Chapter Text
It happens at night.
When the sky is so dark, Mike stumbles on unseen sticks and rocks, mumbling words of discontent with every stubbed toe and almost fall. In comparison, Will walks beside him with no trouble, his gait steady as they trek through the uneven terrain. His handheld torch illuminates the path before him.
He doesn’t look at Mike.
In fact, maybe if Mike stopped watching Will so much, he wouldn’t be tripping over in the first place. But Will isn’t talking to him. And Mike can’t stand it.
He’d thought that after Lenora, after they’d aired their grievances and had talked the whole ride back. Murmuring shared jokes and soft nothings as El had slept soundly on his shoulder. He’d thought things could go back to normal.
But the moment the Wheeler household door had shut behind them, El had broken up with him, and Will seemed to be determined to be in every place Mike Wheeler was not.
Every conversation they’d had was more akin to two strangers making acquaintanceship rather than two people who’ve known each other since kindergarten! They’d been stunted and stiff, each word feeling forced and unnatural. Not like Lenora, not like ever.
But if it hadn’t been for that world-shattering thought that had snuck through his mind in the late hours of the night, that thought of soft lips against his and a hand far too masculine to be mistaken for a girl's– far too much like Wills– he doesn’t think he’d have done anything about it.
Mike is a coward.
He didn’t use to be, he used to be brave, used to be the heart. But somewhere between Will's body being pulled from the quarry and almost losing El to Brenner, that bravery had dwindled to no less than a dying flame. The last burn of a match before it dies. He doesn't feel brave anymore.
And that’s exactly the reason why he finds it so easy to rationalise this distance between him and Will.
They may not exactly be able to meet each other’s eyes or hold a conversation about anything other than cereal or weather. But Mike will follow him, day and night; he will trail behind him even as Will ducks from the room, attempting to put distance between them. Because Mike needs Will. He needs Will in the way he should have needed El; he wants Will that way, too. So he will take any semblance of normalcy he can, even if they can’t figure out how to talk to each other anymore. Even if Mike can’t stop the steady thrum of his heartbeat increasing, which comes with every accidental brush of hands, knees or shoulders.
Mike will take anything.
Dead leaves crunch beneath his boots, each loud snap or breaking twig sounding more like a gunshot than anything in the stillness of the night.
They’d taken to patrolling all the known gates to the upside down, the ones that hadn’t had metal slabs smelted on top of them anyway. Each night they’d split in pairs of two, Dustin & Steve, Nance and Jonathan, Hopper and well… Hopper, and Will and Mike. Never Lucas, his nights were reserved for sitting dutifully beside Max; no one expected otherwise. Robin would tap into the military's communications, directing their pairs elsewhere if they neared too close to any of those maniacs.
They’d figured, as a group, they collectively knew more about the upside down than Brenner himself. It was only right that they be the ones to patrol; it was their burden to shoulder.
“Mike”, Will says, breaking the quiet.
An agitated huff slips through his lips, and he shoots Mike a glance before tearing them away again. He doesn’t miss the way Will's Jaw ticks. “You don’t have to keep… watching me, I’m not gonna vanish into thin air”
Mike startles, he hadn’t thought Will had been paying attention to him. He’s grateful the darkness is there to conceal his rapidly flushing cheeks.
“I know!” He rushes, tearing his eyes from Will and forcing them to the ground instead. Probably for the better, he can’t even begin to count the number of times he’s stubbed his toes tonight.
He stops walking, Will stops too, finally watching Mike for more than just a brief second. Mike shifts his weight foot to foot, unused to being caught under Will's gaze. “Its just- Things are so different now, you know? And I thought that things would be better, back to normal at least, after Lenora. But this is worse, this is way worse!”
The words keep coming. They spew from his lips like an avalanche he can’t stop; he’s like a deer caught in headlights under Will's heavy gaze.
