Chapter Text
The radiator in the kitchen was a dying beast. It clanked and hissed that scraped against the silence of the apartment like a dull blade. No matter how many times Mike knelt before it with a wrench, his long, pale fingers twisting at the bolts with inhuman precision, the sound always returned forty-eight hours later. It was the heartbeat of their crumbling sanctuary, a constant reminder that things were broken, no matter how much they tried to fix them.
Will stood by the sink, the glass of water in his hand trembling just enough to make the surface ripple.
New York was never silent. Even at 3:10 AM, the city breathed through the walls—the distant wail of a siren, the muffled bass of a passing car, the muffled shouts from the street below. Usually, Will could tune it out. But tonight, the noise felt like it was inside his skull.
The nightmare had been a repeat of the worst ones. Cold vines wrapping around his body. The smell of rotting wet earth. The feeling of a shadow looming over him, taller than the skyscrapers outside, reaching for his throat. He’d woken up gasping, his t-shirt clung to his back with a cold, sickly sweat. The bed felt too large, the room too dark, and the absence of Mike was a physical ache in his chest—a heavy, hollow throb that settled low in his gut.
Mike was at work. Mike was always at work when the shadows got too long.
Will took a sip of the water, the coldness hitting his throat, and began to hum. It was a low, shaky vibration at first, then he found the words, whispering them into the rim of the glass.
"Should I stay or should I go now? If I go, there will be trouble... and if I stay, it will be double..."
It was his anchor. His litany. A song from a boy he used to be, in a town that was now just a scar on a map. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool tile of the backsplash, letting the melody drown out the sound of the radiator. He let his mind wander, just for a second, to the way Mike’s curls used to feel under his fingers before the world ended. Before the distance became a physical wall.
He didn't hear the front door open. He didn't hear the click of the lock or the brush of a jacket against the wall.
"Will?"
Will jumped so violently the water splashed over his knuckles, soaking the front of his thin grey t-shirt. The fabric clung instantly to the muscles of his chest, translucent and cold. He let out a sharp, choked-off yelp, spinning around as his heart thrashed against his ribs.
Mike was there.
He hadn't been there a second ago. Now, he was leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, looking like a blurred graphite sketch brought to life. He was a head taller than Will, his lanky frame draped in a dark hoodie, his black curls falling over his eyes in a messy, chaotic tangle. His face was pale, the freckles on his nose standing out like drops of ink, but even in the dim light of the stove clock, Will could see the exhaustion etched into his features.
"Jesus, Mike!" Will breathed, clutching his chest. "You scared the hell out of me. I didn't hear you come in."
"I'm sorry," Mike said. His voice was soft—too soft, like velvet over gravel. It vibrated in the small space, sending a fresh shiver down Will's spine that had nothing to do with the nightmare.
Mike didn't move an inch closer. He remained rooted to the spot, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. But his eyes—dark, intense, and hooded—were locked on the wet patch on Will’s shirt. Will felt the heat rise to his face, his pulse drumming in his throat. Mike was always like this. Friendly. Sweet. Attentive. He looked at Will with an expression that was almost agonizingly tender, yet he stood there as if there were a glass wall between them.
He never reached out to steady Will. He never patted his shoulder. He stood in the shadows, a polite distance away, as if Will were made of glass that might shatter if Mike breathed too hard.
"It's fine," Will rasped, pouring the rest of the water into the sink. He tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. "I was just... I couldn't sleep."
Mike’s eyes tracked the movement of Will’s hand, then traveled slowly up his arm, lingering on the curve of his shoulder. For a split second, the dark brown of Mike's irises seemed to flicker, a subtle, dark pulsing appearing on his eyelids—tiny, throbbing black veins that looked like lightning under the skin. He blinked, and they were gone.
"I heard you singing," Mike said quietly, his gaze finally meeting Will's. "Another nightmare?"
Will looked down at his feet, feeling the familiar prickle at the back of his neck flare into a burning heat. It wasn't the coldness of the Upside Down—it was a heavy, electric tension that seemed to radiate off Mike in waves. He hated that Mike knew. He hated that he was so transparent.
"The usual," Will admitted, rubbing the back of his neck to try and soothe the itch. "The vines. Hawkins. You know how it is."
"I know," Mike whispered. He sounded like he was in pain. His knuckles were white inside his pockets, his grip tightening until the fabric of his hoodie strained over his broad shoulders. He wanted to step forward; Will could see the way Mike’s body leaned toward him, an invisible string pulling at his chest, drawing him toward the warmth Will radiated. But then, Mike pulled back, his spine stiffening. He retreated an inch further into the hallway, his jaw set tight.
"You should try to get some more rest, Will," Mike said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding thick and strained. "It’s not healthy. You have those commissions to finish tomorrow."
"I'm not tired, Mike. Stay and talk to me? Just for a bit?"
