Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Mike’s presentation had been messy.  

It happened in October of 1985. Just months after the “mall fire.” Just months after the Byers family, including El, moved to California. 

It was so loud inside of his head with thoughts overlapping, at odds with each other, impulses that didn’t make sense, and the need to destroy his belongings in frustration when a thing he couldn’t describe wanting didn’t happen. He remembered sobbing, hitting his arms, and hitting anything he could get his hands on. Between waves, his periods of lucidity only let him eat and go to the bathroom. He didn’t speak a word for 72 hours. 

When he’d emerged from his room, grimy and sore all over, his dad managed to give him a clap on the shoulder. He even set down his paper and made eye contact. Mike flinched under it but understood the sentiment. He’d done something good. He did what he was meant to do. The right thing. Presented alpha. It didn’t matter if he’d suffered doing it. That wasn’t the important part. It also didn’t matter that he didn’t do anything more than he endured it. 

His friends were sympathetic for about four days, patting him comfortingly and offering him snacks. They’d ask what he needed, and Mike didn’t really know what he needed, only that something was wrong. All the scents at school stung his nose and were nearing giving him a headache by the end of the day. Dustin and Lucas encouraged him to keep calling the Byers house in California to talk to El, convinced it would make him feel better, but it was always busy, no matter the time of day. He doesn’t know if it might have helped, even if he’d been able to get through to him. 

She sent letters often, El. She wrote about her exciting new school, how confusing the rules were, but how much she was learning. She wrote about how quickly she’d adjusted, but never forgetting to remind him how much she missed him. It was nice. Comforting to know. He missed her too. Missed her smile, her laugh, getting to visit her at Hopper’s cabin. She went out of her way, so it only felt right to answer back. To keep feeling like he had a place in her new life. It didn’t really feel like lying when he left out small things. He told her he presented. He told her about Hellfire. He even talked about Holly and how she was doing. The letters were sweet, bordering on tacky, but he knew El wouldn’t judge him, she never did. No matter how silly the contents were, he kept writing, because his girlfriend deserved to feel cared for. It was what good boyfriends did. He didn’t talk about the restlessness that made sleeping at night difficult. What would be the point? 

Will’s letters were different. They were solemn, reserved, and shaded with melancholy. He talked about memories, asking if Mike recalled them too. Of course he did. He mentioned his new school and how it compared to Hawkins. Never better, only different. He only ever mentioned El in passing. When Mike tried to answer, he struggled to get out words that made sense, but mostly he struggled with words that didn’t feel like a lie. Will had always been able to know what he meant even without needing to say it, but did that work with the written word? They’d never tried it before. Maybe Will the Wise had a spell slot for that. He would be able to read between the lines on a blank paper and know what Mike needed so he would stop being so damn confused and lost. The first letter he sent to Will felt unsatisfying, like a full party kill. The potential for something was there, but so much didn’t come through.  

Dustin and Lucas kept trying. They asked if he had any ideas on what to do after school and Mike didn’t answer. Max was still MIA, drifting further away every day. Drowning, maybe. Mike was afraid if he threw her some rope to drag her to shore, she might hang herself with it.  

After four days of attempts, Lucas stood a little further away from him when he came to his locker. Mike wasn’t sure if it was an instinct thing, alpha against disgruntled alpha, or a conscious decision. Lucas had been the first in the party to present during the summer before high school. He never needed longer than his three days to be back to normal after his ruts. He came back acting normal, and Mike never felt the need to run away from him. Something like jealousy burned in his gut at the thought. 

Day five had Lucas seeing him approach, dragging his feet through the hallway that morning. He made a face like he was sorry when he made eye contact, before slinking backwards towards the gym. He’d said something about trying out for basketball now that football season was over. For what? So he could be around a bunch of asshole jocks? The same ones that had bullied them in middle school? Just the idea was ridiculous, but Lucas said since he’d hit a good growth spurt, he stood a real chance. Mike thought the only chance he had was of being shoved into a toilet.  

Dustin didn’t really get it, but seemed to follow Lucas’ lead, whether consciously or not. After trying everything, apparently they’d decided what Mike needed was space. The distance was welcome for a minute, until he felt absolutely abandoned and miserable, with no one to blame but himself. The dichotomy was the most aggravating part of it all. Needing his friends but wanting to push them away at the same time. The same feeling that put every letter he’d tried to write to Will right into the trash can. 

That was when Eddie found them.  

He was brash and a bit condescending, but he knew what they needed. He called them lost sheep, said they looked like the kind of “fine gentleman that might know a thing or two about dice.” Mike hesitated briefly before joining Hellfire. His mind replayed the relief he felt when Will said he wouldn’t join another party, and he felt an immediate crushing guilt at not following through on the same sentiment. It tasted sour in his mouth to play with other people, just a little wrong. The picture was skewed without the full party. Especially the person he’d discovered the game with. He’d never played with anyone else. It wasn’t like he was joining another party, though, he rationalized. Not really. It was just a club. It passed the time. It smoothed over some of the jagged feelings he’d been stuck in. And if he relished in the feeling of a successful campaign, closed his eyes and just focused on the excited huddle, it was like Will was playing with them again. 

They lost.  

A short world-ending event had knocked them all down. Everyone in the party, at least. The rest of Hawkins was much less bothered.  

It turns out a year is about all the time anyone needs to get to some form of normalcy. Not that anything about the situation is normal by the standard definition. Military are still patrolling the streets constantly, taking residence in their once-quiet town. But they’ve been pushing the “return to normal” narrative really hard since they got there just two days after the incident that everyone has taken to calling The Earthquake. Like concrete cracks from an earthquake were supposed to glow red. Right.  

Trucks began to blare instructions and new rules on huge speakers, circling the streets for days. The new regulations were posted at light posts, city buildings, and the schools. Curfew, restricted areas, the works. The library was closed off, with the military claiming a possible toxic area. The possible health crisis was how they justified the lockdown. People stopped being allowed to leave under the guise of “concern for your safety.” Dozens of cars, piled with whatever people could panickily fit in their cars, were backed up for hours when that happened. Nine people were arrested for non-compliance and one, very stupid person, caused a physical altercation, leading to 10 military guys pointing a gun at him. People said he pissed his pants. It was about then that everyone got the idea and promptly got into their vehicles to return to what was left of their homes or to the shelters. No one in or out. Message received.  

A week and a half in, trucks brought giant sheets of metal, supposed to cover up the miles-long portals to another dimension. Wow, strips of metal. Why didn’t any of us think of that? 

Most people didn’t really question the military’s involvement or how strict everything was. Everyone seemed to accept that this was how things were. The cracks being covered helped a lot with the story. Out of sight, out of mind.  

Lucas and Dustin retreated so far into themselves, it was more likely that the military would pack up and deem it all an honest mistake than it was to get a call back from them. 

