oh sometimes i forget we have one of those a hospital, i mean not strong meds or legs or
[He's rambling. It's a literal text conversation, Will has no reason to be rambling, and yet here he is. He should say something thoughtful and neutral and comforting, like "I'm glad you're okay" or "do you need anything". He should give Mike his space and not push or rush him or anything like that. He should--]
[The rambling is unexpected, but it's good. Good rambling. It means Will isn't too pissed off to talk, even if it's in an awkward, nervous rush. It means Will isn't yelling at him.]
yeah
[It's not like there are visitor rules when this place is running on less than a skeleton staff. These days it's just Sleepers coming in as they need, rifling through storage closets or stitching themselves up on the abandoned cots. A few monster corpses litter the halls in various stages of decay, stragglers who got bested by someone here to swipe more hydrocodone. Most of the building is still untouched by the building horror outside, marred only with dust and eerie absence.]
[As soon as he'd sent it, Will had wanted to take it back, wanted to seem more chill, more laid-back about everything. He didn't want to immediately overwhelm Mike -- who had broken his leg and seen Peter die -- with him being clingy and hovering.
But the immediate agreement loosens something in Will's chest, has him exhaling slowly, sagging back against his seat on the couch. Even with everything else they'd said looming behind them, at least Mike isn't so mad and hurt that he never wants to see Will again. Maybe they can fix things. Maybe they can still be friends.]
i will be i'll bring the gunsword. be there soon
[Because after 48 hours he doesn't want to wait another second. He's up and out the door, electing to ride Marshmallow -- faster than walking and less monsters to bother him -- with the gunsword strapped over his back. He hasn't been to the hospital much, has avoided anything even resembling the lab in Hawkins with all his might, so it takes him a little while to navigate the rubble and find the corner where things are still somewhat functional. It's...profoundly creepy, and Will startles more than once at shadows and noises that end up being nothing. He eventually texts --]
[Its lights are still flickering over the remaining shards and the few bags of peanuts and pork rinds still stacked inside, unwanted by intruders. Mike's been watching it all morning, imagining he could knock down the curtain rod and use it as a crutch to get over there. Beneath waves of nausea from the pain meds, his stomach's still been growling.
He doesn't know just how bad he looks, but he has suspicions. His right leg is entrapped in what looks like a metal brace, connected by rods that disappear into a patchwork of stitched skin. Chalky, white pills have kept its pain to a moderate throb, but all it takes is a memory of his shin bone striking concrete to know exactly what it will feel like when they wear off. Above one ear, a portion of hair has been shaved to a buzz around another gnarled line of stitches. Just a shallow gash, nothing truly damaging.]
... Hey.
[He reaches up to brush knotted, greasy hair over the shaved patch, anxiety and self-consciousness swirling up in his chest.]
[Oh, yep, that sure is a busted snack machine. Will leans in for a moment, not seeing Mike right away, balancing on his tiptoes to scope out what food is still there. Peanuts, beef jerky, some of those gross mustard-flavored pretzels...
Then he sees Mike and he freezes, still up on his toes, gunsword on his back, hair in his face. He clearly hasn't slept, shadows under his eyes dark as bruises, but he looks like he's been having a relaxing spa weekend compared to Mike, who looks, respectfully, like a damn horror movie. The rods are like something out of Will's worst medical-centric nightmares, the jagged stitches prickly like some gnarly insect, to say nothing of Mike's own gaunt, haunted face.
He's the best thing Will's ever seen in his entire life.
Something unknots in Will's throat, from around his chest and he can breathe in for the first time in 48 hours. Even with everything between them, every ugly word and defensive, stupid argument, he can breathe again. Part of him hadn't believed that Mike was still there, not until he actually laid eyes on him. So he smiles, that stupid, helpless smile. They could be back in a sinking ship and he'd still smile like that.]
Hey. [The glass crunches underfoot, catching the dim foggy light as Will steps into the room, hovers in the doorway.] This place...sucks.
[Mike blinks dumbly at the smile, certain for a moment that Will must be missing some piece of this picture. Has he not seen the metal bored into Mike's shin? The spiderweb of thread holding his leg back together? Where is the anger? Where is everything Mike deserves for being such a reckless moron?]
