out of his face. He rides in front, but he can sense Dustin close behind. His heartbeat is elated. He smells… happy. Like the morning paper, freshly delivered, ink barely dried on the pages. By the time they arrive at Hawkins Presbyterian Church, the sky is glowing deep orange, with the sun disappearing behind the horizon.

Mike is first to drop his bike at the entrance, not caring for order. He feels strangely defiant about it all. Might as well commit to the bit.

Dustin does the same and turns toward him. “You ready?”

Mike isn’t. “Just remember. If I burn…”

“…we burn. In this together, baby.”

Mike doesn’t really think he’s going to burst into flames. Still, Dustin could be a bit more encouraging. “I was going to say put me out, but whatever works, really.”

As always, Dustin is barely even listening anymore. He gets that way about science. Mike lines up behind him with a sigh—the things he does for his friends—watches as he pushes the door open and slips inside.

He hesitates only briefly before following.

Okay, so maybe he was a tiny bit scared something was going to happen. But the only thing he can feel is the drop in temperature as he steps into the vaulted building, looking around.

“So? Anything? Skin growing hot?” Dustin comes up to him, palms pressed to Mike’s cheeks. Mike swats them away.

“No. Stop that.”

“You feel normal,” Dustin hums, not even acknowledging him. He pulls a notebook from his backpack. “Looks like you aren’t gonna go up in flames anytime soon. Yay for us. Nay for science. Though maybe it has, like, a delayed effect. Can you—Ugh, I forgot—Pen.”

He snaps his fingers at Mike, who obliges by pulling a pen from his jean pocket—he came prepared—and handing it to Dustin. “I’m starting to think you want me to start burning,” he says.

“Eh.” Dustin shrugs with a grin and scribbles something down in his notes. “I just hope any of the theories from our list prove true at some point.”

“First of all, it’s my list. You just got your nosy little hands on it last time you came over,” Mike points out. He picks up one of the songbooks laid out on the pews and flips through it. “Second of all, some of them have. Just not the ones you wrote on there.”

“Wow. Way to kill my mojo.” Dustin is a few paces ahead, looking around. “Man, I haven’t been here in forever.”

Mike watches him drift away, unable to tear his gaze from Dustin’s retreating back. Something about it, about the way he almost appears to be running from him, makes his gut twist with hunger. It’s low and sharp, sudden and unwelcome. Mike moves forward before he can think about it too much and pushes past Dustin.

“Yeah. Same.”

They inspect the church with a clinical curiosity. Mike is glad that it’s late and there’s no one here. He pops his head into the confession booth without knowing what he expects to find there. The cushioned seat stares back at him when Dustin’s voice pipes up from behind him again.

“Listen… About Will.”

“Dustin.” Mike’s voice is icy as he pulls his head back out. He throws him a sharp glare over his shoulder. “Let’s not.”

“No. You can’t keep doing this. Avoiding everyone.” There’s the Dustin Mike knows and loves—the one that never backs down from a challenge. “He’s miserable, Mike.”

Mike swallows. Closes his eyes. Dustin is still staring at him, waiting. When Mike speaks, it’s between clenched teeth. “And you think I’m not?”

Dustin’s eyebrows crease. “I know you are. Which is why I don’t get why you’re—”

“It’s better this way. Safer,” Mike interrupts.

“I really don’t get it. You’re fine with me. With Lucas, with Max. Your family. How is Will any different?” Dustin’s brows have disappeared under his baseball cap. “Is his smell really that bad compared to ours?”

So, someone has noticed. Mike sucks in a sharp breath. It seems to be answer enough for Dustin.

“Look, it’s fine if you’re… struggling to adjust with him,” he continues. “I mean, this is all new for you, and I know you guys weren’t really having the best time when he was in Cali. And now he’s living with you and all. He’s always around. And you can’t stand to smell him. I get it. I really do. Well, as much as I can.”

“I just…” Mike hesitates. He needs Dustin to stop talking, but he can’t give too much away either, scared of weirding his friend out. Maybe it’s better like this. Dustin, thinking he can't stand Will’s smell instead of wanting it too much. “I can’t risk it. Why is that so hard to understand? We still don’t know what I’m able to do. What if I just… I don’t know, freak out, go on a rampage? I can’t have anyone caught in the crossfire of that. Especially not him.”

“Wow.” Dustin’s voice sounds surprisingly pissed. “There you go with that ‘protecting Will’ nonsense again.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s not some dainty little doll, you know. Actually, he’s been through more than you could ever imagine. And you’re still acting like he needs all this safeguarding. Like he can’t protect himself, like he didn’t survive in the Upside Down for a week, like he didn’t kill that Demo with his mind only.”

“It was three Demos,” Mike quips, because he’s a know-it-all dick, apparently. “And I know all of this.”

“See? That’s exactly what I mean!” Dustin shoots back. “You guys were finally back to being good. You were… I don’t know. Best friends again. Working together, being a team.” The words cut away at something in Mike’s chest. He chooses not to engage with it. “And now it’s like you’re obsessed with this thing, this idea of hurting him.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to be that obsessed with him either, Dustin.”

The words come out bitter.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t say you were obsessed with Will. But if we’re being completely honest, and I can’t believe I’m the one breaking this to you—You’ve always been a little bit obsessed with him.”

Pause. Mike whirls around.

“What? What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“Dude. Did you just curse in a church?”

“Are you serious?” He throws a glance towards the ceiling. “I’m sorry, God. There. I still don’t know what you’re on about, Dustin.”

Dustin throws him a look. “Come on, Mike. Seriously?”

Mike keeps staring until he frustratedly throws his hands in the air.

“The glares? The overprotectiveness? The Will-voice? Do any of these ring a bell?”

“That’s just—That’s best friend stuff!”

The argument sounds a little weak, even to his own ears. Dustin seems to agree.

“Well, you’re not treating your other two best friends like that, are you? Matter of fact, I’d rather French kiss a Demo than have you act like that around me.”

Mike scoffs. “Now you’re just being snarky.”

Dustin sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Look, all I’m saying is that you really need to sort things out with him. Preferably before it all goes to shit again. Because Lucas and I talked about it, and—”

“You talk about us?” Mike yells out, affronted. His voice echoes in the vaulted ceilings, rings back at him.

“Of course we fucking talk about you!” Now it is Dustin darting his eyes to the ceiling. “Sorry, Big Guy.” He fixes his eyes back on Mike, and something about the intensity in his stare makes him shut up. “Listen to me. We talked about it, and we can’t do this again. The distance. The whining. The longing. I’ve had enough of it for a lifetime, and so has Lucas. Okay?”

Mike stares at him, mouth still offendedly parted. “I can’t believe this.”

“Oh, come on! Are you still hung up on the fact that, yes, we do in fact have chats about what’s going on with you? What did you think, that you could act all broody and depressed and we wouldn’t notice?”

“I’m not entertaining this conversation anymore,” Mike grumbles, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Tell Lucas I said this, by the way. You know, when you have your next staff meeting about what’s going on between me and Will—”

“Okay, okay, yeah, I get it. Just—” Dustin waves his hands in Mike’s direction with a sigh. “I tried, man. Whatever. You can stay dark and gloomy for all I care.”

He turns, and his steps reverberate in the building as he strides forward, heading back towards the exit. Mike only feels a little bit bad as he follows him, but the feeling quickly dissolves when Dustin turns to shuck a handful from the holy water font directly into his face.

“Fuck, Dustin! You got it in my eyes!” he yelps, hands coming up to wipe at them. “I swear, if I get pink eye or something—”

“I don’t think vampires can get pink eye,” Dustin says, and though Mike can’t see him right now, he sounds smug. “Besides, you’re still not burning. Which, honestly, is kind of disappointing for my data.”

Mike has a feeling Dustin would have enjoyed him bursting into flames either way, data be damned.

7) The Chase

“‘Why me?’ she demanded, though her voice trembled less with fear than something dangerously close to anticipation. A faint smile touched his lips as he began to close the distance. ‘Because,’ he said softly, ‘you didn’t run fast enough.’ He circled her then. Slow, measured. Each step tightening the invisible thread between them. Her pulse pounded, not just with terror, but with a strange and magnetic pull, as if every instinct urging her to flee was tangled with another begging her to stay. When his hand finally brushed her shoulder, it was almost gentle. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘The chase is the sweetest part.’” (Passion in the Shadows, Chapter 3, pp. 53-54.)

By March, Hopper has fixed the cabin up enough for the Party to celebrate Will’s birthday there. It’s a sweet offer, a well-deserved shred of normalcy among the chaos that have been the past two years. It also means Will won’t be spending his birthday at Mike’s place, which is both a relief and also leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that even the familiar trickle of an iced blood ration can’t wash down his throat.

During the week leading up to it, Mike wonders whether he’ll be invited at all. He wouldn’t blame the others, wouldn’t blame Will, really, if he wasn’t. Wouldn’t blame Dustin if he talked Will out of it after his failed attempt at a conversation, of trying to reason with him. Mike has been nothing but an asshole. Which, yes, could be excused by the fact that his life got inexplicably turned upside down (ha ha) within the span of three days. But then again, they all seem to manage fine, or as fine as the circumstances allow. And maybe Mike has been on a bit of a self-pitying streak these days ever since he started having the dreams, which has made him even more irritable than usual.

To his surprise, Will does invite him over for the birthday party. His voice is hushed and crackling over the walkie they still use from time to time, and it’s making something within Mike swell with nostalgia. The day after tomorrow, Tuesday afternoon. Meet at the cabin. No presents, but Mike knows everyone will get him some, anyway. Involuntarily, his eyes flick to the top drawer of his desk.

“I’ll be there,” he replies over the walkie. There’s a moment before Will responds. Mike can hear his heart give a row of fast thuds down below in the basement.

“I’m glad.” His voice is quiet. Earnest. “Over and out.”

Mike smiles. He stands from his bed and walks over to his desk, ripping the drawer open. There’s the mixtape—the one he made after Will left, the one he was going to put with the first of many letters he never sent. He takes it out, runs his thumb over the sharpie writing on the front. For Will, it says in his scrawly handwriting. Miss You.

It feels more fitting now than ever before.

Two days later, the tape is tucked carefully in his jacket pocket as he walks up to Hopper’s cabin, leaves crunching under his Converse. He hasn’t been here since November, since El used the bath there. Mike shrugs the thoughts off with a shake of his head. Today isn’t about that—it’s about Will.

Will opens the door before Mike can knock, and Mike holds his breath on instinct, letting the now-familiar scent wash over him. Will looks good in his maroon sweater, hair tousled across his forehead. Handsome, even. Mike suddenly feels way ghostlier than when he looked in the mirror this morning and he can sense the bags underneath his eyes, standing out against the pale of his skin.

For a small moment, they just look at each other.

“Hey,” Will says softly.

Mike ducks his head, feeling shy all of a sudden. “Hey.”

He’s about to say something else—congratulate him, maybe, you idiot—Dustin barrels past Will in that familiar, boisterous way of his, clapping him on the shoulder with a “Mike! There you are!”. At least he’s not mad at Mike after their trip to the church. It makes the moment break open into noise and movement and laughter. And maybe it’s for the better. Mike doesn't quite know where his head is at right now.

They head inside. The others are already there, piled into the living room. Max, being bossy as always, telling Lucas what record to put on. Robin, huddled on the couch with a drink in hand. Jonathan in a corner, fiddling with what looks to be a new camera.

Mike braves a look around the room. The space looks different than he remembers. Gone is the tub that spread it into a strange L-shape. Instead, Hopper’s fixed the windows, patched the walls, even strung up a line of crooked fairy lights across the ceiling. There’s music playing, soft and low and just for a second, it feels almost normal. Like Mike has stepped sideways into a version of things where none of it ever happened.

“This is nice,” he finally says, and the smile Will gives him in return is worth all the anxiety Mike’s put himself through so far.

He’s doing pretty good, he thinks. Yes, he’s acutely aware of every single one of the heartbeats fluttering inside the cabin, but he’s managing. (Not breathing, more like. But it’s fine. He’s fine.)

“Ladies,” Jonathan steps closer, pointing his camera at Mike and Will, who are still standing awkwardly at the front of the room. “Prepare to be immortalized.” He glances at Mike. “Or, uh.”

The joke is bad, but Mike still has to bite back a grin.

“Absolutely not,” he mutters, half-turned away. But he’s too late—the flash goes off, momentarily bathing them in bright yellow lighting. Mike blinks.

“Jesus, Jonathan—”

“It’s art,” Jonathan insists. “You’ll thank me in five years, when you’re all spread across the country doing adult things.”

“Oh, ’cause this isn’t adult enough for you?” Dustin quips, raising his bottle from behind them. “There’s beer and cake. Seems pretty adult to me.”

Jonathan smirks affectionately. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Besides, there’s no way these idiots are getting rid of me that easily,” Max calls.

“Unfortunately,” Mike mutters, and despite the sharp words, it comes out affectionately. Next to him, Will muffles his laughter into his sleeve and Mike feels it echo through his own body, like a shift in gravity.

All in all, it’s surprisingly… good.

They do cake first, collecting in a singing half-circle around Will, his face illuminated by the candles. Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. The light is soft and golden as he hovers above it, like he doesn’t quite know what to wish for. His gaze flicks upward, over the people surrounding him, their voices a dissonant chorus of different melodies. Mike finds himself mouthing along anyway. Happy Birthday to Will… Maybe Mike imagines it, but Will’s eyes seem to hang onto him a second longer, glistening dangerously until Will closes them to blow the flames out in one breath. Everyone cheers, whoops, claps. Happy Birthday to you.

Then, presents.

Maybe Mike should have known that the evening was going too well to be just that. Sue him for letting himself get lost in the effortlessness of it all. But it’s so easy to, and Mike lets his guard slip as they hand Will his gifts, because he looks so happy and it’s been so long, and maybe Will’s radiant smile is making all the bad thoughts disappear from his head for a little bit.

He gets concert tickets from Jonathan, for some underground show a few towns over. “Before we head off to the Big Apple,” he says, smiling, and Will beams back before pulling him into a hug. Dustin follows after with a color-coded map of New York, including important subway stations, art hot spots, a handful of record stores and cheap restaurants “for when you do get there”.

Robin gifts him a book, The Door Into Fire by Diane Duane, and Will flushes a pretty pink when he reads the excerpt on the back. Mike itches to grab it and see what it says, but they’re already moving on. From Lucas, there’s a new sketchbook and a set of colored pencils—“Prismacolor Premier!” Will exclaims happily as he unwraps them—and Max gives him an art zine she and Lucas picked up when they drove to Indianapolis for her physical therapy.

Mike is starting to feel a little insecure about his own gift. The mixtape is burning a hole into his pocket and he pulls it out, running his fingertips over the dark blue wrapping paper. Before he can overthink it, he hands it over to Will, careful not to brush their hands together.

“Happy birthday, Will,” he murmurs and listens with reluctant delight as Will’s heart picks up speed inside his chest. He takes the small package in his hands, eyes it curiously, and begins peeling at the paper.

It happens stupid fast. Mike smells it before he sees—sweet and cold at first inhale, sharp peppermint stinging his sinuses. When he looks down, there’s a thin line opening across Will’s finger and the scent turns syrupy; the pears ripen deliciously. Dangerously. Bright red wells up from the cut, beads, then spills over.

Everything slows.

The room drops away into fragments. The dim glow of the string lights above, the sound of someone still laughing, the soft hum of music in the background. All of it fades away, leaving nothing but bright crimson for Mike to see. Something inside him snaps tight and he prepares to lunge.

“Mike!”

He doesn’t even register who says it. Hunger has hit him like a wave, violent and all-consuming, dragging him under with no air left to breathe. Mike’s throat burns, the sensation rushing in his ears, and all he can think about is catch, drink, taste.

“Hey—”

“Get him out!”

The words barely register, don’t matter at all. Will is standing right there, hand still half-raised in front of him, the single drop of blood slowly running down his hand. He’s wide-eyed and frozen as Mike moves closer, like a deer in headlights, and it only adds to Mike’s urge to catch him.