Dustin spent weeks with Mr. Munson planning for Eddie’s “funeral.” There was no body to bury and they couldn’t have a reception, as it would get disrupted immediately, but they, along with everyone from the party, went to the cemetery and said a few words at his gravestone. Dustin cried at the beginning but then seemed to dissociate mid-way through. He was barely there anymore. His eyes were fixed on the letters, probably thinking about how close together the dates were. Not enough time. Steve tried to put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Dustin shrugged it off.

Lucas spent every possible moment in Max’s room. Nurses started to get to know him pretty well. They stopped moving his tape player, knowing he’d be back to play it the next day. Some of them started taking to reminding him to go home and get proper rest in a bed. On a particularly hard day, a kind nurse brought in a cot for him and an extra blanket.  

El’s wanted posters started popping up about a month into the quarantine. Jane Hopper written in big letters and, Mike had to admit begrudgingly, a rather accurate drawing of her. It was about that point that Hopper went full lockdown with El. It didn’t bother her like it once did, instead she seemed to be encouraging it. Hopper and Joyce made an obstacle course for her to train. Together they built a sensory deprivation tank inside the cabin that she was inside of more than a recommended amount. She grew agitated when anyone asked if she’d seen Vecna in there.  

School was a little harder to get going again. It was, obviously, cancelled through that summer, but plenty of extra workers came in to rebuild areas and by July, the notices said to start getting supplies ready for August. The ground nearly swallowed them up, but sure, let’s get tissues and index cards. 

Nobody in the party had presented since Mike, which was a bit shocking. Everyone thought Max would be an alpha for sure, but right now she wasn’t Mad Max, she wasn’t a beta, she was just asleep. El wasn’t likely to be anything but a beta considering her days at the lab pushed her body to its limits, but it was still possible. 

One of the only positive things to come out of all this mess was that everyone was together again. El and Will and Jonathan were back in Hawkins. The circumstances were less than desirable, but something deep in Mike settled at knowing they were close and couldn’t leave. That annoying little instinct that had been bothering him since that October before the world fell apart, seemed subdued. It was almost something to be ashamed of, having an internal peace despite the chaos and misery, but Mike couldn’t help it. He felt grounded, stable, for the first time in a long time. 

Mike had taken the opportunity to get close to Will again. It was easier than he'd been expecting to fall back into old habits. Watching movies together, Mike coming up with character or campaign concepts and Will making them into reality. It all had a nice hazy quality to it, the familiarity of not needing words, being able to move in sync. Things felt right when they weren’t at odds. Correction: When Mike wasn’t being a dick. With the party injured and disjointed in grief and loss, having Will with him was helping him keep from going insane.

So, when the suggestion of the Byers’ staying with them was blurted out by a transparent Mike came up, he chose to ignore the reluctance in his parent’s voices. He all but tried hypnosis to get them used to the idea until they relented. He knew where the hesitance was coming from. There was no end date to this “sleepover.” If it were a two-week stay, that would be something very different. But it wasn’t. No end in sight. No suggestion that they’d ever be in their own home. A very valid concern.  

This was of little consequence to Mike. 

He hadn’t anticipated how much coordination three extra people in his home would be. But if the tradeoff was the Byers family moving to the outskirts of Hawkins to be in some communal living center, then Mike would help Nancy make as many chore charts as necessary. 

Mike and Will, for their part, managed to figure out their boundaries without any charts or schedules. Take that, Nancy. Sure, the alpha had to apologize more than once in that stilted way that he hoped came off as awkwardly sincere instead of painfully embarrassing, but it was worth it when Will stopped looking like he’d get a verbal dressing down for simply sitting on the couch next to him.  

After three attempts to get Will to listen, Mike had to sit him down and explain in the plainest way possible. He walked them upstairs to sit on his bed. Will sat gingerly, like he didn’t want to disturb the messily made bed. And it was made. Mike planned it. Would it have made him more at ease if the bed had been left with crumpled sheets and a cover falling off the sides?  

There was lead-in in the script he'd made. There was! Mike had thought about icebreakers. Something like, You been to the movies yet? Or How’s the basement? Cold? Oh, yeah. Maybe even You wanna come up here and have a sleepover? That last one could still use some work. 

What ended up coming out was a petulant, “You’re the only one that calls me on my bullshit, okay. I miss that.”  

Will startled a bit, caught off guard by the voice louder than he wanted near his ear. He curled his fingers into his jeans then made his palms flat to rest on his thighs. A nervous movement. Mike cringed at himself for, yet again, making Will uncomfortable. 

“You want me to tell you when you’re acting like an asshole?” He asked carefully. 

“So, you admit I was an asshole,” Mike answered with a smirk. 

His eyes widened. “I mean-” 

“Will!” He exclaimed exasperatedly. He had a small smile, that one that Will was always able to drag out of him, even when things were bleak. 

Will took a deep breath and rolled his eyes, annoyed at the theatrics, but he pressed his lips together in that way he did when he didn’t want Mike to know he wanted to laugh. “Fine, yes.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m tired of you acting like I’ll kick you out of my life if you say the wrong thing,” he admitted.  

Will stopped then, eyes flicking up and pinning him in place with a severity he wasn’t prepared for. They were shiny, and Mike felt like there was more going on here than he knew. 

“You’re sure you won’t?” The question was confusing. And stupid. Of course, he was sure. Mike almost made a face at him for such a ridiculous question. 

“I did not drag your unconscious body through Hawkins Lab at 12, with nearly the same amount of muscle mass I have now, just to kick you out for calling me a dick,” Mike punctuated the sentence with a shoulder bump. 

Will laughed. Actually crinkled his eyes and let the sound bubble out of him, looking amused and like a 100 pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders. It was like watching sunlight shine on snow.  

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said warmly. Mike was really hoping so. 

Things were better after that. 

When Will first slapped his bedroom door loudly and unabashedly, calling his name in that annoyed way that suggested he was irritated at any wait time, Mike felt a bit deranged at the way he smiled while opening the door. 

His room could’ve had a sleeping bag on the floor, or an air mattress, but a real mattress in the basement seemed a more comfortable choice, his mom reasoned. He supposed she was right. He toyed with the idea of two beds in his room, but decided that it was pushing it a bit in terms of space. It’s fine. He was still closer than he had been in months. Just two staircases away. 

The house found its rhythm within a couple of months. It was a polyrhythm, to be sure, with chaotic moments of overlapping meters and things not quite lining up properly, but the tempo stayed steady and every few measures, they’d find the downbeat. Routines in times like this were important. Paramount. Breakfast and dinner together. Laundry every Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday. Dining table seats were set. Mr. Wheeler at the head, Jonathan and Nancy next to each other, Mike and Joyce on either side of Will. Little things that made everyone feel more at ease. Especially his Mom.  

Will put him to shame here, too. He volunteered to help with chores he wasn’t assigned to- offered to stir the pot for Mrs. Wheeler, sorted his family’s clothes in the baskets, cleared the table- and his mom stared at him with that face, every time. Look at that, Michael. Why can’t you be more like Will, Michael?  