Yeah. [He's not sure how he manages it, dry as his throat is. His chest clenches like he's waiting on something to drop.] I don't know when they'll let me leave, yet.
["They" is really just one doctor, torn between a whole town in the midst of an apocalypse. Mike has hardly seen him since he woke up, terrified and aching.]
Can't you just...leave? [Well, who's gong to stop them, especially if there's only the one doctor and the whole town, torn apart and terrified? Will isn't usually the first one to suggest breaking the rules, but the idea of staying here even another minute makes his skin crawl. Maybe it'll make sense when they're back at home, back surrounded by the clutter and warmth and mess. Maybe he'll say the right things there.
But then Mike apologizes, and Will freezes, brow furrowing, head already shaking.] You -- you don't need to apologize. You. [weren't the one who did anything wrong, he wants to say, swallowing around the words.] I'm just. Sorry you got hurt.
[His eyes flick back to the rods, the stitches, stomach roiling. He swallows, tries to smile again.] I'm not....angry at you.
[And it should be a profound relief, but Mike can see those hesitant eyes, struggling to take in the sickening sight, and it only twists his stomach up further. A reminder that he fucked up again, that he can't stop causing Will hurt and grief. Is that their future? More of this, over and over, until one of them gets lost for good?]
And maybe, but- [But it would be hard. But it would be a burden. But he'd need more help than he's willing to ask for.] I can't even move, it's-
[For a second he struggles, frustration and exhaustion battling it out in a chokehold. Eventually, he gives up on the sentence altogether and lays his head back against the flimsy pillow, looking miserable.]
It's gonna be months before I can walk again. [If the world even lasts that long.] I'm just a liability, now.
Really? [Will steps forward a little, then, because the only chair in the room is half-rotted and looks like it'll collapse if he looks at it too hard, he crouches down to sit on his heels instead. This puts him at eye level with Mike, and he doesn't look away, even with the grime and the bruises and the stitches. His eyes are wide and hopeful and very damp.] Even after -- everything I said?
[Then Will shakes his head ferociously, almost knocking himself off-balance with the force of it.] You're not. You're not and I'm not going to leave you. Not ever again. Okay? [...this is still. Platonic and totally casual bro things to say, right?]
[I'm not going to leave you. Mike clenches his jaw, but his lip still wobbles, betraying tears that he'd been determined not to show. Panic and self-hatred cloud his thoughts, even as Will looks up with so much expectation, so much kindness.]
You were right. [It comes out thin and strained. Mike blinks hard, the fluorescent lights leaving starbursts in his vision.] About going home.
[Every word cuts on its way out, but it's heavy with truth. Because if Will isn't going to leave his side, how can Mike stay here? How can he just sit on his hands as death waits for his next mistake, ready to pick off another friend? It's happened twice in as many months, now. Will could be next, or Lev, or Nancy. How would Mike survive that? He hardly feels as though he's survived this.]
[Will lets out a sort of hoarse little laugh, resting his elbows on the edge of the bed -- very gingerly, not wanting to jostle the bed at all. The smile is tight, not fully reaching his eyes as he shakes his head.] I wasn't right about anything. Except -- for being scared.
[The lights above them buzz and flicker, and the glass on the floor over here is like sand, tiny and ground to bits. Will stays hovering, sitting on his heels, not wanting to lean forward and let his knees rest on the grimy tile. He doesn't seem to have as many compulsions about hiding his tears, looking at Mike with wide, solemn eyes.] I'm scared of going home. I'm...scared of staying here and I'm scared of moving on, but.
[He trails off, looking at where one of Mike's hands rests on the blankets. Last week he wouldn't have hesitated before reaching out, grabbing it, holding on like it was the only real thing left. Now, he doesn't move.] I'm most scared of going somewhere you aren't.
[It isn't courage or certainty that gives Mike the strength to do what Will is delaying. More than anything else, it's habit. An instinct, like rubbing your arms to warm them up, or plugging your ears when it's too loud. Will is upset, so Mike reaches out and grips his hand. There's no lacing of fingers or rubbing of thumbs, but it's as reassuring as he knows how to be right now. Even under dry, scuffed knuckles, his palm is warm and steady.]
Then I'll make sure that doesn't happen.
