Bad Days

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/64362100.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Relationship: Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Characters: Mike Wheeler, Will Byers
Additional Tags: Protective Mike Wheeler, Will Byers Needs a Hug, miwi, 1984, Post-
Season/Series 02, Hurt/Comfort, Short & Sweet, fuck you mind flayer,
fuck you too vecna, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Crying, Sad
with a Happy Ending, Will Byers Gets a Break
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2025-04-02 Words: 4,656 Chapters: 1/1
 Bad Days
by notsurewhattoputhere897

Summary

warning for implied/referenced sexual assault, some swearing, and homophobic slurs
𝑾𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑰𝑨𝑴 𝑱𝑨𝑪𝑶𝑩 𝑩𝒀𝑬𝑹𝑺 knows today is going to be one of his bad days. He always
knows, though he’d never say it out loud. But this time, it feels sharper, like the badness has
decided it won’t let him catch a break.

His dream clings to him, sticky and awful, like soap that won’t rinse off. On better days—if
he can call them that—he’d wake up from a nightmare and shuffle to the kitchen, grabbing a
glass of water and drinking until the edges of the dream started to fade. He’d let the memory
drip away until it was nothing but a bad feeling lost in the drain.

But not today. Today, it’s still with him. The harsh green glow of his alarm clock cuts through
the darkness: 3:33 a.m. Will doesn’t think he’ll be sleeping again. Not when the trembling
hasn’t stopped—the way his chest keeps hammering, like it’s trying to break free of him. He
can feel the sweat slick against his skin, cold and damp, making his hair stick to his forehead
in curling strands.

He doesn’t want to think about the dream, but it’s still there, vivid in every way he doesn’t
want it to be.

He’d been standing in the field, frozen as his legs locked up—like something heavy had
coiled around them, squeezing till there was nothing left. His heart had thudded too fast, his
teeth had chattered too hard, and his breaths had come out all wrong, in fits that felt like
they’d never steady.

And there it was. The shadow monster. The thing that loomed over everything, darker than he
could ever imagine, its arm spiraling out toward him like it had no end. He’d tried to move.
Tried to get his legs to work. He hadn’t wanted to stand there and let it happen, but it didn’t
matter. It was faster than him. Bigger than him. Its shadows rushed over him, wrapped him
up, pressed against every part of him like he’d disappear into them.

It had felt too real. Too vivid.

When Will had snapped awake, his mind had only managed one clear thought, even if he
didn’t want to admit it.
I want to talk to someone.

But not his mom. Not Jonathan. Not anyone who might try too hard to make it better.

Before Will even understands what he’s doing, his hand is reaching for his coat. It feels
impulsive—like the motion isn’t entirely his own—and soon it’s tugged off the hanger in the
foyer and draped over his shoulders.

His fingers fumble with the sleeves, clumsily trying to shove them into place. He’s not quick
about it, but it doesn’t matter. He isn’t thinking about how he might look or how much noise
he’s making as he bumps the front door shut behind him.

Rain greets him immediately, the kind that falls heavy and loud, drowning out everything
else. The mud beneath his sneakers squelches unpleasantly, but Will hardly notices. The cold
air prickles at his skin, but it’s better than what he’s left behind.

At first, he isn’t sure where he’s going—not really. He can barely hold onto the thought, just
this instinct telling him to keep moving. Maple Street comes to mind, as it often does, so he
follows his feet in that direction, letting them guide him wherever they feel like taking him.
It’s not about the destination, not now; it’s about the act of leaving his house, of being
anywhere else but there.

That thought sticks with him, persistent and quiet as he walks, weaving through the back road
leading to Cornwallis and Kerley. His shoes slip a few times in the muddy grooves,
threatening to trip him, but somehow he stays upright.

When the dirt road finally gives way to pavement, Will feels his breathing ease—if only just
a little. The steady ground beneath him doesn’t change much, but there’s a brief flicker of
relief, barely there, and for now, it’s enough to keep him moving.