Mike had holed himself in his room starting right after Halloween. Will knew why. He knew Mike was an alpha. He knew what happened a few times a year. It never seemed like a real thing, though. Not in reference to his friend. Will had been in Lenora the first time, when he presented. In a community living center, the second. And now, he was two staircases away from Mike in rut. He felt a little wrong for even thinking about it in such plain terms. Crude. Indecent. 

Will busies himself with schoolwork. A new essay for history, a sketch page for art, worksheet for chemistry. It's fine. Mundane. Will can make it through one assignment at the dining table without straining his ears to listen for the tell-tale sign of pacing back and forth upstairs. He can.  

A crash of something dropping startles Will mid pencil stroke. Mrs. Wheeler, in the kitchen, sighs and takes off her apron.  

“Will, honey, could you keep an eye on Holly? I’m going to check on him.” 

Holly is laying down on her stomach doing some homework of her own. She looks up, a little irritated, seeming offended at being spoken about in such infantilizing terms. She's now in third grade and developing quite the attitude. Thankfully, she likes Will well enough.  

“Of course. Um-” he cuts himself off, not knowing how to ask about Mike in a non-prying way. “Is he okay? Could I see if he needs anything?” 

“Oh, you don’t want to do that. It’s okay.” 

“It’s not a problem.” 

She smiles in understanding. “I know, but he doesn’t react well to others in his room during this time. He’s a little... irritable.”  

And like they’d rehearsed it, another crash comes from his room, louder than the one before. Mrs. Wheeler sighs again. 

“What is he doing?”  

“It sounds like he’s destroying something. Again. Last time was especially bad but considering what happened, I understood. He’s a little calmer this time, so I was hoping he wouldn’t throw things. He won’t talk to me, he never does, so I’ll bring him something to eat and leave it at his door. He’ll check at some point once he’s between waves.” 

“This is him calm?” Will asks incredulously. 

“If you’d believe it.” 

Truthfully, no. He couldn’t. Mike has never been violent. Moody and impulsive at times? Definitely. But violent? Will had heard that ruts were filled with restless energy, where alphas turned into animals with no control and all that could result in an aggressive nature, but Mike has never seemed to be that way. He’d never been physically rough with him. Some of their worst moments, where he’d hurt Will, weren’t a punch to the face, but a painful comment blurted out in the heat of the moment. His weapon of choice has always been his tongue. So, to imagine Mike trying to hit him didn’t make sense. 

She took a handful of food items Will didn’t see and left them at his door. There were two more loud bangs, but no one else paid them any mind, including Holly. It’s eerie. It’s heartbreaking. Having to hear Mike upstairs, frustrated to the point of breaking his own belongings and nobody come help or even react tugs at Will’s heartstrings. He wishes he could go up there, even if it’s just to see that Mike isn’t hurt.  

It wasn’t like Will was an omega or anything, so it wouldn’t have been entirely inappropriate of him to ask, but for some reason, it was seen as less acceptable to spend time in a room with an alpha in rut than it was with an omega unless it was for sexual reasons. Omegas needed comfort and alphas didn’t. That didn’t seem very fair. Maybe Mike wasn’t angry, he was just lonely. Regardless, Will couldn’t go up there. If nothing else, Mr. Wheeler would be mad, and it would be a real shame for that to be the thing that finally gave him the excuse to get them out of his house.  

Once Will finishes all the work he was going to do, he retires to his room- the basement. A couple of nights every week, Jonathan would go up to sleep in Nancy’s room. Tonight was one of those nights. With the basement to himself, Will has nothing to distract him from thinking about Mike. It’s in the forefront of his mind; imagining what he’s doing and how he’s feeling.  

It’s been 38 minutes since Jonathan left. He only left the basement when the house was quiet and dark, so the coast is clear when Will sneaks up the stairs. He tiptoes on shaky, socked feet. He’s never snuck out of the basement at night, too scared to run into someone or unknowingly cross a boundary by wandering where he wasn’t supposed to. That’s why he always gets a glass of water before bed. Every sound is amplified, from his ragged breathing to the miniscule creaking of the wooden stairs. When he gets close enough to the door, he hears faint noises- footfalls, paper shuffling, heavy breathing. Mike.  

There’s a glow from inside the room, like a lamp is on inside it. The door feels paper-thin, such a small obstacle between Will and whatever apparent monster is behind it. His mom made it sound like Will was in danger coming up here, but the only thing he ever feared in Mike’s room was that atrocious green sweater he’d tried to wear a few months ago. In this tense moment, that doesn't feel entirely true though, because Will’s nervously shaking hands at his sides make him feel like this was a huge mistake. Still, after a few seconds of being static behind the door, he brings up a hand to knock gently, but a muffled noise, just shy of a breathy whine, rings from the other side. 

Will freezes. 

“Will?” Mike’s voice is rough, raspy like he’s just woken up, but he couldn’t have, because there were undeniable noises of alertness just moments before. He sounded careful, like he wasn’t sure if he was going to be right. Will hadn’t said anything. He’d been so careful to not get found out, and Mike knew he was there, without looking, without hearing. Like always, Will didn’t have to say anything at all. 

“Mike?” He breathes out the name, soft like a hitch of breath. 

A shadow appears in the bottom of the door frame and Will stands straighter to add half an inch more of distance. He feels wound tight.  

The answer comes with stops between every few words, like it takes real work to get the words out cleanly. “What... are you... doing here? You shouldn’t... be here.” 

“I know.” 

There’s a long pause where Mike doesn’t know what to say. Will knows he shouldn’t be here and he is here anyway. Now what? 

“I could... hurt you. The lock. It’s on my side.”  

“You won’t hurt me,” Will says firmly. 

Mike is quiet again. It isn’t a ‘you’re right,’ but it isn’t a ‘you’re wrong,’ so there’s that. 

He sighs in what sounds like defeat. “Do you have food?” 

Will smiles. He looks down and finds the food Mrs. Wheeler brought up earlier that evening. “Your mom left some Doritos and a banana and some Nilla wafers outside your door.” 

“Thank God.”  

Mike moves closer behind the door and Will hears the sound of a hand touching the doorknob then silence. He wants to unlock the door. He wants to unlock the door. 

“Um.” He clears his throat. “You should go. I-”  

“I get it,” Will cuts in. 

“Do you?” 

“You want to eat and then fall asleep, and you want me to go.” 

The alpha’s voice is soft. “No. I just don’t want to hurt you.”  

It feels wrong to leave. It feels like he’s abandoning his best friend or running away like everyone else. Like he’s saying that everyone’s right and that Mike deserves to be alone for another 24 hours, when he doesn’t. Worst of all, it feels like he’s agreeing that he’s afraid. 

“I’ll go. I’m glad to hear that you’re okay.” 

“It’ll be better tomorrow. I wo- I won't miss it. I’ll be there... with you. I promise.” 