Mike distantly notices Dustin grabbing at him from behind. “Whoa, whoa, hey—” But it’s no use. Mike wrenches free like it’s nothing and pushes back, sending Dustin to the floor. The room erupts, voices overlap, but it all sounds far away, like he’s still underwater, still caught in that wave.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

All he hears is Will’s heartbeat. All he sees is red.

“Mike!” Jonathan’s voice—no, Lucas’—someone’s—

Hands grab at him again, solid and unyielding. Someone locks an arm around Mike’s chest from behind, hauling him back hard. “No—No, man, don’t—”

Mike thrashes against the hold. He feels wild with energy. Almost like he’s vibrating out of his skin. “Let go—”

“Snap out of it, Mike!”

“I said let me go!” His voice is unrecognizable. Dark and raspy. Hungry.

And Will is still staring at him. That’s maybe the worst part about all of it. Just looking, frozen. Afraid, Mike’s traitorous mind supplies. He’s afraid and he hates you for this.

Mike falters, just for a second, but it’s enough. Lucas tightens his grip, drags him back another step. Jonathan moves in, blocking the space between Mike and Will, hands held up like that’ll do anything.

“Okay,” he says, voice shaky but determined. “Okay, we’re good, we’re good—just—everybody chill—”

“Get him away from me,” Mike chokes out, eyes still locked on the cut even as he tries to look away. “Please—just—”

Robin is the first to move this time, pulling Will back, pressing something—tissue, napkin, paper towel maybe—tight against his hand. “It’s okay,” she keeps repeating as she steers him out of the cabin. “It’s nothing, it’s just a cut—”

It’s not nothing. Mike knows it’s not. Breathing hard, shaking, held in place by Lucas’ grip, he finally squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” he says into the room, barely more than a whisper now.

Lucas’ arms tighten around him, but it feels more like a comforting embrace now than it did five minutes ago.

They stay like that for a while. Eventually, everyone has calmed down and Lucas slowly releases Mike from his hold. Cruelly enough, Mike almost misses the warmth of it once he does.

“Well, I don’t know what the fuck just happened,” Max says, her voice dry. “But it sure as hell didn’t sound good.”

“Max, please.” Lucas sounds exasperated. He’s leaned over, hands on his knees, panting from the exertion of holding Mike. “Not helping right now.”

He glances over at Mike.

“You need a ride, Mike? I can take you after I drop—”

“It’s fine,” Mike cuts him off. He needs to be alone. Can’t even imagine being stuck in a car with Lucas and Max right now, avoiding talking about what just happened while pretending everything is fine and normal. “I think I’m going to hang back for a bit.”

“Oh. Okay.” Lucas nods, then cocks his head. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

He doesn’t move an inch as everybody around him leaves, too afraid to activate any leftover instincts or urges within himself. Only when he’s sure there’s no one around anymore, the cabin devoid of the flutter of different heartbeats, but most of all Will’s, does he allow himself to move away from his spot in the living room.

The burn in his throat is still there, ever so faintly. And since Mike knows that Hopper keeps some of the blood they harvest form the deer at the cabin, he heads to the kitchen to grab a ration before he leaves. Better safe than sorry.

Only, he gets distracted by something else—a familiar, minty scent wafting at him from the only half-covered trash can under the sink.

Mike moves closer and stares down at it. There, nestled into the plastic is a string of tissue paper, stained red. The smell is subdued, the blood already seeped into the paper. Mike doesn’t care. It’s still the best thing he’s ever smelled.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

He picks it out before he can think about it, plastic bag rustling. Brings it up to his face.

Oh God.

It’s right there, in front of him. The very thing Mike has been dreaming about at night. Though the smell is fainter now, it’s still mouthwateringly good—sweet and heady, making his teeth ache with it.

This is psychotic. It’s crazy behavior, and Mike should be ashamed of himself for even entertaining the thought, but it’s tight there, and—

Mike’s tongue pokes out. The paper damps from the wetness, sticks to it. His entire body shivers at the barely-there hint of a taste, a heavy tremble running down his spine, and Mike closes his eyes, overwhelmed with the scent, the taste, the feel of it on his tongue.

If this is what a couple of dried-up drops on a piece of tissue paper can do to him, he can’t even imagine…

Unwillingly, Mike’s mind flips back to the dream. He sees it before him: Will, scared and bleeding beneath him, sticks and leaves digging into his skin. His eyes, wide and filled with fear, looking up at Mike. His whispered begs. Please, Mike. He remembers what he felt—the want, the need, the undeniable urge to ravish Will completely and suck him dry.

With a start, Mike pushes off the trash can, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels like throwing up all of a sudden, the pleasant buzz gone from his system.

You’re a bad person. A monster. You’re trying to hurt him, use him. Just like he did. Just like it was done to him before.

Mike leans over the sink. He retches, but nothing comes out.

8) Charm

“The target must succeed on a DC 17 Wisdom saving throw against this magic or be charmed. The charmed target regards Strahd as a trusted friend to be heeded and protected. The target isn’t under Strahd’s control, but it takes Strahd’s requests and actions in the most favorable way and lets Strahd bite it. Each time Strahd or his companions do anything harmful to the target, it can repeat the saving throw, ending the effect on itself on a success.” (Curse of Strahd, p. 239.)

A week passes. Mike feels like a piece of shit for every single day of it.

It doesn’t help that he can feel his mind reacting to Will now, too, much in the way his body has been ever since he was turned. Without meaning to, Mike catches himself trailing Will’s scent around town, as if to track where he went last. And though he doesn’t allow himself too close, always staying a respectable distance away, he still lingers in a way that is, apparently, becoming noticeable to the others.

He also begins looking.

It starts with Will’s neck, of course. The soft, vulnerable part of him Mike has been obsessed with ever since he first smelled him. Mike keeps staring at it, at the soft skin beneath the collar of Will’s sweatshirts, at the moles scattered across it. Sometimes, Will catches him staring, his pulse skipping a beat and speeding up. It makes Mike’s nostrils flare and his jaw clench, and that’s usually about the time he has to remove himself from whatever room they’re in and head outside for a breath of fresh air and a mumbled prayer. (Or curse. Whichever he feels like that day.)

But over the course of the week, even those stolen glances begin changing.

Maybe it’s the romance novels—yes, the ones his mom reads. So what if Mike has started flipping through them? He’s been bored, and in desperate need of a distraction, and though he was kind of grossed out at first, it turns out that Passion in the Shadows is quite thrilling, really, if you ignore the fact that the evil Vampire Lord is about three hundred years too old for poor and unsuspecting Isobelle. Mike finds himself actually invested now—because while yes, it started out as a chase of sorts, there’s now this tension between the two main characters that goes way deeper than the Vampire Lord’s animalistic thirst for blood.

So, yeah, perhaps the novels are screwing with his head a bit. Even his dreams have changed. They were primal and bloody at first, but now they’re… different. Almost sensual in a way.

Because Mike dreams of worshipping Will in dim candlelight. Of splaying him out on a velvet chaise longue and tenderly unbuttoning his silk shirt. Of dragging his lips over the sensitive skin of his neck, lingering over his pulse in a shuddering kiss before pressing his teeth down into it, making the blood gush out for him to drink up.

Most importantly, he dreams of Will with his breath coming heavy, cheeks flushed and soft sounds spilling from his lips. Enjoying himself.

That’s the worst part of it—the way his mind keeps trying to convince him that Will would want this as much as he does. Would like to be reduced to this; a shivering, moaning blood bank for Mike. Delirious with pleasure. Overcome with desire.

If he still had a proper blood circulation system, Mike knows he’d wake painfully hard on the mornings after these dreams. But he doesn’t, and it fuels a frustration within him that only adds to the swirl of everything mixed into his brain. Instead of the release he so desperately seeks, Mike can only feel his fangs ache, buried into his pillow. It’s littered with tiny, poked holes by now, the feather filling spilling out in places.

Which is why Mike decides that he needs to get a grip. This isn’t normal—he can’t keep indulging in his fantasies about Will. He puts the dirty novels down. Begins going for walks more regularly, most of them alone, to clear his head. On a particularly bad day, he lets Lucas convince him to play basketball in the Sinclair’s driveway.

“That’s just fucking unfair,” Lucas pants as he tries (and fails) to grab the ball from Mike again. Mike grins, playfully clicking his fangs at him.

“You’re the one who decided to play basketball with a supernatural entity.”

“You’re a vampire, Mike, not some dark and destructive overlord,” Lucas deadpans. Mike rolls his eyes and generously lets him grab the basketball in what he hopes passes as an accident.

“That’s what I want you guys to think.”

It’s probably the first time in his life Mike is having a good time doing sports of any kind, which is mainly attributed to the facts that he A) doesn’t sweat, and B) doesn’t get tired. Two facts which Lucas has been lamenting the entirety of their game so far, because he’s been sweating like a pig and breathing increasingly heavier. (And also losing. Though Mike would never dare say it out loud.)

Mike rushes closer again, about to block Lucas from throwing. But the movement comes with a breeze of everything Lucas, bright citrus and cinnamon, and Mike stumbles back immediately.

“Sorry,” he mutters, head turned away as Lucas carefully watches him. “Just… worse when you’ve been working out.”

“Oh. ’Course.” Lucas hasn’t looked at him with pity during all this, not once. Just with gentle curiosity and worry, much in the way he does now. “Let’s take a break. ’M getting tired anyway.”

They plop down on the stairs leading up to the Sinclair’s front door, sipping water. Well, Lucas is. Mike is trying to ignore the faint burn settling at the base of his throat—he’s started to notice it coming more quickly in between feedings, and the effects of it lasting shorter. But he’s been consistently shoving the worried part of his brain to the very back. Sue him, there’s been a lot going on.

Mike can tell Lucas wants to say something by the way he rolls the basketball between the flat palms of his hands. He is proven right a second later.

“So. The birthday party.”

Mike sighs. “Do we have to?”

“We kinda really do.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

“Come on, Mike. I mean, everything with Will…” Lucas dares a side glance at Mike, who’s staring straight ahead. “Maybe you should, I don’t know. Give him a chance. Explain some stuff. All of this is hard on him, too, you know.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it? Or maybe you’re making it harder than it has to be?” Lucas bounces the ball. Once, twice. He’s nervous, Mike realizes. “Just. At the party. We all saw how you reacted, to the… scent. And if it’s really that bad—I mean, I’m sure there’s a way to—”

“I’m trying, Lucas, okay? I’ve tried everything. I’ve gotten better at… controlling it.”

“That’s good. And I know you’ve been. Trying.” Lucas sighs. “I’m not saying this to be an asshole. Really. It’s just. He’s been talking to Max about it, and… I don’t know, man. He just sounds so sad.”

Mike’s chest aches. He closes his eyes for a second, then blinks them back open. “Yeah. I mean, he smells sad.”

“Right.” Lucas shifts. The ball keeps bouncing between his hand and the pavement. “You know he doesn’t like to be kept in the dark. We’ve done that to him enough.”

He’s right. Mike knows he is. Defeated, he lets out a frustrated huff.

It’s infuriating, because he wants to let Will in, he does. Still, there’s a part of him, bigger than he’d like to admit out loud, that’s scared. Of the rejection. Of the disgust. The contempt. He doesn’t think he could take it. Not from Will.

Which, yeah, is fucking hypocritical because he’s the one who left Will alone with all his shit. He’s the one who didn’t write, barely called, acted crazy in Lenora. Who picked his girlfriend over his best friend, over and over, and for what? Only so he couldn’t even tell her he loved her in her final moments, because he didn’t, not really, not in the way he was supposed to, never in the way she needed him to. And isn’t that the real mindfuck? Him, being needed, wanting to be needed, desperately so. And yet, running away from it, over and over and over.

From El. From Will.

From himself.

“Okay, dude, I have to ask this, but.” Lucas throws him a glance, equally curious and intrigued, and it pulls him out of his darkening thought spiral. “You can actually smell our feelings?”

Of course that’s what he would get hung up on. Still, Mike is glad for the change of topic. “I wouldn’t have told you if I knew you were going to be weird about it.”

“I’m not weird! The opposite, actually. Totally un-weird over here.” Lucas grins. “But it’s kind of fascinating, you have to admit. Kinda creepy, too.”

“Shut up. I can literally smell your undying admiration for me,” Mike deadpans.

Lucas only seems to consider it for a second. “Alright, now you’re just talking shit.”

“Obviously.” Mike laughs. “Better watch your tongue though, or I might drain you.”

“As if. You’re way too scared of Max to ever do anything to me.”

Mike grins and shoves him. “You smell like crap, anyway.”

“Not what you said ten minutes ago, Wheeler,” Lucas cackles and shoves him back.

It’s easy, and for that Mike is thankful. They let the moment linger, something shared and tranquil. The realization comes slowly, like a wave lapping at the shore: Mike missed this. Missed his friends, missed hanging out. Misses one person, in particular.

“For the record,” he says after a moment. “I miss Will, too. I really do.” Too much, even, his brain supplies. Always too much. “I’m not… trying to hurt him, or anything.” The opposite, actually.

“Yeah, well.” Lucas sniffs, picks the ball back up. “Maybe tell him that, not me.”

If only Lucas wasn’t right.

Mike gets home just as the sun sets, with his thoughts racing and his chest heavy. The house is quiet, but not to Mike. He can hear the blaring of the TV from outside; his mom humming under her breath in the master bedroom, Holly listening to music on her bed, the faint trickle of the shower running upstairs. It’s convenient enough for him to be able to sneak up the stairs without being seen or heard. But his mind is still running a mile an hour, and he barely registers the shower shutting off before it’s too late.

He can smell Will before he sees him, but somehow, the sight is more gut punching than the scent. Maybe it’s because he’s finally getting used to the notes of pears and peppermint. At least, that’s what Mike tries to tell himself when he arrives at the top of the stairs, only to be greeted by the sight of Will, stepping out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel slung around his hips.

Mike stops with one foot still halfway down the highest step. “Oh. Sorry.”

Will starts. Mike can feel his pulse quickening.

“Mike,” he says, turning towards him. There’s a droplet of water running down his sternum, right over the bone. Mike wants to trace it with his tongue. “Don’t apologize. It’s your house.”

“Right.”

They’re quiet for a second.

“Well, I should…” Will motions towards the stairs.

“Oh! Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

He’s apologizing again. Why is he apologizing?

They shuffle around each other awkwardly, Mike’s back to the wall, Will half-naked and wet. There’s a tension in the air, thick enough to be cut with a knife, or a well-placed snap of Mike’s fangs. He swallows around them, suddenly sitting heavy in his mouth. Not the time.

Will is already on the stairs when Mike remembers Lucas’ words. He takes a deep breath, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. Forces his voice out, straining against the words.

“Do you… um. Do you wanna hang out?”

Will stops, his shoulders tense. Turns back around, halfway down the stairs. His gaze is unreadable.

“With me,” Mike adds dumbly. “After you get dressed, I mean.”

“I… Yeah. Yeah, that would be great.” Something flits across Will’s face—the suggestion of a surprised smile. Wet, glistening, beaming.

“Cool.” Mike gives a tiny, forceful smile of his own and hopes he won’t regret this decision. “Just come upstairs when you’re done.”

He can’t go down into the basement. Not yet.

“Cool,” Will repeats. “Yeah. Give me five minutes.”

The five minutes are spent with Mike pacing up and down inside his room. Will hasn’t been in here in forever, he realizes as he looks around. And he didn’t even clean up. Mike kicks some dirty clothes under his bed, straightens his comforter. Changes into sweatpants and a loose shirt, because he feels decidedly un-chill, especially in his day clothes. His eyes fall to his pillow, littered with holes, feathers coming out. He tucks it underneath his blanket just as there’s a tentative knock on his door.

“Uh, come in.”

Will does. He looks soft in his oversized shirt and shorts, hair fluffy and damp from the shower. When he steps inside, there’s a surge of peppermint accompanying him and Mike holds his breath. This was dumb. Oh God, it was so dumb.

However, it is also too late to turn back now. Mike closes the door and briefly considers opening the window, but he knows Will hates the cold and the frost on his window has only started thawing around Will’s birthday.

