Chapter Text
it wasn't supposed to be them.
that was the thing mike kept circling back to later—how random it felt at first, how excruciatingly unfair in hindsight. they weren’t being brave. they weren’t even being stupid. they were just in the wrong place with the wrong people missing and too many open wounds in hawkins for anything to stay sealed. the air itself throbbed with unspoken trauma.
it started in california.
with a lead that wasn’t even solid—just a half-strangled sentence from eleven over the phone before the line bled out, something about vecna not being done and there being a weak spot. will heard it and went quiet in that way he did when something clicked into place that no one else could hear yet, a tuning fork vibrating only for him.
"there’s another gate," he said later, staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling.
mike looked up from the map they’d been defiling with highlighter. "el closed them."
"most of them," will said. he rubbed at the back of his neck, uneasy, the gesture almost feminine. "this one’s different. it’s not… stable. it’s like a scar that didn’t heal right, festering underneath."
jonathan wanted to wait. argyle wanted to smoke about it, his usual solution for problems that clawed too close to reality. mike wanted to call dustin, or nancy, or literally anyone who wasn’t operating on vibes and dread. but will kept getting headaches. migraines that painted the inside of his skull with fire.
kept waking up shaking, sheets twisted around his legs like a shroud.
kept saying the same thing: it’s close.
they found the place two days later—an abandoned storm drain near the edge of lenora hills, concrete cracked and split like it’d been pried open from below, a gaping maw in the earth. the air around it felt wrong. heavy with a static charge that made the hairs on their arms prickle. will stopped dead the second he saw it, his face suddenly gaunt.
"this is it," he said, his voice a thin rasp.
mike’s stomach dropped. "we’ll call it in. we don’t go near it."
they almost listened.
almost.
until the ground moved.
not violently. just enough to make the cracked concrete shift, hairline fractures spreading like veins, pulsing with a faint, internal light. a low sound rolled out of the drain—something between a breath and a groan, a promise of something ancient and hungry.
will staggered, his eyes rolling back in his head.
mike grabbed him automatically, his fingers digging into will’s thin arm. "hey—what’s happening?"
"it knows," will said, his eyes unfocusing, pupils blown wide. "it knows i’m here."
that was when it went wrong.
the gate didn’t open like the others. there was no tear in the air, no dramatic split. the darkness just… pulled. like gravity suddenly remembered it existed, a black hole in reality.
mike felt it first at his feet—his shoes scraping forward against concrete that suddenly wasn’t solid anymore, giving way like quicksand. he shouted, grabbed for the railing, for anything—his nails tearing against the rough concrete.
will yelled his name, a desperate, keening sound.
then the world dropped out.
it wasn’t falling. it was being taken, consumed by something that craved them.
the sound of argyle shouting disappeared instantly, cut off like someone slammed a door, leaving them deafened by the sudden, suffocating silence. the sky smeared into gray, into ash, into something that felt alive and deeply irritated at being disturbed, an ancient god roused from slumber.
they hit hard.
not together. not gently.
mike came to coughing, lungs burning, face pressed into something damp and fibrous, the taste of rot coating his tongue. he rolled onto his side, panicked, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"will?"
no answer. only the whispering wind and the endless expanse of decay.
the upside down stretched around him, endless and wrong, familiar in the worst way. the sky churned overhead, a canvas of bruised purple and oily black. ash drifted like snow that never melted, coating everything in a fine, gritty layer.
"will!" he shouted again, scrambling up, his legs unsteady beneath him.
he found him ten yards away, curled in on himself, shaking, his face buried in his knees.
alive.
thank god—alive.
mike ran to him, dropped to his knees, gripped his shoulders, his fingers digging into the thin fabric of will’s shirt. "hey. hey. i’m here. i’ve got you."
will opened his eyes.
and that was when mike knew they were in deeper trouble than before.
because will wasn’t just scared.
he was recognized.
"it wasn’t an accident," will said hoarsely, his voice thick with unshed tears. "this time… it pulled us on purpose."
the upside down shifted around them, distant structures creaking awake like something stretching after a long sleep, bones cracking in the oppressive silence.
mike swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
"okay," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice, though his hands trembled as he held will’s shoulders. "then we do what we always do."
will looked at him, his gaze haunted.
"we survive," mike finished. "and we find a way out."
at the time, neither of them understood what that was going to cost.
but the upside down already did.
later, when mike tried to remember how it started, this was the part that felt almost fake, like a dream slowly dissolving at the edges.
because nothing was bleeding yet.
nothing was screaming.
they were still just… there.
the upside down stretched out around them, quiet in that deceptive way it had—like it was pretending not to notice them, playing a long game. ash drifted lazily through the air, swirling around their feet. the sky rolled overhead, distant thunder trapped behind thick clouds that never broke.
will stood a few feet away from mike, arms wrapped around himself, breathing steady, his face pale in the sickly gray light. he looked shaken, but intact. no blood. no wounds. just tense, his eyes scanning the landscape like he was looking for something familiar in a place that refused to be.
mike remembered thinking: okay. this is bad, but it’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened.
which, in hindsight, was almost funny.
"let’s… look around," mike said.
his voice sounded too loud in the quiet, echoing in the oppressive silence. he lowered it instinctively, like volume alone might attract something.
"we can’t just stand here," he added, trying to sound practical, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "we figure out where we are, find a gate, retrace our steps. same rules as before."
will nodded slowly.
"yeah," he said. "we should keep moving."
they started walking.
the ground was uneven, soft in places where it shouldn’t be, firm in others like dried muscle, pulsing faintly beneath their feet. mike kept his eyes down, stepping carefully, while will looked outward instead—head turning slightly, attention caught on things mike couldn’t hear or feel, his senses heightened by years of trauma.
they passed shapes that almost made sense. the outline of a house collapsed inward on itself, like a dying lung. a streetlight bent at the wrong angle, its glass shattered and filled with a viscous, black fluid. a mailbox half-swallowed by vines, its metal rusted and pitted.
mike pointed. "that looks like—"
"hawkins," will finished quietly, his face grim. "yeah. a version of it."
mike swallowed. "okay. good. that’s good. that means there’s probably a gate nearby."
will didn’t answer right away.
he slowed, then stopped, his body rigid.
mike noticed immediately. "what?"
will closed his eyes, his face contorted in a grimace.