[He's trying for earnest, the way he always is when Will whispers a dark fear that needs cutting down. It's nearly an old routine by now, reaching for his sword and shield the second he spots the threat. But it's different this time. Everything's different. Bleak, dismal fear undercuts every word that leaves his mouth, as hard as he tries to mask it.]
However you want to end this - I'm there, okay? You don't have to worry about that.
[Will's breath catches a little, half in surprise, half in relief, his shivering hand immediately curling around Mike's fingers. It's not the easy, familiar, instinctive curling-together of fingers that they've become used to. If anything, it's most like that horrible, endless day back in Hawkins, when Will was panicked and paranoid and overheated, glassy-eyed with fear and half out of his head.
We won't let him, Mike had said then and Will had barely been himself, but he'd believed it. He believed it then and he believed it now.
He shifts forward, finally dropping completely to his knees, licking dry lips to try and make it easier to talk.] I want...to know what you want. Because I don't know what I want anymore. [He wants to go back to when this was easy. When Deerington was dangerous and risky and painful, but home. This place isn't any of those anymore. It isn't anything.]
[A false start, quickly choked off. Mike's face pinches, but he can't tell where the pain is coming from. The mess of bone and metal below his knee is faded beneath painkillers, but his thoughts are another monster entirely.
Last week, when he'd sat across from Will and drummed his nervous fingers on the table, he thought he'd known what he wanted: to never be separated, at any cost. To keep carrying these memories, even if it was to the grave. And not because he wanted to die, but because he didn't want to give up. He didn't want to take the first exit and miss something better down the road.
Now, looking up at cracked ceiling tiles through half-tearful eyes, he can't believe he was so selfish.]
... I want you to live. I just want you to live, Will. [He swipes at his face with his free hand, one clumsy palm wiping tears into a streak.] Even if it's in Maine, or- or anywhere, I just- I don't-
[What he wants to say is this: he'd waste the rest of his life shivering by the shore of Lake Michigan, if it meant Will got to have one at all. He'd move into the miserable, drafty basement right this second if it meant that Will would have his own shitty apartment, his own boring classes, his own tedious adulthood. He doesn't want anything extraordinary, anything miraculous. He just wants a heart that keeps beating, eyes that don't go dim and cold under a falling sky.]
[Even a couple days before, Will would've argued this. He would've said something dramatic and too-much, something like I don't want to live if it isn't with you. The kind of thing people say at the end of stories with too many cheesy twists and sappy lines. Maybe the kind of thing that would've fit in a dream world.
But the dream is dying. And Will doesn't want to keep risking that he's going to wake up one day and find Mike gone, like so many others. He doesn't want to stay if he has to remember everything, remember them all by himself. At least in Hawkins, they're together. At least in Hawkins, they can stay friends.
It's enough. Will shifts his hand, laces his fingers with Mike's, tries to squeeze some warmth into them. It'll have to be enough.]
Then let's go home. [It's very gentle, very calm. He'll watch and be silent for the rest of his life, if it means he doesn't have to see this shattered, hollow look on Mike's face anymore. The Mike in Hawkins is hurting and scared and full of secrets, but he hasn't watched his friends bleed out in front of him. He hasn't drowned in the labyrinthine depths of a doomed ship.] Both of us. Let's go home together.
[Will says it like it's so simple, and almost instantly, Mike feels himself start to dissolve. He pulls tighter at Will's hand, tugging helplessly until he can hide his face in soft, uncombed hair, just in time for the first sob to sneak out on a shuddering breath.
Home. He doesn't even know what that is, anymore. Maybe it's a house, on a street, in a town, where his mom bustles around in front of the stove and his dad is just arriving home from work. Or maybe it's a time, one he can't return to, when Dustin and El and Brianna and Steve and Billy and Jonathan were here, and not all the nights were good, but they were always full, always alive. He knows which one he'd go back to if he had the choice, but he doesn't. Whatever home means to him, there's only one door left open.
It takes a few minutes for the worst to pass, leaving Mike trembling and wrung dry, clinging to Will like a lifeline. He doesn't bother to wipe his face, instead just burying it deeper, squishing his nose up against the side of Will's neck. This is the end. This is the end, and they're not even going to know it soon.
When he can finally will himself to speak again, all he says is,] I love you.