Mike decides against the window and takes a steadying breath. When he turns around, Will is looking around his room like it’s his first time up here. Which is absolutely and utterly ridiculous—they’ve spent the better part of their childhood sleepovers here, or at least the ones they didn’t have down in the basement. Mike remembers reading comic together under the covers, accompanied by the yellow glow of his flashlight. He remembers quiet nights staring at Will on the mattress next to his bed. He remembers loud ones, the ones after Will was taken, where he would thrash and wail and scream, only calmed by Mike’s warm body next to his as he slipped into the sleeping bag with him.

It all seems distant now, because Will is taking everything in like it’s new despite Mike’s room not having changed much. Books clutter just about every available surface, alongside his comic collection stacked neatly onto his shelf. There’s a Rubik’s cube he used to fiddle with all throughout middle school and a stack of notebooks with scrapped campaign ideas. Scattered across his desk lie his most recent sources for vampire research, with the list half-tucked underneath. Mike prays Will won’t get close enough to read the bullet points scrawled out in his messy handwriting. His clothes, while different ones than the ones he wore back in middle school, are still tossed lazily over the back of the desk chair. There’s art on the walls, some of Will’s, some of El’s, some of Holly’s.

And there’s the painting, of course.

Looking at it now, it almost seems to hold a place of honor on his wall, right above his desk. Will is staring at it, shoulders tight. He seems surprised to see it, eyes tracing the brushstrokes much like Mike did after his nightmare. Surveying his work because he hasn’t seen it in a while, probably—Will’s always been self-critical like that. Mike is half-sure he’s about to say something, but Will only takes a deep breath before turning away, his lips pressed together.

He doesn’t stop looking around the room, though. It should be uncomfortable for Mike. Would be, if it was anyone else up here right now. But something about the fact that it’s Will picking his space apart under a scrutinizing gaze almost makes him excited. Like they’re the kind of friends again who get to know everything about each other.

That newfound sense of excitement vanishes, however, when Will’s eyes fall onto the stack of books on Mike’s nightstand. Mike rushes forward as if to block them from his sight, but it’s too late.

“Passion in the Shadows, huh?” Will has the audacity to smirk. “Been doing some on-topic reading?”

Damn him and his smug little face. Mike would hate the teasing, if it didn’t feel so much like before. So much like them, their friendship.

“Uh, yep. Yeah.” He goes for casual. Misses by a mile. It comes out abashedly shy. “Just… you know. Research.”

“Research.” Will’s eyes are twinkling with amusement. “Right. Find anything useful?”

“Yeah! Tons, really.” Mike clears his throat and racks his brain for something to deflect with. “Anyway. You can—You can sit, if you want.”

Will lets him have it and sits. Which, okay, another bad idea because Will is on his bed now, legs crossed with his back to the wall. Has Will always looked this enticing? This soft in a t-shirt too large for his frame? For some reason, Mike finds it hard to look away.

He holds his breath and moves to sit next to him, mirroring his position. Maybe this way, he won’t keep staring at Will like an idiot. He can’t look at him anyway, not while he says what he’s been planning to since the ruined birthday but hasn’t had the guts to yet.

“Will,” he says, but nothing else comes out. Will perks up next to him. He was looking at the painting again, but now he’s looking at Mike. His eyes are burning hot on the side of Mike’s face.

“Yeah?”

“I, uh…” Mike looks down. Fiddles with a loose thread on his shorts. “I wanted to apologize.”

Will is quiet. Stays quiet, even though he’s still looking at Mike. He takes it as a sign to continue.

“For ruining your birthday party. And being… weird. About everything.” He leaves out the bad part. The one where he wants to bite Will. “I shouldn’t have… I should have just talked to you. Explained things. But I was scared, and I guess I…”

He trails off.

“You push people away when you’re scared,” Will says softly. His voice is gentle, and it makes Mike finally look at him. With the way Will is looking back, all kind-eyed and pretty from his shower, the words tumble straight out of his mouth, if a bit clumsily.

“Um. Yeah. I’m sorry, for all of it. For freaking out like that, and scaring you. And I’m sorry for being horrible at apologies, too.”

“It’s okay,” Will says with a small smile, because of course he does. He’s always been too forgiving. “I know it’s… hard for you.”

He’s looking straight at Mike, his scent covering them like a blanket. Warm and comfortable and so, so delicious.

“Yeah,” Mike exhales through his mouth. With the way Will is spread out on the bed, his shorts have ridden up on his thighs and it’s making it difficult to breathe—Will is all comfortable and unguarded, and Mike can sense more than see the vein running up the side of his knee, along his inner thigh and then even higher up.

Mike’s eyes rest there for a second. He imagines following the scent, his nose pressed to Will’s skin. Pushing the fabric of his shorts out of the way, all the way up to his groin. Burying his teeth just underneath the junction of it, where the skin is softest and the vein pulsing warmest.

He must look as out of it as he feels, mouth dropped open to greedily suck in the scent lingering in the air, because when he looks back at Will, he seems uncomfortable, almost. Mike quickly snaps his mouth shut and wills the needy expression on his face away.

Will is eyeing him strangely. His expression is almost pained. Shit. Mike can basically hear the gears turning in his head, and he almost jumps when Will speaks next.

“Do I really smell… bad?”

Confused, Mike freezes. “What?”

Will is not meeting his eyes now, shuffling on the bed uneasily. His shorts ride up higher and Mike’s breath, the one he doesn’t even need, hitches.

“You know,” Will says, and Mike decidedly doesn’t know, because what does he even mean by that? ‘Smell bad?’ “Because you don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what, exactly? What are you talking about?”

“My…” Will’s cheeks are flushed now, deliciously pink, all the way down to his neck. He swallows. Then, in a whisper, says, “My scent.”

If Mike’s heart was still beating, this would be the moment it stopped.

“I mean, you’ve been avoiding me ever since you…” Will makes a sweeping motion over the entirety of Mike’s body. “Then, Dustin said you were struggling with it. Me. Then, my birthday… You kept telling them to get me away from you. Like you can’t stand it. And even now, I mean, I can tell it’s… God, Mike, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

Mike looks down. His fingernails are digging into the fabric of his sweatpants, almost painful.

“And I can just leave if it’s easier, you really don’t have to—I mean, not that I don’t appreciate this, you apologizing, us hanging out again, but I just—”

“You think I don’t like your scent?” It’s embarrassing, the way his voice cracks at the end.

“Well. Yeah.” Will blinks. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious.”

“That’s—No, that’s not—” Mike shakes his head briskly. “Not it at all. Will, I mean, do you really not—You really have no idea?”

“What? Mike, what are you—what do you mean?”

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Mike takes another breath, more muscle memory than anything else at this point. It’s a mistake—his senses fill with Will, Will, nothing but Will, so close, so warm, so good, and he loses any ability to think about what he’s saying at all.

“It’s driving me insane, Will.” Mike’s voice has dropped to a whisper. He can taste the frantic beating of Will’s heart on the tip of his tongue, fluttering like a bird, sweet and quick. “Ever since your birthday, but before, even. You smell so good, and it’s taking everything in me not to—not to fucking bite you and get a taste.”

He regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth. Will is staring at him, eyes wide and dark. His hazel irises are a thinning sliver against the black of his pupils. Mike watches, entranced, as his lips part.

“Oh.”

Reluctantly, he forces himself not to read too much into the breathiness of Will’s voice, the way his chest is heaving up and down from Mike’s words. He’s scared, his mind chides. This would scare anyone.

Only, Will doesn’t smell scared in the slightest—quite the opposite, actually. His scent has spiked into something spicy, the pears riper than ever before, the peppermint freshly plucked off the stem. Something warm mixes into it. Honey, thick and golden, swirling languidly in the air.

Will smells so good.

He smells the way Mike feels after waking up from his forbidden dreams, chest heaving despite having no need for the air inside. And isn’t that its own kind of torture altogether? Will, being excited by this? Because it’s the best thing Mike has ever smelled, even just the hint of it through his held breath?

Mike closes his eyes. He must look a mess, he knows he does.

Before he can say anything to justify himself, to defend the awful thoughts running through his mind at this revelation—Will, spread out underneath him, neck glistening crimson, eyelids heavy as his lips drop open in a wanton moan—Will clears his throat.

Mike’s eyes snap open quickly enough to catch the look Will throws toward his nightstand. He follows it toward his book pile. Bitten by Desire, it reads. Passion in the Shadows, visibly dog-eared even from their spot on the bed.

Will’s gaze flits from the book pile back to Mike. “So you think about it sometimes?” he asks. “Biting me?”

Mike considers lying. He really does. But it seems his mouth has a mind of his own after hearing the way Will’s heartbeat sped up at the implications of it all.

His thoughts flit to his dreams. Will, in the woods. Then Will, again, on the chaise longue. Mike swallows.

“All the time,” he breathes.

This time, Will’s eyes go completely black with the way his pupils dilate. Mike can hear it happen—the forceful stutter of his pulse, thrumming inside him, like an anxious rabbit. Great, he thinks. NowI’ve really freaked him out.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling away from where they’ve shifted closer on the mattress.

And because he’s nervous, he starts rambling. “I guess it’s not that weird if you think of it kind of like Strahd, right? Like, everyone thinks he’s this undefeatable evil guy, but his one weakness happens to be his reincarnated lover.” The words are out there quicker than he can consider them. “I mean, she’s his true weakness, his Kryptonite, his… his, uh…”

Will’s face has gone very, very red.

“Nevermind.” Mike quickly shuts his mouth. He thinks about the list, laid out somewhere on his desk. Hopes that Will didn’t see it before, when he looked around the room like it was the first time again. “It’s, ah… probably stupid.”

“It’s not,” Will says quickly, though his face is still turning redder. “You’re just trying to make sense of it all with D&D. Like we did with the Demogorgon. With Vecna.”

“Yeah.” Of course he gets it. It’s Will. His best friend Will. “Yeah, exactly.”

“I don’t think that’s stupid, Mike. It’s just you trying to figure it out. You’ve always liked a plan.”

It’s the most understood Mike has felt in weeks. He tries a smile. “That’s me. Plans-guy.”

Idly, Mike wonders why he ever stopped talking to Will in the first place. Why, when it could have been this easy from the start? Mike, confiding in Will? Will, being there for him?

“What if I let you try?” Will’s voice is a little shaky.

“Let me try what?” Mike asks, because it takes him a second.

Then, “Drinking my blood.”

Ah. There it is: The answer to the aforementioned ‘Why’.

Because Will is reckless. Because he would do anything to help his friends, his best friend especially, and Mike knows this. Knows how he would sacrifice his own safety for theirs, for his. He’s seen it firsthand at the MAC-Z—shivers at the image of Will, eyes clouded with white, blood running from his nostril, his skin slick with sweat and dirt.

“I can’t ask that of you,” Mike breathes.

“You’re not asking,” Will points out. “I’m offering.”

Mike shakes his head, shakes the mere option of it, laid out on the bed in front of them, away. Hardens his voice, tries to leave no room for arguments.

“No.”

Will sighs as if he expected that answer. “It could be… good. To desensitize yourself. Dr. Owens said—”

“Dr. Owens has no idea what we’re dealing with,” Mike interrupts him. “He’s just hypothesizing! There’s no script here. No guarantee I won’t… God, Will, you can’t just say things like that, do you have any idea—”

“No, Mike. I don’t, because you won’t talk to me.” Will’s voice is still shaky, but he’s never sounded surer of himself. He corrects himself. “Weren’t talking to me, I mean. I just thought—I want to help. In any way I can. It’s just blood! It’s not even that big of a deal.”

“Not that big of a—”

Mike’s nostrils flare.

“This is crazy! You realize that, right? What if I hurt you!” I’m going to hurt you. I just know it. “You saw what happened on your birthday, and that was just a papercut! What if I lose control, like some wild animal, and drain you completely!” What if I suck you dry until there’s nothing left? What if I leave you dead on the forest floor, huh? What then, Will?

“You’re not an animal,” Will frowns. “You’re my—You’re Mike! My best friend, Michael Wheeler!”

A funny feeling settles in Mike’s chest.

“That’s not—You know that wasn’t the point.”

From the way Will’s eyebrows draw together—stubborn, petulant, like when they were children—Mike knows he’s not done with this yet. “You don’t know what will happen, you said it yourself. There’s no script.”

“Exactly. It’s not safe.”

“It could be good! It could help you, I can see that the deer, the—” He motions with his hands. “It’s not enough anymore, you look different. You look—”

“I’m not going to put you in any more danger, do you understand?” Mike barks. He grips Will’s shoulder tightly, eyes wide open and locked on his best friend. Will doesn’t respond, surprised by the outburst. Mike’s fingers dig harder into him. “I said, do you understand?”

Will is staring at him, eyes wide, and it’s only now that Mike realizes how close they are. His fingers are curled around Will’s shoulder, squeezing hard, the tips of them resting just high enough for them to brush against the hot skin of Will’s neck, right where the collar of his shirt ends.

They haven’t touched, not since the day he woke up. The thought comes to him quickly, slams into his head and leaves him reeling. Mike’s skin is cold, freezing, ice. Will’s is so, so warm.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Like a galloping horse. Like thunder after lightning. Mike can taste it, can trace with his eyes the beat it raps against Will’s neck—the pulsing vein in the crook of it, shining blueish-green underneath the gold of his skin.

Then, Will—insane, beautiful Will—tips his head back. It’s the smallest tilt, hardly any real movement at all. Yet it’s enough to bare his throat to Mike in an utterly disarming act of surrender.

Mike groans. Without thinking, not being able to do anything about it at all, he leans in.

Here, in the crook of Will’s neck, the scent is stronger. Self-indulgently, he inhales it, sucks it into his lungs eagerly. Honey and pears swirl inside him, dousing him in a sweetness he’s come to associate with Will, Will, only Will, and it does crazy things to Mike’s head—he feels foggy with it, and if he wasn’t sitting down, he could have sworn the room was spinning around him. Or maybe it is.

Mike doesn’t know, doesn’t care. He leans even closer. His nose brushes against Will’s skin and he can feel his breath hitch underneath, pulse racing. With a deep inhale, Mike’s lips drop open, grazing Will’s throat.

It’s the lightest, barely-there-hint of a touch, but it burns the skin of Mike’s mouth with its sheer intensity. Too much and not enough. Too big and too little. Too tempting, and way too easy.

His lips part in a shuddering exhale against Will’s neck, and Will gasps.

Warmth. Pulse. Blood. Instantly, Mike is transported back to his dreams. The image of crimson on Will’s tanned throat, of his lifeless eyes beneath him, snaps him out of the haze.

He growls at the soft sound coming from Will, at the contact of their skin, and then he’s across the room in seconds, back slamming into the door of his closet. The street sign falls off one of the nails it’s affixed to, swinging to point towards the floor.

“I can’t,” he gasps. “Don’t—Don’t do that to me, Will, please.”

Mike can hear clothes tumbling down inside the wardrobe, but it doesn’t matter. Digging his fingers into the wood, he watches, transfixed, as Will swallows and sits up. His eyes are wide, pupils still blown, as he watches Mike back.

“I’m sorry, I…” Will’s hands are trembling where they’re gripping his comforter, Mike notices. “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was—”

“It’s fine,” Mike cuts him off through clenched teeth. It’s really not fine at all, but there’s no malice in his voice, never towards Will. Just a barely-there shake. “Nothing happened. You didn’t mean to. It’s… fine.”

Like a mantra, he repeats it in his head. It’s fine. He’s fine. I didn’t do it. He didn’t mean to.

Will is still looking. I did mean to, his eyes seem to be screaming. Mike digs his fingers deeper into the wood. It cracks, splinters digging into the palms of his hands.

“It’s late,” he finally says, when he’s sure his voice won’t betray him any longer. “We should probably sleep.”

“Okay,” Will says softly. He gets up. Hesitates, turns his back to Mike, front facing the door. Then, seemingly, changes his mind and turns back. “Can I…”

Mike prepares for the worst. He’s not sure he could say no a second time, not with the state he’s currently finding himself in. But to his surprise, Will doesn’t turn back to face him.

Instead, he leans over toward the nightstand. He grabs Passion in the Shadows, the dog-eared book with the notes in the margins. Mike watches, helplessly. Unable to interfere. Because his instincts are still screaming at him, and if he moves right now, all bets are off.