"for a second," he said carefully, "it feels like it did before. when i first got taken. like it’s… not watching yet. just aware."
mike’s stomach tightened, a cold knot of dread forming in his gut. "is that better or worse?"
will opened his eyes again, his gaze distant. "i don’t know."
they kept moving anyway, closer together now without really acknowledging it. their shoulders almost brushed, a silent reassurance. mike found himself matching will’s pace, adjusting without thinking, their movements mirroring each other.
this was the version of the upside down mike remembered most clearly—the waiting one. the one that didn’t attack right away. the one that let you believe you had time, lulling you into a false sense of security.
eventually, will slowed again, his body trembling.
"this way," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
mike blinked. "you sure?"
will nodded, firm. "yeah. i don’t know why. i just—yeah."
mike didn’t argue.
they headed in the direction will pointed, boots crunching softly through ash, the sound amplified in the oppressive silence. mike told himself they were doing the right thing. that following will had always worked before, that his instincts were a lifeline in this hellish landscape.
he remembered thinking: if we just stay calm, if we don’t panic, we’ll get out.
this was the last moment in the memory where that felt true.
because not long after this—after they walked a little farther, after the air started to thicken and the ground started to respond—
something in the upside down noticed them moving together.
and decided to close the distance.
the upside down didn’t breathe—but it felt like it did, a slow, agonizing inhale and exhale that threatened to crush them.
mike noticed it when the air pulled tight in his chest, like something unseen was expanding and contracting around them, slow and patient, a predator stalking its prey. every inhale tasted wrong. metal and rot and storms that never quite arrived, a symphony of decay.
"don’t stop," will said behind him, his voice urgent.
mike hadn’t realized he was slowing, his legs leaden.
they were wedged between the collapsed remains of something that used to be a house, ribs of wood bowing inward like a broken cage, the skeleton of a forgotten life. the floor was spongy beneath mike’s palms, yielding to his touch like rotting flesh. he tried not to think about what it used to be. tried not to think about how it moved if he stayed still too long, the ground pulsating with a slow, internal rhythm.
something wet peeled away from mike’s knee when he shifted forward, the sound amplified in the suffocating silence. it made a sound like tearing skin, a visceral, horrifying sound.
he froze, his body rigid with fear.
"mike," will whispered, urgent now. "mike, don’t—"
too late. the ground pulled back reluctantly, like it didn’t want to let him go, its tendrils clinging to his skin. when mike lifted his leg, thin black strands stretched between him and the floor before snapping one by one, leaving a burning sensation on his skin. they recoiled, slithering back into the mass beneath them, like worms retreating into the earth.
mike gagged, his stomach churning.
will didn’t.
instead, he stepped closer, so close mike could feel his breath against the back of his neck, uneven but steady, a lifeline in the oppressive darkness. will reached around him without hesitation, fingers brushing mike’s knee where the skin was already burning, already itching, a phantom sensation that made his skin crawl.
"it’s reacting to you," will said quietly, his voice devoid of fear, focused, analytical. "it does that when it thinks you’re staying."
"i hate it here," mike blurted, the words tumbling out of his mouth, unbidden. he didn’t know why that was the thing that came out. "i hate—everything’s wrong. everything touches you, like it’s trying to crawl inside."
will’s hand tightened, just a little. grounding. real.
"i know," he said. "i know."
a tremor passed through the walls—through the air—and this time mike felt it in his bones, a deep, resonating vibration that shook him to his core. the house creaked like it was waking up, bones cracking in the oppressive silence, like it was noticing them, its ancient eyes opening.
instinctively, mike turned, and suddenly they were face to face, closer than they’d been since—since before, since the unspoken tension had begun to coil between them.
will’s eyes were too bright in the gray light, reflecting something distant and alive, something that both terrified and fascinated mike.
there was a dark smear on his cheek mike didn’t remember being there before, a smudge of grime and something darker.
"you’re bleeding," mike said, his voice barely a whisper.
will lifted a hand, touched his face, then looked at his fingers like he was surprised to find blood there at all, his brow furrowed in confusion. "i didn’t feel it."
that scared mike more than the shaking, more than the oppressive silence, more than the pulsing ground beneath his feet.
without thinking, he reached out and wiped the blood away with his thumb, the gesture intimate and unexpected. will flinched—not away, just a sharp inhale, like the touch hit something deeper than skin, a shock to his system.
for a second, neither of them moved, their gazes locked, the air crackling with unspoken tension.
the upside down hummed around them, irritated, its ancient eyes narrowing.
"we can’t stay," mike said, softer now, his voice barely audible. "it’s—learning us, like a parasite burrowing into our minds."
will nodded, his gaze intense. his hand slipped from mike’s jacket to his wrist, fingers fitting there like they’ve always belonged, a perfect match, a silent promise. like the place itself was trying to pull them apart and failing, their connection too strong to break.
"then don’t let go," will said. "no matter what it does."
mike swallowed, his throat dry. the ground shifted again, closer this time, crawling up the walls like a living organism.
"i won’t," he promised.
and for once, the upside down seemed to listen, its ancient gaze softening.
the wall opened.
not splits—opens, like a mouth remembering how, its lips peeling back to reveal the darkness within.
a seam unzipped itself down the rotted drywall, wet and uneven, and something inside flexed, pulsating with a slow, internal rhythm. the house exhaled, a rancid breath that filled their lungs. threads of black sinew slid out, slow and curious, dragging flakes of plaster and bone-dust with them, a macabre offering.
mike jerked will backward just as one tendril lashed forward and hooked into his sleeve, its touch burning like acid.
"shit—!"
the fabric didn’t tear. it melted, dissolving under the tendril’s touch. the tendril sank through cotton like it was learning the texture, then kept going, brushing skin, its touch sending a jolt of pain through mike’s body.
mike screamed.
not loud—sharp, involuntary, ripped out of him as the thing burned cold against his forearm, its touch searing his skin. wherever it touched, his skin puckered, veins standing up dark and wrong, like something underneath was trying to crawl closer to the surface, a parasitic invasion.
will grabbed him immediately.
both hands, tight, grounding, fingers digging into mike’s arm above where the thing was attached, like he could stop it by holding him together, by sheer force of will.
"mike, look at me," will said, voice shaking but firm, a lifeline in the darkness. "don’t move. don’t panic. it reacts to—"
the tendril tightened, constricting around his arm.
mike’s vision whited out, his head swimming. he felt pressure under his skin, not pain exactly—invasion, a violation of his body. like the thing was tasting his pulse, savoring his fear.