Will feels his heart about to burst out of his chest. ‘It’ being November 6th. In the middle of this- where according to his mom, he’s not usually verbal, partly out of his mind- Mike is reassuring Will that he will be there for him. He's still speaking in short bursts like his tongue struggles to cooperate with its usual rate of speaking, but he sounds so sincere it hurts. It’s too kind for Will to keep himself together. There’s a pressure behind his eyes that feels like he might cry. A pull in his chest that feels like he might try to open the door.

“I know,” he says croakily, and tries to inject some humor into his tone. "Try not to break anything else.” 

“That I can’t promise you,” Mike huffs out. 

Will can’t help but giggle. This isn’t some violent alpha in rut. This is just Mike. Mike, who he watched climb trees and collected pretty rocks with and played games in his basement with. Mike, who put Band-Aids over his scraped knees and cheered him up when bullies called him names and was there for him when he couldn’t tell up from down. 

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” Will reaffirms. He needed to say it again, for his sake as much as Mike’s.  

“How do you know?” Mike is asking like he’s calling Will naive. A silly beta that wouldn’t have the first idea of what he would do. 

“Because you dragged my unconscious body at age 12 through Hawkins Lab. That would undo your hard work. And I know you hate a redundant story line.” 

That brought a startled laugh out of Mike. Will’s ears pick up a sound that’s likely him popping a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. It sounds beautiful and full of everything that makes Mike wonderful. Will’s chest feels tight. 

“Thanks.” 

. 

So, Mike was hovering a little. It was endearing in its own way. He was managing to weave back and forth between the line of acceptable concern and overbearing. Will couldn’t fault him, necessarily. He was allowed to be concerned for his friend during this time considering their stellar track record in November of all months. Or Will’s at any rate. The month wasn’t ever a pleasant one. Every year he feels jumpy, anxious at everything that moves or makes a sound even marginally reminiscent of his time in the upside down. Branches cracking, the squeak of metals next to each other, and especially the dropping temperatures. Nightmares get bad in the week leading up to November 6th and take a while to go away. He wakes up feeling cold all over- fingers and toes numb and legs feeling not his own. Dreams feel too close to reality and sometimes Will can’t tell which he’s stuck in. He needs some time to get his bearings and distinguish between a sleeping nightmare and something real. 

All that to say, Mike has been hovering. He finished with his isolation on Tuesday. It’s now Thursday, November 5th. One day to go. It was a bit loud, the way he would volunteer to do random things for him- carry his bag, get his lunch, help with his homework. But loud was his default setting, usually. Their friends understood and didn’t fault him for it. In fact, Lucas and Dustin had also been overly agreeable. Suspiciously so.  

“You guys, I’m okay,” Will says after the third time they asked about how his classes were going. 

“What do you mean?” Lucas asks, unconvincingly. He’s always had a pretty bad poker face. Not as bad as Dustin’s, but still bad.  

Dustin had made considerable steps in getting closer to his friends. He sometimes shut down in conversation when something wandered too close to home. He’d lost some of that brightness; that boisterous joy he was known for. Nobody knew if he’d get it back. But still, he was there more often than not. He’d been growing out his hair in a clear homage to Eddie, and it looked kind of cool, to be honest. 

“I mean you don’t have to keep acting like I’ll go nuts. I’m fine. Yeah, this time of year sucks, but I’m not disappearing again. I’m okay.” 

“Not funny,” Mike says flatly. 

“Not a joke,” he responds with an eyebrow raise. 

Dustin sighs. “Fine. I don’t want to watch The Goonies again tonight.” 

“What?” Will exclaims. “It’s so good!” 

“Hey, you said you’re fine, so I don’t want to watch The Goonies.” 

Will pouts exaggeratedly. “You’re no fun.” 

“We should watch it. I like it,” Mike blurts.  

Bullshit. No, you don’t, Will wants to say. Mike had actually complained about it not too long ago, something about the amount of yelling, and Will called him a hypocrite to which he balked. 

“Lucas, what’s your verdict?” Mike asks quickly. 

The boy thinks about it, squinting up at ceiling, as if mentally replaying the movie and deciding whether or not it was worth watching.  

Finally, he says, “I’m fine with it.”

“Yes!” Will shouts in victory. He's not too graceful to stop himself from sticking out his tongue at Dustin.

“Traitor. Absolute traitor, Sinclair,” Dustin says gravely. He pushes at Lucas, hoping to knock him into the lockers, but the guy's built like a brick wall: solid and unmovable. The bell rings in the middle of Dustin's second shove, and the boys start to scatter off to their respective classes. 

Mike turns to walk away and Will hooks a finger in the bottom of his backpack strap to keep him from leaving.

“Stop.”

The boy turns around obediently with a smug grin that exposes him immediately. He’s standing up straight and chin upturned, making him feel impossibly tall. Will wants to keep his irritated composure, wants to say, you lied to let me get my way, you sneaky shit, but breaks at the way Mike’s dimples are showing. He smiles back reluctantly but looks away quickly from the gentle look that makes his cheeks heat. 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t be late,” he dismisses and starts to walk backwards. Four steps in he stops.  

“Almost forgot.” Mike roots around in his backpack until he pulls out a familiar blue sweater. He saw Mike wear it only a few days ago and now he was handing it out to Will. He looks questioningly at him but takes it. Their fingers brush as he grabs it and Will wants to jump at the touch. 

“In case you get cold today.” 

Will almost blushes down to his neck. Mike is giving him his sweater to wear. He’s giving him his sweater. To wear. He stutters out a quick “Thanks” and turns on his heel to run walk briskly to his next class. Art? Chem? It’s in this direction, he’s pretty sure. Or maybe he isn’t. His brain is too busy. 

It's not the first time they've shared clothes. In fact, there's a lot of Mike's clothing that has become Will's since living with the Wheelers. But not like this; not worn clothing that’s been scented- purposefully or not- and not when it could've been easy to get one of Will's jackets from the basement.

It smells painfully like Mike- a little sharper than normal but still the same comforting scent. He’s sweating a little all day, considering it isn’t cold inside the school, but he doesn’t take it off until he’s walking towards his bike. And if he keeps it in his backpack, hoping Mike forgets he let him borrow it, well that’s nobody’s business. 

“If you want this to look like you and not some ugly troll, you better sit still,” Will admonished. He doesn't have any real heat in his voice, only an amused fondness that he never could shake.

Will had brought it up first, saying something about the lighting being really nice in that spot, and how fun to draw Mike looked when he sat like that. He’d been sitting with one leg bent, foot flat on the cushion and one leg tucked under, hand leaning awkwardly on the bent knee, looking just off-center. He wasn’t lying, it looked like a fun pose and the angles of his face were interesting with the window giving its last effort. Sundown was warm, making Mike’s face a pinker color. He’d still be lying if he said this didn’t give him an excuse to stare for a while.  

“I’ve been sitting like this for like 30 minutes, I need to move. My physical prowess and killer instincts can’t be idle, Will. I’ll perish. I’ll wilt,” the taller boy moans dramatically. 

“Physical prowess my ass, Mike. You couldn’t run to the mailbox without stopping for a water break, now stop talking, your lips are moving and now I messed up.” 