There’s a silence between them, only the soft sounds of the night there to break the tense stillness they’ve set for themselves. Will still doesn’t say anything, and Mike can’t take it, as more words bubble up his throat, as his deepest secret of ‘Will I love you’ burns his throat like acid and chants through his head like a never-ending mantra. He’s not above begging, so he lets the words slip from his lips; he’s powerless to stop.
“I’m sorry”, He whines, he’ll be embarrassed about it later. But for now, he’s so desperate that the thought of caring doesn’t even cross his mind. And for someone like Mike, someone who cares deeply about what others think of him, this is new. And it feels awful. He’s awful. “Whatever it is that I’ve done, if you’re still mad about Lenora, I know I’ve been a dick! Will, but please,” He begs, “I’ll do anything,”
When he finally forces his eyes back to Will, his posture is tense, and he looks anguished in a way Mike has never seen him. There’s a look on his face that Mike can’t decipher, something between deeply sad and paralysingly terrified, but Mike can’t pinpoint it. “Will,” He says again, breaching the gap between them and grasping at his sleeve. He feels the warmth of his skin through it and almost whines, god, he misses him.
“Mike”, Will warns. His eyes rake over Mike's features. He looks guilty, sad, angry? All of the above? Mike is desperate, so desperate for anything. If this is all Will will give him, he’ll take it. “Not now”
Will tears his arm from Mike's grip, and clenches his hands knuckle white over the straps of his bag, flashlight forgone and tucked in his back pocket. He stomps forward, putting as much distance between him and Mike as he can, his shoulders tense, rising higher with each step as he works his jaw. Mike trails after him, his body moving before his mind can catch up, “Will!” He calls. “If I’ve done something, if I’ve hurt you more, tell me, please, for fucks sake, tell me!”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Mike” Will grits, eyes hard as he storms forward. Something ugly coils in Mike's stomach, something so desperate and so frustrated he almost recoils at his own feelings. But he’s worked himself up now; there’s no backing down, so he matches Will's pace, embracing that feeling of something as he reaches for Will, snatching his hands in his own. “Well, I do! I want to talk about it!”
Will's face morphs into something angry. Mike doesn’t think this look has ever been directed at him; it almost makes him back down. Almost. “Well, not everything is about you, Mike.” He wrenches his hands from Mike, glaring at him with such ferocity that Mike begins to feel angry, too. But neither of them moves.
“But it is about me! I’ve done something, and it’s made you mad at me, but I don’t know what it is. I want to know what it is!” His voice rises in volume; he can’t stop the red-hot anger seething through his teeth. Mike was never good at emotional control. He doesn’t miss the way Will flinches back; guilt floods him immediately. He would never yell at Will; he remembers all the times Lonnie had yelled, remembers the way fat tears had rolled down a younger Will's cheeks. He remembers cursing Lonnie as he held Will's trembling form against his own, too young to understand how or why a father could do that to his own child. So he lowers his voice. “Please, Will, you’re my best friend, I just want things to go back to normal.”
A beat passes, “Are we?” Will says softly, in a tone undecipherable to him. “Are we still best friends?”
And ouch, that stings. Mike probably (definitely) deserves it, but damn it, his heart feels a little like it’s been cleaved in two. “Of course we are!” He says, reaching for Will's hand even though he knows Will will only inevitably tear away from him again.
But he lets Mike hold him. His eyes still won’t meet Mike's, but his hand is heavy and warm in his own, and he runs a thumb over the softness of his skin. A silent support as he urges Will to talk. Will battles something within himself, the cogs turning in his head before he sighs, settling on a resolution. He turns his gaze back to Mike; gone is the mess of emotions cascading through his features, instead, replaced with something determined.
“Is that all we are? Friends?”