"will," he gasped. "it’s— it’s inside—"
"i know," will said, his eyes distant, unfocused, tracking something none of the others could see, his connection to the upside down a terrifying advantage. "i can feel it too."
he stepped closer, chest nearly pressed to mike’s, forehead knocking gently against mike’s temple as the house thrummed, a low, guttural vibration. will’s breath stuttered against his cheek, warm and uneven.
"it thinks you’re food," will whispered, his voice barely audible. "but it thinks i’m home."
the tendril paused, its movements becoming sluggish.
then it shuddered, retracting slightly.
black veins raced up the wall toward will like they’ve heard their name, drawn to him like moths to a flame. the pressure behind will’s eyes spiked so hard he whimpered, knees buckling, his body fighting against the invasion. mike caught him automatically, arms wrapping around will’s shoulders, pulling him in despite the thing still embedded in his arm, their bodies pressed together in a desperate embrace.
"hey—hey, don’t do that," mike said desperately, his voice cracking. "don’t let it use you, don’t let it win."
will’s fingers curled into the front of mike’s jacket, fist tight over his heart, a desperate plea for connection.
"i don’t think i get a choice," he said. "but i can… redirect it, use it against them."
the tendril twitched, then withdrew from mike’s arm with a sound like tearing cartilage, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. mike cried out as skin came away with it—thin, translucent filaments stretching from the wound before snapping back into his body, leaving a gaping hole in his flesh.
blood welled immediately, too dark, too thick, a corrupted ichor.
mike sagged, breath coming in wet bursts, his body trembling.
will held him up, his grip unwavering.
"i’ve got you," will said, even as something black crept up his neck beneath the skin, visible like ink spreading in water, a terrifying transformation. "i’ve got you. you’re okay. you’re okay."
mike pressed his face into will’s shoulder, shaking, his fingers clutching the back of will’s shirt like if he lets go, the upside down will peel them apart cell by cell, their connection severed forever.
"i can’t—" mike choked, his voice barely audible. "i can feel it still. like it left something behind, a seed of corruption."
will closed his eyes, forehead resting against mike’s hair, his body trembling.
"i know," he said softly. "me too.”
the house shifted again, closer now, walls flexing inward like ribs, a suffocating embrace.
they stayed like that—holding each other upright, bleeding, invaded, breathing in sync—while the upside down learned the shape of them together and decided what it wanted next, its ancient eyes narrowing.
will’s vision split.
not metaphorically—literally, the world fracturing around him. the world doubled, then tripled, then folded inward like broken glass stacked wrong, the pain searing through his skull. his left eye burned, a pressure so intense it felt like his skull was being pried open from the inside, a horrifying violation.
he dropped to his knees, his body convulsing.
"stop—" mike said, but he didn’t know what he’s asking to stop, the words lost in the oppressive silence. the house was screaming now, a low-frequency shriek that vibrated teeth and bone, a symphony of pain. black veins flood the walls, all of them converging on will’s head, drawn to him like a beacon.
will clawed at his face, his nails tearing at his skin.
something moved behind his eye. he could feel it sliding, testing the limits of flesh, pushing forward as if the socket were a door left unlocked, a terrifying invasion.
"it’s in my head," will panted, his voice ragged. "it’s not—controlling me, not yet. it’s routing through me, using me as a conduit."
the pressure spiked, reaching a crescendo of agony.
his eye bulged, a grotesque distortion.
mike recoiled despite himself, his body screaming in protest. "will—"
"i know," will said sharply. he sounded lucid, focused, his determination a stark contrast to the pain etched on his face. terrified, but clear. "i know what i’m doing, i have to."
he grabbed a rusted length of metal half-buried in the floor—maybe a nail, maybe bone, a macabre instrument. it came free with a wet sound, the metal slick with something viscous.
mike froze, his body paralyzed with horror. "no."
will didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on his target.
he jammed the metal into the corner of his eye socket, his body trembling with the effort.
there was no hesitation this time, no turning back.
the pain detonated—white, absolute, erasing thought, a supernova of agony. will screamed as the metal pierced deep, severing muscle, scraping bone, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. blood poured instantly, hot and blinding, soaking his hands, his face, the floor, a crimson torrent.
the upside down reacted violently, its rage palpable.
the walls convulsed, groaning in protest. vines retracted in panic, recoiling from the violation. something massive in the distance bellowed, the sound warped and furious, like an animal caught in a trap, its primal scream shaking the very foundations of the upside down.
will twisted the metal and pulled, his muscles straining.
there was resistance, a sickening tug. tendons stretched, threatening to snap. something popped, a sound that would haunt mike’s dreams forever.
with a final, animal sound torn from his throat, will ripped his eye free, a sacrifice to the darkness.
it came out attached to slick strands—optic nerve snapping with a sound like tearing cable, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. the moment it separated, the pressure vanished completely, leaving him drained and broken.
will collapsed forward, retching, blood flooding from the ruined socket in pulsing waves, a crimson fountain.
the house went silent, its rage extinguished.
not calm—stunned, as if the violence had shocked it into submission.
the veins dulled, their vibrant darkness fading. the walls stopped moving, their pulsing rhythm slowing. whatever was looking through will was gone, connection severed so violently it left scorch marks in the structure itself, a testament to his sacrifice.
mike scrambles to him, hands shaking as he clamps his palm over the empty socket, trying to stop the bleeding. bile rises in his throat at the feel of exposed bone and torn flesh. the raw edges of the wound pulse under his touch, jagged shreds of skin and muscle that feel like wet, frayed rags against his fingers. blood seeps hot and relentless, coating his palm in a sticky warmth that makes his skin crawl.
will doesn’t scream anymore. he just shakes, body locking up as shock sets in, breath coming in shallow, broken gasps.