Messed up was a overselling it a bit, but Mike is making that face, pouty and sulky, that Will thought he’d eventually outgrow, but alas, here it is tormenting him, being endearing in a way that he’s too old for now. It doesn’t last long. He forces his face to be neutral again, and Will hates that it’s not any less handsome. 

“Fine,” he says through teeth, not moving his lips. 

A little obsessed with the tiny details, Will takes the moment for the opportunity it is and gets a little closer now. From the appropriate distance, he walks three strides before planting himself again and leaning even more. He sets his sights on the only thing he has left to do, the one he had been avoiding, at risk of lingering for too long.

Mike’s lips weren’t hard to get right. Will’s been drawing his best friend for a long time now. If he’d kept all of them, he could probably see all of his progress through drawings of his friend, how simple they were, and how sharpened by clarity they’ve become. This is the first time in a long time that Will is planning on showing Mike a drawing of him he’s made. At least one he's claiming credit for. A silly fear likes to creep up Will’s arms, that it’ll be too obvious, too exposing to show Mike. Like he’d see the careful strokes, the attention to his cheekbones, and know what his thoughts had been while setting pencil to paper. That he would know how often Will had practiced hands, knobby elbows and knees, hairstyles, noses, all with the mental image of him. A perfect recreation behind his eyelids. Will could draw him blindfolded now. Will could draw him blind.  

He stares intently for a long while. At least it feels like a long while. He’d been looking down periodically to check his work, but somewhere in the studying, he’d become greedy. He didn’t mean to, but his looking has grown and become weightier. It buckles under the heaviness of Will’s intent. His attention. His need.

He doesn't usually let himself get greedy like this. Even when Mike’s hair was at that perfect length that hit his eyebrows or when he raked a hand through his curls and tilted his chin up. He stole tiny bites. He’s gotten good at seeing Mike in the corner of his eye and convincing himself it's enough. It certainly feels like enough when his pulse quickens regardless. But Will is staring like he’s never let himself and, God, how could he ever go back to begging his eyes for scraps of this? Small bits of his cupids bow or the pink, full flesh of his bottom lip.  

A minuscule movement catches Will’s eye. Mike subtly flicks his eyes up to see what the hold up is, because he had noticed that the scratch of the pencil on paper had stopped, who knows how long ago.  

Will feels caught, embarrassed by the possibility of having been here for hours staring at his best friends lips. He looks up, blinks twice, as if clearing the fog, and inhales sharply before looking down to resume the scribbling.  

He doesn’t look up for longer than 10 seconds at a time after that. Mike doesn’t make a comment. Is it because he hadn’t noticed the weight of the stare? Or is he choosing to ignore it? Will's cheeks are hot, but he says nothing, too focused on completing the task at hand. He’s finished in 5 minutes. Maybe less.

When he breaks the quiet, Will’s voice is a little scratchy, something that has nothing to do with disuse. “Here. I’m not super happy with it, but-”  

Mike moves, takes the paper gingerly, much like one would a painting that’s still drying. He lifts his eyebrows and widens his eyes.  

“Wow. You-“ 

“I know it’s not perfect.” 

“I’m not perfect. No, I was going to say it's awesome. Really good, Will.” 

Mike has that annoyingly sincere expression on again and Will almost groans because he hates that face. It makes him feel like his collar his choking him and his tongue doesn’t belong in his mouth. 

He shakes off the praise. “I didn’t get your freckles right or the angle of inner eyebrow.” 

Mike chuckles at that. 

“You have much better eyes than I do, because I don’t even notice my freckles usually. You drew me like... I’m... good-looking. Or something.” 

“I just put the visual to paper. I guess the reference was alright-looking when he wasn’t moving around.” 

Oh, God. Did I just call him good looking? Why did I say that? It’s close enough to truth that Will grabs his pencil and sets down his sketch pad for something to do to avoid looking at Mike in the eyes. He’s really hoping his face isn’t as bright red as he feels like it is. 

“I know I was being a dick about it taking so long, but you did a lot in 30 minutes.” 

“I’ve had a lot of practice drawing y-” Will stops. “Drawing from a live reference,” he corrects. 

God, Will needs something else to put in his mouth instead of his foot. Like Mike’s mouth. 

“This is gonna sound self-centered but could I... keep this?” He asks shyly, head ducked. 

“Yeah, sure. I don’t have much of a need for it. I can see your face whenever I want.” 

Jesus, just gag me. 

Mike actually blushes and looks down and, Jesus Christ, Will is insane. He’s going crazy. Mentally unwell. Why would he say that? Why would he say that? He has the urge to pull his own eyelashes out one by one. Or maybe just slap himself.

He doesn't say anything as he turns to a bookshelf in the basement and picks up a black binder. 

“What is that?” Will asks curiously. 

“It’s your art. Or the ones that fit, anyway.” 

Will steps next to Mike, careful not to touch any of their skin together, careful not to look up and study the prime angle of his jawline. He peeks at the open binder and sees an array of crayon colored paper and pencil sketches all placed in an organized fashion. 

“Those are all mine?” 

“Yeah. Do you wanna see?” There’s an excited shine in Mike’s eyes, like he genuinely wants Will to see everything he’s collected, it's endearing, and sue him, he’s nosy. 

“Yeah, I do.” 

. 

The two sit on the basement couch, papers scattered everywhere, binder spread over their laps. Their thighs are only a centimeter away from touching, Will did notice that, but Mike’s bare arm brushes against his every time he reaches over to grab another paper and it feels like a little shock to his skin. That is exactly what he was trying to avoid, but he doesn't have enough sense or willpower to pull away. 

They giggle at the silly ones, which is most of them. A lot of D&D concept art- the party and some recurring NPCs- as well as mundane items like landscapes and household items. 

“Oh, I hate that one, why did you keep it?” Will demands with a groan. He wants to bury his face in his hands at the atrocity that had stood the test of time. 

Mike shrugs. “Because you made it.” 

“It's so bad, though.”

“Well, it made you smile, even if it’s just in annoyance, so it must've done something right. I saved it from its untimely demise. Can't believe you almost threw it away!” 

“Because it’s terrible! I was 7 and clearly experimenting with colors.” 

It was an attempt at a sunrise, but it used colors not typically seen in sunrises- a bright blue and green. The colors bleed together and create an odd grey shade in some spots. It would probably get Mr. Andrade to give him a D-. But his elementary art teacher wasn’t that picky. 

“Well, I can see you in it. Like when I look at it, I can see you at 7 years old sitting over there with your crayon box and striped shirt.” Mike looks straight at him and his features soften. “It’s nice.” 

Will’s breath catches. 

“Mike Wheeler, a secret sentimental guy. The wonders never cease,” he says fondly. 

“Yeah. Yeah,” he mumbles into his shirt. 

Something is off with Will.

