Chapter Text
Mike didn't remember how he got to his basement.
He had no clue. He didn't remember the rickety stairs under his feet, or even crossing the threshold to enter his house in the first place. He didn't remember how he got there, or where he was before, or what he was in the middle of doing.
He remembered flashes, playing behind his eyes, almost like a montage.
His feet hitting the ground underneath him, heavy, stumbling. He remembered a door slamming behind him, and someone - he has no idea who - screaming his name behind him. He remembered a tug on his jacket sleeve, and he remembered ripping his arm away so hard the stitching tore just near the curve of his elbow.
He wished he forgot the reason he was there in the first place. But, no, all of that was clear as day. It played on a loop in his head, etched into his eyelids and he desperately wished to claw them away with his bare hands in hopes it would make it go away.
He remembered waiting back at the radio station, his own half of the current mission - which was entirely forgotten to him by now, what it even was in the first place - completed with minimal obstacles.
He remembered that he was waiting for the others to get back. He remembered the relief when the sound of worn tires rolled up outside, his shoulders releasing a tension he wasn't aware they were even holding.
He remembered the door cracking open, a few minutes later than he expected it to. Going to greet the returning team, to greet Will. Eager to ask him how his newfound powers fared and how many creatures Will took out this time (because last time was three, to be exact.)
He remembered it all. The shuffle of feet, heavy and weighed down by the events that had transpired. Nancy slowly sulking in first, her eyes red and swollen. Her gaze refusing to meet Mike, else she'll begin sobbing again. Robin and Steve following behind, just as worse for wear, each spotting a matching limp. Everyone had looked like they'd be through Hell and back - which, little did Mike know at the time - they had been.
Lastly, and probably the image seared into Mike's mind forever, was Jonathan. Words couldn't describe how destroyed Jonathan looked. His face was tight, shoulders sunken in as if he carried the weight of the world on each of them. Eyes empty, his cheeks hollow, jaw clenched so hard it could crack. His feet shuffled as if they dragged pillars of concrete by the ankles, each step desperate to be the last.
Mike remembered looking to him, eyes watering with fresh tears, threatening to spill over onto the already formed tracks running down his face.
Mike didn't remember what he asked, how he asked, he just knew it was about Will. Or, the lack of Will following in behind him.
He remembered the sob that escaped from Nancy, but not what she said afterwards. He remembered Steve stepping forward, but no words that left his lips.
There was only 3 words he remembered, and god, what he would give to not remember them. He prayed that the whisper had never slipped out of Jonathan's mouth.
"He's gone, Mike."
Only then, Mike noticed the jacket bunched in Jonathan's arms.
Will's jacket.
Some time between then and now, Mike had cried. He had sobbed, actually, he could feel the rawness in his throat from it. He knew from the rip on his sleeve that he had torn away from someone who tried to stop him from running. He knew that there was a deep, primal instinct to get out of that building as fast as humanly possible and then some. He knew from knowing his sister that she would have tried to stop him, and he knew from the burn in his lungs that he had run without stopping, destination unknown and unplanned.
He knew, but he didn't remember. He refused to remember anything, to remember a world after Will. He didn't want there to be a world after Will.
Apparently, his subconscious decided that the best way to avoid that was to surround himself with Will.
He assumed that's why he was now in his basement.
They hadn't been back since the attack, since his mom and dad were hospitalized and his sister was taken and- he couldn't let himself think about that right now. He only had so much grief to spare at a time, and right now, he was drowning in something fiercer than grief for Will.
He was thankful he didn't remember walking through the house, didn't remember seeing the destruction that was left over. But now he was there, in his basement, and his heart was trying to claw its way out of his chest.
He blinked, as if that could fix it.
The room spun around him. His head felt full of static, like something important has been ripped out and left a gaping void behind. He looked at his hands, flexing his fingers. They didn't feel attached to him, didn't feel like they were even there.