Mirkwood. The name tugs at Will’s thoughts, warm and nostalgic against the cold rain
slicking down his hair. He pauses, just briefly, glancing at the stretch of road and letting the
memory settle. It’s funny, how a made-up name they’d come up with when they were kids
could stick for so long.

It feels like another world, one that doesn’t quite belong here, but he clings to it anyway, just
like he and his friends had back then.

The rain keeps falling, heavier now, spattering his dripping bangs until it trickles past his
collar. It pulls him back to the present, to the sound of his shoes scuffing against the asphalt
as he turns down toward Maple Street.

The streetlights are barely helpful, casting just enough light to guide him, to keep his steps
steady and prevent him from tumbling into the muddy edges. Will is grateful for them in a
quiet way, though it feels a little silly.

They’re just lights, after all—but right now, even small comforts seem bigger than they are.

He stops for a moment, sucking in a breath he hadn’t realized he needed. It’s not much, but it
feels different. The air here isn’t suffocating, not like it is at home or in his dreams. Out here,
Will can simply be Will—or something close to it.

Once I grow up, I’ll leave this place, Will thinks, the words timid but determined in his mind.
It’s the kind of thought he’s repeated more times than he can count, like it’s become a
promise to himself. I’ll figure it all out. I’ll make it work somehow.

He knows being thirteen isn’t supposed to be easy.

But for Will, it feels impossibly hard, like everything is stacked against him in ways he
doesn’t even understand yet. He’s stashed away enough money, planned it all out in the quiet
corners of his imagination where no one else can touch it—but there’s always something
stopping him.

Something beyond his control, keeping him stuck.

And then there’s the other thing, the secret thing.

Having a crush on your best friend. Your boy best friend. To Will, it feels less like a quiet
yearning and more like standing in front of something dangerous, unable to look away. It’s
suffocating, in a way that makes him want to curl into himself and never let anyone see.

The rain doesn’t let up as Will walks, his feet finding their way to Maple Street almost
without thinking. The darkness hides him, and he’s grateful for it—but he can still feel the
tears coming.

They don’t really announce themselves; they just slip out, blending into the relentless rain
that drips from his bangs and coats his face.

He’s not sure why he’s crying. The thought passes through his mind, quiet and fragile, but he
doesn’t try to answer it. Not now.

He wants to brush the tears away, but the rain makes it impossible to tell where they end and
the water begins. Why am I crying? Why does it hurt so much?

The questions echo in his mind, fragile and unanswered, as his feet carry him toward Maple
Street.

He doesn’t stop, even when his head dips low and a sob tears through him, sharp and raw,
like claws scraping against his chest. It’s startling, but he doesn’t fight it. He just keeps
moving, willing his legs to keep going, one step after another.

The thought comes quietly, uninvited but persistent: Liking your boy best friend invades his
privacy.

Will knows about privacy being invaded.

He knows it too well. The memories are etched into him, the way it felt to lose control, to feel
like his body wasn’t his own anymore. The shadow monster had taken something from him,
something he couldn’t get back, even with the gate closed. The feeling lingers, heavy and
unshakable.

And now, he’s doing it to his best friend.

The realization sits heavy in his chest, twisting into guilt. Will had promised himself he’d
never do that to anyone—never wish that kind of pain on another person, especially not
someone he cares about. But here he is, breaking that promise in the quiet corners of his
mind.

But selfishly, that’s all he wants. He wants his best friend.

Mike Wheeler. The name feels heavy in Will’s mind, like it’s too big to hold onto but
impossible to let go of. Mike is the one he wants to talk to. The only one who might
understand—who could understand.

But even the thought of it twists something deep inside him.

It feels wrong, selfish in a way that makes his stomach churn. He loves Mike Wheeler, and
that love feels like a secret too big to keep but too dangerous to share.

Mike would freak out if he knew. Will is sure of it. And that certainty rips at him, leaving him
feeling small and exposed.

The rain doesn’t let up, drumming against the world around him, relentless and unyielding.

“Who is awake at this ungodly hour?”