Mike's stomach drops, his hand going slack against Will's. Fear clenches the air from his lungs, and he’s frozen in place under Will's scrutinising eyes. Does he know? A thousand thoughts race through his mind, all coming back to the singular earth-shattering, fear-inducing, simple thought,
‘Will knows’
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, his tongue turned to lead. The blood rushes through his head in a deafening crescendo as the colour drains from his face. He feels dizzy, oh god, he’s going to faint. He’s going to faint, and Will is going to leave him because he’s discovered Mike's deepest, darkest, ugliest, most perverted secret, and now he hates him-
Will searches his face for something. Whatever he finds makes him sigh, a dejected puff of air that fans across the lower half of Mike's face as he leaves. He hadn’t even realised they were standing so close. He drops Mike's hand, doesn’t tear it away as he had before. He just gives up.
“Come on, let’s just finish this.” He says, but there’s a tone in his voice, one that sounds so hopeless, Mike feels like he’s missed something. He’s stuck in place, staring after Will as his thoughts rush and race through his head. He feels dirty, he feels wrong, and now the first person he ever loved hates him. Will's form is nothing but a pin prick when Mike’s mind finally moves into gear again. He pushes forward, jogging to make up the distance. God, he hates running. How does Lucas do this? And calls out to him, “Will!”
Will's shoulders only tense further as Mike nears.
“What does that mean? Is that all we are? What do you mean?” He tries to meet Will's eyes, but with only the moonlight to illuminate the space between them, he can only just make out the outlines of Will's soft features. He huffs, agitatedly and unimpressed at Mike's insistence. “Mike”, he begs, “Just drop it, please”.
That desperate feeling returns; every step he takes to right the wrongs he’s done sends him straight back to square one. Past square one even, he’s on like negative five by now. He just wants to fix it; he just wants Will.
“No! Will, I won’t just drop it. You’ve been acting like I don’t exist in my own home! You leave the room when I walk in, you stop talking just when I’m near you! I know something's wrong, I know you Will-” A soft chittering cuts through the silence, Will's head snaps up. “I’m the only one who knows you, you’re my best friend. I just want to know what I did wrong!” Will's hand covers his mouth; he hisses a stern “Shut up, Mike!”, but Mike can’t stop. All that goes through his mind is Will, Will, Will! He wrestles free from Will's grasp, his subconscious secretly enjoying the closeness between them. Will looks around frantically, shoving Mike forward as he scans the area around them.
“No, I won’t shut up! I want to talk about this, please just let me fix this-” Will gives him a harsh shove, the chittering grows louder, now accompanied by the fast-paced beats of a pair of wings, “Mike!” Will pleads. But Mike can't stop, “I know you know, and I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did! I was never gonna tell you, I’m sorry that I’m wrong.” A shrill shriek emerges from the canopy of the trees. Finally, Mike shuts up. They turn towards the sound, heads whipping harshly as they lock onto the small body of a demo-bat. ‘Oh shit', Mike thinks. “Run!” He yells, grabbing Will's hand and taking off.
His breath comes in ragged heaves of his chest. Mike was never good at sports, but he’s spurred on by Will running next to him and the thought of being eaten by a stupid demo-bat. He doesn’t want to die. His heart beats in his ears as they run, his muscles burn and ache, but he knows they can’t stop, “I think-” huff “' Castle Byers ’ is-” huff “close” Will says between ragged breaths. Mike nods, he knows the direction off by heart, knows it like the creases of his palm or the flecks of green in Will's eyes.
He steers them into the denser tree line away from the small spattering of trees they’d been walking through. Blindly, he reaches for his walkie-talkie, tucked in wills bags side pocket, he flicks it on, briefly letting his grasp of Will's hand fall while he extends the antenna. Will tangles their hands together of his own accord once Mike yells into the speaker. He doesn’t have time to think about the warmth blooming through his chest. “Dustin? Steve! Anyone! Do you copy? Code Red Code Red!”