“i—”
he tries. nothing comes out.
mike doesn’t say anything either. there’s nothing to say. he just presses harder, trying to keep will from bleeding out on the living floor.
the upside down does not advance again. it has learned its lesson. will byers is still alive. but whatever used to look back through him is gone—and it took his eye with it.
mike doesn’t notice it at first. he’s too focused on the blood—on the way it keeps coming, slick and hot under his hands, soaking through his sleeves no matter how hard he presses. his thoughts are fragmented, looping uselessly: too much blood, that’s too much blood, people can’t lose that much—
then something rolls against his knee. it’s light. almost weightless.
mike’s gaze drifts downward without intention, like his eyes are disconnecting from his body, moving on their own. he sees it.
for a second, his brain refuses to label it. just an object. wet. pale. wrongly rounded.
then recognition slams into him so hard his breath locks in his chest. oh. oh god. it’s will’s eye.
it’s lying in a shallow groove in the floor-flesh, half-nestled there like the upside down doesn’t know what to do with it either. the sclera has already gone dull, no longer white but cloudy, marbled with red veins that look torn instead of branching, like tiny rivers burst open and left to dry in chaos.
the iris—will’s iris, that familiar brown-green that mike has stared into a thousand times, memorizing the flecks of gold in secret moments—stares upward, unfocused, glassy, reflecting the pulsing gray light of the place.
it’s still attached to strands of tissue, thin and glistening, like threads of raw meat pulled taut. the optic nerve hangs from the back like a severed cable, frayed and slick, twitching faintly as if it hasn’t accepted what’s happened yet, a dying spasm that sends a shiver up mike’s spine.
blood beads along it in slow, viscous drops that fall and disappear into the floor with soft, obscene little sounds, plop-plop, like the upside down is sipping at the remnants.
mike’s stomach flips. his vision tunnels. that’s not— that can’t be—
his mind keeps trying to put it back. to imagine it rolling, somehow, back into will’s skull where it belongs. to undo the image. to wake up. he can’t.
his hands start shaking violently. he doesn’t remember letting go of the pressure on will’s face, but suddenly there’s more blood again and will makes a weak, broken sound that snaps mike back just enough to keep him from vomiting.
“jesus—”
mike whispers, the word tearing itself apart on the way out.
his heart is pounding so hard it hurts. his ears ring. the world feels tilted, unreal, like he’s standing too close to the edge of something vast and irreversible. that was inside him. will did that.
mike’s gaze flicks back to the eye despite himself, horrified and unable to look away. it looks wrong out here—too fragile, too exposed. a piece of a person reduced to an object, discarded on the floor like debris.
the upside down seems to avoid it. the veins don’t touch it. the floor doesn’t try to absorb it. even this place knows something has gone too far.
mike sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath that turns into a sob before he can stop it.
“oh my god,”
he says again, louder now, panic cracking through.
“oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—”
he presses his hand back over will’s ruined socket, harder this time, desperate, like he can erase what he’s seen by focusing on what still needs doing.
but the image won’t leave him. that vacant stare. that severed nerve. the undeniable proof that something permanent has been taken.
mike is shaking head to toe now—terrified, sick, baffled beyond words. because monsters are one thing. but this? this is what surviving looks like here.
mike’s eyes keep drifting back to it. he doesn’t want to look. every instinct is screaming don’t, but his gaze keeps snapping back like it’s magnetized, like his brain needs to confirm over and over that this is real.
the eye hasn’t moved. it just sits there, slick and obscene, the iris dulled now, no longer tracking anything. a thin film has already started to glaze over the surface, catching the upside down’s light in a way that makes it look less alive and somehow worse, like a dead fish eye staring blankly from a market stall.
the optic nerve is still attached—longer than mike expects, pale and ridged, torn unevenly at the end like meat ripped instead of cut, fibers splaying out in wet, stringy tendrils that glisten with fluid.
blood pools beneath it, thick and slow, congealing into a sticky puddle that the floor seems to reject, bubbling slightly as if repulsed.
mike’s mouth fills with saliva. he looks back at will—at the ruined hollow where the eye used to be, at the way blood leaks between his fingers no matter how hard he presses—and something clicks into place with nauseating clarity.
he can’t leave it there. the upside down eats things. absorbs them. learns from them. leaving a piece of will behind feels wrong in a way mike can’t explain, like abandoning a part of his soul.
his stomach churns violently as he reaches out.
“no,”
he whispers to himself, but his hand keeps going anyway.
the moment his fingers touch it, his body reacts like he’s grabbed something electrified. it’s warm. not body-warm—cooling warm. slippery and soft in a way nothing should be once it’s outside a person.
the surface squishes faintly under his grip, yielding just enough to make his skin crawl, a gelatinous give that reminds him horribly of something intimate, something forbidden.
the optic nerve drags against the floor with a faint, sticky resistance before coming free with a wet sound that makes mike gag immediately, a squelch like pulling a boot from mud mixed with flesh.
his vision swims.
“oh—fuck—”
he barely manages to turn his head before his stomach empties itself.
mike vomits violently onto the floor, retching so hard it bends him forward, bile burning his throat as his body tries to expel the horror it can’t process.
acid splashes over the already ruined ground, mixing with blood and black residue in a way that makes the smell unbearable—iron, rot, sour and sharp all at once, with an undercurrent of something metallic and bodily that clings to his nostrils.
he dry-heaves, choking, eyes watering uncontrollably.
the eye is still in his hand. that realization hits him mid-retch and nearly sends him over again.
his fingers are coated in blood now, sticky and dark, smeared with bits of translucent tissue that feel like jelly under his nails.
the nerve dangles limply between his knuckles, swaying slightly with the tremor in his hands, brushing against his skin like a cold, wet worm.
he stares at it, frozen. this was looking at him earlier. this was will.
a sob tears out of him, raw and ugly, and he nearly drops it—but his grip tightens instead, panicked at the thought of it hitting the ground again, of being left behind like trash.
“i— i don’t—”
he stammers, voice wrecked.
“i don’t know what to do with you.”
the upside down remains eerily still, like it’s watching to see what he’ll do next.
mike swallows hard, fighting another wave of nausea, and stuffs the eye clumsily into the pocket of his jacket, fabric immediately darkening as blood soaks through, the weight pressing against his thigh like a secret, a burden he can’t shake.
the warmth seeps through the cloth, a reminder that this piece of will is now his to carry, intimate and horrifying.
mike scrubs his bloody hand across his mouth, smearing red over his face without noticing.
then he crawls back to will, shaking so badly his knees barely hold him, and presses both hands over the wound again, breathing fast and shallow, eyes wide and haunted.
his brain keeps replaying the sensation. the softness. the warmth. the undeniable proof that something inside his friend is now gone.
but as he leans over will, their bodies close in the dim light, mike feels a different kind of heat—will’s breath against his neck, ragged and warm, stirring something deep in his chest that he’s always pushed down.
will’s remaining eye flutters half-open, locking onto mike’s face with an intensity that makes mike’s pulse stutter, not just from fear but from the way will looks at him, vulnerable and raw, like mike is the only thing anchoring him.