They stopped at the hospital with Lucas to visit Max and get their weekly dose of Kate Bush. Weekends were always a bit busier than weekdays, so there was some foot traffic in the hallways and idle chatter that came in through the door.  

Mike looks over at Will again. The odd behavior has started to pile up: Will keeps fidgeting in his seat, his face is flushed, and he’s constantly zoning out and breathing heavily. He snaps back into it for a minute before his eyes seem to glaze over again. Mike excuses himself to go to the vending machine. He gets himself a cup of coffee and gets Will a coke. He nurses it in his hands for a few minutes before drinking half of it in one go. He seems to perk up a bit after drinking it, so Mike chalks it up to just being tired.  

They get home after saying their goodbyes, and Will makes a beeline for the basement claiming he doesn’t feel well and he needs to “sleep it off.” Mike lets it lie, telling himself that, yeah, he must be sick. It’s a perfect explanation to his behavior. He busies himself upstairs doing some homework and reading comics. He’s moderately successful. Mostly at the comic part.

The house is its usual level of busy for the time of day. Holly is with his mom, running errands, his dad is still at work, Mrs. Byers and Jonathan are out at work, meaning he and Will are alone. That’s not unusual, but what is, is for them to be in completely different areas of the house with zero interaction.  

Enough time passes that Mike can’t ignore the weird prickling on his arms or the restless energy that makes him feel the need to pace and plant himself on the floor and eat everything in the fridge all at once. He goes downstairs, figuring he could find something in the kitchen to eat and check on Will. Maybe he wanted something too. 

When he reaches the basement door, he follows the usual protocol of knocking, waiting a few seconds for a ‘come in’ or a ‘wait a second’ but neither come. He knocks again. This time Will calls his name from the other side of the door. Taking that as an invitation, Mike turns the knob only to find the door locked. 

“Will?” 

“Mike,” Will calls from inside. His voice sounds strained and far away, like he hasn’t moved towards the door. Why isn’t he moving to open it? 

The alpha stares at the door in confusion. “Can I not come in?” 

“No!” 

Mike is taken aback at the tone of voice. Will sounds panicked at the idea of him opening the door. That doesn’t make sense. He and Jonathan rarely lock the door unless they’re changing. Maybe he was doing something he didn’t want Mike to see. 

No. Pivoting away from that thought immediately. 

Maybe he's in danger. Or getting possessed again. If he were in trouble, wouldn’t he want someone to help? His frantic thoughts are interrupted by Will speaking, calmer this time. 

“Just- I left my walkie upstairs. Can you leave it at the door please?”  

“Are you okay?” he needs to ask.  

“I’m fine. Can you please do that for me?” Will is speaking patiently, as if he already anticipated the questions about his well-being and is enduring the interrogation.  

The wood is almost mocking him, staring back at him in a taunting fashion, letting him know, Will doesn’t want you in there. Whatever is going on, he doesn’t want you. The thought stings more than Mike wants it to and more than he’s willing to analyze. Will really isn’t going to let him in. He doesn’t want the sulkiness to color his tone, but he doesn’t think he’s very successful. 

“Are you sure you’re fine?” he probes again.  

“Mike. Please. I’ll be okay. Just- please.” 

The pleading tone gives him pause. “Okay.” 

He finds it in his bag on the kitchen table and grabs the whole thing, setting it right outside the door.

“I found it. I’m gonna leave it here. If you need anything, just shout.” 

“Thanks, Mike. I’m okay. Or- or I will be. I swear.”  

“Alright,” he swallows. “I guess I’ll go.”  

His feet take him back towards the staircase, but he can’t bring himself to walk up. It feels like he’ll be too far away if he goes back to his room. He lingers for a while, looking stupid at the base of the stairs, like he’s forgotten how to walk.  

He waits for a minute. Two.  

The sound of the basement door opening has Mike’s ears perking up like a dog. It shuts just as quickly. Mike rushes to take off his shoes in an effort to be quieter and sneaks over to the door that looks just the same as he left it not even 5 minutes ago. Nothing has changed except for the bag he’d laid there is gone now. There is something new, though. A smell permeating the area in front of the door. It’s Will, but not. Will... and something. Something nice. Really nice, actually. Mike edges closer to the door but is careful not to give away his presence. He inhales again, trying to figure out what the smell is. He’s smelled it before.  

It kind of smells like Stacy Albright. Which is ridiculous, because Mike would know if Will was hiding Stacy in the basement. But how does it smell like the omega from 2nd period English? 

Oh.  

It’s... Will.  

The smell is Will.  

Mike blinks repeatedly. It settles weirdly. The knowledge that Will is... what he is. It’s like someone pulled the rug from under him then set him dead center on a seesaw. It's all precarious, like thinking about it too hard would break what little function of his brain he had left. He doesn't really know what to do with himself now that he knows. His feet are glued to the spot, his eyes glued to the door, and his jaw glued shut, clamping down on his tongue, he thinks. 

He doesn't want to embarrass his friend. Clearly he didn’t want Mike to know, but he wasn’t going to be able to keep it to himself for very long. He still feels guilty, like he invaded his privacy in a major way. That thought makes him stumble backwards to the living room. If he couldn’t go to his room before, he has zero intention of going up now. He sits on his dad’s recliner and stares at the TV, cold and unmoving. He doesn’t need it on. He wouldn’t be able to watch it even if he did.  

There’s a buzzing in his ears. He keeps sitting.  

Well, at least now he knows why Will didn’t want him in there.  

Why didn’t he want him in there?  

Not that he would ask to come in.  

That's- no. No.  

If he's not going to go in, at least he could be nearby in case Will needed... something. With his heart still beating way too fast, he rushes up the stairs and back down, bringing the comic he’d been reading to the living room. 

When an hour passes, Mike can't take it anymore. He’s read four pages. In one hour. He’s spacing out like aliens came in the night and plucked his brain straight out of his skull. No coherent thoughts. Only faint impulses and awareness of what his skin feels like stretched over his bones. And the words ‘omega’ and ‘Will’ playing on repeat.  

Joyce would probably be here soon. It’s a fair assumption that Will walkied to let her know about the situation. She’s probably racing home right now. Mike wonders if she felt at all apprehensive at having him alone with her son. Now that he was an omega. In heat.  

Jesus Christ.  

Mike pushes the palms of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars in his vision.  

He goes to the kitchen and makes a sandwich. His movements are altogether mechanical. He drops mayo on the counter and wipes it with two squares of paper towel. Overkill. You can never be too careful. Germs. Ants. Bugs. They probably love the stuff.  

He debates at the ominous door for several minutes. It feels like it has a glow to it now. Some arcane energy. 

He grows a pair and knocks.  

“You haven’t eaten. I’ll leave you something at the door. Feel free to not eat it if I managed to mess it up, which I might have, you never know. I mean, I know it’s just some ham and cheese and other stuff but if I did something wrong you can leave it or I could make you something else or- that's stupid. I don’t have to, obviously you can make something for yourself that’s probably better or- 

Will interrupts his rambling. “Mike.”  