The broken remains of ‘ Castle Byers ’ peeks through the gaps in the trees, “There!” Will yells, pointing towards it. Mike nods, “Team blue and yellow on route to ' Castle Byers ', I repeat, blue and yellow on route to ' Castle Byers ', we need help!” They skid into the clearing, stumbling as they force themselves to a stop. Mike scrambles forward, dropping Will's hand as he works to fix the structure. Two pillars remain, each with a tarp draped over the top. Mike clears the broken mess aside and tries not to think about the ache in his heart as his eyes lock onto the torn pieces of his and Will's old photos. “Mike”, Will hisses. His hands and knees are covered in dirt and grime, but he’s cleared a space; he hopes it’s big enough to fit them both. It’ll definitely be a squeeze. “Mike!”, Will says again, this time accompanied by two hands shaking his shoulders.
Mike glances up, and Will peers around them. It's silent. Dreadfully, awfully, painfully silent. “I think it’s gone”, he whispers. Mike pushes himself to his feet, and Will grabs hold of his sleeve as he rises. Together, they scan the clearing, straining their ears for any screech or flap of wings. There’s nothing. Mike releases a long-held breath. Oh, thank fuck. A relieved, breathy laugh escapes his lips, and he turns his gaze to Will. For the first time in months, Will smiles back. Looking just as tired, just as relieved and just as wrecked as Mike feels. Maybe everything will be okay.
It won’t.
The moment the thought passes through his mind, his world, once again, turns to shit. His walkie crackles to life, Dustin's voice blares through the receiver with apologies and frantic ‘Mike, Will, what’s happening, talk to us!’, at the same time, an ear-shattering screech ricochets through the spattering of trees. The loud sound drawing attention to their place of hiding. Mike's pupils shrink to pin pricks as the demo-bat swoops towards them, towards Will— who still has his back turned— at a lightning-fast pace. He has no time. Will reaches for the gun zipped away in his bag, but he realises too late. Mike's heart hammers against his sternum as he grabs Will's shoulders and pushes. There’s no thought behind it, only an overwhelming need to protect Will.
He see’s Wills fear stricken face, his wide eyes beading with tears as he screams Mike's name. The pain is blinding. The creature's scaly tail lassos around his neck, pulling taught. It yanks Mike forward as his hands claw at it, desperate to loosen the tension. He can’t breathe.
The floor cuts gashes and pushes bruises into his front when he lands. His nose is definitely broken. The little air he had left in his lungs is knocked out by the force. Oh fuck, Mike was gonna die. He flips himself over, kicking with what little strength he has left, in hopes of deterring the bat. “Mike! Just- just hold still!” He hears Will's gun cocking, as he aims for the frantically moving monster. But Mike can’t; his vision is blurring, and darkness creeps towards the centre of his eyes. If he stops moving, he knows he’ll die.
The bat lets out one last ferocious screech. Between him, Will, and the bat, he’s not sure whose scream is loudest. Needle-sharp teeth and talons dig into his arm, and he can feel his flesh being torn from his body as he weeps, as the bat bites again and again and again. He chokes on his sobs, fat tears streaming down his cheeks as his struggles begin to still. The world slips from his grasp as his lungs burn.
“Mike!” Will screams.
A strangled wail escapes his throat as something stiff and heavy is smacked against his side. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck, but the tail loosens around his throat, and finally he gasps down mouthfuls of air. He relishes the way his lungs fill, cries in relief at the ache of finally breathing again. The bat chirps pitifully. Mike can feel the claws releasing his flesh as it unsteadily bats its wings in a desperate escape attempt. It chitters once, twice, a sound they haven’t heard before, and Mike's mind goes white. It’s calling for back up, it's calling the hive mind. Will's neck prickles.
He hears Will's strangled sob, hears his sharp intake of air and his desolate cry of “Mike, I’m sorry!” A grunt of effort leaves his throat as he draws back to swing his makeshift bat again. Will bats the creature to the side, its chitters and chirps becoming weak, pained squeaks, but it still moves; he knows he won’t have long. If he doesn’t act now, it’ll call more, or will finish off Mike. But his options are limited; the creature is still draped partially over Mike's arm, its wings reaching to his middle. He can’t kick it off without risking being bitten himself, he can’t hit it again without risking hitting Mike, he can’t shoot it without killing Mike, and the creature is already beginning to come to. So what choice does he have? He lets himself sob, “I’m sorry” He draws back again and brings down his bat again and again. Mike wails in pain, Will sobs, and the creatures' shrieks slowly die out.
