Chapter Text
Mike was bleeding.
That was putting it lightly—the gash on his shoulder was gushing, garish and horrifying to look at. The demogorgan had slashed all the way from his shoulder to the middle of his chest, a wide, gaping tear in his flesh, and Mike, of course, was writhing in pain, screaming his head off.
"Get him to the table!" Nancy's voice was hysterical. Will, Joyce, and Hopper, who were holding Mike by his arms and legs, hoisted him onto the Wheeler's dining room table, which had been swept of all the placemats and dishes that now lay in a shattered heap at the other end.
Will's head was reeling—he thought he might puke, but there was no time for that right now—Mike was injured, and Will would never forgive himself if he left his side to be sick.
How did it go this badly?
The last few Crawls had been relatively mundane, with no one attaining more than a bruise or a scratch. Maybe they'd gotten too comfortable.
Will would be seeing that in nightmares, he knew instantly—the demogorgan converging on Mike, rearing it's ugly, terrifyingly humanoid claw to slash at the front of his sweater.
Karen hurtled into the room, she and Joyce having wasted no time getting the necessary supplies—isopropyl alcohol, bandages, and, to Will's horror—a needle, and sterile thread. They were going to have to give him stitches.
Will was definitely going to be sick.
Lucas was slumped in the corner, having already retched in the bathroom down the hall. He and Will had skewered the thing with one of the homemade spears, not without tremendous effort. Will gagged, remembering the sickening sound, the way it had slumped forward, falling over with a crash.
It was a horrible sight to see—not just the wound, but Mike's screwed up face, contorting in agony like Will had never seen before.
"Will," Joyce said, her voice tight with the effort to remain calm as she and Karen laid out what they needed, "Can you go find the painkillers? Please?"
Will's head swam, trying to make sense of the words. "Yeah," he swallowed, hard, fighting to keep the room around him in focus. "Yeah."
He stumbled, hurrying to the cabinet, fighting to keep his state of mind calm enough to remember his objective.
Painkillers. Painkillers. Which kind of painkillers? Did it matter?
He fumbled, sweeping half of the shelf into his arms, hoping that one of the bottles would be what Mike needed. With shaky hands, he brought them back to the dining room, where he set them down not-so gracefully on the table, sending half of them tumbling in the process. He'd been so preoccupied with the task he hadn't noticed that Mike was screaming his name.
"Will! Will!"
"I'm here, Mike," Will said as calmly as he could, reaching out gently to Mike's hand. Mike gripped Will like a vice, like he needed proof he was there. "Did I get the right stuff?"
Joyce looked hurriedly at the labels as Karen soaked the tip of a sterile white cloth into antiseptic. They both looked more focused then Will had ever seen them. "This'll work," Joyce confirmed, unscrewing the cap of a medicine bottle and pouring a few pills into her hand. "Mike, baby," she said in a voice that fought to remain soothing, "I'm gonna need you to take these. Do you think you can do that for me?"
Mike nodded feverishly, eyes screwed shut in pain. He was still gripping Will's hand like he might disappear if he loosened his grip even slightly. Maybe if they'd been under better circumstances, Will would've allowed himself to consider the fact that Mike was holding his hand.
Joyce gave Mike the pills, and he raised a trembling hand to swallow them, crying out like the effort alone had caused him immeasurable pain.
Will would do anything to never hear that sound again.
With a pair of kitchen scissors, Karen cut straight through Mike's sweater, ripping apart the rest of the fabric and tossing it to the floor. The wound lay, exposed, on Mike's bare chest, sickeningly oozing dark red blood.
"Mike, sweetie," she said in a surprisingly calm tone, "I'm going to need to disinfect the wound. This is going to hurt, but I need you to stay still."
"Squeeze my hand when it stings," Will instructed, thinking of when he'd gotten flu shots as a kid, and his mom had told him the same thing. Squeeze my hand. Focus on something else.
Karen pressed the cloth to the tip of the gash.
Mike shouted out in pain, writhing in agony.
"Mike, honey," Karen said, gritting her teeth, "I need you to stay still."