The basement was exactly the same. Blankets covering the couch, half empty shelves filled with VHS tapes and books. Posters still covered the walls, tape peeling at the corners. Art that Mike had insisted on hanging up over the years, paper yellowed and faded but still there. It looked the same as it had his entire life, but at the same time, it was full of Will.
The table had been cluttered with cassette tapes and a lone sketchbook, closed with the pencil placed delicately over the front cover.
Next to the table was the worn old mattress Will slept on. Blankets still tossed aside, he hadn't even made the bed the last time he slept there.
A book on the floor, bookmark tucked into the pages only a third of the way through.
One jacket thrown over the arm of a chair like he'd just taken it off and left it there for later.
A sketch he'd never show Mike, a song he'd never hear again, a book he'd never know the ending to.
The weight of it all sunk into his bones Mike in a way he couldn’t even comprehend. Everything was as it was when Will had last been here.
Something in Mike panicked.
He spun, searching wildly, like Will might just have been hiding here. Like Mike just missed him. His chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. The air wouldn't fill his lungs, no matter how desperately Mike tried. It kept catching somewhere in his throat, sharp and aching. The air felt punched out of his lungs, like he had been kicked square in the chest.
He dragged a hand across his face as the panic built too fast, too sudden for him to keep up. His eyes darted from one corner to the other but the sight of Will’s things only made the ache in his chest deepen. The bed, the clothes, the book... everything frozen in time, just the way Will had left it, as if it was waiting for him, loyally and patiently.
His eyes caught the sketchbook again and he couldn't rip his gaze away from it no matter how hard he tried. The thought just repeating in his mind, over, and over, and over. His last drawing. He'll never finish.
Mike approached the sketchbook, hesitantly. He shouldn't snoop through it, he thought to himself. Will wouldn't want him to see it before was it done...
Will.
He'll never finish it.
Mike remembered the conversation they had about it. Around two weeks ago, they had been going stir crazy in the house after a solid two days of storming. Mike had been sprawled across his own bed, Will propped up on the floor. Mike pestered him every few minutes to see what he was working on, bored of the comic he was reading. Will refused despite Mike's insistence. "It's a surprise." He'd say.
Mike couldn't bring himself to stop as he reached for the book. Carefully picking up the pencil, as if it was fragile and could shatter any minute. He crouched beside the table as he flipped it open.
For the second time today, Mike's heart had stopped working.
Inside, etched in pencil, was him. Or, his silhouette, rather. The way he had been that same day Will was drawing, perched in his bed, hunched over a comic book. The details hadn't been added yet. No facial features, no specifics on the comic book. The plaid of his shirt or the grain of his jeans hadn't been added in. Will had been working on the details of Mike's hair, apparently, which was almost complete. The intricate shading of Mike's curls, one sketched just so above his eye as it had fallen in his face several times while reading. It was him, but it was softer. The lines of his body more kind, the curve of his fingers more delicate.
A wrecked noise, almost a sob, crawled out of his throat. He was there, permanently imprinted into the page in such a way that Will had viewed him. If the world stopped, if Mike ceased to exist, this would lay as an artifact of him to ensure he lived on forever, through Will's eyes.
Mike had never drawn Will. Not once. Of course he hadn’t, that was Will’s thing. He never thought he would need to memorialize his best friend’s face in soft pencil strokes, he never thought he would lose his best friend
Now Will was gone, and all Mike was stuck with was a drawing of himself. The smudged fingerprints along the sides were all that were left of Will. His Will.
Before he could stop himself, Mike slammed the black cover of the book shut. His fingers curled into a fist and the notebook flew from his hand, crashing into the wall with a loud thud. It slid down to the floor, the noise of it hitting the hardwood echoed through the whole room, deafening on his ears.
He stood there frozen, chest heaving with adrenaline. That's when the anger began bubbling up from somewhere deep in him.
He didn’t want to feel this way, he didn't want to be angry... not at Will. But it was all so much, too much.