Their choked, stuttered breaths cut through the sudden stillness that killing of the demo-bat had plunged them into.
Will's hands tremble, blood has spattered across his knuckles, and the jagged piece of wood gripped in his hands is bloodied. The sight below him is worse. Small pitiful cries are torn from Mike's chest, his hand is still gripping the loosened tail of the demo-bat, and there is so much blood, Will doesn’t know where the bat begins, and Mike ends. The bat lies mangled against Mike's arm— Will dreads to see the state of the limb — its innards lie exposed, seeping a dark black/brown blood like liquid. He drops to his knees, scrambling to Mike's side.
“Mike!” He calls, which feels like the most used word in his vocabulary by now.
He stirs only slightly, only to make more of those weak whines. Will cradles his face in his hands, chanting a rushed, “Mike, please, Mike, Mike!” The rise and fall of his chest begins to slow.
Will's stomach drops, white-hot panic laces through his veins as he scrambles for his walkie, “Help! I need- I need help!” He wails, throat racked with sobs. He throws it haphazardly as Hopper's gruff ‘On the way, kid!’ Crackles through. He crawls back to Mike's side. His skin is pale, his breaths are so weak and his blood. Won’t. Stop. Spilling. Finally, he shucks off the remains of the creature, its large intestine sliding from Mike's body. Will fights down the bile, ignores the nausea.
His arm— if you could even call it that— looks closer to roadkill than a human appendage. The skin is torn, and he can see the way Mike's dark red blood mixes with the bat's black one. Bone peeks from a particularly nasty gash, and beads of fat and muscle are much too visible for Will's liking. He turns his head to the side and empties his stomach next to them. Mike groans softly, consciousness slipping. “It’s okay, you’re okay”, Will hushes. His throat feels dry and itchy, the taste of bile only making it worse. Mike sobs at the gentleness of his voice. Will shucks off his jacket, “This’ll hurt, only for a second”, he promises.
As gently as he can, he lifts Mike's arm. He whines and groans as tears slip from his dark eyes. Will has never felt so guilty. He chokes down his own sobs as he whispers soft reassurances. He places his arm down on the sleeve of the jacket, lining up the top of his bicep with the length. He takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry.” He bemoans. Quick as he can, he ties a knot in a makeshift tourniquet. Mike howls, broken cries cut through the clearing with such clarity that Will doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sound. “I know, Hopper will be here soon”, He stutters through his own sobs. He crawls his way back to Mike's good side as he writhes in agony.
Eventually, the sounds dwindle, and Will clutches at the neck of Mike's shirt, holding onto him with uncontrollable trembling hands. He watches the breaths in Mike's chest rise and fall, wipes away his own tears as Mike's blood dries. The clearing is oh so silent. Will has never been so angry at it. He desperately wishes for Mike to sit up, to crack jokes, poke fun, or complain. Just something, anything. He would take the nerve-grating whining over this. He just wants Mike.
A strangled breath leaves Mike's throat; it sounds wet and ragged, as if his body is forcing it out of him. And then he goes still. His chest stops moving. Blood still seeps slowly from the wound in his arm, but his jaw has dropped open, lying slack. And he’s not breathing. “Mike?” Will calls, stuttering as the fear in his chest builds. He grabs hold of his shoulders and shakes, “Mike? Come on, this isn’t funny!” No response.
His breaths come too quickly, and blood rushes in his ears. He spreads his hands over Mike's chest, searching for a heartbeat. There is none. He checks under his jaw for a pulse, nothing. Shit. “Mike!” He screams.