He swallows. “Yeah?” 

“Thank you. You can just leave it there. I'll get it in a bit.”  

“Okay. Yeah. Totally. Cool. Cool.” He’s nodding despite the fact that Will can’t see him. 

“Mike.” 

“Yeah?” he responds immediately. 

“...you know, don’t you?” 

Mike pauses for a long time, not wanting to admit to his faux pas, but can’t stand lying. His mind quickly plays out the scenario where he pretends and it doesn't end well. He caves.  

“Yeah.” 

There’s a few seconds of silence where Mike thinks he won't respond anymore, until the tell-tale squeak of the fourth step signifies that Will is climbing up the stairs, and oh god Mike wasn’t ready for that. The small gap under the door lets a bit of the scent come through. It’s a heady scent, filled with lemongrass and something else, fuller and very familiar. Mike takes in a shaky breath, and he can feel it coating his tongue. It’s too much. It’s not close enough. 

“Mike,” Will whispers. 

“Yeah.” It feels like the only thing he can say right now. 

There’s a small tap on the door and without needing to think too hard, Mike knows that Will placed his hand on the door. He puts his hand there too, where he thinks it’ll line up and it’s enough to make him swallow hard. His other hand itches to try to doorknob again, despite knowing it won't open. He could ask. Will might even do it. Do you want me to come in? 

“I’m scared.” 

Mike squeezes his eyes shut like the words hurt.

He feels like an idiot now, because no matter what this revelation is pushing at him, this isn't about Mike. This is about Will, his friend, scared and alone, and Mike can’t come in and sit next to him or give him a hug to help. All he has is his words. Thankfully, Mike occasionally has the ability to combine those in an order that makes sense.  

“I know. It's okay, because you’ve handled scary shit since forever and come out on the other side. You survived in another dimension with actual monsters by yourself. You’re a total badass. You can do this. I’m sorry, I know the presentation part sucks big time, and your mom isn’t here, but... I’m here?”

“I locked the door. You can’t come in. Sorry.” Will actually sounds regretful at locking him out. Mike wants to yell. 

“It’s fine. You probably want some space. I know I was an asshole when it happened to me, but I guess it’s probably a little different for you.” 

There’s a beat of silence and then Will sniffles. Mike wants to die. 

“I don’t want to be... this.” His voice cracks and wavers. “I don’t want this to be happening right now.” 

Mike is still standing at the door, hand flat against it. He knocks his head against the wood and closes his eyes. Every little sniffle makes it feel like his heart is dropping into his stomach. He doesn’t blame him for not being excited about this. It’s not easy to present even under normal circumstances. After years of bullying, Will’s been called most of the derogatory names in the book, made fun of for being small and sensitive, and called Zombie Boy after his return from the dead. Adding one more thing onto it has to feel like a crushing weight.  

He can't help but notice how they haven't said the words 'omega' or 'heat.' Circling around it won't change the truth of it, but maybe for another little while, they can pretend nothing has shifted, nothing has been broken, and nothing has been opened. 

“I know. And I know I can’t come in. Or I shouldn’t. But you’ll be okay. I’ve kinda been in the living room since earlier and I won’t go anywhere. Not until I know you’re okay, or someone else comes for you.”

“How long have you been here?” Will asks. 

“Since I gave you the walkie.”

“... that was over an hour ago.”

“I know.” Mike pauses. “I was there.”  

“Why would you sit here and keep waiting?”  

His answer can’t be anything but honest. “I didn’t want you to be alone.” 

Another long pause transpires and Will shakily exhales.  

“...Thanks, Mike.” 

“Anytime.”  

“Can- Can you stay right here?” He stutters his question like he's worried that the answer might be 'no,'

It’s nearly impossible to be anywhere else. 

“Sure. I’ll be right here.”

There’s a soft thud as he leans against the door with his butt on the floor. Now that they’re talking, now that he has a goal- keeping Will company- he's able to think a little clearer. Sure, the smell is still distracting, but not in a way that makes it impossible to think. As long as the thing he’s thinking about is related to Will, that is. It’s like a careful weight on his shoulders- heavy, noticeable, but grounding. It wraps around his organs, settles in the space between his ribs until he feels pliant.  

“Isn’t it kind of weird or uncomfortable for you? Being here. I mean, can’t you smell it? Me?” 

I can't smell anything but you. Just you and you and more you in every way possible and it might be killing me but it might also be breathing something living into my chest.

“I can. Not super strong from behind the door, but yeah.” 

“It doesn’t weird you out? That doesn’t bother you?” ‘Bother’ isn’t the word. There’s something about it that makes Mike’s skin prickle. 

“Nothing you do bothers me,” he says plainly. 

There’s a shuffle of movement and a dull thud that Mike can feel on his back, that he knows is Will also sitting leaning on the door. He can picture him now, knees drawn up, chin leaning on them, arms around his legs, eyes still glassy and shirt crumpled. His eyes will be puffy and pink after irritation, tip of his nose flushed. He's probably flushed in his cheeks and down his neck. 

“You can eat the sandwich. I’m not really hungry.”

“Really? I was starving when I had my first rut. I was just angry and hungry for like 2 days straight. My mom kept tossing protein bars and bags of chips into my room every few hours. I think I growled at her more than once. I’m sure it was super intimidating with my unwashed hair and only one sock on.”

Will chuckles softly and Mike feels like he won a prize at the fair and wants to walk around obnoxiously with it everywhere flaunting to anyone with eyes. 

“If you ate so much how come you’re still so skinny?” he baits. 

“Hey! I got taller too!” 

“I know. You shot up like a magic beanstalk.” 

“So, you know how weight distribution works,” Mike snarks back. 

“Whatever.” His tone is soft, like it is when he's begrudgingly endeared with him and it makes Mike's insides churn. 

For a second, it all feels normal. A Sunday where they're talking and sitting next to each other, playing games. There’s a lull in the conversation, and Mike remembers that his original plan had once been to eat something. The sandwich is sitting next to him on a plate, so he grabs and takes a bite. It’s not bad considering he made it. Turkey. Dry but filling. 

“Can I ask you something kinda stupid. You don’t have to answer.”  

Things seem to going well, so it doesn’t feel too over the line to be curious. Curiosity is fine in small doses; a harmless question, a quiet pondering. It’s good to want to know things. And Mike sorta wants to know this. He takes another bite. 

“Ask away. Can’t be any more ridiculous than what’s currently happening.”

He speaks in between chews. “Is it- is it really... hot? Like I know what it's called, but do you actually feel physically warm or is it like a different-” 

“It is,” Will cuts in with a flat tone. “I’m sweating. I even took off my shirt, and my skin still feels sticky.” 

Mike chokes on his bite of sandwich. 

That wasn’t part of the question. That's not what I asked.

He hacks until the food comes free. They’re ugly, ragged coughs that scratch his throat.  

“Mike?!” 

Will’s bare physically warm back was pressed against Mike with a flimsy door in between.  