His heart pounded in his ears, the silence of the empty house too overwhelming. The anger flooded his veins, slowly then all at once, coursing through like a poison. It was too much. To see all of Will’s things, everything he had touched. And then this- this drawing... this fucking drawing. The way Will saw him, the way Will would never see him again.
He stood with a huff, his fists clenched beside him. He shook his head once, twice, trying to dispel the rage that wouldn't settle. Like a feral animal, it growled deep and low in the base of his mind. Barred its teeth at the idea of feeling anything other than blinding fury. Mike didn't want it to hurt, he didn't want to feel this way, and God please make it stop make it go away...
He let himself sink into the anger, his limbs feeling simultaneously lighter and also a thousand tons. If he was mad he didn't need to feel anything else.
He kicked the table, sending it across the floor with a loud screech, knocking over everything in its path. The scattered cassettes slid off the table and onto the floor below. The sound was deafening, but it felt almost satisfying, like he could rip the room apart and maybe - just maybe - he’d be able to tear the ache out of his chest.
Mike turned and kicked over a chair, his breath coming too fast, his chest tight with anger. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, too small too close too tight.
He kept going back to that drawing. That goddamn drawing. It cast Mike in a different light than he saw himself, than anyone saw him. Except, apparently, Will.
His mind replayed a thousand memories, a kaleidoscope of every intimate moment over the years. The soft touches, the brush of a knee, the shared looks. Back to the drive in California, back to the fight in his driveway.
Mike had always suspected, always had an inkling. When Will would make a joke that had a little more teasing than usual, when he would spent hours alone with Mike after the rest of the party left. When they'd spent late nights turned early mornings, talking all night. Talks alone in Mike's bed, their hands just barely touching.
Mike had an idea of it, but never acted on it. Feigned oblivious, became an absolute asshole sometimes, committed himself to a relationship that was always doomed.
He never acted on it, because he was afraid it was false hope. That maybe he was reading too far into things because he wanted them to be true--
He couldn't open that door right now. He shouldn't. But, the idea slithered its way through the cracks like a thick smoke, wound its way up his legs and enveloping him, suffocating.
The idea itself almost destroyed Mike.
"Why didn't I know?" Mike's voice shook, speaking for the first time since he got the news. Since his world ended. His voice was low and it shook hard, the words barely scraping out. His throat so raw he felt like he had been stranded with no water in the dessert.
Without a thought, he reached beside him and grabbed the closest thing in his reach - an old, dusty lamp that sat upon the side table. His breath caught in his throat, sharp and desperate, as he launched the lamp across the basement. The shatter as it impacted against the opposite wall fell on deaf ears, his heart hammering too loud to hear the shards of glass hit the floor.
"Why didn't I know? Why didn't I see it?!" He screamed, followed by a primal wail that forced its way out. His voice boomed against the walls that were closing in on him still.
"Why didn't you say anything, Will, goddammit!"
The rage built inside him. Mike ripped through the room like a storm, anything he could get his hands on facing the same fate of the lamp. Books, boardgames, cassette cases. All scattering across the room as he threw whatever he could.
(Not the clothes, though. Mike couldn't bring himself to go near anything that smelled like Will.)
He faced one of the chairs sitting at the small table, often used for the sessions when they were younger. His face scrunched as he kicked it, shattering one of the legs underneath it. The heavy crack of the wood splintering stirred something in his chest, and he did it with the other three legs.
Still, nothing could quell him.
He looked to the walls, eyeing the movie posters. All movies he loved, that he had seen with Will at one point or another - because, of course, he would have made Will sit through all his favourite movies.
He decided, as he approached them, if he couldn't watch them with Will he would never watch one again.
He grabbed at the corner of one and tore.
The paper shredded off the wall, the corners tearing where the tape was still in tact. It did nothing to help.
He seethed as he grabbed another. Then a map, one they had posted when this whole Upside Down thing had started years ago. He was mindlessly ripping what he could off the wall, but it offered no reprieve from the ache that slowly crawled its way back into his chest, nuzzling into his sternum.