The plea was out before Will could stop it. He looked up, his hazel eyes searching Mike’s face for any sign of the boy who used to be his best friend. He let his gaze drop to Mike’s mouth—pale, thin lips that he’d spent years wondering about. He saw Mike’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.
"I can't," Mike said, his voice tightening into something raw. He looked away, his gaze fixing on the annoying, clanking radiator as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "I’ve got... I’ve got stuff to do. And you need sleep. Go back to bed, Will. Please."
The "please" was what broke Will's heart. It wasn't a command; it was a prayer, a desperate plea for Will to move away before something snapped.
Will nodded slowly, the rejection stinging more than any nightmare. He thought back to eight years ago—to the confession, to the way he’d come out and Mike had gone... cold. Not mean. Just distant. Will watched Mike’s pale face and felt a wave of shame. He thought Mike stayed away because Mike couldn't handle the weight of Will’s love. He thought Mike was disgusted by the idea of Will touching him, by the way Will’s body probably looked to him.
"Right," Will said, his voice small. "Yeah. Sleep. Goodnight, Mike."
Will walked past him, careful to keep his own arms tucked close to his sides so he wouldn't accidentally brush against Mike’s hoodie. The hallway was narrow, and for a heartbeat, they were inches apart. Will felt a wave of absolute cold radiate off Mike.
He didn't see Mike turn his head to watch him go, his eyes trailing down to the nice, round butt emphasized by Will's pajama pants. He didn't see the way Mike’s nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of Will’s sweat, the blood rushing beneath his skin, and the faint, sweet smell of fear and desire. And he didn't see Mike’s eyes turn a terrifying, veined crimson as he watched Will’s retreating form, Mike’s hand reaching out into the empty air, his long fingers trembling, claws almost twitching, before curling into a fist and dropping back to his side.
Will kept his eyes forward, his shoulder blades tense. He couldn’t see Mike but he felt Mike’s presence behind him—a towering, icy shadow, thirty inches away.
Thirty inches, Will thought, his grip tightening on the doorhandle. Eight years of thirty inches.
He hated how much he still wanted to lean back. He hated that his body didn't care about the rejection or the coldness. His body only remembered the way Mike used to be his friend—the way Mike used to be his entire world. Now, Mike was a stranger who shared his rent, but never his space.
Meanwhile Mike hadn't moved. He was paralyzed by the scent of Will’s damp shirt. The water Will had spilled was evaporating, carrying the scent of Will’s skin—salt, soap, and that underlying warmth that Mike associated with life itself.
To Mike, Will was a sun he wasn't allowed to touch.
The Hive Mind inside Mike’s chest hummed, a low-frequency vibration that made his teeth ache. It wasn't just hunger; it was a possessive, territorial snarl. The parasite didn't understand "no-touch" rules. It didn't understand human shame or Mike’s desperate need to keep Will’s soul clean. It only knew that the source of its power—the boy who had been marked by the Upside Down—was standing right there.
Take him, the void whispered in Mike’s mind, the voice sounding like a thousand dry leaves skittering on pavement. Open the vein. Taste the light.
Mike’s fingers twitched inside his pockets, his nails digging into his palms until he drew a thin line of his own cold, sluggish blood. The pain helped. It grounded him. It reminded him that he was a monster, and monsters didn't get to love the heroes.
"Will," Mike said suddenly.
The word was out before he could stop it. It was too loud in the quiet apartment.
Will stopped, his hand on his bedroom door handle. He didn't turn around, but Mike saw the way his shoulders hitched. "Yeah?"
"I..." Mike’s throat felt like it was filled with broken glass. He looked at the back of Will’s neck—at the soft, downy hair at the nape where the prickle lived. He imagined his mouth there. Not just to feed, but to press a kiss so deep it would bridge the eight-year gap in a single breath. "I’ll fix the radiator. Again. If it starts clanking while I'm out tomorrow, just... tell me."
It was a pathetic thing to say. A mundane, domestic distraction from the fact that they were both vibrating with a tension that was bordering on lethal.
Will let out a breath that sounded like a sob he’d managed to turn into a sigh. He finally turned his head, just enough for Mike to see the sharp line of his jaw and the weary, longing look in his hazel eyes.
"The radiator is fine, Mike," Will said softly. "Everything in this place is 'fine.' We’re experts at 'fine,' aren't we?"
The irony bit into Mike’s skin. Will thought Mike was avoiding him because he was a gay man. Will thought the distance was a judgment. The sexual tension in the room was so thick it felt like smoke; Will was offering a confrontation, a chance to finally scream about the elephant in the room, but Mike couldn't take it. If he fought with Will, he’d get close. If he got close, he’d touch him. And if he touched him, the world would end.
"Go to sleep, Will," Mike whispered.
Will stared at him for a long beat, his gaze lingering on Mike's mouth, then his chest, then finally his eyes. There was a moment—one heartbeat of time—where Will looked like he was going to bridge the gap. He looked like he was going to reach out and grab the front of Mike's hoodie and demand to know why they were living like ghosts.