The voice startles Will, soft but groggy, as he raises his fist to knock on the familiar oak door
of the Wheelers’ house. He hears the shuffle of feet on the other side, the quiet click of the
lock turning, and then the door creaks open.

Warm yellow light spills out, cutting through the rain and bathing Will’s soaked, tear-streaked
face in a soft glow.

Karen Wheeler stands in the doorway, her bleached curls tangled and falling into her face, her
makeup-free features framed by the pink robe wrapped tightly around her. The dark circles
under her eyes speak of exhaustion, but her expression shifts the moment she sees him.

“Will?” Her voice is raspy, but there’s a brightness in her face now, her brows knitting
together in concern. “What are you doing here?”

Will hesitates, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his pajama shirt, tugging it down as if it
might somehow make him smaller. “Uhm… I just…” He falters, his voice barely above a
whisper. “I had a bad dream,” he admits, the words tumbling out awkwardly. “I kind of
wanted to see Mike.”

Karen’s expression softens completely, her concern deepening as she takes in the tears still
streaming down his face, blending with the rain.

“Here, baby,” she says gently, holding out a hand. When Will doesn’t take it—his discomfort
with touch still too strong—she doesn’t push. Instead, she steps aside, gesturing for him to
come inside. “Let’s get you warmed up first.”

Will shuffles inside, careful not to brush against Karen’s side.

The warmth of the Wheeler household envelops him immediately, a stark contrast to the cold
rain still clinging to his skin.
The lights are all on, their glow making everything seem softer, safer.

He remembers Mike mentioning that Ted Wheeler was working the night shift this week.
Karen must be waiting for him to come home—probably so she can scold him about the
dishes, Will guesses.

“Sit,” Karen instructs, her tone firm but kind as she gestures to one of the chairs at the dining
table. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Will doesn’t dare disobey her. Karen Wheeler is, after all, the supreme being responsible for
bringing Mike Wheeler into existence.

He sits down, and as soon as he does, he realizes just how thirsty he is. When he swallows,
the dry ache in his throat scratches like sandpaper, making him wince slightly.

Karen moves to the stove, setting a kettle filled with hot water onto the burner. She leans
back against the counter, her eyes resting on him as distant household sounds fill the quiet—
the low gurgle of the coffee machine, the soft hum of the fridge.

“What are you doing up so late, honey?” she asks, tilting her head slightly in curiosity.
There’s no alarm in her voice, just gentle concern. “Your mom’s gonna worry about you.”

“I know,” Will replies vaguely, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Did you really wanna see Mike that much?” Karen asks, her tone casual, like this is a
completely normal question—a friend dropping by unannounced, as ordinary as Mike
bringing a girl home after prom.

Will hesitates, then shrugs slightly. “You guys live closest,” he mumbles, even though he
knows it’s a lie. Dustin’s house is closer.
Karen doesn’t press him on it. She just smiles warmly. “Oh, that’s not true, baby,” she says
gently. “But we’re glad to have you here. Mike will be, too.”

Will’s chest tightens at that. He hates how much hope rises in him at her words. “He will?” he
asks, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and longing.

Karen nods, her smile softening. “Of course he will. He’s your best friend.”

Will doesn’t know why he expected something more. Something like, Mike’s been worrying
about you. He wanted to hug you, tell you it’s all going to be okay. He wanted to take you
upstairs and play video games until the world disappeared.

But the thought alone is enough to make his breath hitch, and the tears clinging to his lashes
crystallize as they threaten to fall again.

“Though he might be a bit grumpy you woke him up,” Karen says with a chuckle, her voice
light with humor.

Will tries to smile at that, but his focus drifts.

He can’t help but notice, in his exhausted haze, how much Karen looks like Mike.

It’s in the angles of her face, the way her sharp cheekbones taper down to her pointed chin,
the soft dusting of freckles bridging her nose.

It’s uncanny, almost, but Will knows it’s probably just the tiredness muddling his thoughts,
making patterns where they don’t belong.