He didn’t ask. He didn’t ask that. That- Will offered that information freely. He didn’t ask him what he was wearing like some perv- he didn’t.  

Mike answers weakly, “Yeah,” still coughing some. 

“Are you okay?” he draws out the words, feeling around- God, not feeling around.  

Okay?  “Yeah... yeah. Dry turkey.” 

Will is shirtless. He’s in heat and shirtless. That’s... 

A perfectly understandable reaction to the situation! Of course he has to lose some layers if he feels hot.

Is he still wearing jeans? Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. 

That, at least, he has the good sense not to ask. That’s too far past the inappropriate question line that he’d already inadvertently blurred. Or maybe he was the crazy one here, caught off guard and thinking too far into this and imagining- Not imagining. Imagining nothing. Mike grips the front of his own shirt in a weird parallel moment where he gets the feeling like he needs to take his off too. 

Once the coughing dies down, there’s nothing to say or do. He’s mentally sprinting in the other direction of the way this conversation has gone. That’ll teach him to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong. If curiosity killed the cat, it’s eviscerating Mike Wheeler.

He announces he’s getting some water, to which Will agrees, still a bit alarmed at his random choking. While up, he sees the comic he’d been trying to read earlier. He brings it back to his spot on the door and notices the gap on the floor. He slides the comic under the door. It barely fits. It needs some light nudging to go through all the way, but it manages to slide through with no tearing of paper.  

“What is this?” 

“What I’m reading. Spider-Man 291. Thought you might like it. I know you like the Marvel art style and Spider-Man is your favorite.” 

“Thanks,” Will remarks brightly. 

The sound of page flipping becomes a pleasant background noise. They start to talk about the pages by the second page turn. They're going at Will’s pace: slower than dirt so he can enjoy the tiny details of every panel. It should be frustrating, but it's oddly peaceful to take their time, getting to enjoy it to it's full extent. There's something very sweet, very precious in not rushing after something. Enjoying the journey and it's views as long as you can. Mike almost wants to drag the conversation further just to hear Will's excited interjections.

They’re mid laugh when Joyce and Jonathan burst through the door yelling for Will. 

Mike shoots up to his feet immediately. “He’s in the basement.”

Jonathan turns the corner and eyes him suspiciously. Mike’s neck warms under scrutiny despite the fact that he wasn't doing anything wrong. He maintained a respectful distance behind a physical barrier.  

“Oh. What are you doing here, sweetie?” Mrs. Byers rushed out her words in a breath.

“I was just talking to Will. I offered to get him something to eat but he didn’t want anything. He could probably use some water. He hasn’t left the basement since we got home.”  

She looks him up and down and, while not malicious, it carries an edge that makes him clear his throat unnecessarily. “Okay. Thank you, Mike.”  

“Yeah. Of course.” 

A voice comes from behind the door. “Thanks for the comic. I’ll keep reading it.” 

“No problem. I’ll see you. I mean, not now, obviously, but later when you’re- y’know. Done with your... stuff.” 

“Stuff,” he echoes, and his voice trembles like he’s holding in laughter. 

“Shut up.” 

Will lets out the laughter then, tiny, amused giggles that Mike has to bite his lips to not return. 

Jonathan was a beta, though a lot of people- including his own dad, according to Will- had thought otherwise for a long time. He never fit into everyone’s neat boxes of what people were supposed to act like depending on their designation. No matter what, he was still incredibly protective of his little brother. It came with the territory of helping raise him. So, it shouldn’t be a surprise that he immediately stares at Mike like he’s planning on how to shave his hair in the middle of the night. 

“You gave him a comic? Did you go in with him?” 

“No. No! I just slid it under the door. Will kept the door locked. NOT-not that I would've gone in if it had been unlocked. I’m just saying he didn’t want me to go in, so I didn’t.”

Mrs. Byers’ lips twitched and Jonathan calmed. “Well, thank you for keeping my boy company.” 

“Sure, I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t down there all alone right now. I mean-he was but with me- I was in a non-physical kind of way like-” 

“Mike. It’s okay. You can go.” Will cuts off his empty-brained rambling. What was he even saying anymore? “Thanks,” he adds in a soft voice.  

“Okay.”  

He shuffles awkwardly and takes the out, fleeing towards the kitchen.   

“Mike,” Joyce calls out. 

“Yeah?” 

“You did good. Taking care of him.”  

His face burns immediately. “I- yeah. Good. Good.” 

Mike takes off, goes up the stairs two at a time, losing his footing once, but manages not to fall. When he gets to the privacy of his room, he locks the door and lays on his back, staring at the ceiling. His cheeks are hot to the touch. He lets out a pathetic groan and finds he can’t stop replaying the words ‘Taking care of him.’ 

In his embarrassed state he almost misses the sound of the door opening and closing. He tells himself he doesn’t want to shoot out of his bed and go chase that scent again. He almost believes it. 

.

It’s later in the evening when the house is at full capacity again. Mike stands to answer a firm knock on his door. His mom is standing in her apron, hair in an updo, and wearing an unsure expression. She looks, in a word, awkward. Her weight is shifting from foot to foot, and she’s pursing her lips, like she’s deliberating her words before speaking. 

“Hey. You haven’t been downstairs.”

“I’ve been doing homework,” Mike responds quickly with a vague gesture to his room.  

His mom cranes her neck to look over his shoulder and sees no book, notebook, or paper in sight. She raises her eyebrow.  

“Clearly.”  

He shakes his head and ignores the dig. “What’s up?”  

“You doing alright?” She’s angling her head, searching, as if he’d have a tell that he’s holding himself together with duct tape. If there was such a tell, he’d be grounded until retirement, and treated to a trip to the psych ward, so he feels confident that his ability to bullshit was intact. Or at least, his mom never called him on it. 

“Me? Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Are you okay to help me with dinner? Usually Will does it, but he’s-” 

“Yeah. I know,” he interrupts. “Let me finish what I’m doing, and I’ll be right there.” 

“Okay. You’re sure that you’re okay?” 

Mike huffs and taps impatiently on the door frame. “Why wouldn’t I be?”  

“Michael,” she says flatly. 

“Nothing is going on with me.” 

“You can’t blame me for checking.” Mrs. Wheeler holds up her hands in surrender. “You know you get during your-” 

“Mom! I’m fine,” he protests in sharp embarrassment. 

Fine is subjective. He's not going to get obsessive and try to break down the basement door. That probably qualifies as fine.  

“Alright. I need you in 5 minutes. It’s meatloaf night.” 

“Got it.”

He was quiet chopping the vegetables. He knew his hands were shakier than normal, and he tapped his feet a little more than he usually would, but it wasn’t like he was going to do anything insane! Mike nearly cut his hands three times before his mom put him on a different task. She didn’t say anything but kept looking at him, these little glances that were probably supposed to be discreet but left Mike feeling like a sample under a microscope. 

He glanced in the direction of the door four times. Each feeling more inevitable than the last. His mom noticed. She said nothing. The silence felt more exposing than confrontation.