“I’m gonna borrow this,” Will says, tapping the cover. On it, a defenseless Isobelle is draped over a black velvet chair, neck bared for the dark-shadowed silhouette looming over her. Will gives the tiniest, most disarming smirk, as if nothing even happened. “You know. For research.”

“M-hm,” Mike says unintelligently. He’s going crazy with it—his tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth. Mike swallows around it, ignores the burn in his throat. Watches as Will moves toward the door, opening it.

Before Will slips out, he throws Mike another glance over his shoulder. His face is unreadable.

“Good night, Mike.”

The door closes. Will’s scent lingers. Mike’s teeth ache and there are splinters embedded into his palms.

He pulls his destroyed pillow out from under his blanket, buries his face in it and screams.

PSYCHOLOGICAL EXAMINATION REPORT [Unknown Hematophagic Humanoid]

CASE ID: UHH-01-87

DATE / TIME: 03-31-1988 / 13:55

EXAMINER: Dr. Samuel Owens (Ph.D., M.D.)

PATIENT NAME: Michael Wheeler

The following document is a recorded transcript of an interview conducted for diagnostic purposes. The examiner notes that standard diagnostic criteria may not be applicable. Unauthorized distribution is prohibited.

DR: So. We’re back here.

PA: Yes.

DR: First of all, you’ll be glad to hear we’ve tested your samples thoroughly. And you’ll be even more glad to learn that there’s nothing to worry about. The venom from your fangs is non-toxic.

PA: Really?

DR: Yes, really. While there is a foreign chemical balance at work, it’s definitely not harmful to humans or other mammals. It also doesn’t seem capable of transforming others, so that’s another thing you don’t need to be worried about.

PA: That’s … good.

DR: You sound unsure about that. I thought you’d be happy to hear this.

PA: No, no, it’s great. Really. But, I guess it just doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, does it?

DR: How so?

PA: I mean, it would still only take one second of me losing control to drain someone.

DR: Is that something you’ve been struggling with? Losing control?

PA: Not … Not in the way you might think. I haven’t gone around biting people.

DR: But there is something you are struggling with.

PA: If I say yes, will you stop asking me questions about it?

DR: What do you think?

PA: Jesus. Well. There was … an incident. Of sorts. At Will’s birthday party.

DR: It’s good to hear you’ve been socializing.

PA: Yeah, well. It’s been fine for the most part. The more people, the more … overwhelming it gets. So many sounds, so many heartbeats.

DR: So it’s not the need to feed from people that you struggle with?

PA: No, no. That one’s reserved specially for Will, apparently.

DR: Hm. So, what happened at the birthday party?

PA: Right. Um. He kind of cut himself. Nothing bad, just a tiny papercut. And I totally freaked out. My friends had to hold me back. Pretty sure I gave one of them a black eye.

DR: Sounds heavy.

PA: It … Yeah, it was not fun. I got all weird and … predatory. The smell was … God, it was unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before. I just wanted to go over there and …

DR: And what, Michael?

PA: And drink.

DR: Well. It was a very new situation for you. I think, all things considered, you can be proud of yourself.

PA: Proud? I’m not fucking—sorry. Ugh. I’m not proud of myself though.

DR: Why not?

PA: Because I was this close to hurting him! And I felt so powerless. Like the things I was doing were just happening to me, and there was nothing I could do about it except watch it unfold.

DR: I get how that would be scary.

PA: I—yeah. It was. Um.

DR: Did something else happen?

PA: Kind of.

DR: You know, if we’re going to get anywhere, you’re going to have to talk to me.

PA: I know.

DR: Whenever you’re ready.

PA: Will offered. For me to, um. Drink. From him.

DR: Oh.

PA: Yeah. Oh.

DR: And you don’t want that to happen?

PA: Wha—Did you listen to anything I said? Of course I don’t want that to happen! It’s a disaster in waiting, actually.

DR: How come?

PA: This is frustrating. You’re a very frustrating doctor.

DR: I try.

PA: There’s just so many unknown factors. What if I hurt him? What if I lose control? What if I can’t stop, and I kill him? Huh? Or, or. What if I, I don’t know, I don’t know. Anything could happen. Literally anything! Oh come on, stop looking at me like that.

DR: I’m not trying to upset you. I think your fears are perfectly sensible in a situation like this.

PA: Really?

DR: Yes. But I also think we need to take a look at the hard facts here. Because so far, you’ve shown nothing but immensely self-controlled behavior, Michael. Around the deer. Around your friends. Your family.

PA: It’s … It’s not the same with him.

DR: I understand. But even with Will, you’ve held yourself back. You could have caught and drained him in seconds back at his birthday party, your reflexes are amazing. But you didn’t. You let your friends stop you.

PA: I guess.

DR: Okay. Next problem. You’re scared of hurting Will.

PA: Yes. Obviously.

DR: So, we’ve established your self-control. We’ve established that your venom is non-toxic. And we’ve established that Will would be happy to offer himself up in that way.

PA: If this is going where I think it’s going, I’m going to have to speak to your superior.

DR: Very funny, Michael. You’re smart, though. Give me one argument against mine. Because I don’t think you will find any. These are the facts. I know you like those.

PA: So, what are you saying?

DR: I’m saying that deer blood will only sustain you for so long. I’m saying that your body is craving human blood. And I’m saying that you have a consenting friend who seems to appeal to your instincts, at the very least least, which means his blood could be very beneficial for you. Scientifically speaking.

PA: You’re crazy.

DR: I’m a scientist. Of course I’m crazy.

PA: This is not … I can’t …

DR: Drinking from Will doesn’t mean draining him, Michael. The body regenerates blood in time. As long as you don’t take too much, it should be all fine.

PA: You’re insane. You’re just saying all of that because you want to see what it does to me.

DR: Of course I’m interested in the effects of consuming human blood in your situation. But that’s beside the point.

PA: I really don’t think it is.

DR: I find it very interesting that you keep making this about William, when it is very clearly about yourself.

PA: What?

DR: The suffering. You know, the self-sacrifice of it all.

PA: It’s not self-sacrificial of me to want to keep my best friend safe. That’s just basic common sense.

DR: Hm. Could be.

PA: What? You disagree.

DR: I think I do. It seems to me that you’re somewhat comfortable in this role that you’re assuming. The distance. The way you talk about it, it’s almost as if it’s a sort of… martyrdom that you keep up for yourself.

PA: That’s not—I’m not doing that.

DR: Aren’t you?

PA: No. That would be, like, way hypocritical of me.

DR: Because of Eleven?

PA: Obviously. I hate that she did that. Sacrificed herself like that without telling us. Just… deciding for us. But it’s not the same thing.

DR: Isn’t it?

PA: No. El, she wasn’t actually dangerous to anyone. She didn’t hurt anyone, she trained so hard not to.

DR: But she was very capable of it.

PA: Wha—I guess, yes. But she only used her powers when she had to. To hurt the bad guys.

DR: So why was it you weren’t scared of her? If she could have hurt you just as easily as the bad guys.

PA: Jane would have never hurt any of us. I’m not an idiot, you know. I see what you’re trying to do. Relating this back to me. But it’s still different. You’re making it sound like I enjoy suffering just for the sake of it, as if I even had a say.

DR: I didn’t say that you enjoyed it. But do you really not see the double-standard you’re setting for yourself here? You’re using all this pain and discomfort to keep yourself locked in that cage. No one distrusts you more than yourself, Michael. No one is more scared of what you could do than you are.

PA: I guess. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m getting a headache.

DR: Our time’s almost up anyway. Just… Please, keep in mind what we talked about. The blood—

PA: I’m still not going use Will to satisfy your perverted need to experiment.

DR: I’m not trying to force you into doing anything you don’t want to do.

PA: Good.

DR: But you have to remember. Once the animal blood stops working, and it will if the tests are anything to go by … What will you do? How will you decide what to risk? Or worse, how do you know there won’t be a time where your control is already lost? Time might rid you of the decision entirely.

[End of recording. Duration: 35:15:18.]

9) Hunger

“The consumption of human blood should restore the vampire fully and near-instantly. Strength, clarity, and affect would return in tandem, often accompanied by visible euphoria and heightened predatory instinct. Repeated exposure should foster dependency; once accustomed to human blood it might prove increasingly difficult subsisting on lesser sources.” (The Vampire Enigma: Between Fact, Flesh and Folklore, p. 28.)

The appointment with Dr. Owens leaves Mike’s mind reeling for days after. Mike doesn’t really know where he’s at anymore. It’s all so confusing. Of course he doesn’t want to hurt Will. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, really. But Owens’ words keep ringing in his ears. How do you know there won’t be a time where control is already lost?

He feels like it might be slipping already. It’s all he’s been thinking about.

And it doesn’t help that Will is also… weird about things, ever since their hangout. The almost-bite. The very thing that keeps replaying in Mike’s head, over and over again, until he gets a headache from squeezing his eyes shut to drown out the images.

Ever since Mike told Will about his scent, about how good he smells, about how desperately he wishes to taste his blood, it almost seems like he’s playing into Mike’s fantasies. Which can’t be true for a multitude of reasons; first of all, it’s delusional, Mike knows this, and secondly, it would be incredibly, unbearably stupid of him.

And yet: Whenever Will lets his body brush against Mike’s in passing, whenever he ghosts his fingertips over Mike’s shoulders during movie night, whenever he bares the soft skin of his neck for everyone to see, it seems almost intentional. As if he knows exactly what it does to Mike. As if he’s trying to get him to react.

There’s only so many times Mike can tell himself it was an accident. There’s only so many more he can tell himself he doesn’t want it. But Mike’s always been good at torturing himself. He’ll hold out a bit longer if it means he can be close to Will again. Make him happy again.

And he has been—happy, that is. The softness in his eyes whenever Mike enters the room he’s in and doesn’t immediately turn around and bolt again. The smile on his face when Mike plops down next to him while watching movies. And the way his scent seems to spike whenever Mike doesn’t pull away from his hug goodnight afterward, instead leaning into it with his breath held and his cheeks feeling oddly warm for a dead guy.

He can’t even lie. His heart sings with the affection; with the gentle touches that he hasn’t felt in the past weeks, not since he returned from the Upside Down as something to be afraid of.

It’s the beginning of April when Will hangs back after one of their bi-weekly, Henderson-issued movie nights. (Ghostbusters, for about the millionth time. Not that Mike minds. It’s a much-needed comfort.)

They help carry Max’s wheelchair down the porch and wave the other three goodbye from the front door. Mike is ready to call it a night, like they have been, like they usually do after these things. But a warm hand on his arm stops him from heading up the stairs.

“So,” he says, voice quiet but firm, as if he’s thought about what he wants to say for a long time, but is only just getting the words out properly. “I was wondering.”

Mike cocks his head. Will looks away, hand dropping from his sleeve, and Mike can hear the stutter in his pulse.

“Um. I have to finish this portfolio for my college application. And I was wondering if I…”

He sucks in a breath.

“Well, I was wondering if I could draw you.”

The fact that he even feels the need to ask is ridiculous to Mike—Will used to draw him all the time when they were younger, in every scenario imaginable. Hell, he has a stack of those very drawings carefully packed into his binder upstairs. Still, Will is looking at him so nervously, like the mere thought of Mike saying no is sending him into a spiral.

It makes sense, Mike guesses. After what happened last time they hung out, he gets it. He really does. Still, it leaves a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. He doesn’t want Will to feel this way around him anymore.

Mike thinks back to his conversation with Owens. Maybe he’s right—Maybe Mike can be good about this. Keep in control, like he has been for the past months.

Briefly, his mind flashes with a string of possibilities, Will, tilting his head back for him, splayed out on his bed, but he forces them down immediately.

This is not that. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Quit being weird about it, Michael Wheeler. I swear to God.

Will just wants to hang out. Looking at his face now, he can see it—the poorly disguised flicker of hope, badly hidden away under the poker face that Will never had, not around Mike at least. And Mike would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the same way.

He misses him.

“Y-Yeah,” he stutters out. “’Course. I mean, I don’t have anything to do tonight.”

“Really?” Will’s eyes flash with pleasant surprise. “Awesome. Uh, do you… wanna come downstairs? I have all my art stuff there.”

Mike weighs his options: One, his room, the bed, a steady reminder of what almost happened the last time Will came up there. Or two, the basement, uncharted territory for the past couple months, but a possible reprieve from the… everything that Mike’s mind can’t seem to let go of up in his own bedroom.

Pick your poison, so to speak.

“Basement it is,” he says, unclenching his teeth. The smile on his face feels ironed on, but with the way Will is beaming back at him, he can’t even blame himself for agreeing to this.

It’ll be fine. It has to be fine.

And it is fine, at first.

The smell is… manageable. It’s everywhere, much like Mike suspected—wafts around him even outside the door, and it really hits him when Will opens it for him, leaving him a bit lightheaded. But he’s also gotten more used to the scent by now, the hints of it he’s able to find in every corner of the house, and it doesn’t leave him reeling as much as he feared it might.

“I haven’t listened to your birthday gift yet,” is the first thing Will says when they enter the basement. He seems wholly unbothered by Mike being in his space, walking over to the small stereo set up on one of the shelves.

Mike takes a tentative look around. The room looks largely the same, save for the permanently pulled-out sofa with Will’s sheets tossed across it. Of that, Mike steers clear. Board games and abandoned books litter about every surface available, with the orange glow of a lava lamp bubbling away in the corner casting shapes on the walls. Mike moves to sit down on the old carpet instead as Will plucks the familiar mixtape from his collection and sticks it into the cassette deck.

“It’s fine, we don’t have to,” Mike says belatedly, suddenly feeling embarrassed about it. Will throws him a look over his shoulder.

“Shut up. I wanted to do it with you. Together.”

Mike’s heart swells about three sizes bigger. He watches as Will presses play and settles on the floor across, his sketchbook and pencil case in his lap. Soft guitar sounds spill out, and Mike is once again thankful for his inability to blush.

“So,” Mike says. “How do you want me?”

Something flashes over Will’s face, but it’s gone faster than Mike can identify it.

“Just get comfortable,” he says, taking out pencils and an eraser. “It might take a bit. I don’t want you to go stiff.”

Mike nods and assumes what he hopes is a casual position. He watches as Will gets into his little zone—he’s always liked seeing him like this, in his element. The way his brows furrow, forehead creasing ever so slightly when he’s concentrating hard. The way his eyes flit all over Mike, unabashed and intense. It’s making his skin prickle with something exciting.

“I didn’t know you like Bowie,” Will says after a short silence.

“I’ve been getting into him,” Mike says defensively. Because you like him. I’ve gotten into him because of you.

Will grins at him like he knows it, too. “It’s a compliment. Just trying to get you to relax a bit.”

Mike’s shoulders drop a bit from where they were hunched to his ears. Will, who obviously seems content that Mike is calming down, goes back to sketching. The sound of his pencil scratching against paper is oddly comforting.

“Thanks, by the way. For doing this,” Will says after another moment of quiet.

“Of course,” Mike says, because isn’t it obvious? “I’ve always loved your art.”

Will blinks at him over the top of his sketchbook. “I was surprised to see you kept so much of it.”

“You mean the painting.” It’s more statement than question. Will’s grip on the pencil falters almost unnoticeably. “I saw how you were looking at it.”

Will hesitates. He glances at Mike again, his expression thoughtful and guarded.

“Yeah. I guess it makes sense, though. It probably reminds you of El.”

Mike’s brows draw together.

“I mean, sure. Maybe now it does. But that’s not why I kept it in the first place.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” Tension settles across Mike’s face, for fear of saying too much. Of giving away how his eyes seem to find the painting every night, even in the dark. “You made it for me. Of course I’d wanna keep that.”

Will is quiet for a long time after that, his gaze distant, but Mike doesn’t mind. Now that he’s down here, it’s much more relaxing than he expected. He lets his eyes wander, but they gravitate back towards Will every time. With the way he’s leaning forward, head tilted as he draws, his neck lies perfectly exposed for Mike to trail the way his favorite vein pulses underneath. But that’s forbidden territory, so Mike drops his gaze lower. Though, the sight isn’t much better down here. Will is wearing the shorts again. The ones that make Mike want to nip at the soft skin on the inside of his thighs before biting down to get a little taste.