[There's the great tragedy of it -- what they're leaving behind, the memories, the people who they won't even know existed. Everyone they've met and loved and cared for over the last two-ish years is going to disappear, and they won't even know. It wouldn't be easier, if they could -- it might even be harder -- but at least they'd be able to remember.
And the worst part is Will's going to go back to being quiet and secretive and closed-off about what's he feels, who he is. He's going to keep on living like he has to lie to everyone about it. Even if, like everyone says, years on things get better, he can't tell his 12-year-old self that.
But Mike is sobbing into his hair, and they can't keep doing this. The death, the horror, the loss is too much, and the way Mike's hiding against him, Mike the fearless, Mike the leader, Mike the courageous, bent double with his grief is the worst possible thing. Will is careful, putting his arms around Mike's shuddering, bony shoulders, but his own hitch with tears as well, especially at those mumbled words against his neck.
You won't, when we go back, he thinks, feeling it like a fist to the chest. But that will be then, and he'll think about it then. Right now, he gets to hear it, feel it in the way Mike clings to him. Like a drowning man. The irony isn't lost on him.
Will nuzzles against Mike's dirty, tangled hair and -- well, straight-up Solo's him.] I know.
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sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2021-06-13 05:40 am (UTC)sometimes i forget we have one of those
a hospital, i mean
not strong meds
or legs
or
[He's rambling. It's a literal text conversation, Will has no reason to be rambling, and yet here he is. He should say something thoughtful and neutral and comforting, like "I'm glad you're okay" or "do you need anything". He should give Mike his space and not push or rush him or anything like that. He should--]
can i come see you
[OR. He could do that!!!]
no subject
Date: 2021-06-14 12:38 am (UTC)yeah
[It's not like there are visitor rules when this place is running on less than a skeleton staff. These days it's just Sleepers coming in as they need, rifling through storage closets or stitching themselves up on the abandoned cots. A few monster corpses litter the halls in various stages of decay, stragglers who got bested by someone here to swipe more hydrocodone. Most of the building is still untouched by the building horror outside, marred only with dust and eerie absence.]
just be careful
please
no subject
Date: 2021-06-14 03:47 am (UTC)But the immediate agreement loosens something in Will's chest, has him exhaling slowly, sagging back against his seat on the couch. Even with everything else they'd said looming behind them, at least Mike isn't so mad and hurt that he never wants to see Will again. Maybe they can fix things. Maybe they can still be friends.]
i will be
i'll bring the gunsword.
be there soon
[Because after 48 hours he doesn't want to wait another second. He's up and out the door, electing to ride Marshmallow -- faster than walking and less monsters to bother him -- with the gunsword strapped over his back. He hasn't been to the hospital much, has avoided anything even resembling the lab in Hawkins with all his might, so it takes him a little while to navigate the rubble and find the corner where things are still somewhat functional. It's...profoundly creepy, and Will startles more than once at shadows and noises that end up being nothing. He eventually texts --]
i'm here.
where's your room?
no subject
Date: 2021-06-15 04:07 pm (UTC)by the busted snack machine
watch for glass
[Its lights are still flickering over the remaining shards and the few bags of peanuts and pork rinds still stacked inside, unwanted by intruders. Mike's been watching it all morning, imagining he could knock down the curtain rod and use it as a crutch to get over there. Beneath waves of nausea from the pain meds, his stomach's still been growling.
He doesn't know just how bad he looks, but he has suspicions. His right leg is entrapped in what looks like a metal brace, connected by rods that disappear into a patchwork of stitched skin. Chalky, white pills have kept its pain to a moderate throb, but all it takes is a memory of his shin bone striking concrete to know exactly what it will feel like when they wear off. Above one ear, a portion of hair has been shaved to a buzz around another gnarled line of stitches. Just a shallow gash, nothing truly damaging.]
... Hey.
[He reaches up to brush knotted, greasy hair over the shaved patch, anxiety and self-consciousness swirling up in his chest.]
no subject
Date: 2021-06-16 02:37 am (UTC)Then he sees Mike and he freezes, still up on his toes, gunsword on his back, hair in his face. He clearly hasn't slept, shadows under his eyes dark as bruises, but he looks like he's been having a relaxing spa weekend compared to Mike, who looks, respectfully, like a damn horror movie. The rods are like something out of Will's worst medical-centric nightmares, the jagged stitches prickly like some gnarly insect, to say nothing of Mike's own gaunt, haunted face.