mike’s fingers tremble as they press against will’s skin, feeling the pulse beneath, the life still there, and for a moment, amid the horror, there’s a spark—unspoken, electric, the kind that makes mike’s breath catch as he realizes how badly he wants to protect this boy, to hold him closer than friends should, to feel that pulse under his lips.
mike wheeler has seen monsters tear people apart. this is worse. because this time, the monster was survival—and it asked for a piece of will in payment.
mike’s hands won’t stop shaking. they’re slick with blood—will’s blood—and every time he presses down, it seeps between his fingers like his body can’t quite believe it’s supposed to stay inside.
will is breathing, shallow and uneven, his face gray, lips trembling faintly with shock.
mike forces himself to think. pressure. stop the bleeding. don’t let him bleed out.
his eyes dart around wildly until they land on the dagger half-buried in the floor nearby—dark metal, pitted and ugly, the blade stained with something old and black that flakes off like dried skin.
he grabs it. the handle is sticky, clinging to his palm with a residue that feels alive, pulsing faintly. he doesn’t want to think about why.
“okay,”
he mutters, voice cracking.
“okay. okay.”
he yanks at the hem of his shirt, realizes distantly that it’s already soaked through with blood and sweat and upside down grime, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer of flesh.
without ceremony, he drags the dagger across the fabric. the blade rips through cotton with a harsh, tearing sound, exposing his chest inch by inch, the cool air of the upside down brushing against his bare skin, raising goosebumps.
he slices again. and again. long, jagged strips, uneven and ugly, hands clumsy with panic.
threads snag on the blade. the shirt pulls against his skin, scraping his chest raw as he cuts it off himself piece by piece, the sensation sharp and intimate, like shedding something for will alone.
the smell hits him—iron-heavy blood mixed with damp fabric and rot—and his stomach lurches again, but he swallows it down hard. focus.
he drops the dagger and bunches the fabric together, hands moving too fast, too rough.
when he pulls his hand away from will’s face to wrap the cloth, he sees it fully for the first time. the empty socket.
it’s not just empty—it’s ruined. torn flesh hangs in ragged flaps, exposed bone gleaming white and cracked in places, like splintered porcelain under a layer of red.
blood pulses sluggishly from deep inside, bubbling up from vessels torn open, the hollow filling with dark clots that ooze like tar.
the edges look wrong, chewed and shredded rather than clean, muscle fibers splayed out in wet strings that twitch faintly with residual nerve signals.
mike’s breath stutters as his brain tries and fails to reconcile that this is will’s face now, the boy he’s known forever, altered in a way that feels too personal, too violating.
he nearly retches again, the sight burning into his mind like acid.
“sorry,”
he whispers, hoarse, even though will isn’t really responding.
mike presses the folded fabric over the socket and will jerks weakly, a broken sound tearing out of his throat, his body arching slightly toward mike in pain, their chests brushing for a split second, sending a jolt through mike that’s equal parts horror and forbidden want.
mike clamps down harder immediately, panic overriding everything else.
“i know, i know, i’m sorry, i’m sorry,”
he babbles, voice shaking.
“i have to—just—just hold on, okay?”
blood soaks into the shirt instantly, blooming dark and heavy through the layers, the warmth spreading under mike’s palms like a shared secret.
mike adds more fabric, wraps it around will’s head, looping it behind his neck with clumsy knots that barely hold because his hands won’t cooperate.
he pulls too tight, feeling will’s pulse flutter under his fingers, then loosens it, his touch lingering a moment too long on the nape of will’s neck, skin hot and damp.
then tightens it again, terrified of doing it wrong, of cutting off blood flow, of not stopping it enough.
as he works, their faces are inches apart, will’s breath mingling with his, ragged and warm, and mike can’t help but notice the way will’s lips part slightly, the vulnerability in his remaining eye that pulls at something deep inside him, a tension that simmers even in the midst of this nightmare, making mike ache to close the distance, to taste that breath.
“there,”
he says desperately, even though it doesn’t look like enough.
“please—please let that be enough.”
his arms are trembling by the time he finishes. his shirt is gone now, his chest smeared with blood and grime, hands raw and aching from how hard he’s been pressing.
will shudders faintly beneath him. still alive.
mike slumps back on his heels, breathing fast and shallow, staring at the crude bandage already turning dark, knowing—knowing—this is the best he can do right now.
around them, the upside down stays still. not calm. just waiting.
the bandage doesn’t hold. not really.
at first it looks like it might—pressure slowing the bleeding to a sluggish ooze—but then will’s body shudders, a reflexive twitch, and something breaks loose beneath the cloth.
warmth spreads under mike’s palms. too warm.
he presses down harder instinctively, and he feels it then: the socket filling. blood welling up from deep inside the skull, pooling where the eye used to be, slick and thick like it has nowhere else to go.
the fabric darkens fast. not a slow stain—an immediate saturation.
red bleeds through in irregular shapes, soaking outward from the center, dripping down will’s cheek and into his hairline in rivulets that trace the contours of his face like tears.
the cloth clings to the torn edges of flesh underneath, sticking and pulling every time will breathes, a wet, sucking sound that echoes in mike’s ears.
a bubble of blood pushes through the weave and bursts, running down in a thin stream that traces the bridge of will’s nose before dropping to the floor. drip. drip.
mike’s chest tightens painfully.
“shit—shit—no, no—”
he peels the bandage back just enough to check and instantly regrets it.
the socket is full. blood has pooled inside it, glossy and black-red, trembling faintly with will’s pulse.
torn muscle and pale bone are visible beneath the surface, distorted by the liquid like something half-submerged underwater, fragments of tissue floating like debris in a storm.
each heartbeat sends a slow surge up from deeper inside, pushing more blood into the hollow until it threatens to spill over again, the edges of the wound quivering like living things.
mike gag-breathes, vision blurring. that’s not supposed to be visible. that’s not supposed to be open.
he slams the fabric back into place and presses down with both hands, hard enough that his arms start to shake.
blood immediately seeps through again, soaking his fingers, running down his wrists in sticky rivulets that trail over his bare arms, mixing with sweat.
the smell is overwhelming now—iron-heavy, raw, mixed with bile from where he vomited earlier and the ever-present rot of the upside down, a fetid sweetness that clings like decay.
every breath tastes like pennies and decay.
will makes a weak, choking sound. his body jerks, and the pressure shifts again.
blood leaks out faster now, escaping the edges of the bandage, dripping off will’s jaw in thick drops that splash onto the floor-flesh below, the ground absorbing it with a faint hiss, like acid on skin.
mike feels completely out of his depth. he keeps pressing anyway, his body leaning over will’s, their heat mingling, mike’s bare chest brushing against will’s arm in a way that sends sparks through him, unwanted but undeniable, the tension building like a storm even as horror unfolds, mike’s skin prickling with the need to feel more of will, to press closer until there’s no space left.