He forces his eyes away, focusing instead on Will’s heartbeat. It’s funny how the sound has become his most dreaded, yet the most comforting sensation to him at the same time. It echoes within Mike’s own chest, and he’s once again reminded of the emptiness within; the void that is now only ever filled when he does the thing he despises most about himself.

“It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it,” Mike says, his mind circling back to the painting. The van. Lenora. Will hums for him to go on, eyes trained on the sketchbook. “Back then. You said that I’m the heart, but mine isn’t even beating anymore. How’s that for a cosmic joke?”

At that, Will looks up.

“Mike…” he says, and then nothing else for a minute. He looks like he’s grappling with himself, trying to put his thoughts in order.

“I meant it,” he finally settles on. “Everything I said in that van. It’s still true.”

Mike feels himself soften. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” Will nods. He looks away again. “I, uh… I’m glad you like it so much.”

“It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Will flushes, red cheeks and all. He looks like he wants to say something else, but all that comes out of his mouth is a quiet, “Cool.”

“Just take the compliment, idiot.”

Mike’s words earn him a tentative smile over the sketchbook. Will doesn’t say anything else, but Mike knows they understand each other. It’s too late to be weird now, and they’ve never needed many words between the two of them.

He watches as Will throws him another glance. His brows turn upwards in that endearingly frustrated way of his, the one he gets when something isn’t quite how he’d like it to be.

“Can you…”

Will’s eyes flit to Mike’s lips for the smallest fraction of a second. Mike watches, entranced, as his cheeks turn pink. Then, Will sucks the corner of his own lip between his teeth, making the front two poke out for a second.

“Yeah,” Mike breathes, gaze locked on the movement. At this, Will’s mouth pulls into a shy grin, releasing itself from his hold.

“I didn’t even say what yet.”

“Oh.” God. “Um. It’s fine, I mean. Whatever you want me to do. Just ask.”

Will swallows hard.

“Tilt your head a bit,” he says, his voice sounding rougher than before.

“Like this?”

“No, more to the right. Good. Now with your chin up a little. Yes, perfect.”

Mike relishes in the praise. Holds perfectly still as Will goes back to drawing.

Will starts fiddling around again after a while, his gaze turning frustrated as it keeps darting between Mike’s face and the page in front of him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t get it right,” Will replies. He cocks his head to the side, thinking. “Actually, can I just…?”

He’s motioning towards him, towards Mike’s face. And despite his initial hesitation, Mike is quickly reminded of why he’s down here in the first place—this isn’t about him, or about his weird urges. Not anymore. He’s doing this for Will.

Cautiously, as if the moment is a fragile thing to be broken, Mike nods.

“Just… be careful.”

“I’m not worried, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Will says as he scoots closer. Puts the sketchbook down and comes forward, on his hands and knees, to crawl over. The sight of it is entirely sinful.

“No, but I am,” says Mike. He watches as Will comes to a halt, sitting back on his knees in front of him. Mike’s head is spinning, around and around and around, because Will is just so fucking pretty under the glowing orange of the lava lamp illuminating the room. His eyes are dark and shiny, glinting down at him.

“But you’ve been so good about it,” Will says. His voice is doing that breathy thing again, and something tightens in Mike’s gut at the sound; at the words, too. “Being near me. Touching me. Letting me touch you.”

Mike feels his breath catch in his throat, like a hiccup. He knows Will doesn’t mean it like that. Not in the way his mind is projecting onto it—and God, it’s projecting. Mike almost hisses at the intensity with which the dream pictures slam back into his head. His fingers grip into the fabric of his pants, tightening enough for his knuckles to whiten as they strain.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he mutters between clenched teeth.

“You won’t. I know you won’t.”

Will says it with such conviction that Mike can almost let himself believe it. For a second, it’s enough.

“Yeah, okay. Just…”

“Be careful.” Will grins teasingly. “I heard you the first time.”

Nervously, Mike glances at the ceiling for a quick moment before focusing back on the task at hand. This is not a seduction. Will just needs him to model, just wants to take a closer look. It’s not every day one gets to draw a vampire, of all things.

When he looks back, Will is impossibly close. Mike can see the brown specks framing the green of his irises. A wave of his scent washes over them, but Mike is so surrounded by it, it almost doesn’t make a difference anymore. Besides, he’s so entranced by the sight in front of him that he almost doesn’t notice Will’s hands coming up to rest on his jaw, then his cheekbones. They’re featherlight touches, but they leave Mike reeling all the same—he can’t remember the last time he was touched like this. So tenderly, so softly. Even before everything, before the thirst made everything so much more complicated.

Mike decides he quite likes it. His eyes are trained on Will’s expression, jaw slackening a little, and Will must notice him relax into his hands because his touches become firmer, positioning Mike’s head as he needs. His eyes keep darting down below, to Mike’s mouth, the soft part of his lips.

“They’re so cool,” he says, voice quiet and breathy. “You know, the…”

He rests his thumb on Mike’s mouth, just barely. Mike’s eyes widen.

“Oh, the teeth? Um.”

His lips brush against Will’s retreating finger as he speaks, and something about is incredibly thrilling.

Before Mike can do anything with this information, Will’s hands are on his jaw again, tilting his head back ever so slightly. It forces Mike to look up at him. And what a sight it is—Will’s gaze is locked on Mike’s mouth, on the pointy ends of his teeth poking out over his bottom lip. His fingers twitch on Mike’s chin, as if he’s itching to reach out and touch.

Miserably, Mike notes that he would let him. He’d let Will do almost anything if he asked while looking at him like that, with the delicious drum of his heartbeat surrounding them.

“They look really sharp,” Will says. And suddenly he really is touching—running the pad of his thumb over Mike’s lip. Mike lets it happen, can do nothing but indulge in the feel of it.

They are, he wants to say. Please be careful, please don’t hurt yourself. I don’t know if I could take it.

And then, because the universe hates him, because of course it has to happen, and maybe because Will is looking at him so… so intensely, the pad of Will’s thumb, the one that’s still touching Mike, catches on his canine. And instead of moving away like he should, like Mike should want him to, like Will should know to, Will leans closer and presses his finger to it with the faintest pressure imaginable.

There’s a tiny prick. A gasp, though he can’t tell whether it’s Will’s or his own. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s all in his head, but he can’t think straight anymore anyway—immediately, the heady scent of Will’s blood fills the space, spills into Mike’s nose and down his throat. The sting of peppermint makes way for the sweetness of pears and Will’s wide-eyed face in front of him goes a bit blurry.

Mike can barely hear Will’s panting exhale, an actual one this time, over the sound of everythingrushing into his system, his senses suddenly activated. And because it’s right there, delivered to him on a silver platter—because Mike is a weak, weak man—his lips instinctively close around Will’s thumb, sucking it into his mouth with a groaned plea and regret already swirling through his brain.

The taste explodes on his tongue like a symphony. He couldn’t put it into words even if he tried. All he knows is that it’s nothing compared to the deer, nothing compared to the small aftertaste he got on Will’s birthday. Even in this small amount, Mike has never tried anything better in his life. And he can’t imagine anything ever tasting better than this again.

He feels his pupils dilate as the singular drop of blood hits his own bloodstream, and suddenly, his whole body begins thrumming. It rushes with the upstart of his heartbeat; a now foreign feeling pulsing away in his chest. Slowly, at first, but it picks up speed as another drop beads from Will’s finger, directly onto his tongue. Unwillingly, Mike’s tongue swipes over the wound, and there’s an involuntary sound that spills from his throat—something between a relieved sigh and a helpless moan.

It’s so much more intense with Will’s blood than it is with the deer’s. Mike’s whole body is shuddering with it, and that’s only after tasting a couple drops of it.

Above him, Will is staring back just as helplessly. His eyes are a caught in a glazed-over, dazed expression; mouth dropped open as he watches Mike suckle on his fingertip. The expression on his face is not unfamiliar. In fact, Mike recognizes it with a start—it’s the very same one he’s dreamed about, lit by candlelight and caressed with velvet.

And his smell… Mike moans pathetically as the warm honey fills his senses again. It’s the same scent that poured off of Will in his bedroom, the first night he got too close despite knowing better. He smells delicious. Utterly ravishing. Paired with the look in his eyes, it leaves little to the imagination.

The sight of him, combined with the smell, fuels a fire within Mike, one he didn’t know was there, or at least not to this capacity. He gives a low hum in his throat, sounding absolutely wrecked as he licks around Will’s skin eagerly, causing more of his sweet blood to come out and settle on his tongue. Eyes closing, his own fingers come up to cradle Will’s wrist, pulling him closer on instinct, taking more of him as he does.

Will shivers and moves closer. His other hand comes up to hold onto Mike’s shoulder, but his fingers wander higher with every suck, eventually coming to grip onto the curls at the nape of Mike’s neck. He cards them through, and Mike is delusional enough to read it as encouragement, and God, it feels so good, the sensation tingling down Mike’s spine and straight into his stomach.

He is so close to biting down on the meaty part of Will’s thumb. The one at the base, close enough to his teeth now that he has almost all of it in his mouth. His fangs graze the skin, and it’s only when Will gives a little hiss at the feeling that Mike is ripped from his haze, realizes what he’s doing and pulls back, eyes fluttering open.

“Will,” he chokes out. “I didn’t mean to—I—I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay, Mike,” Will says, immediately and breathlessly. His eyes are far too kind considering what just happened, blinking down at him. Mike feels like crying. His vision swims, but once again no tears come out.

Is this what it’s like? Is his control slipping already?

“I’m sorry,” he keeps repeating, over and over, like a prayer. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Will keeps replying, still holding onto Mike. Because that’s just what he does, it’s who he is, and Mike is drowning in it, swallowed under by the current, with his lips still hovering over the cut, where Will’s blood tastes bittersweet and beautiful.

“It’s okay,” Will repeats again, cradling the back of his head gently, as if he’s not the one bleeding right now but Mike. “You can have it, Mike. You can have all of it.”

The worst part about it is that Mike believes him. That Will would really give him all he has, if Mike were to ask for it.

And the idea of it—how much he wants it—is what scares him the most.

Mike gets one final, faltering taste before it all comes crashing down.

“I can’t,” he chokes out into Will’s skin and finally—finally—pulls his lips off it. Will’s skin is glistening with spit and the look in his eyes is absolutely wrecked. Mike drops his wrist. He knows he looks the same way. They stare at each other for a second, chests heaving.

Suddenly, Mike becomes acutely aware of a hardness between his legs he hasn’t felt in months, and the rush of blood in his ears only spurs on the feeling of his dick pressing against the seam of his pants. He stands quickly, half-turned away, and prays to whoever is listening that Will can’t see the hard outline of him through the fabric. Averts his eyes as shame overtakes every cell in his body.

He’s disgusting. A monster. A perverted, sick bastard who’s trying to take advantage of the best person he has still left, even after all the shit he’s pulled so far.

And despite knowing that he is, taking advantage that is, it’s still all he can think about. In fact, the sweetness lingering on his tongue is barely dulled by the knowledge that it was given to him out of pity and nothing else. The rush is too good, too ecstatic, too enticing.

Mike digs his fingernails into his thigh again, to ground himself and clear his head. It doesn’t work—the thoughts don’t slow, and his blood keeps rushing South at the memory of Will’s finger in his mouth. He feels a traitorous twitch in his boxers, breath stuttering.

Mike needs to get the Hell out of here. Now.

“I can’t keep doing this to you, Will. You shouldn’t have to—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. The words are lacking, his head empty like the paper in his typewriter. He’s not looking at Will, doesn’t dare to. Just mumbles, “Please, I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Then, he’s out the basement faster than Will can reply anything.

Despite the horror Mike is currently experiencing, he feels really fucking great. Even from the tiny amount he consumed, Mike feels invincible. His body moves different, faster, transporting him upstairs and into his room within seconds. Shutting the door behind himself with a dull slam, he thinks to himself that he can’t imagine what it would be like to get an actual taste. To sink his teeth into the soft of Will’s skin and let the blood flow down his throat…

Frustratedly, Mike’s back hits the closed door. He huffs out a harsh breath. He’s achingly hard in his pants, incredibly and horrifyingly turned on, with the inexplicable high from the way Will tasted, the way he could have tasted so much more, still lingering fresh in his mind.

With a frustrated groan, Mike does what he’s wanted to so many times after waking up to the traitorous images flashing through his mind. Pushing his hand down his pants, he wraps his fingers around himself and gives a tentative, languid stroke.

The feeling is electric—Mike hasn’t done this in so long, hasn’t been able to, that it doesn’t take much for him to start gasping with pleasure. He’s leaking already, knuckles brushing against the wet patch forming at the front of his trunks as he slides up, then back down, slightly increasing his speed.

The room is quiet save for the slick sounds of his hand on his dick, and he closes his eyes as his head drops back against the door. He thinks of Will, of course he does. Of the way he tasted, at first. Then, the images shift to just Will, his face, his eyelashes, his everything.

Mike’s fingers tighten around the base as his mind conjures up more memories of how Will looked down in the basement. His hair, artfully tousled across his forehead. His skin, flushed rosy in a way that made Mike want to see more of it, follow its trail down Will’s chest with his tongue. And the look in his eyes—God, Mike is going to Hell for imagining it like this, like he enjoyed him sucking on his finger like a psychopath.

And yet, he can still feel the weight of it resting on his tongue, alongside the remainder of sweetness that lingers at the back of his throat.

Unwillingly, his hand speeds up. Mike’s jaw slacks, and his fingers wrap tighter around himself, twisting towards the tip. It’s slick and desperate in a way he hasn’t allowed himself in a while. Simply couldn’t, for his body wasn’t cooperating until the moment he tasted Will. It’s like it was waiting for it. Eagerly. Disgracefully.

There’s another flash of humiliation at the back of his mind. He shouldn’t be doing this, Mike knows that. Shouldn’t be thinking about his best friend like this—Will, whom he left in the basement, alone and confused after drinking up every little drop he gave him.

But now he’s thinking about Will again, and the pleasure coils tighter in his stomach. Mike whimpers as he thrusts into his fist, too far gone to be able to care.

All he sees is Will on his knees in front of him, holding his bleeding hand out. Will in his bedroom, baring his neck for Mike, daring him to take a bite. Will, with his dark eyes, and his pretty lips, and a delicious flush covering his cheeks that makes Mike want to do unspeakable things to him.

Mike comes with a broken sound and slumps forward, finally pushed over the edge. He shivers through it, spilling into his boxers, fabric darkening where his release seeps into it. Still hunched over, he tries to catch his breath over the rushing of blood in his ears.

This is bad. This is really bad.

Mike looks down at the mess in his pants. There’s a churning feeling settling in his stomach. One that couldn’t be further from the pleasure he experienced seconds before.

Mechanically, Mike strips out of his dirtied clothes and throws them in his laundry hamper before grabbing his towel and heading for the bathroom, to wash the evidence of his wickedness away under the hot spray of water. His head is empty, but the bliss is temporary. The guilt and shame remain even after scrubbing himself raw under the cooling water.

He goes to bed clean from his shower, feeling dirtier than ever.

10) Aphrodisiac

“He moved closer, impossibly graceful, the night clinging to him like a second skin. When his fingers brushed her wrist, the touch sent a ripple through her—sharp at first, then melting into something languid and electric. ‘Just a taste,’ he promised. The moment his lips grazed her throat, the world dissolved. The bite itself was fleeting; the sting of a rose’s thorn. But what followed unfurled throughout her veins like liquid fire. Every nerve awakened, every breath thick with a longing she couldn’t name. Her hands found him without thought, clutching at his coat, pulling him closer as if the distance had suddenly become unbearable. ‘What have you done to me?’ she gasped. He lifted his head, eyes glowing with a hunger that mirrored her own. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Only revealed what was already there.’ And as the strange, intoxicating heat spread through her, she knew with terrifying certainty that she would never want it to end.” (Passion in the Shadows, Chapter 6, pp. 136-137.)

Mike’s birthday sneaks up on him, catches him between its claws and pins him down with a ferocity that sends him into misery as soon as he wakes on the seventh day of April. Though, there may be the added sensation of hunger, terribly insatiable, itching underneath his skin. It’s a nasty feeling. One that makes Mike want to turn himself inside out and scrub his guts raw.