"Squeeze my hand," Will said again, and Mike did, grasping him with all his remaining strength as Karen continued her job, cleaning the cut with a shockingly steady hand. Their palms became slick with sweat—who's it was, Will wasn't sure.
Mike shouted again, and Will thought of the feeling of getting hand-sanitizer on a paper cut—only multiplied by a thousand.
"How long before the pills start working?" Will asked Joyce desperately.
I don't know," Joyce said, running her hands through her brown hair like she was trying to pull it all out. "I gave him the strongest kind we have. They should kick in soon."
Please, Will thought desperately, please soon.
He sunk to his knees at Mike's side, not letting go of his hand.
It seemed Joyce was right—Mike's hand slackened a little bit, his cries of pain lessening slowly as Karen continued her work, dabbing as gently as she could at the wound, until eventually Mike was just gritting his teeth, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, which took on a sort of vacant look. At least he wasn't screaming anymore. It was unnatural, but Will was relieved—semiconsciousness would do Mike some good right now. Especially when Karen stood back, and Joyce handed her the sterilized needle.
"I think I'm gonna be sick again," Lucas said weakly, stumbling out of the room and back down the hall. Will clutched tighter at Mike's hand, determined to stay by his side, even if he felt similarly to Lucas.
"Will," Mike whispered, voice breaking, using whatever remained of his responsiveness to squeeze at Will's hand again.
"I'm right here, Mike," Will tried to match the sober tone that both Karen and Joyce had adopted, but his voice cracked at the end. He was crying, and couldn't remember when he'd started.
Mike cried out again as Karen began her work with the stitches, still unbelievably steady. Will didn't know how she could think so clearly. He felt himself gag at the sight, but fought to remain his composure. Mike needed him right now, and Will rather die than leave his side for something as useless as throwing up.
Hopper chose that moment to appear, having gone to get Ted.
"Mother of god," Ted muttered at the sight of his sixteen-year-old son, lying stripped to the waist, covered in his own blood with a gaping slash across his chest. Will watched the man's eyes survey the scene, flicking over where Will knelt, holding his son's hand, with displeasure.
Whatever, Will thought with a grumble. Clearly, Mike could be bleeding out on his dining room table, and Ted Wheeler would still have the mental capacity to give Will a disapproving glance. He could think what he wanted. Will wasn't letting Mike go. Asshole.
When Lucas returned, he brought El and Dustin with him. The group sat in a tense silence as Mike lay, eyes screwed shut, gripping Will with an iron hold, his jaw clenched as his mother sewed his skin back together. When she was done, she and Joyce cleaned the rest of the blood off of Mike's pale skin, which looked even paler after all of the blood he'd lost, and wrapped his shoulder and chest with gauze and bandages.
The room felt slightly lighter with the garish wound obscured by the sterile, white cloth. Mike was injured, but he was going to be okay.
Karen stepped back, and took a shaky breath, but her voice remained steady and clear. "We'll need to carry him to his room. He shouldn't sit up right now."
Mike looked almost completely unconscious right now—whether this was due to the pills or the exhaustion, Will didn't know. Probably a combination of both.
Hopper and Ted carried Mike up the stairs, while Joyce went to reassure Lucas, Dustin, and El, who all looked shaken.
Karen disappeared to the kitchen. Will, followed.
"Are you okay?"
Karen leaned the heels of her hands on the smooth, granite counter, her head hanging between her shoulders. She let out a trembling sigh, her shoulders tense with stress. "Yeah. I'm okay. Just..." she gestured with her right hand, trailing off. It was only then that Will realized how panicked she had really been. Despite all of her steady focus, she was still a mother who'd just had to stitch her bleeding son back together.
Tentatively, Will hugged her.
He hadn't hugged Karen since he was a kid, when he'd fallen off his bike and broke his finger, and his friends had ran to get her. He remembered it so clearly—being little and scared and in pain, and how comforting she'd been. She was shaking like a leaf. In the ten years that had passed, Will had become the taller one, the one doing the comforting. She was crying, he could tell—with Mike finally taken care of and upstairs, everything she'd been holding back for her son's sake was now spilling out.