“i don’t know how to stop it,”
he whispers, voice thin and cracked.
“i don’t know—i’m trying, i swear—”
his hands are numb. his arms ache from holding pressure for so long.
the fabric is completely saturated now, no longer absorbing anything—just redirecting the blood, channeling it downward where it pools beneath will’s head in a dark halo.
the upside down floor accepts it. it drinks it in slowly, darkening where it spreads, veins pulsing greedily as if tasting will’s essence, learning from the spill.
mike stares at the bandage, at the steady seep of blood that won’t stop, and feels something inside him hollow out with cold fear.
this isn’t over. this isn’t something you just wrap up and move on from.
will’s body is still bleeding like it expects the eye to come back—and mike has no idea how long he can keep him alive like this.
all he can do is keep pressing. and hope the bleeding slows before will does.
the bleeding doesn’t stop. it slows, maybe—but only in the way a storm pauses before starting again.
mike keeps pressure on the bandage until his arms feel like they’re filled with sand, until his hands are numb and burning at the same time.
the cloth is heavy now, soaked through, no longer fabric so much as a warm, sagging weight pressed into will’s face, molding to the contours of the wound like a grotesque mask.
every time will’s chest rises, mike feels movement beneath his palms. a subtle shift. a reminder that there is a space there now—one the body keeps trying to fill with fluid that seeps and gurgles faintly.
blood seeps anyway. not in spurts anymore. in a steady, stubborn leak that finds every weak point in mike’s knots, every loose fold in the fabric.
it trails downward, soaking into will’s hair, matting it to his forehead and temple in clumped strands that stick like glue.
it drips off his jaw and disappears into the floor below with soft, repetitive sounds mike can’t stand to hear, each drop echoing like a countdown.
he tries adjusting the wrap again, lifting it just enough to reposition—
—and immediately regrets it.
the socket gapes wider in the dim light, the pooled blood spilling out in a fresh gush, revealing the mangled interior: bone chipped and splintered, nerves exposed like frayed wires, muscle torn into ribbons that hang limp and drip.
he slams it back down, breath hitching violently, vision blurring as his brain refuses to process what it glimpsed, the raw cavity pulsing with each breath.
whatever is happening under there is wrong, unfinished, and it makes his stomach clench hard enough that he nearly retches again, dry heaves wracking his body as he leans closer to will, their faces almost touching.
“fuck,”
he whispers, voice thin and cracking.
“fuck, fuck—”
will makes a faint sound. not words. just a noise—breathy, strained—that tells mike he’s still conscious enough to feel something. that’s almost worse.
mike presses down harder, teeth clenched, forearms shaking with the effort.
his hands are slick, coated in something warm and sticky that keeps spreading no matter how much he wipes them on his jeans, leaving red streaks on the denim.
the smell clings to him—metallic, raw, impossible to ignore. it coats the back of his throat.
his mind keeps short-circuiting. this isn’t how bodies are supposed to work. this isn’t survivable. this is too much blood.
the upside down remains unnervingly quiet, like it’s listening. the walls don’t advance. the floor doesn’t ripple.
it’s as if the place itself is holding still, waiting to see if will’s body gives out on its own.
mike’s breathing turns ragged. he’s aware, distantly, of how much of will is covered in blood now—how it’s soaked through the bandage, his hair, the collar of his shirt, the ground beneath him, staining everything in a visceral reminder of loss.
how permanent it all feels.
he can’t fix this. that realization lands heavy and cold in his chest.
all he can do is keep pressure. keep will upright. keep him breathing.
so mike stays there, hands locked in place, shaking and terrified, surrounded by the smell and the mess and the unbearable proof of what survival just cost.
and somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought keeps repeating, relentless and horrifying: if this is what it takes to keep will alive… what happens the next time the upside down wants something?
as he holds will, mike’s mind wanders to forbidden places—the way will’s body feels against his, solid and warm despite the cold seeping in, the curve of his shoulder under mike’s arm, the rise and fall of his chest that mike matches unconsciously, their breaths syncing in a rhythm that feels too intimate for this hellscape.
will shifts slightly, his hand brushing mike’s thigh, and even through the pain, there’s a spark, a tension that mike feels in his core, pulling him closer, making him want to wrap will up not just to protect but to claim, to feel every inch in a way he’s never admitted, to drag his mouth along that sweat-slick neck and taste the salt and blood.
will stops shaking. not gradually. abruptly—like a switch flipping.
mike notices because the weight under his hands changes.
will’s breathing evens out, shallow but deliberate, like he’s forcing his lungs to obey.
his fingers twitch once… then curl, tight, digging into the floor.
“will?”
mike says, hoarse.
“don’t—don’t move, you’re—”
“i know,”
will says.
his voice is wrecked, raw from screaming, but there’s something else in it now. focus. awareness. the kind that scares mike more than panic ever did, but also stirs something deeper, a pull that makes mike’s gaze linger on will’s lips, chapped and blood-flecked.
will tilts his head slightly, careful, like moving hurts but staying still hurts worse.
the bandage over his left eye is dark and heavy; the right one is open, sharp, tracking. he’s listening.
“no,”
mike says again, quieter.
“you need to stay down. you lost—”
“i didn’t lose everything,”
will cuts in.
he turns his head a fraction more, ignoring mike’s hands trying to keep him steady.
his right eye unfocuses, then refocuses on nothing mike can see, but when it lands on mike, there’s heat in it, a silent acknowledgment of the closeness, the way mike’s bare skin presses against him.
the upside down shifts. not violently. subtly. like a current changing direction.
will inhales slowly, deliberately, and mike realizes—horrified and stunned—that will isn’t just sensing the place anymore. he’s orienting.
“it’s still here,”
will says.
“the way out. the tear.”
mike’s heart slams.
“what tear?”
“the one max used,”
will replies.
“when vecna had her. when she—”
he swallows hard.
“when she ran.”
the walls pulse faintly in response, veins dimming and brightening in a pattern mike doesn’t understand. will does.