He knows what’s coming. The taste of deer blood dulls in comparison to the little drop Mike got to taste from Will. It’s like his mind has fixated on it entirely.

They don’t talk about it. There’s nothing else to say, really. Mike has apologized, would still be groveling at Will’s feet if it wasn’t for the careful silence they’ve constructed between them again. They’re not necessarily distant, but their eyes avert quicker from one another than before. And Mike wants to be good, he has to be good. So he stays away, despite his body desperately urging him not to.

He can feel it, though. The slip. His thoughts are filled with nothing but Will on a good day, and he goes through his blood rations like a madman, so much so that Hopper and Nancy are growing concerned. He feels so hungry. All the time. Starved for something, or rather someone, whom he knows he can’t have.

Mike idly wonders if it’s too late to cancel their hangout for later today, but he discards the thought as quickly as it came. His mom has already prepared a cake, icing and all, waiting for them in the fridge despite Mike’s insistence about it being wholly unnecessary. It’s not like he can taste it, anyway.

His movement feels mechanic as he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Mike fed twice last night, one of them close to midnight, and yet he feels like he hasn’t drunk anything in days.

Reluctantly, he finds his face in the mirror above the sink. Bloodshot eyes stare back at him, the brown of his irises dulled to a muddy color. He trails them over his pale skin, the hollow of his cheeks, the darkness that seems permanently settled underneath his eyeballs. He doesn’t look any different than the day before, but Mike has been wondering. Is his body still ageing? He looks the same, from what he can see. Would there even be any way to tell, after only a couple months? Mike doesn’t think so, but then again, he also thought he might be able to turn into a bat by now, so maybe he isn’t the best judge of his supernatural bearings.

He throws on a faded Star Wars shirt and runs his fingers through his hair, hoping he doesn’t look as dead as he feels inside. Downstairs, he can hear his family waiting for him; collected around the kitchen table, their heartbeats around it, fluttering away like a flock of birds. Mike takes a shaky breath, plasters a tired smile on his face and heads down.

Surprisingly, he makes it through the day. They Byers are out, seemingly wanting to give him some time to himself with his family. Holly and his mom sing him Happy Birthday as soon as he gets downstairs. They wait for Nancy to cut the cake after lunch and play a round of Scotland Yard at the kitchen table after. And Mike actually has fun, he thinks as he watches Holly’s beaming face across it.

The afternoon brings a downpour that calls for a movie night like no other. Not that the Party planned on doing anything else for his birthday. Now that Mike can hang out in the basement again, it really is like old days. (Well, if you ignore the fact that Mike is a vampire and Max has to be carried down the stairs. But between Lucas, Will and a double ration downed in the kitchen before the others arrived, they managed fine for now.)

Still, he’s haunted by the memory of what happened the last time he was down here. Now that the initial euphoria of it has worn off, Mike remembers other details about it. The way Will looked, kneeling above him, letting Mike pull him closer as if he wanted him to. The soft sounds spilling from his throat at the swipe of Mike’s tongue against his skin. The breathless manner in which he stared at Mike afterward, just before he fled and disappeared upstairs.

With a half-hearted shake of his head, Mike wills the memories away for the hundredth time that day. They’re sprawled around the room, the movie in front of them almost finished: Max, Lucas and Dustin on the sofa, with her legs rested in Lucas’ lap and Dustin’s feet tucked underneath his thighs. (“Dude, seriously?” “For warmth! It’s freezing down here.”) The coffee table in front of them is littered with wrapping paper and the small pile of gifts they accumulated for Mike: A mug that says ‘Holy Water’ in blocky letters, from Dustin of course; the first three Volumes of a new comic series he’s been eyeing, from Lucas and Max; and a drawing from Will—the one he did of Mike, up in his bedroom.

Mike spent an ungodly amount of the day staring at it. Partially because it’s a really good drawing—everything Will has ever drawn is—but also because he can’t quite believe what he sees, carefully shaded into the page. Because Will has made his dark circles into a night sky, the pale of his cheeks into moonlight, and he let the sharpness of his teeth wrap around the tiniest smirk on Mike’s lips in a soft caress.

Somehow, Will made him look beautiful.

As if he can sense his thoughts, Will shivers next to him and Mike’s eyes snap over unwillingly, eyes trailing from the stretch of sweater over broad shoulders, up to the slope of a downturned nose as Will keeps staring at the TV in front of them. They’re both on the carpet, their backs leaning against the couch. Not sitting close, but Mike is painfully aware of every single shift, every movement next to him. His body is tense with the need to be closer. All he wants to do is scoot over and bury his face in Will’s neck again, to drown in the ripeness of pears and the spice of peppermint.

The light from the screen reflects off his face, a pale blue flicker in the darkness. Mike thinks that he looks beautiful, too. In real life, not just as a drawing on a page.

He turns his head away. On screen, the credits start rolling—he’s already forgotten what they were watching in the first place, too caught up in his thoughts.

A beat of silence follows once the TV goes quiet, the hum of static settling in slowly, but no one moves to get up right away. Instead, they’re debating the movie, the special effects used, how bad the acting was. Outside, they can hear the rain patter against the side of the house, making the basement feel like a sort of hideaway shielding them from the rest of the world. It’s nice, in a way. Homey. Almost like it used to be.

At some point, Dustin gets up to turn off the VHS-player and Mike’s mom brings the leftover cake downstairs for them to share. They bicker about who gets the biggest slice, and the one with the most icing on it. Max gets both, somehow. Mike doesn’t question it.

Between it all, Mike can feel himself drifting towards Will. Whenever the other boy leans forward to grab his drink, or back over toward his other side to lean against the sofa, Mike finds himself following the line of his body with his own. It’s a gravitational pull, settled deep within his bones. And Mike, hungry again despite the double ration he downed just before the others came over, doesn’t have the strength to stop himself from leaning into it. From noticing, from shifting closer, from greedily inhaling every hint of Will’s scent he can get.

Then, Will leans over the coffee table, over Mike, to get another slice of cake, his perfect, golden tanned neck on display. Mike leans forward to breathe him in, his eyes fluttering in bliss.

He’s completely zoned out when Dustin’s voice snaps him out of the trance-like state. Mike blinks, shifting his gaze away from Will’s flushed side-profile to find the rest of the group staring as they chew.

“That’s not just me, right? He’s being weird again,” Dustin stage-whispers to Lucas and Max, which makes the latter snort. “I thought we finally moved past that as a group.”

“Yeah, no. That’s definitely odd behavior. I mean, more odd than usual,” Lucas adds.

Max elbows him. “Why, what’s he doing? Is he hovering again?”

“You know I can hear you, right,” Mike says, too embarrassed to even try and play it off.

“Tell that to the past minute you spent sniffing Will instead of answering Lucas’ question.”

“He fucking sniffed him?”

Mike rolls his eyes, trying to play off the humiliation, and looks down. He’s feeling irritable all of a sudden. He knows his friends are only joking, trying to lighten the mood, and that’s always been their love language, sort of. But it’s frustrating, not being able to eat despite being so hungry, despite having Will so close, and he pushes his cake from one side of the plate to the other.

“C’mon, Mike, didn’t your mom teach you not to play with your food?” Lucas teases from his seat on the couch, clearly not picking up on his shift in demeanor. Mike throws him a glare, this one a bit more insistent.

“Well it’s not like I can actually taste the cake.”

“I told you we should have brought a deer,” Max says, oblivious to the tension seeping into Mike’s posture.

“You wanted to bring a dead deer to my parents’ basement,” he deadpans.

“Not actually,” Lucas grins.

“Besides, there’s always Will,” Dustin snorts. “The way Mike’s eyes have been glued to him all night, you’d think he’s preparing to have him for dinner.”

The silence settles in immediately. Mike is trying very hard not to look at Will, but his body is yearning for a reaction, caught in a mixture of mortification and desperation. He can tell he’s stiff as a board next to him, even without seeing him. His heart is speeding up, thundering away at a million miles an hour.

“Dude…” Lucas mumbles awkwardly. His plate is resting on his thigh, cake half-eaten. “Vampire-joke? Really?”

Dustin’s eyes bulge.

“Wait, wait, wait. I thought you hated his smell?” His eyes dart from Mike to Will, then back again. The lingering silence unfortunately speaks louder than words. “I swear I was trying to be funny. You actually want to eat him?”

“I don’t want to eat him,” Mike hisses back defensively when his brain finally catches up to what’s happening.

Dustin ignores him, clearly caught up in his string of thoughts. “Do you want to eat all of us? Do we smell, like, enticing to you? How did I not know about this, Mike? This is extremely important for my research!”

His voice grows a bit hysterical at the end.

“He doesn’t wanna eat me,” Max says. “I asked him.”

Lucas stares at her incredulously. “You asked him? What the fuck, Max?”

“Duh. Right after he woke up like this.” She makes a vague gesture in Mike’s general direction. “Lucas, stop looking at me like that.”

“You can’t even see me!”

“I can feel your eyes boring into the side of my head,” Max glares back and swats at Lucas’ face. “It was insurance, okay! Like, knowing if there was anything I needed to be worried about. I’m not as fast as I used to be.”

“Guys,” Will says, his voice cutting through their bickering. “Jesus. He’s not even doing anything.” 

Dustin snorts. “That’s a generous description for a whole lot of staring and lingering in your general vicinity, Will. I mean, he’s looked like he wants to pounce on you for the better part of this hangout!”

There’s a beat of silence that feels a little bit too real.

“That’s not—” Mike starts, but it comes out too defensively too quickly. He stops himself, jaw tightening. His fangs press into his lip, as if to taunt him. “I’m not doing anything,” he finishes lamely. Just thinking about it. Constantly.

“Right. Well, someone had to say it,” Max drawls.

“Max.”

Will’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, sharpened by everything that the others don’t know about—Will, offering himself up like a sacrifice; his finger in Mike’s mouth, the blood on his tongue. Mike shivers at the thought.

The corners of Max’s lips turn downward, but she relents. “Whatever. Let’s finish the damn cake, it’s not like Mike has any use for it.”

Mike is glad for the distraction, but he still can’t help thinking about Dustin’s comment for the rest of the night. Even if he meant it as a joke, the fact that Mike can’t seem to get his urges under control anymore scares him to no end. And still, he doesn’t seem able to rip his eyes away from Will for more than a couple seconds at a time.

Everything about him is inviting. Enchanting. Absolutely captivating in a way that makes Mike feel the phantom of a heartbeat thudding beneath his ribcage.

So he keeps stealing glances throughout their second movie. Throughout the board game they play afterward. When they clean up around themselves after that, he finds himself orbiting closer and closer until the cloud of peppermint and pears surrounds him completely again. And by the time they have waved the others goodbye at the front door, Mike is still there. Lingering in the hallway like a second shadow attached to Will, despite not really having a reason to stay.

Well, not a rational one, anyway. Just a faint idea of one, accompanied by a growing urge at the back of his skull.

They’re hovering around each other a bit awkwardly, not quite sure whether they’ll keep hanging out or not. And Mike should go to his room. He knows he should.

Will gives a final, lingering smile. “Happy birthday, Mike.”

He turns and Mike feels part of him leave with him, down the basement stairs.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, watching Will’s retreating back. “Thanks.”

Upstairs, his room is cold and lonely. Mike clicks the lamp on his bedside table on and watches it cast orange shapes onto the walls. His eyes drag over the painting, drop onto his desk. There’s his walkie, unused and dusty, carelessly thrown in a corner. Should he…? No. No, he probably shouldn’t.

Mike runs a hand through his hair. He feels restless again, his throat burning with more than just hunger. Instinctively, he searches for the familiar comfort of Will’s heartbeat two stories below.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Calm. Normal. Like nothing even happened, because nothing did. Just Mike, being strange, lacking the will to fight himself any longer.

He’s at his desk before he can think about it, reaching for the walkie. It’s gone unused since Will’s birthday—the day that has been replayed in his mind so many times now, etched into his brain.

He thinks about the way his friends had shouted and held him back. The sight of Will, frozen, staring at him. The helplessness Mike had felt after having his first taste of Will’s blood in the kitchen afterwards.

Mike hesitates. The walkie feels cool in his hand; hard and unforgiving. He clicks the button.

“Will?”

He’s probably not going to reply. After all this, after Mike hovering and being weird, after fucking smelling Will in front of the whole Party—

“Hey.”

Will’s voice is a quiet crackle over the radio.

“Everything okay?” he asks before Mike can second-guess himself again. Then, as if an afterthought, “Over.”

Mike smiles to himself at that last part. Truthfully, he doesn’t even really know what he wants from Will. It’s not like anything happened. Just that stupid urge to be close again.

Mike has half a mind to just tell him goodnight, put the walkie down and force himself to suffer through it. But instead, one of the more nagging thoughts claws its way to the forefront of his mind, bursting out before he can stop it. His thumb presses the button.

“We’re okay, right?”

Will hesitates, and for a moment there’s nothing but the quiet crackle of the channel.

Belatedly, Mike’s finger finds the button again. “Over.”

“Yeah,” Will replies after another beat, but he sounds vaguely amused. “Of course.”

He hesitates again.

“Are you okay? Over.”

Mike wants to lie. He really does.

“I don’t know,” he whispers into the walkie. He doesn’t sign off. Just lets his quiet admission settle into the silence.

There’s a lot of it—the channel stays quiet for a long time after. Mike feels stupid. He’s gone too far, been too honest even in the little he did admit. But before he can spiral deeper, sink into his self-pity, there’s a featherlight knock at his bedroom door.

Mike scrambles to put the walkie away. He must have been really distracted, not hearing someone walk up to his room. “Yeah?”

The door opens. Will stands in the doorway, dressed in his pajamas, and Mike’s heart squeezes at the sight of his oversized shirt; the way it almost reaches the bottom of his sleep shorts; the way his hair looks soft again, like he just pulled the shirt over his head before coming up here. Mike watches as he hovers near the door, as if unsure whether he’s allowed to come inside.

“Sorry,” Will says, hand still on the doorhandle. His eyes swipe over Mike, standing in the middle of the room like a crazy person. “I just kind of wanted to…”

He trails off, seemingly not knowing what it is that he wanted. Mike doesn’t either, but he’s glad Will is here regardless. He swallows around the ache in his teeth and tries to focus on the good things—the way his heart seems to expand inside his ribcage, the way he seems to calm immediately whenever Will is near, the exposed skin of Will’s legs glowing golden in the light shining from his nightstand.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. His arm comes out in a sweeping gesture, and Will smiles carefully, clearly taking the invitation for what it is. “I’m the one who radioed you.”

Now that Will is in his room, Mike feels it all crashing down over him again. The need to be close to him, to be around Will. The conversation with their friends plays on a loop in his head as Will shuts the door behind himself. Patiently waiting, like he always does for Mike. Even when he doesn’t deserve it.

“You’re not…” Mike trails off, trying to find his words. He cringes at the desperation in his own voice, but it’s important to him that Will knows this. That he takes his next words seriously. “You’re not food to me, Will.”

“I know,” Will answers softly and without hesitation. Then, quieter, he adds, “That’s… that’s why I’d let you. Drink from me, I mean.”

Mike knows what he meant. He doesn’t know much else right now to be honest. Somehow, he scrapes the measly remains of his self-discipline together in a groaned, “Will…”

“You’re getting weaker,” Will points out. “How often are you feeding by now? You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I’m serious. How often?”

Insistent idiot. Mike sighs. “Twice a day. Sometimes more,” he admits reluctantly.

The corners of Will’s mouth quirk downward.

“I know you wouldn’t hurt me,” he says. He takes a tiny step closer, but Mike matches it, keeping their distance.

“That’s not something you get to just—decide,” he snaps, sharper than he means to. Panic edges into it, seeps around the corners of his voice. “You don’t know that. You don’t know what it feels like—”

“I know enough. You stopped,” Will interrupts, and there’s something stubborn sparking in his eyes now.

Mike falters.

“You could’ve kept going,” Will adds, quieter. “But you didn’t.”