Okay, first aid, first aid, his brain supplies. CPR. Okay, CPR is what he should be doing. He tries to remember the rhythm, the technique, but it slips from his mind like fingers through sand. But Mike's not breathing, so he has to do something.
He throws a leg over his side, straddling his torso, making sure he doesn’t place too much weight against him. He tries to remember what to do with his hands, what shape to hold them in, what motion to press with. But he can’t, he just can’t. So he places his hands together over where he thinks Mike's heart should be, and pushes. He counts to thirty, two beats per second, then blows two breaths of air through his mouth, pinching his nose shut. Will doesn’t know how many times he’d wished, had wondered what the feeling of Mike's lips against his would be like. Never had he guessed that Mike would be lifeless and limp beneath him. The thought makes him ache.
He keeps going, he presses his hand against Mike's unmoving chest and blows puffs of air through his limp lips, he cries all the while.
Nothing happens, Mike remains unmoving, and Will's attempts are becoming sloppier. The walkie-talkie crackles occasionally with updates on the others' whereabouts. Hopper will be there soon, he thinks. Frustration, panic, that desolate emptiness wells within him, drawing from memories of regret, from things he wished he’d said. And now he’s angry. Angry like he’s never been, he yells at Mike, cursing in a way that would have a mother covering their children’s ears. He doesn’t want to be without Mike. So he balls his hands into fists and brings them down on Mike's chest; he does it over and over, each hit landing with a dull thud. He does it until finally, startlingly so, Mike draws a breath. It’s sharp, his mouth is open too wide, Will sobs.
“Will!” A voice calls, searching. Hopper.
He turns to the sound and checks again for the rise and fall of Mike's chest. When his worries are satiated, he begins yelling, waving his arms to draw more attention to them. His voice breaks and scratches at his throat as he does. “Here! We’re over here!”
Hopper comes rushing through the tree line. “I need help. He died, he stopped breathing, Hopper,” Will pleads. Hopper's eyes widen as he tosses his bag and rifle. He mutters curses under his breath and begins working on the mess that is Mike's arm. “You did good, kid”
He lets himself fall to the side, lungs sucking in air faster than he’d thought possible. Will curls into Mike's side, ignoring the way the dirt mixes with the drying blood on his skin, ignoring the way his own sick feels beneath his legs. He doesn’t care. Because Mike lies next to him, eyes fluttering, and alive.
Will takes Mike's good hand in his own and clutches it to his chest.
The car ride back is stressful to say the least.
With the military still occupying half of Hawkins, watching them all through concealed cameras and vigilant eyes, they can’t exactly speed. So Hopper drives carefully— safely —through streets they know are under watch. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently as they pass troops of soldiers patrolling, and floors it through the quiet ones. Will isn’t one to pray, but he finds himself sending prayers to whatever cruel god lives above that they be merciful on them, that they have mercy on Mike. Will tugs him closer to his chest in the back seat. He promises to repent, but only if Mike is okay.
The road to Hopper's cabin comes to him from memory. With every turn, every bump, he maps the route in his mind. He murmurs soft reassurances into Mike's matted hair, even though he’s not even sure the boy can hear him. He wants so desperately to squeeze his eyes shut, to pretend that today didn’t happen at all. But he can’t, his brain won’t let him. Instead, he forces them to stay trained on Mike, even as they burn. What would happen if he looked away and Mike woke up? Or what would happen if Mike- If Mike… He doesn’t want to think about it. Mike's jaw going slack as his chest stilled will haunt him forever. He chokes back a sob.
To avoid curious eyes, Hopper had laid them down. Placed a finger over his lips in a shushing motion, a silent command to stay quiet. Will had only nodded, swallowing down cries as he’d positioned Mike's unconscious body comfortably. He cradles Mike's body against his own and weeps quietly as he watches the blood from Mike's arm turn from red to black. Alarm bells ring in his head.