“it doesn’t like remembering that,”
he says. almost clinical.
“that’s how i know i’m close.”
mike stares at him.
“will, you can’t even see—”
will pushes himself upright.
mike lunges to catch him, but will’s balance is better than it has any right to be.
he sways once, breath hissing through his teeth, then steadies—one hand braced against the wall, the other clenched into a fist like pain is something he’s decided to ignore.
as he rises, his body brushes fully against mike’s, chest to chest, the contact sending a shiver through both of them, will’s heat seeping into mike’s bare skin, their gazes locking in a moment that feels charged, electric, like the air before a kiss in the wrong place at the wrong time, mike’s hands itching to slide lower, to grip will’s hips and pull him flush.
“i don’t need both eyes,”
will says flatly.
“i just need the right direction.”
the upside down reacts now—walls flexing, distant sounds stirring—but will doesn’t flinch.
he turns his head slowly, testing, listening to something internal, something learned the hard way over years of surviving this place.
then he points.
“there,”
he says.
“that’s where it thins. where the noise drops out.”
mike follows his gesture—and for a second, he thinks will’s wrong.
then he feels it. a pressure change. a wrongness that’s less wrong than the rest. like a draft in a sealed room.
“how do you—”
mike starts.
“i’ve been here before,”
will says.
“you know i have.”
he takes a step forward.
the floor resists him. veins twitch, crawling toward his boots like they want to trip him, pull him down—
—and then they recoil. hard. like they’ve been burned.
will doesn’t look surprised.
“yeah,”
he mutters.
“thought so.”
mike stares at the retreating veins, at the way the place seems to give ground around will now, like it’s recalculating.
“you’re doing that,”
mike says, stunned.
“it’s—you’re making it back off.”
will exhales, steadying himself again. sweat beads at his temple. his jaw is clenched so hard it looks like it might crack.
“i’m not letting it take anything else,”
he says.
“not from me. not from anyone.”
ahead of them, the air warps. not a full gate—not yet—but a shimmer. a distortion like heat over asphalt, thin and unstable.
through it, mike thinks he can see— light. real light.
hope slams into his chest so hard it hurts.
“will,”
he breathes.
will nods once. no hesitation. no fear.
“help me get there,”
he says.
“i’ll get us out.”
and for the first time since the upside down swallowed them whole, it’s clear: will byers isn’t just surviving this place anymore. he’s beating it.
but as mike moves to support him, their bodies aligning, arms around each other, the tension crackles—will’s hand on mike’s waist, fingers digging in just enough to feel possessive, mike’s breath hot against will’s ear, a silent promise of more if they survive this, mike’s thumb tracing slow circles on will’s side, teasing the edge of fabric, wanting to slip underneath.
the tear doesn’t stay still. it shivers in the air ahead of them, stretching and collapsing like something struggling to keep its shape, edges fraying like torn flesh, leaking light in erratic bursts.
light leaks through in thin, wavering bands—too bright, almost painful after all the gray, stinging their eyes like needles.
every time it flickers, the upside down responds, the walls groaning softly as if annoyed at being reminded this isn’t the only world that exists, the sound reverberating through their bones.
will sways. it’s small—just a hitch in his posture—but mike sees it immediately.
“hey,”
mike says, low.
he steps closer without thinking, slides an arm around will’s back to steady him.
his hand lands between will’s shoulder blades, warm, solid. real.
will doesn’t pull away. instead, he leans into it just slightly, like his body made the decision before his brain did, their sides pressing together, heat building where skin meets fabric.
will’s breath ghosts against mike’s collarbone, shallow but controlled, each exhale sending a shiver down mike’s spine, the proximity stirring thoughts he shouldn’t have here—wanting to trace that breath with his lips, to feel will’s pulse under his mouth, to bite down gently on that exposed neck.
“just dizzy,”
will mutters.
“depth perception’s… not great right now.”
mike tightens his grip, fingers splaying possessively.
“you don’t have to be tough about it.”
“i’m not,”
will says.
after a beat:
“i’m being careful.”
they move together. slow, deliberate steps.
mike guides him, adjusting when the floor dips or shifts, murmuring quiet warnings—step up, there’s a drop, hold on—his voice a constant thread in the noise, low and intimate, like secrets shared in the dark.
will listens, trusts him completely, lets mike steer when his balance falters, their bodies syncing in a rhythm that feels too natural, too charged, mike’s hand slipping lower to will’s hip, thumb brushing the bone there in a way that makes will’s breath hitch, a soft sound that goes straight to mike’s gut.
the upside down pushes back. the air thickens the closer they get to the tear, pressing against their skin like resistance underwater, heavy and clinging.
vines creep along the walls again, emboldened, brushing too close to will’s legs, coiling like fingers trying to claim him.
he hisses softly through his teeth but keeps moving, his hand finding mike’s arm, gripping tight, nails digging in just enough to leave marks, a pain that mingles with desire in mike’s mind.
mike feels it then—the heat radiating off will’s body, feverish and wrong, but intoxicating, drawing him closer.
the tremor he’s been suppressing starts to come back.
“you’re burning up,”
mike says, his voice husky.
will shrugs weakly.
“bodies do that when they’re mad.”
mike huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh in another universe, but here it’s laced with tension, his gaze dropping to will’s neck, the sweat glistening there, tempting, wanting to lean in and lick it away.
they’re almost there now. the light spills across will’s face, catching the edge of the bandage, the blood-darkened fabric stark against his skin.
his right eye squints reflexively, overwhelmed.
mike reaches up without asking and cups the side of will’s face, blocking some of the glare with his thumb, his palm cradling will’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth in a gesture that’s protective but lingers too long, charged with unspoken want, tracing the lower lip slowly, feeling it tremble.
“sorry,”
he says quietly.
“too bright.”
will stills. for a second, the world seems to hold its breath.
then will exhales and nods, just once, his lips parting slightly under mike’s touch, eyes darkening with something beyond pain, leaning into the hand like he wants more.
he lets mike keep his hand there. lets himself be guided that last step closer, until the air around the tear hums, buzzing against their skin like electricity.
up close, the opening looks unstable—edges fraying, light bending strangely at the seams, the boundary rippling like torn membrane.
it smells like ozone and cold air and home, a sharp contrast to the rot around them.
will lifts his free hand toward it—and hesitates.
mike feels it immediately. the pause. the doubt.
he shifts closer, presses his forehead briefly to will’s temple. not dramatic. just grounding.
but the contact sends heat pooling in mike’s gut, their breaths mingling, bodies aligned in a way that feels inevitable, mike’s free hand sliding to will’s lower back, pressing him closer.