Mike held his breath, his entire body locking up. He felt the Hive Mind surge, the black ink of the Abyss rising in his throat, ready to spill over.
But Will didn't move. He just gripped his door handle tighter, gave a small, sad nod, and disappeared into his room.
The sound of the latch clicking into place was like a gunshot.
Mike stayed in the hallway for a long time, listening. He listened to Will sit on the edge of his bed. He listened to the rustle of clothes as Will stripped off the wet t-shirt. He listened to the way Will’s heart rate slowly—painfully slowly—began to even out.
Only then did Mike move.
He didn't go to his own room. He walked back into the kitchen, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He grabbed the glass Will had used, the one still sitting in the sink. There was a tiny bit of moisture left on the rim where Will’s lips had been.
Mike picked it up, his hand trembling. He didn't drink. He just pressed his thumb to the rim, tracing the spot where Will’s mouth had touched the glass. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, and for the first time that night, he let the dark veins on his face fully emerge, pulsing with a terrifying, rhythmic hunger.
"Eight years," he whispered to the dark.
For eight years, Mike had lived on a diet of scraps and self-loathing. He’d survived on the blood of stray dogs, alley cats, and the occasional bag of stolen, expired hospital plasma that tasted like pennies and rot. It kept his heart beating once every minute. It kept him "alive." But it did nothing for the Void.
The Abyss inside him didn't want animal blood. It wanted the light. It wanted the boy who had survived the Upside Down. It wanted the "invisible string" pulled until their skin touched and the current could finally equalize.
Mike leaned over the sink again, his long curls falling forward to mask his face.
The veins under his eyes were no longer just shadows; they were thick, pulsing cords of violet and black, stretching down toward his cheekbones. His eyes were bloodshot, the irises bleeding into the whites until he looked like something that belonged in a jar in a lab, not in a walk-up apartment with a man who still smelled like sunlight and oil paints.
Why don't you show him, Michael? Why don't you show him exactly how much you want to taste him? the Hive Mind hissed, a cold wind in the back of his skull.
"Shut up," Mike whispered, his voice cracking. Deep down he knew, he knew it was his own voice, speaking to him. It was his monster side. The Hive Mind couldn’t talk, it was impossible.
He gripped the edge of the porcelain sink. Under his fingers, the material groaned. He had to be careful. His strength was erratic; when he was this hungry, he was prone to snapping things—doors, mugs, bones.
He thought about the way Will had looked at his mouth. That brief, agonizing second in the hallway where Will’s gaze had dropped, heavy with a longing that was so pure it made Mike want to scream. Will was twenty-four now. He wasn't a kid anymore. He had filled out; his shoulders were broad from years of carrying heavy canvases, his jaw was sharp, and he moved with a grounded, masculine grace that made Mike’s predatory instincts flare.
Mike wanted to pin him to the wall. He wanted to feel the heat of Will’s skin melt the frost off his own. He wanted to bury his face in the crook of Will’s neck and just inhale.
But he knew the cost.
If he touched Will, the link would snap shut. Will’s powers, those dormant embers of the Upside Down, would flare to life. Will would see everything. He would see Mike’s memories of the demobats tearing into his neck. He would feel the way Mike’s hunger felt like a thousand needles under the skin. He would realize that his best friend had spent nearly a decade fantasizing about draining him dry and worshiping the remains.
Mike forced himself to stand upright. He reached into the back of the fridge, behind a carton of spoiled milk, and pulled out a small, unmarked plastic bottle. It contained a dark, viscous liquid—half-frozen rabbit blood he’d scavenged from a butcher’s scrap bin.
He unscrewed the cap, the smell hitting him like a punch to the gut. It was flat. It was metallic. It was dead.
He drank it in three long, desperate gulps, his throat working convulsively. As the cold liquid hit his stomach, the veins on his face began to recede, slinking back under his skin like shamed animals. The red in his eyes faded back to a dull, tired brown.
He wasn't full. He was just... quieted.
He cleaned the bottle with obsessive care, hiding the evidence of his "meal" in the bottom of the trash under a layer of coffee grounds. He couldn't let Will see. He couldn't let Will know that while he was drawing beautiful things, Mike was in the kitchen drinking the leftovers of a slaughterhouse.
Mike walked to his own room, his steps heavy. He passed Will’s door again, and this time, he pressed his forehead against the wood for just a second.
Inside, he could hear Will’s breathing. It had hitched—Will was dreaming. The prickle in Will’s neck was probably screaming right now, a phantom warning of the monster standing three inches away.
"Sleep, Will," Mike breathed, his voice barely a vibration against the door. "Just sleep."
Mike went into his room—a space as cold and bare as a cell—and sat on the edge of his bed. He didn't turn on the light. He just sat in the dark, watching the clock on his nightstand tick toward 4:00 AM, waiting for the sun to come up so he could pretend to be human for another day.