He's the best thing Will's ever seen in his entire life.
Something unknots in Will's throat, from around his chest and he can breathe in for the first time in 48 hours. Even with everything between them, every ugly word and defensive, stupid argument, he can breathe again. Part of him hadn't believed that Mike was still there, not until he actually laid eyes on him. So he smiles, that stupid, helpless smile. They could be back in a sinking ship and he'd still smile like that.]
Hey. [The glass crunches underfoot, catching the dim foggy light as Will steps into the room, hovers in the doorway.] This place...sucks.
no subject
Date: 2021-06-17 03:43 am (UTC)Yeah. [He's not sure how he manages it, dry as his throat is. His chest clenches like he's waiting on something to drop.] I don't know when they'll let me leave, yet.
["They" is really just one doctor, torn between a whole town in the midst of an apocalypse. Mike has hardly seen him since he woke up, terrified and aching.]
... I shouldn't have left. I'm sorry.
no subject
Date: 2021-06-18 03:25 am (UTC)But then Mike apologizes, and Will freezes, brow furrowing, head already shaking.] You -- you don't need to apologize. You. [weren't the one who did anything wrong, he wants to say, swallowing around the words.] I'm just. Sorry you got hurt.
[His eyes flick back to the rods, the stitches, stomach roiling. He swallows, tries to smile again.] I'm not....angry at you.
no subject
Date: 2021-06-18 04:28 am (UTC)[And it should be a profound relief, but Mike can see those hesitant eyes, struggling to take in the sickening sight, and it only twists his stomach up further. A reminder that he fucked up again, that he can't stop causing Will hurt and grief. Is that their future? More of this, over and over, until one of them gets lost for good?]
And maybe, but- [But it would be hard. But it would be a burden. But he'd need more help than he's willing to ask for.] I can't even move, it's-
[For a second he struggles, frustration and exhaustion battling it out in a chokehold. Eventually, he gives up on the sentence altogether and lays his head back against the flimsy pillow, looking miserable.]
It's gonna be months before I can walk again. [If the world even lasts that long.] I'm just a liability, now.
no subject
Date: 2021-06-20 03:14 am (UTC)[Then Will shakes his head ferociously, almost knocking himself off-balance with the force of it.] You're not. You're not and I'm not going to leave you. Not ever again. Okay? [...this is still. Platonic and totally casual bro things to say, right?]
no subject
Date: 2021-06-20 05:02 am (UTC)You were right. [It comes out thin and strained. Mike blinks hard, the fluorescent lights leaving starbursts in his vision.] About going home.
[Every word cuts on its way out, but it's heavy with truth. Because if Will isn't going to leave his side, how can Mike stay here? How can he just sit on his hands as death waits for his next mistake, ready to pick off another friend? It's happened twice in as many months, now. Will could be next, or Lev, or Nancy. How would Mike survive that? He hardly feels as though he's survived this.]
no subject
Date: 2021-06-21 12:38 am (UTC)[The lights above them buzz and flicker, and the glass on the floor over here is like sand, tiny and ground to bits. Will stays hovering, sitting on his heels, not wanting to lean forward and let his knees rest on the grimy tile. He doesn't seem to have as many compulsions about hiding his tears, looking at Mike with wide, solemn eyes.] I'm scared of going home. I'm...scared of staying here and I'm scared of moving on, but.
[He trails off, looking at where one of Mike's hands rests on the blankets. Last week he wouldn't have hesitated before reaching out, grabbing it, holding on like it was the only real thing left. Now, he doesn't move.] I'm most scared of going somewhere you aren't.
no subject
Date: 2021-06-22 07:50 pm (UTC)Then I'll make sure that doesn't happen.
[He's trying for earnest, the way he always is when Will whispers a dark fear that needs cutting down. It's nearly an old routine by now, reaching for his sword and shield the second he spots the threat. But it's different this time. Everything's different. Bleak, dismal fear undercuts every word that leaves his mouth, as hard as he tries to mask it.]
However you want to end this - I'm there, okay? You don't have to worry about that.
no subject
Date: 2021-06-23 01:07 am (UTC)We won't let him, Mike had said then and Will had barely been himself, but he'd believed it. He believed it then and he believed it now.