The rage slowly settled deeper into his bones, replaced on the surface by a sharp, overwhelming, searing pain. With the fading strength, he flipped one more chair on its side, unsatisfied with the result.
He took one more step, his boot catching on something. Resisting the instinct to kick that as well, he looked down.
The book.
With the stupid bookmark dangling out of the front. Almost finished, so close, but not quite. And it never would be.
That's what broke Mike, again.
Gazing around the room, he took in the damage he caused. He, of course, hadn't touched anything of actual importance to Will - other than the sketch book. Even in his rage, in a white out rage, he couldn't have caused any damage to anything of Will's - not intentionally.
The emptiness hit him again, not slowly, not gently. Like a train colliding with a brick wall. The kind of emptiness that swelled up and felt like it was going to swallow him whole. It wasn’t just the room that was empty now. It was everything. Everything that made sense. Everything that mattered. Everything in his chest, his heart.
He took a step back, then another. The floor felt as if it was shifting under him. The walls were tilting, the room tightening around him until it was hard to breathe.
In this state of panic, he would usually crave Will. Sometimes he would call out to him, sometimes he would wordlessly seek out his companionship to ease the pain. Always, Will would be there. Whether to provide a distraction, or to coax Mike into spilling his guts out to him. Will always showed up. Except this time.
Will should be here. Will needed to be here, Mike needed him to be here.
Mike's throat burned. His vision blurred. He opened his mouth to call out to Will but the words didn't come out. There was nothing left. No sound. Just a broken whimper. Mike stumbled back, his hands reaching out to catch himself on something. But there was nothing there, Mike had thrown anything that could have caught him.
His knees shook under his weight, and before he knew it, he collapsed on the ground. His knees cracked against the floor but he didn't care, he welcomed the pain. Anything other than this feeling. His chest ached, his head was pounding. His hands pressed against his face, gripping at the roots of his hair. He rocked forward, his forehead making contact with the cold floor underneath.
With that, the tears finally spilled over. Sudden, as if a floodgate had been opened. Then, uncontrollable. His whole body shook with the force of it, wracking his shoulders. Gut wrenching, animalistic sobs tore out of his chest. He heaved with each sob, head spinning too fast.
Mike prayed the floor would open up and swallow him whole. That the rift in the Earth would appear just where he is, that maybe a gate to the Upside Down would open under his knees and take him away. He prayed that a demo, the military, even Vecna himself would show up and just make it stop.
It destroyed him that Will was gone. That he wasn't even there for it, he didn't even have a chance. He couldn't have even tried to save him.
And he would have. Mike would have fought tooth and nail with every ounce of his being to keep Will safe.
And at least that way, if Mike had failed, he could at least have gone out with him. Holding his best friend, his everything, in his arms. At peace.
He didn't even know how it happened, and that killed him even more. Mike hadn't stuck around to hear the details, he hadn't even heard if they won. Or maybe he did, and he just didn't know because he couldn't remember anything past the news.
He didn't know if Will had died in vain, if his sacrifice was worth anything.
Was it even a sacrifice? Mike was sure it was. He decided it was, he didn't need to know the details. Will deserved that title. The hero, the martyr, the saint in Mike's eyes.
Mike's thoughts wandered to the gritty details of it. His mind flashed intrusive thoughts of all the horrible, awful ways Will could have gone.
Mike let out a broken whimper and bumped his head against the hard floor a few times to dispel the thoughts.
Instead, it shook him back into his grief of not being there.
Will had always been there, and now he wasn’t. And Mike had failed him. Failed the one person who had never given up on him.
He prayed, actually prayed to whatever was out there, that Will had gone in peace. That he at least wasn't alone, that maybe Jonathan or Robin or someone he cared about was with him, was able to hold his hand and tell him it was alright.
Because Mike sure as hell hadn't been there.
He tucked that thought away the best he could, that was a guilt ridden spiral for another time.