The memory hits Mike again. Fingers in his mouth, blood on his tongue. Only now, it’s less something buried deep within because it’s Will talking about it—the very object of his desires, forcing Mike to hold them, whatever they may be, up to the light. (Oh, who is he kidding. He knows exactly what they are. He’s just too scared right now—of losing control, of letting go of it completely—to even think it.)

Unwillingly, Mike’s fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans again. “That doesn’t mean I never will.”

There’s another pause. The bedside lamp casts its orange glow, accompanied by the quickened thumps of Will’s pulse. It’s too loud, suddenly, ringing in Mike’s ears.

“I know you want to do it. I can see it in the way you look at me.”

There’s desperation creeping into Mike’s voice. “That doesn’t mean you should allow me to.”

Will looks at him for another long moment before answering, and when he speaks, Mike can tell that he’s choosing his words carefully.

“What would you do? If it was me?”

Mike’s eyes squeeze shut.

He knows the answer. Knows with utter certainty that he would give his everything to Will, without question, if it was the other way around. But admitting that would be admitting defeat, and Mike’s never been particularly good at that.

“It doesn’t matter what I would do. It’s… this is different.”

“It’s not different,” Will says. “You need blood. I want to give you mine. It’s easy, really.”

Mike lets out a frustrated groan. “See, this is exactly what I mean! We’re going in circles! Why can’t you just understand that I can’t—I can’t let you do that—”

“You keep talking about it as if it’s some kind of sacrifice that I’m making for you.” Will’s eyes are glistening with frustration now, and Mike feels immediately bad. They look awfully pretty though, wet and shiny. “But it’s not. Because it’s not selfless of me to ask you. I’m not doing it out of pity.”

“Then why are you doing it?” Mike’s voice is pleading. “Because I’m going crazy trying to figure it out. I don’t understand, Will. And I can’t keep… hurting you, when I don’t even mean to.”

Because it can’t be true, the conclusion Mike has come to. That Will wants this just as badly as Mike does. Craves it, like a flame craves oxygen.

Will swallows hard, and it seems to echo in the silence of his room. His eyes flicker over to Mike’s desk, to the painting.

“Remember what I said in the van?” he says suddenly, and Mike blinks at him, caught off guard. “About El? About you, being the heart?”

“Of course I remember.”

“I lied about it. The painting, I mean.” Will shifts and looks away from it. “El never commissioned it. I just said that to… I don’t even know what I was trying to do anymore. I guess I got scared, and I ended up telling you the things I thought you needed to hear. But it wasn’t her saying all those things. It was just me.”

There’s about a million thoughts running through Mike’s mind at a dangerous speed. He blinks all of them away, mouth opening before he consciously decides to. It was just me. Just Will. As if that would change anything—as if it didn’t make the words that much more meaningful to Mike. Still, his brain has trouble catching up to it; the way Will is squirming around where he’s standing, like he’s uncomfortable. I don’t understand.

“W-What are you saying, Will?”

“I’m saying I want it,” Will replies, and now Mike can see it reflected on his face clear as day. He’s ashamed. “I want you to bite me. I want you to drink my blood. I want you to take everything that I’m willing to give you.”

“Why?” His voice is barely a whisper.

Will’s eyes are still glistening with unshed tears, threatening to spill over.

“Because it’s you, Mike,” he whispers. “And I want all of you. Because it drives me crazy, knowing you want me like that, and that you’re still not letting yourself. And I like knowing you want this back from me, that you want me in this way at least.”

He really is the bravest person Mike has ever known. Sitting in front of him, with his eyes wet, Will looks more beautiful than ever before. Mike wants to tell him—that it’s not just this way he wants Will. That he wants so much more, too. Unspeakable, unforgivable things.

“I do,” Mike finally admits, his voice barely a whisper. “So bad.”

At that, Will looks up. His eyes are still shiny, but there’s something else gleaming inside them now. Determination.

He walks forward, closer toward Mike. Mike steps back with him, like before, until his calves hit the bed. Breathlessly, he stumbles backwards and down onto it. Will is standing above him now, his breath coming heavier than before, and something about it makes Mike feel like he’s burning on the inside.

“So, ask me,” Will says. “You know the answer will be yes. Always yes.”

And something in Mike releases. His head drops back against the wall, angled up to look at Will, who is surrounded by the glow of the ceiling lamp, reflecting off his hair like a halo. Mike’s fangs are aching.

“I want to drink your blood,” he whispers. And then, after letting the words settle for a beat, “Please, Will. Can I?”

Will’s answer is a shuddered exhale. “Yes.”

He’s moving now, walking towards Mike. When he reaches the bed, he drops down on it, crawls over until he’s seated next to him. Under the intensity of his gaze, Mike feels like the prey for once instead of the predator. It sends a thrilling shiver up his spine, lodged against the cool of his bedroom wall.

“So, where do you want me to…”

He trails off. The wrist would be good, maybe. It’s familiar territory, something they’ve almost done before. But to his surprise, Will shakes his head. There’s something dark mirrored in his eyes, despite the flush reddening his cheeks now.

“I want to do it like they did in the book.”

Mike stiffens. He doesn’t need to ask which book Will means. Saw it, buried beneath a sketchbook and the walkie on Will’s makeshift bedtable. But part of him hadn’t expected him to actually read it. The knowledge that Will knows—what he’s been reading, what he’s been thinking about—the fact that he’s really been doing all of this on purpose, despite Mike convincing himself of the opposite… It makes him let out a nervous breath.

“Your… neck?”

Will nods.

Mike nods back, turning his body towards him. The angle is awkward, and they would both have to crane their necks and—no, this simply won’t do, because if Will is really doing this for him, the least Mike can do is get him comfortable. He thinks about laying him down, sprawling him out on his bed, but even the idea of it is too close to the fantasies he’s been harboring. Velvet and candlelight and unbuttoned shirts. Mike clears his throat.

Will seems to be considering the same thing—the positioning, that is, not Mike’s dreams—and before Mike can even make a suggestion, he motions towards him. Towards his legs, spread on the bed, like they’re inviting Will between them.

“Can I…?”

Oh. Oh God.

Mike swallows. Be cool. Cause that has worked so well for him up until now.

“Come here,” he whispers, because he can, because he’s allowed to now.

And Will follows, like he’s been waiting for it. The position is immediately more intimate—his thighs settled on either side of Mike’s legs, the soft gold of them caging him in. Mike doesn’t feel trapped though. No, he feels free.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands. Really, he doesn’t know how insufferable he’ll be once he gets to finally touch. But he really can’t help himself at the sight of Will’s neck right in front of his face. At the way he’s offering himself up, ready for the taking.

Carefully, Mike leans forward and breathes Will in. Pears and peppermint, sweetness and spice. Mike ghosts his lips over the tender spot below Will’s ear. The reaction is immediate; Will’s breath hitches, body going stiff on top of Mike, and it makes the latter pull back, brows furrowed in worry.

“You’re really sure about this?” he asks.

Will blinks down at him, and at the sight of Mike, all worried beneath him, a teasing smirk slips onto his face. It makes him look absolutely irresistible.

“Just bite me already, Mike.”

Mike scoffs. He really is an insistent idiot. And then he does as he’s told.

His hand comes up to the nape of Will’s neck, tilts his head with fingers buried in chestnut strands as he brushes his mouth against that same spot as before. The other one moves to the front of Will’s shirt, pulling the collar down to expose more of the vein thrumming underneath it.

Then, Mike carefully, almost gently sinks his teeth into the tender flesh at the junction of it. He feels his teeth prick the surface of Will’s skin and pulls back slightly, opening his lips around the bite.

The whole thing is an explosion of his senses. There’s the feeling; a steady trickle of warm liquid spurting into his mouth, in time with Will’s heartbeats, as soon as Mike’s mouth closes around the wound. Mike’s own heartbeat stutters to life in his chest like the rusty motor of an old car. There’s the sound; a choked gasp ripped from Will’s throat, lifting into a low moan at the end when the sting lets up. There’s the scent; immediately heady and spicy with the familiar notes, laced with honey and peppermint.

And then, of course, there’s the taste. A warm spill of blood coating Mike’s tongue that burns all the way down into his stomach at the first, languid suck of lips on skin. A choked groan bursts out of him alongside it, muffled into the crook of Will’s neck.

Mike swallows, runs his tongue over the two small pricks with the slightest pressure. It makes Will whimper and bury his fingers into Mike’s hair, as if to pull him closer. His blood tastes sweet, so much sweeter than Mike imagined, infused with the lightness of pears Mike has smelled on him so many times, and he goes absolutely dizzy with it—the blood slides down his throat, leaving a sinful heat pooling in his gut. He can feel his skin prickle with it, and the hairs on his body, his arms, the back of his neck stand with electrifying tension. It’s hot and dirty and everything good in the world, collected in crimson, just for Mike to have.

“Fuck, Will,” Mike whines into his neck. He doesn’t pull away, lips moving against the skin and leaving a bloody smear in their wake that looks entirely mesmerizing. His fingers clench into the fabric of Will’s shirt, pulling it further down. Like he can’t help himself from stretching it more. “You taste so fucking good.”

Will’s fingers tighten in Mike’s hair, scratching against his scalp. “Oh my God,” he whimpers, and he sounds about as gone as Mike feels. 

Mike hesitates at the sound. “You’re okay? Did I hurt you?”

“Yes,” Will breathes, muffled above him. “I’m okay.”

He tries to push Mike’s face back into his neck, but Mike resists. Instead, he leans back to watch Will, who looks ruined above him already. His eyes are glassy and distant, lips red from where he’s been biting at them to keep himself from making sounds. The sight is intoxicating, and Will seems to feel the same way.

“No, no, no, come back,” he mumbles.

His hips shift forward. It’s the tiniest movement, but it makes Mike acutely aware of the hardness beneath Will’s sleep shorts, pressing against Mike’s stomach. He inhales shakily. He’s no better himself, but feeling what it does to Will… God, if that isn’t the sweetest reward entirely—because maybe Mike hasn’t been delusional all this time. Maybe Will really, truly enjoys this as much as Mike does. Maybe his dreams weren’t unwarranted, and it wasn’t his hunger reading Will’s pleading glances wrong. Instead, maybe it was Mike seeing his best friend, the one he’s known longer than he’s known himself, the one that’s always been an open book to him.

Mike lets the feeling wash over him, lets it curl into his gut. He welcomes the heat now, as his fingers find the bottom of Will’s shirt. He needs more. Needs to touch, to feel Will, to have him closer.

Impatiently, he tugs at the shirt. “Want this off.”

Will lifts his arms without complaint, his own hands moving back into Mike’s hair. They’re pulling him in before Mike’s even tossed the shirt to the ground, but this time, he lets him.

There’s so much more skin for him to explore now. Mike’s eyes wander over it greedily, letting his hands follow. His fingers splay against Will’s ribs, tracing them one by one. One of his thumbs runs over a nipple and Will gives an involuntary sigh, hips shifting forward again in a way that makes Mike wonder if he’s even aware he’s doing it at all.

“God, Will,” Mike moans, and he feels pathetic for it. “You’re so…”

Will’s breath catches in reply, and Mike’s hands move across his back to pull him closer again, wanting to tease more of those sounds out from him. And he does, because Will quietly whimpers at every drag of Mike’s skin over his. Tucking his face into the crook of his neck once more, Mike takes a steadying second to breathe him in. There’s blood leaking from the wound, a thin trickle of it, running down towards Will’s collarbones. Mike watches, transfixed.

“You like it?” he asks, desperate with the need to know, to hear Will say it out loud. “When I drink from you?”

“Yes,” Will gasps.

Mike licks up the spilled blood, follows it back to the source and relishes in the shaky exhale it rips from Will. “Me too,” he whispers, drunk on the taste again. “I’ve thought about it for months. Wanted it since the day I woke up.”

At that, Will gives a pleased groan and closes his eyes, head tipping back. It’s true though, what Mike said. The evidence stands hot and uncomfortable in his pants, but Mike doesn’t care about that right now. He laves his tongue over the wound, feeling it slowly close underneath. Presses tiny kisses into the reddened skin after in an unspoken apology.

“Mike…” Will sighs. He’s gone completely pliant in Mike’s hold, all soft and perfect, blissed out on the feeling. Mike stays still as he slumps forward, Will’s forehead coming to rest on his shoulder. And Mike wants to give him that comfort, that blissful moment, so he just keeps running his fingers over his skin and enjoys the way Will shivers beneath them.

For a second, they just take each other in. The room is silent save for the sounds of their breathing. Mike is painfully aware of the hardness pressing into Will’s ass. But Will is hard, too. Mike can feel it against him still, so it’s fine for now.

It becomes decidedly less fine, however, when Will decides to sit back. He shifts on Mike’s lap and Mike suppresses a groan at the movement against him. Instinctively, his hands come to rest on Will’s waist—still bare, still softer than Mike could have ever imagined—and he grips there tightly, trying to keep him still.

“Don’t—”

Will’s eyelids are heavy, and his gaze burns a trail all over Mike’s face. He shifts again, steadying himself on Mike’s shoulders, fingertips whispering against his neck. Only this time, the movement is more purposeful. Mike can see the curiosity in his eyes as he pushes his hips down; then, the surprise.

“You’re hard.”

“Yes,” Mike chokes out between clenched teeth. He’s not even embarrassed at this point, too euphoric with the heady feeling swirling inside him. His eyes dart all over Will’s face as he speaks. “So are you.”

Above him, Will looks beautiful with the smear of blood on his neck and this dangerously wild flicker in his eyes. He looks like he’s searching Mike’s face for something, and Mike gets the overwhelming urge to kiss him.

“You said everything,” he says instead.

Will’s eyes snap to his. “What?”

“You said I could have all of it. Anything I want. Everything that you’re willing to give.”

Will nods and Mike’s eyes dart down to his lips. They’re so close, parted in astonishment. As if he can’t quite believe what’s happening. Mike feels the same way. After not allowing himself to want this for so long, it seems almost unreal.

He swallows.

“Can I have something else, then?”

“Yes,” Will answers without hesitation, and he’s leaning in now, too. They’re close enough to share a breath. Close enough for their eyes to flutter closed under the weight of the moment. “Anything you want. It’s yours.”

“Kiss me, Will,” Mike whispers against his lips. “Please.”

And Will kisses him.

It’s a little odd at first with the fangs and all, but the way Will whimpers into his mouth almost immediately makes Mike not care about that at all. He gives a needy sound as their lips slot together, like they were made for it. Will is shy about it at first, and Mike doesn’t want to overwhelm him, but he wants this so much—he gives a singular swipe against Will’s lips, as if to test the waters. The answer is comes in the form of a breathless gasp, mouth dropping open for Mike to suck Will’s bottom lip into his mouth, enjoying the heat of it against his cooler tongue. He can’t help the sigh that slips from him at the feeling of it. Will’s hands tighten on his shoulders, and he does it back, opens his mouth wider.

And, oh, they’re really kissing now. Not just a soft brush of open mouths anymore, but a fervent mingle of breaths, tongues sliding against each other wetly.

Mike has never kissed anyone like this before. Never this eager, never this intense. It’s like Will is afraid this is something that will never happen again, and he licks into Mike’s mouth with an intensity that leaves him unable to do anything but moan back pathetically.

Will’s worry is entirely unwarranted, Mike thinks. Because if it was up to him, they’d never be doing anything else ever again. He wonders if Will can taste the remnants of himself on Mike’s tongue. If, maybe, he likes it as much as Mike does. The thought makes him shudder.

By now, Will’s hands are in his hair again. Mike doesn’t know how they got there, but he doesn’t care. Because Will is tugging at the roots, his breath growing more labored as they keep kissing. He keeps dropping his head back, letting out these tiny, panting sounds, as if he wants to keep going despite needing to breathe. And because Mike doesn’t need to, not really, he keeps kissing Will even when the other pulls back for air.

His lips trail from Will’s mouth, over his jaw and down to his neck where the bite sits, still red and fresh against his skin. He leaves a bloody trail in his wake, but Mike doesn’t care about that right now. More sounds spill from Will’s lips, each sweeter and louder than the one before. Mike takes his time with it, nipping little bruises alongside the one already there, the beat of his pulse matching the one inside Will’s chest.

But Will is impatient. He tugs Mike back by his hair to pull him into another kiss, and it shouldn’t make Mike’s heart sing with affection the way it does as he allows it, leaning into it.