“i’m here,”
he says.
“whatever happens.”
will swallows.
“yeah,”
he says. his voice is rough.
“i know.”
he steps forward.
the tear reacts violently—flaring bright, wind roaring out of it as the upside down shrieks in protest, a deafening wail that vibrates through their bones.
vines lash toward them, the floor buckling beneath their feet like living waves—
mike wraps both arms around will and lunges with him, momentum carrying them through the light, bodies pressed tight, mike feeling every inch of will against him, heart pounding in sync, hips aligning in a way that makes mike’s head spin with want.
for one suspended second, everything stretches—sound tearing, pressure crushing, heat and cold colliding, their grips tightening like they’re afraid to let go—
then—
they fall. hard. real ground. solid. painful in a way that makes sense.
mike doesn’t let go. he keeps his arms locked around will until the world settles, until the air stops screaming, until the only sounds left are their ragged breaths and will’s heartbeat thudding against his chest, a rhythm mike could lose himself in.
they’re out.
mike realizes his face is wet. he doesn’t know when that happened.
will shifts weakly, still half in mike’s arms, his hand sliding up mike’s back, fingers tracing spine in a touch that’s tender, loaded, nails scraping lightly in a way that makes mike shiver.
“did we—”
he starts.
“yeah,”
mike says immediately. his voice breaks anyway.
“we did.”
will nods, eyes fluttering shut for just a second too long.
mike adjusts his grip, careful, protective, anchoring him there, but also savoring the closeness, the way will fits against him, pressing his thigh between will’s just enough to feel the heat there.
“don’t pass out yet,”
he murmurs.
“you’re not allowed.”
a corner of will’s mouth lifts faintly.
“bossy,”
he whispers, but there’s heat in it, a tease that makes mike’s pulse race, will’s hand tightening on mike’s bare waist.
mike exhales shakily, pressing his forehead back against will’s.
“yeah,”
he says.
“i know.”
and this time, the dark doesn’t answer back.
they don’t realize they’re not alone at first.
mike is still half-curled around will, both of them on the ground, trying to get their breathing to slow to something human.
the air here smells normal—dust, asphalt, faint smoke—and it’s almost disorienting after the upside down.
then—
“dude.”
the voice cuts through everything.
mike looks up, heart slamming, and for one insane second he thinks it’s another hallucination—another trick of the place—but then he sees them.
jonathan. argyle. standing ten feet away like they’ve just walked into a crime scene.
argyle’s jaw drops first.
“oh my god. oh my god—bro, is that— is that will?”
jonathan doesn’t move. he’s staring. at the blood. at the torn shirt wrapped crudely around the left side of will’s face. at the way will’s posture is wrong—too still, too carefully held together.
his face drains of color in real time.
“will?”
jonathan says. his voice cracks on the name.
will blinks his right eye open, squints against the light, and tries to sit up.
mike’s hand comes up immediately, steadying him, fingers lingering on will’s arm.
“hey,”
will mutters.
“jon.”
that’s it. that’s all it takes.
jonathan crosses the distance in seconds.
“what the fuck happened?”
he demands, dropping to his knees in front of them.
his hands hover, unsure where it’s safe to touch.
“why are you bleeding? why is your face—”
he finally looks at mike. really looks at him.
mike’s shirtless, smeared with blood that clearly isn’t all his. his hands are shaking. his eyes are wide and wrecked and still stuck somewhere else.
jonathan’s expression snaps.
“what did you do?”
he says, low and sharp.
mike flinches.
“i—”
“what did you do, mike?”
jonathan repeats, louder now.
“because my little brother disappears, and then he shows up out of thin air looking like he went through a wood chipper, and you’re the only one with him.”
“it wasn’t—”
mike starts.
“it wasn’t like that—”
“then explain it,”
jonathan snaps. his voice is shaking now, anger barely holding together panic.
“explain why he’s wrapped up in your clothes like a battlefield casualty. explain why he looks like he’s about to pass out.”
argyle finally finds his voice.
“uh—jonathan, man, maybe we should—”
“no,”
jonathan cuts in. he doesn’t take his eyes off mike.
“no, i wanna hear this.”
mike swallows hard.
“we got pulled into the upside down,”
he says. his voice is hoarse.
“it wasn’t on purpose. something went wrong and we couldn’t get out and—”
jonathan lets out a harsh, incredulous laugh.
“you’re telling me you lost my brother in another dimension?”
“i didn’t lose him,”
mike says, too fast.
“i stayed with him the whole time.”
“oh, yeah?”
jonathan gestures sharply at will.
“because he looks great, mike. real ‘had everything under control’ vibes.”
will shifts, wincing.
“jon—”
jonathan rounds on him instantly.
“no. no, don’t you dare try to defend this.”
he softens for half a second—just long enough to check will’s face, his breathing—then the fear comes back twice as hard.
“you could’ve died,”
jonathan says.
“do you get that? you could’ve—”
mike’s voice cuts in, brittle.
“i know.”
jonathan freezes.
mike looks wrecked. not defensive. not angry. just… hollowed out.
“i know,”
mike repeats quietly.
“i was there.”
for a second, no one speaks.
argyle shifts awkwardly.
“okay, wow. this is, like… a lot. maybe we get him—like—sitting up? or to a hospital? preferably yesterday?”
jonathan exhales sharply through his nose, runs a hand through his hair.
he looks back at will, at the bandage, at the blood seeping through the fabric in fresh stains.
his voice drops, tight and controlled.
“we’re getting you help. right now.”
then he looks at mike again—eyes sharp, furious, terrified.
“and you,”
he says.
“you are not leaving my sight. because you and i are gonna have a long conversation about how my brother ended up like this.”
mike nods mutely. he doesn’t argue.
he just keeps his hand braced at will’s back as jonathan carefully helps his brother up, every movement deliberate, protective, already cataloging the damage even if he doesn’t yet understand all of it.
will leans on both of them as they stand, his body pressed between mike and jonathan, but his gaze finds mike’s again, a silent spark passing between them, promising that whatever comes next, the tension between them won’t fade, that heat lingering like a touch not yet given.
and for the first time since they got out, mike realizes something worse than the upside down is coming.
jonathan byers knows something is very, very wrong—
he just doesn’t know how wrong yet