He shifts forward, finally dropping completely to his knees, licking dry lips to try and make it easier to talk.] I want...to know what you want. Because I don't know what I want anymore. [He wants to go back to when this was easy. When Deerington was dangerous and risky and painful, but home. This place isn't any of those anymore. It isn't anything.]
no subject
Date: 2021-07-01 09:15 pm (UTC)[A false start, quickly choked off. Mike's face pinches, but he can't tell where the pain is coming from. The mess of bone and metal below his knee is faded beneath painkillers, but his thoughts are another monster entirely.
Last week, when he'd sat across from Will and drummed his nervous fingers on the table, he thought he'd known what he wanted: to never be separated, at any cost. To keep carrying these memories, even if it was to the grave. And not because he wanted to die, but because he didn't want to give up. He didn't want to take the first exit and miss something better down the road.
Now, looking up at cracked ceiling tiles through half-tearful eyes, he can't believe he was so selfish.]
... I want you to live. I just want you to live, Will. [He swipes at his face with his free hand, one clumsy palm wiping tears into a streak.] Even if it's in Maine, or- or anywhere, I just- I don't-
[What he wants to say is this: he'd waste the rest of his life shivering by the shore of Lake Michigan, if it meant Will got to have one at all. He'd move into the miserable, drafty basement right this second if it meant that Will would have his own shitty apartment, his own boring classes, his own tedious adulthood. He doesn't want anything extraordinary, anything miraculous. He just wants a heart that keeps beating, eyes that don't go dim and cold under a falling sky.]
I want you to have better than this.
no subject
Date: 2021-07-03 05:57 am (UTC)But the dream is dying. And Will doesn't want to keep risking that he's going to wake up one day and find Mike gone, like so many others. He doesn't want to stay if he has to remember everything, remember them all by himself. At least in Hawkins, they're together. At least in Hawkins, they can stay friends.
It's enough. Will shifts his hand, laces his fingers with Mike's, tries to squeeze some warmth into them. It'll have to be enough.]
Then let's go home. [It's very gentle, very calm. He'll watch and be silent for the rest of his life, if it means he doesn't have to see this shattered, hollow look on Mike's face anymore. The Mike in Hawkins is hurting and scared and full of secrets, but he hasn't watched his friends bleed out in front of him. He hasn't drowned in the labyrinthine depths of a doomed ship.] Both of us. Let's go home together.
no subject
Date: 2021-07-17 11:15 pm (UTC)Home. He doesn't even know what that is, anymore. Maybe it's a house, on a street, in a town, where his mom bustles around in front of the stove and his dad is just arriving home from work. Or maybe it's a time, one he can't return to, when Dustin and El and Brianna and Steve and Billy and Jonathan were here, and not all the nights were good, but they were always full, always alive. He knows which one he'd go back to if he had the choice, but he doesn't. Whatever home means to him, there's only one door left open.
It takes a few minutes for the worst to pass, leaving Mike trembling and wrung dry, clinging to Will like a lifeline. He doesn't bother to wipe his face, instead just burying it deeper, squishing his nose up against the side of Will's neck. This is the end. This is the end, and they're not even going to know it soon.
When he can finally will himself to speak again, all he says is,] I love you.
no subject
Date: 2021-07-18 02:35 am (UTC)And the worst part is Will's going to go back to being quiet and secretive and closed-off about what's he feels, who he is. He's going to keep on living like he has to lie to everyone about it. Even if, like everyone says, years on things get better, he can't tell his 12-year-old self that.
But Mike is sobbing into his hair, and they can't keep doing this. The death, the horror, the loss is too much, and the way Mike's hiding against him, Mike the fearless, Mike the leader, Mike the courageous, bent double with his grief is the worst possible thing. Will is careful, putting his arms around Mike's shuddering, bony shoulders, but his own hitch with tears as well, especially at those mumbled words against his neck.
You won't, when we go back, he thinks, feeling it like a fist to the chest. But that will be then, and he'll think about it then. Right now, he gets to hear it, feel it in the way Mike clings to him. Like a drowning man. The irony isn't lost on him.
Will nuzzles against Mike's dirty, tangled hair and -- well, straight-up Solo's him.] I know.