When the unending wave of tears ended, when Mike physically could not cry any harder, just heaving breathy, broken noises into the floor. The blood rushed to his head as he leaned back on his heels, and his hand bumped something soft behind him.
Glancing down, his heart practically crawled out of his chest. He thought he was going to be sick.
He had landed next to the mattress. Next to Will's bed.
He swallowed hard, desperate to keep his stomach from emptying itself. He was surrounded by Will's scent, his blanket just inches away.
Despite himself, he reached out to grab the blanket. He couldn't help it. He needed it, he needed to feel close to Will again. Tugging it close, it was warm and heavy. Of course, Will would have the heaviest blanket he could possibly find, desperate to keep the cold away.
Tears threatened to spill out of his eyes, but somehow, they never came. He was empty, cried out. His throat had closed up, dry and raw and burning.
Mike shuffled himself back onto the mattress, letting the warm blanket and the smell of Will envelope him.
The scent was warm, a little minty, mixed with grass, the woods, and his shampoo. Mike whimpered softly as he held it to his face. Without shame, he rubbed it against his face for a moment, desperate to keep the smell with him forever.
Suddenly in a desperate movement, he wrapped the thick blanket around his shoulders and sighed. He didn't care if it sounded delirious, if it sounded insane, he felt like it was Will hugging him, one last time. It was as if Will's arms were wrapped around him, holding the remaining bits of his sanity left.
And that helped the tears flow once more.
Not sobs, no, simply because his body was too physically exhausted to produce any more. Just silent, hot tears trailing down his face.
Mike tucked his knees into himself, gripping onto the blanket like it was a lifeline.
"Will..." He whispered, voice shaking. "Please... please come back to me... I can't do this without you. I need you."
Too exhausted even hold himself up anymore, he tipped over to his side, his knees still against his chest. His eyes fluttered, the fatigue finally catching up with him. But, even as he felt himself slipping, there was no escape from the grief. There was no escape from the silence that stretched out around him.
He was so, so tired. He just wished he could fall asleep in the warmth of Will's arms, instead of just the blanket. Still, Mike let himself sink into it, wrapping himself in the only piece of Will left with him.
The tears were gone.
And all that was left was the quiet ache, the numb void settling into his chest.
Mike laid there, his chest hollow and his mind empty. Unable to sleep but too exhausted to do anything other than just lay there.
He knew he shouldn't stay. There was still danger out there, still unknown of the outcome of the fight. He was sure the others probably had mission to finish, wounds to patch. He should go back, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the last bit of space that held Will.
He let his mind wander to his memories of Will, his poor, beautiful Will. He prayed that whatever happened to him, he was at more peace than Mike was right now.
Back at the station, the building stood eerily quiet. Only a few team members were wandering around different parts of the building, all in their own varying stages of recovering from the turmoil of the day.
The rest were still out on their respective tasks, still unbeknownst to the horrors that occurred. One being Joyce herself. She hadn't come back yet, off on a tedious yet less dangerous with Murray, and no one dared even considering breaking the news to her until it was in person. The same applied to Dustin and Lucas, still completing their own part of the mission with Erica.
Jonathan had taken off shortly after Mike, despite Nancy's desperate attempts to offer him comfort. She let him go, she knew he needed space and time to process what they had all witnessed.
In an empty, dimly lit room, laid the body of one Will Byers.
Placed precariously on a cot, tucked in with a thin and worn sheet. He looked peaceful, at rest. Around him was Nancy, Robin, and Steve, quietly sat as if they were standing guard over his resting body. They waited patiently, hopeful, aware of what was happening just a few miles away.
In the cabin was El and Hopper. El was in the tank, eyes covered as Hopper stood watch above her. He was nervous, understandably, despite El's insistence that she had done this before, almost completely successfully. He tried to fight more, he really did, but he knew the girl would do anything to save her brother.
Back at station, in that dimly lit room, on the uncomfortably small cot, laid Will Byers body.
Suddenly, he gasped in a violent breath as his eyes fluttered open. Will Byers was alive.