When the tyres screeched to a stop, chaos ensued. Mike was torn from Will's grasp, even as he had sobbed, begged them to just let him carry Mike, to let him come with. He’d stumbled out of the car, blood, dirt, vomit, and god knows what other fluids were caked into his clothes, his hair, his everything. His mum steers him away, “Will, honey, come on. You don’t want to see this.” He fights against her, arms reaching for Mike as Hopper shuts the bedroom door behind him. As the door swings shut with a squeal, he sees Nancy begin to sob, her shaky hand pressed tight against her mouth, Robin retches, Steve pinches the bridge between his eyes, and Jonathan goes so sheet white so fast, Will’s sure he’d seen a ghost. “Please, baby, he’ll be okay, Hopper will take care of him”
He’s turned into El's room. Dustin, Lucas and El tug him close as he wails into their arms. He lets himself be pulled to her bed as she envelopes him in a hug. Lucas and Dustin shoot each other worried glances, talking quietly amongst themselves.
“What happened?” Lucas says gravely.
Will can only shake his head, tears dripping down his nose as he clenches his eyes shut.
Joyce had long since left Els's room by the time Mike's agonising cries began.
There are too many doors between them that Will can only catch snippets of conversation— “I know you’re not a doctor, but we need to do something!” Comes Robins shrill cry, “Hold him down, hold him down!” Hopper yells— Mike's wails pierce through the cabin. He howls, screaming for them to stop.
Will hears the door open and shut, hears retching and a thud. In the brief second the door is open, Mike's screams are so clear that Will has to slam his hands over his ears. It doesn’t help; the sound rings through his brain on a loop.
Hopper stares down at the mangled mess of Mike's arm. He glances at the people in the room with him, Joyce and a group of barely adults that look seconds away from either hurling or looking a second from being out cold.
He pities them like nothing else, feels a sorrow so deep within for the things they’ve had to witness. But he needs help, and the mewling, bloodied teenager lying between them all slips further and further from their grasp the longer they delay. “Joyce,” He says, voice grave, “I need you to get the saw”
She blinks up at him from where she kneels beside Mike. “The- the saw? what do you-“, “No!” Nancy yells. She tears herself from Jonathan's grasp and strides towards him. Her hands shove at his chest, “You’re not cutting off my brother’s fucking arm!” She shrieks. Tears slide down her cheeks, and a fire blazes in her eyes. He lets her hit him, lets her hurt him the way he knows she’s hurting. He grabs her wrists, ignoring her struggle as the anger fades within her. “I know, I know,” He soothes, “But if he keeps bleeding like this, he will die. Do you understand me? He will die.”
She glares at him, he glares back, she knows he’s right. She glances at Mike, who writhes against the bed. “Fine.” She says, he pretends he doesn’t hear the wobble in her voice.
They each scramble from the room and set out to complete their own tasks. Hopper sighs, dragging a shaky hand down his face. Joyce’s lip wobbles as she brushes stray strands from Mike's forehead. Hopper grits his teeth and tightens the tourniquet.
One by one, they stumble back into the room, each looking slightly paler than when they’d left. Alcohol, bandages, scissors and a hacksaw are dumped before him. “Jonathan,” he says, “The stoker, leave it in the fire” Jonathan's eyes widen, Nancy trembles. He nods.
Hopper sucks in a long, slow breath, hating what he was about to do, then exhales. “Let's get this over with,” He mutters.
The first cut is too light, too tentative. Mike wails and cries, more alive than he had been since they brought him inside. Joyce tries to comfort him, shoves a rag between his teeth with a soft, “Here, bite down, honey, it’s almost over” Mike just cries more. The second cut has Hopper fighting down his lunch, the flesh tears and pulls with a sickening squelch. He grunts, averting his eyes briefly, squeezing them shut till the image disappears into stars behind his eyes. He begins again. He cuts through muscle and fat, rupturing blood vessels that shower him in a spray of red-black blood, and watches as sinew tears from Mike's muscle and bone. His hands shake against the handle.