"Thank you for being here, Will," she said into his shoulder after a moment, "He really needs you."
"I didn't do all that much," Will said regretfully. If only he could've done more to help than give his mother an armful of pill bottles.
"You being there was probably the only thing keeping him calm," she said, pulling back and smoothing the sweaty hair off of Will's forehead. "You two have always been each other's comfort, haven't you?"
"Oh," Will said, slightly surprised by her words. "Yeah, I guess. We have."
She drew another shaky inhale, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Sometimes I wonder what our family did to deserve yours," she laughed bizarrely. "Sometimes I feel like you Byers' are our guardian angels."
Will laughed a little. "You guys have done plenty for us too."
She smiled at him through her tears. "You should get to bed. I bet you're exhausted."
Will nodded, but when he left the kitchen, he didn't make his way to the basement, but upstairs instead. To Mike's room. Will knew he wouldn't be able to sleep unless he knew Mike was okay.
Mike lay on his bed, on top of the covers. Clearly, neither Hopper nor Ted had bothered to tuck him in.
"Christ," Will muttered, lifting the blankets out from under Mike's legs and placing them gingerly over the boy before him, tucking them gently around his shoulders. Will was glad to have the bandage out of sight. He looked almost normal now.
Mike stirred, his eyes opening halfway, lids heavy.
"Will?" His voice was thick with tired.
"Hey," Will said softly, sitting carefully down on the edge of the bed. "How're you doing?"
Mike huffed a drowsy laugh. "Hurts."
"Yeah, I bet," Will said gently. "Do you need anything?"
Mike shook his head, which looked like it took considerable effort.
"You should go back to sleep." Gingerly, Will reached over to brush the dark curls off of Mike's forehead, allowing himself just that. "It won't hurt as bad then."
Mike sighed, shutting his eyes, nuzzling into Will's hand. His forehead was warm under Will's palm.
When Will made to leave, Mike's exhausted voice followed him, calling him back. "Will?"
"Yeah?"
"Stay?"
The famous Mike Wheeler puppy-dog eyes were in full effect.
Will sighed softly. "Yeah. Of course."
He kicked off his shoes and sat back down on the bed tentatively, pulling some of the blankets over himself, lying so that there was a safe distance between them.
In the dark, he felt Mike reach over, his warm fingers brushing over Will's.
Once he'd found Will's hand, he intertwined their fingers, squeezing Will tightly.
It's the drugs. They've made him all loopy, Will reminded himself, grateful for the protection of the dark room. Not that Mike was in any condition to notice him blushing, anyway.
But Mike was inching closer, which took considerable effort in his condition, so that their sides were pressed together as they lay on their backs, trading body heat and soft pressure.
Mike's warm breath met Will's neck.
Will inhaled sharply. "Mike..."
"Hm?"
The tip of Mike's nose brushed the curve of Will's shoulder, feather light. Will shut his eyes tight, before he did something stupid.
The pad of Mike's thumb was brushing over the back of Will's hand, gentle, almost ticklish.
What did Joyce give him?
"Will," he breathed into Will's ear, his voice slurring slightly over the words, "In my closet, there's a box of letters. For you."
Will's breath caught in his throat.
"You should read them."
"Why?"
Mike didn't answer.
Will realized after a moment that he'd fallen asleep, pulled back under by the drugs.
Will turned, against his better judgement, squinting through the darkness, to see Mike's outline. He looked peaceful, far more peaceful than he had in a while, far away in a medicine induced sleep. It was a little frightening, how stoic he looked, his breathing slow and rhythmic.
Gently, Will reached with his free hand to brush his thumb over Mike's neck, over the spot where he could feel his blood pulsing, the steady, determined beat of his heart. There was something oddly comforting about it—the reminder that Mike was here, that he was alive, and he was going to be okay.
Will's own eyelids were beginning to droop with fatigue. He would figure out what Mike was talking about with the letters tomorrow.
Soothed by Mike's beating heart and the warmth radiating from him, Will let himself be pulled under by sleep as well.