This one is different than the ones before. Will is less shy about it all. His hands are still gripping Mike’s face, tilting his head whichever way he likes and Mike can’t help but let him, because it’s addictive. He gasps when Will’s tongue sneaks into his mouth, slides against his own wetly, runs over his teeth.

“Mmph—” Mike’s eyes shoot open. Will’s tongue is still soft inside his mouth, pressed against the point of his teeth. Blood spills from it, pools into Mike’s mouth.

They’re still so close, but Will is looking at him now, too. And there’s almost a challenge in his eyes. Are you going to do it? Are you finally giving me what I want?

Mike’s always been stubborn. So, he wraps his lips around Will’s tongue and sucks.

It’s worth it, if only for the way Will’s eyes widen for a second before rolling back in his head. Mike is greedy with it, insatiable and shameless. And from the way Will is moaning into his mouth and squirming in his lap, he seems to be enjoying it. In fact, Will’s hips are going in the same circles again, bigger ones now, grinding down into Mike. It’s making him go positively insane with the friction—Will’s erection pressing into his stomach, his own straining against Will’s ass—and it’s both too much and not enough at the same time.

Urgently, his fingers dig into Will’s hips, pulling him closer, tighter against him as he shifts his own hips into him. Groans when Will complies, his thighs squeezing around Mike as he grinds down harder, as if it’s not enough for him, either.

“Mike,” he says, his expression caught between something wild and vulnerable. There’s a crack in his voice as he does. Mike wants to swallow it straight from his mouth.

He needs to touch Will. Needs to be the one doing this to him, the one making him writhe in pleasure. Will keeps repeating Mike’s name, as if it’s not enough, as if he wants to crawl inside his mouth and let Mike devour him completely. Something inside him stirs at the sound of it. Wanting to take care of him. To make him feel good, to make him his.

In one swift movement, Mike flips them on the bed and traps Will underneath himself.

“You’re making me crazy, Will,” he mutters into his skin. “I’m going insane because of you.”

“F-Fuck, Mike…” Will is arching up into him, beautiful and wrecked beneath. He runs his hands over him again; across his chest, over his hardened nipples, down to the soft of his stomach.

“I want you in every way too,” Mike continues, and his admission makes Will’s mouth drop open in another quiet moan. “Every one you’ll let me have.”

Will’s eyes are fixed on him, watching Mike’s every move, and it’s entirely thrilling.

“All of them,” he replies, breathlessly. “I meant it.”

He looks so much better than Mike could have ever imagined—better than the dreams, better than any fantasy. With his hair splayed out on the pillow and his pink lips parted, Will looks ethereal. He wonders if he looks the same way to Will right now. Pretty, maybe, like he made him look in that drawing. With the way Will is looking up at him, he can almost believe it.

And suddenly, kissing is not enough. Mike needs to feel the proof, to see for himself the evidence of what this did to Will, matching his own arousal straining against the confines of his jeans.

His fingers brush lower. Everything about Will is soft, perfect and golden under the light shining from his bedside table. His hands slow, trailing over the dark hair leading from Will’s belly button, then further down. The muscles of Will’s stomach tense under his touch, pulse going crazy, scent spiking.

“I want to touch you,” Mike says, and this time, he can smell Will reacting to his words. Sweetness, ripe and honeyed. “Please, can I?”

Will’s eyes are all pupils, black and wide. “You… want to?”

“I want to.”

“Okay,” Will nods, voice still laced with disbelief.

Mike doesn’t give himself the time second-guess, to feel anything but absolute elation for what’s about to happen. He leans forward, covering Will’s body with his own, and slides his hand lower, past the waistband and into his shorts.

The first touch is curious. Will’s cock is hard but feels soft at the same time. Mike wraps his fingers around, pretending to know what he’s doing. He doesn’t though. It feels so much different to his own, with the angle all new, but the weight of Will in his hands is exhilarating. Mike fists the tip, collecting the wetness there, slick and hot against his skin. Then, he gives an experimental stroke and Will gasps, fingers gripping into Mike’s shoulders.

“Oh fuck,” he says, his voice sounding strained already. “Oh God, Mike, fuck.”

“You already said that,” Mike teases, pressing another open-mouthed kiss to Will’s neck, then his shoulder. He quite enjoys the effect this seems to be having on Will. Experimentally, his fingers tighten around the length, and it makes Will whimper, head dropping back against the pillow, so he keeps going like that.

Absently, Mike decides that he loves this. Loves figuring out what makes Will gasp, or pant, or let out the same, beautiful, drawn-out moans as before. He watches as Will relaxes into it, hips coming up to meet Mike in shallow little thrusts. And though his eyes look heavy with pleasure, he keeps them open. Runs them over Mike avidly, as if he doesn’t want to miss a single second.

Mike watches him back, can’t do anything but. It’s mesmerizing. Enthralling. Mike can’t believe he gets to see Will like this. The sight of him, sprawled out underneath with his mouth dropped open in bliss. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and it looks almost cute, but that thought is ripped straight from Mike’s brain and lost somewhere outside his consciousness when Will’s own hand begins fumbling with the button of his jeans.

“You wanna—fuck, yeah, okay,” Mike sputters at the same time Will groans, “Off, take them off,” against his jaw. He’s leaving tiny kisses there now and Mike gets momentarily distracted between the soft press of lips, the fumble to get his jeans off and his hand, still very much holding Will’s dick.

The pants get stuck somewhere around his ankles, but Will’s hand is already slipping inside his boxers, so he can’t really find it in himself to care. And then suddenly Will’s hand is around him and Mike’s eyes roll back into his head a little bit at the feeling of his warm fingers stroking him.

He’s embarrassingly wet already, leaking into his boxers from tasting and touching Will alone, so it doesn’t take long for the slide to get smoother. Desperately, Mike chases the friction before remembering that he was trying to get Will off, too. Will, who looks simultaneously turned on and smug as Hell right now. And that just won’t do—Mike twists his fist on the next upstroke, and it makes Will’s hips stutter.

But he doesn’t let up, still working Mike with a matching pace. It spurs Mike on infinitely, because it’s almost like they’re battling for pleasure while trying not to give in to it at the same time. It’s so good, Mike might be going crazy with it a little bit. Maybe that’s why he leans forward to put his mouth on Will’s neck again, only this time, he gives a slight press of his teeth against it.

Will’s reaction is immediate. He moans, hips bucking up in a hard thrust that makes Mike smile against his throat. His tongue darts out, feels out the stuttering vein that runs along it and follows it down, towards the crook of Will’s neck.

“Does it feel good?” Mike doesn’t recognize his own voice when he speaks next. He drags his fans over Will’s skin, teasing. “Tell me.”

“’S good,” Will slurs, and he sounds just as desperate now. His heartbeat is running wild inside his chest and Mike can tell that he’s close, can feel the muscles of his stomach tighten against his forearm. He wants to get him there, needs to make him lose control the same way he’s been doing to Mike all this time. “Feels so good, Mike. Please, just—”

Mike bites down, lets the blood flood his senses, and Will cries out in pleasure. His back arches off the bed and into Mike, jaw slacked in a drawn-out moan. As he does, his grip loosens on Mike. But the sight of him coming undone, paired with the feeling of his cock pulsing and spurting into Mike’s hand, is enough to push Mike over the edge as well. His body tightens, and he ruts against Will’s hand, muffling a groan into the bite as he spills all over Will’s fingers.

They stay like that for a bit. Mike dips his tongue into the pricks at the hollow of Will’s throat, runs it over them until they’re closed up. He listens to Will’s heartbeat as both their breathing slows and the scent surrounding them remains nothing but blissful satisfaction.

When he pulls back, Will’s expression is still dazed. His cheeks carry a familiar flush and there’s faint smudges of blood smeared across his lips and neck, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Mike can’t look much better himself. He watches as Will pushes his hair from where it’s sticking to his forehead, his eyes slowly clearing.

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the sound of their breathing. Then, Will turns to face Mike, with a blissed-out smile spreading on his face.

“I can’t believe you made me beg for that for months.”

Mike sputters, but he’s smiling, too.

“I didn’t make you beg.” He sounds winded, and he can feel his own pulse rushing through his body alongside Will’s, gradually slowing. It’s the most alive he’s felt in months. “Is that really the first thing you have to tell me after I had my hand down your pants?”

“I had to practically throw myself at you,” Will grins. “Offering myself up, letting you suck on my finger, and you still didn’t do it.”

“I knew you were doing that on purpose!”

At this, Will throws him a funny look. “Of course I was. What, you think I’d have done the same with Lucas? Dustin?”

Damn the blood still rushing through his body, because Mike can feel a traitorous blush rise to his cheeks and he hasn’t missed the feeling at all. “No.”

“Exactly.”

“Don’t talk about Lucas and Dustin when your jizz is still on my hand.”

“Oh my God,” Will snorts, and he looks all boy right now—his face is open and beautiful and he’s so Will, so everything Mike has ever known.

Wiping themselves down with their ruined underwear, they slip on their clothes for their trip to the bathroom, shushing each other’s laughter in the hallway.

They keep eyeing each other while brushing their teeth, sneaking glances in the mirror. Mike’s eyes keep lingering on the bruises littering Will’s throat. They’re shaped like his mouth and something about makes his insides curl pleasantly. He finds Will’s face again, but the other boy’s gaze grows hesitant all of a sudden.

“So, it was… good?”

He looks so hopeful. As if he really thinks It could have been anything but. Mike laughs in disbelief, toothpaste dripping from his mouth.

“Was it good? Will, it was… It was amazing.”

“Yeah?” Will is smiling around the toothbrush, and the sight does treacherous things to Mike’s heart, so he keeps going with a nod.

“Yeah. Even better than I imagined. And I imagined this… well… a lot.”

When he looks back over at Will, his smile has turned smug. “Mhm.”

Mike swats his arm. “Asshole.”

“I mean, the books were kind of a giveaway.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t get off on reading them, too.” It’s Will’s turn to flush, and he leans down to spit, trying to hide it. “Oh my God, you totally did!”

“Shut up, Mike,” Will says, but it’s with a twinkle in his eyes that Mike wants to keep there forever.

He can’t help himself. Leaning forward, he tugs Will up by the collar of his shirt and captures his lips in a soft kiss, toothpaste and all.

It’s only when the kiss grows more heated, tongues sliding in mouths, that Will pushes him off with a giggle. Mike can see the contentment mirrored in his eyes, contradicting his actions. Like he wants Mike to stay close, but still can’t quite allow himself to.

Mike lets himself be herded back out into the hallway, his incessant urge to touch Will in any way shape or form still not satiated. He stops dead in his tracks when Will heads for the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“…To the basement?”

Mike scoffs. “Are you joking?”

“I didn’t want to intrude.” Will looks almost bashful at the admission, and Mike just shakes his head in disbelief before grabbing Will’s hand and pulling him back into his room as if it’s obvious. Because it is. They just had their hands down each other’s pants, and Mike will be damned if he doesn’t get to relish the rest of his blood-induced high cuddled up to Will in his bed.

As if to prove this point, he crowds Will up against the door as soon as it closes behind them, hands sliding up and under Will’s shirt. And despite the hungry way their mouths meet, it’s different. Kissing just to kiss.

And kiss they do. Mike walks backwards, pulling Will with him, and he simply can’t stop touching wherever his hands can reach. Now that he’s allowed. Now that he knows Will wants him to, wants him in every way, despite what he is and what he needs to do to survive. They pull apart again, just standing in the middle of the room for a moment.

“Happy birthday,” Will says. There’s the tiniest smirk playing at his lips, expression smug once more, despite his exhaustion. “Again.”

Mike shoves him back onto the bed playfully, then follows him down and moves closer to pull Will against him. The prickling, itching urge within him is sated now, curled up and purring like a cat, and he can enjoy the closeness for what it is. His mind finds Will’s heartbeat like he has done so many times in the past few months. But this time is different—it beats right there, tucked against his ear, safely in his bed.

“Yeah,” he says, presses his chest against Will’s back and relishes in the shudder it sends through the other boy. As if they have a mind of their own, his lips find the bruises on Will’s neck again, and he dots them with soft kisses. Brushes over them apologetically and enjoys the way it makes Will shiver. “Yeah, it really was.”

Will turns in his hold with a happy sigh, baring his neck more as he tightens his own arms around Mike. And for the first time, Mike can meet the vulnerability in his gesture without fear.

PSYCHOLOGICAL EXAMINATION REPORT [Unknown Hematophagic Humanoid]

CASE ID: UHH-01-87

DATE / TIME: 09-02-1988 / 16:12

EXAMINER: Dr. Samuel Owens (Ph.D., M.D.)

PATIENT NAME: Michael Wheeler

The following document is a recorded transcript of an interview conducted for diagnostic purposes. The examiner notes that standard diagnostic criteria may not be applicable. Unauthorized distribution is prohibited.

DR: So.

PA: So.

DR: You look well, Michael.

PA: I am well.

DR: College treating you kindly?

PA: It is. It’s good. I’m really … really good. Like, better than I could have ever expected, really.

DR: I’m very glad to hear that. I take it you didn’t have trouble settling into the city life?

PA: It was an adjustment. But we managed.

DR: By ‘we’, you mean …

PA: Will. Yes. He’s been … He’s been amazing, honestly. We live together now.

DR: So your little arrangement still stands, then?

PA: Yes. Definitely. I’ve been careful not to drink too much. His blood is insane. Keeps me alert for weeks, the first time I lasted close to a month before needing to feed again.

DR: I remember. Has the duration decreased since then?

PA: Barely. I can still easily go two or three weeks between feedings.

DR: Noted. That’s fantastic. And your classes?

PA: Uh, yeah. No trouble at all. I’ve taken night classes for the semester, just to be safe. There’s not that many people, and the campus isn’t as busy. And I get to take a night walk through the city on my way home. Indianapolis is pretty in the fall, I’ve heard.

DR: It is. I’ve lived here for close to five years now. Though my favorite season is the spring.

PA: Cool.

DR: How’s William doing then?

PA: He’s been great. His life drawing professor kinda sucks, but he got a job at an art museum downtown.

DR: Oh?

PA: I mean, he sells goodies at the gift store, but still. He loves it. Plus, free admission. Max says she wants to go when they visit because they have a whole section dedicated to ‘sensory art’. Which is just fancy speak for stuff you can touch.

DR: It’s nice that your friends are coming down for a visit.

PA: Yeah, they’re here for fall break. Lucas and Max are driving all the way from Cali. Dustin is flying in from Washington. We’re going to watch a shit ton of movies and show them around the city.

DR: That sounds wonderful. I’m truly glad, Michael.

PA: You and me both, Doc.

DR: We’ll continue to call William in for a checkup every six months, just to keep him monitored. But so far, there hasn’t been any reason for concern. If anything happens, you have my number.

PA: Yes.

DR: As for our meetings. Well.

PA: Don’t tell me you’re breaking up with me.

DR: Hardly. Just … Perhaps we should spend some time apart.

PA: Ha.

DR: In all seriousness. I think it should be enough if we meet once every four months from now on. Keep it casual.

PA: Why, Dr. Owens, I’m a taken man.

DR: All thanks to this ‘mad scientist’, might I add.

PA: Crazy. I called you crazy, I’m pretty sure.

DR: Tomato, tomato. Is there anything else on your mind?

PA: No. I’m … I wouldn’t have thought when we first met, but I’m actually happy, I think. And not just as far as the circumstances allow. I mean … Well. You get it.

DR: I think I do. And I’m glad.

PA: I still haven’t given up on turning into a bat. Dustin has about a million theories left that he wants to disprove.

DR: Well, don’t let me stop you.

PA: If I sprout wings, you’re the first call.

DR: I’d expect nothing less. Strictly confidential, of course.

PA: Obviously.

DR: Take care of yourself, Michael.

PA: I will.

DR: And of William.

PA: Always.

DR: Good. I’ll see you in a couple months, then.

PA: Yeah. See you. And… thank you. Really.

DR: My pleasure. And yours now, apparently.

PA: Oh my God, whatever happened to doctor-patient-confidentiali—

[End of recording. Duration: 26:05:06.]