When the saw finally makes its first cut through bone, Mike lurches from the table, a despairing wail tearing itself from his throat. Hopper screams at them to hold him down. Shrieks and agony-laced cries echo through the house. He can hear Will's choked sobs from the other end of the cabin and hears the quiet choked tears of the group in the room. “Will!” Mike screams; he begs for him, like his mere presence would solve everything. “Please, please! No more. It hurts!” Hopper's ears ring; he vaguely registers Jonathan spewing chunks of vomit through the hand clutched over his mouth, but he ignores it.
He keeps going.
“Will!”
Mike's cries seep through the cracks in the door, echo off the walls of El's room as they sob together. “Mike!” Will calls back, he tears himself from El's grasp, tears free, flowing as he pushes through the door.
Though Dustin and Lucas sob with choked breaths, they plead with him to come back. This isn’t something Will wants to see. Of course it’s not, but Mike had called for him. Mike had pushed him from harm's way and taken the hit. It should’ve been Will.
Mike's shrieks and pleading cries continue. Will slumps against Lucas, hands pinned to his ears as he screams. He can’t take it. His heart hammers in his chest, the blood rushing in his head, though nothing is as loud or as clear as Mike. He thinks of the soft way Mike would speak to him, thinks of the way there’s nothing but them when Mike looks at Will. His resolution becomes clear. He shoves Lucas from him and bolts across the cabin. Lucas, El and Dustin yell after him.
He slams through the bedroom door, and it swings open with a bang. The stench of blood, puke and meat fills his nostrils. He almost vomits then and there. It hits him like a tidal wave. His stomach churns, though there's no food left to expel. Instead, bile climbs his throat. He swallows it down, pushing his way into the room, just in time to see Hopper fling Mike's decapitated arm to the floor. It hits the timber with a sickening squelch, and blood seeps from its core. Mike's cries have dwindled to anguished mewls; he’s fresh out of energy. His mum wipes sweat from his brow and whispers soothing shushes as she combs her fingers through his curls. Will doesn’t miss the way tears drip down her nose. “Will! You can’t be here,” Jonathan says, his voice wavers, his skin a kind of pallor Will has never seen. Joyce's gaze snaps up, she levels him with a pleading stare, but doesn’t move, “We talked about this,” Robin places her hands on his shoulders, ushering him out with frantic hushed whispers, “No!” he cries.“He called for me, I need to- I need him”
“Jonathan!” Hopper yells, “The stoker, grab the stoker!” Jonathan snaps to attention with a nod. He pushes past Will and disappears into the living room. Robin gives him one last glance before rushing back to Hopper, grabbing the saw from his hands as she tries her best not to puke. Will rushes forward, the others now too occupied to pay attention to him, so he drops to his knees beside Mike. Cradling his face as Mike heaves breaths. “Will”, he bemoans, his eyes rolling in their sockets, the pain rendering him delirious. Will sobs, stroking the soft, bloodied skin of his jaw.
Jonathan returns, looking sicker than he had been a second ago. The iron rod gripped tightly in his hand, the dull end glowing red hot. “What’re- What’re you doing?” Will worries. Hopper spares him only a glance, brief sorrow passing over him. He thrusts the rod against the bloody meat of Mike's arm, cauterising the wounded flesh. Mike’s back arches off the bed, his screams so much louder now that he's not rooms away. Will sobs brokenly, grasping at Mike's uninjured arm. Then the smell hits him. It’s like nothing he’s ever encountered, nothing like meat, nothing like burning demogorgons, it’s something else entirely.
This time, he does hurl. Acid-like bile tears its way up his throat, and he hastily turns to the side, feeling it splatter against his legs as it hits the floor.
He looks at the burnt flesh of Mike's arm, charred and sizzling where his upper arm meets his elbow. His head becomes fuzzy, a shrill, ear-piercing ringing echoing in his head. He stumbles forward, grasping for Mike as his consciousness slips; His name leaves Will's mouth in a mutter.