“He’s always grumpy,” Will murmurs, his voice low and quiet, carrying the kind of weariness
that only comes late at night.
Karen smiles again, softer this time, glancing over at him as she pours steaming water into a
pottery mug. “Are you sleepy, honey?” she asks gently.

Will’s hand rises to his face, rubbing at one eye, and his knuckle comes away damp with tears
he didn’t realize were still lingering. “A little,” he admits, his tone timid, almost as if the
words are too much to say aloud.

Karen drops the teabag into the mug, her movements calm and deliberate, and hands it over
to Will. The warmth of the pottery spreads through his fingertips, grounding him in a way he
hadn’t realized he needed.

“Now, off you go,” she says softly, though she pulls him into a firm hug before letting him
leave. Will stiffens at first, unaccustomed to the gesture, but he doesn’t push her away. He
hadn’t known how much he needed it until she steps back.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler,” Will murmurs, standing up with the mug nestled carefully in his
hands. He waits there, lingering awkwardly as Karen watches him. “Aren’t you gonna go
wake up Mike?” His voice comes out quieter than intended, and timid.

“You’re his friend, darling,” Karen replies, her tone gentle but full of meaning.

“Oh… okay,” Will says, though uncertainty tugs at him.

As he pushes open the door to Mike’s room, Will braces himself for the sight of his best
friend fast asleep. The thought of waking him feels wrong, intrusive—but it’s too late to turn
back now. His steps falter as he blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears from his rain-blurred
eyes.

The light from the room hits him first, sharp and bright against the darkness he’s been
walking in. It startles him enough that he leans against the doorframe, steadying himself as
his gaze falls on Mike Wheeler.
Mike isn’t sleeping. Instead, he’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged and utterly absorbed in the
glow of his new Nintendo, playing Mario Bros without a care in the world.

Will’s breath catches in his chest as he stares, a wave of envy rolling through him so sudden
it stings. How can someone look so effortlessly good doing something so ordinary? But here
Mike is—long-limbed and lanky, his socked feet propped against a pillow discarded from the
bed.

The pale gray hoodie he’s wearing is unzipped at the top, revealing the faded blue-and-yellow
stripe across his matching gray shirt. His sweatpants bunch slightly around his knees, but it’s
the way he’s sprawled out that draws Will’s eyes.

The hoodie’s hood sits loosely on his head, barely covering the untamed mess of his night-
black hair. It frames his face in a way that feels unfair—those sharp angles and freckles, the
way his features seem to catch the light just right. Will thinks he looks beautiful.

And it hurts.

It shouldn’t, but it does. The ache sits heavy in Will’s chest, spreading through him until it
feels like everything aches—his head, his stomach, his throat, his heart.

Then Mike turns his head, his dark eyes finding Will’s across the room, and Will feels the
tears come again. This time, they don’t stop, spilling over as he stands there, unable to hold
them back any longer.

I’m violating him. Take me away. Take me away.

The thought loops in Will’s mind, frantic and unrelenting. I’m hurting him. I’m going to hurt
him. Take me away. Take me away. Take me—
“Will—?”

Mike’s voice cuts through the spiral, sharp and startling.

Will shudders, his body caught between extremes—burning hot and freezing cold all at once.

Every breath feels like a thousand tiny needles pricking his skin, sharp and unbearable. His
voice, when it comes, is barely recognizable to him.

“Mike…” It’s a broken sound, trembling with fear he’s never felt so acutely before. Even
hearing himself say it feels wrong, like it doesn’t belong to him.

Mike moves toward him, closing the space between them in an instant.

Will doesn’t cry—not yet.

Not until Mike’s hand brushes his shoulder, so light it’s almost nothing. But it’s enough. Will
flinches like he’s been struck, and the tears come, slipping down his cheeks in uneven trails.
His breath hitches, trembling as it escapes him.

“Whoa—hey, hold on—” Mike’s voice is steady, but there’s a thread of worry woven into it.

“Don’t,” Will croaks, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s holding back.

He doesn’t collapse, not entirely, but he feels himself fraying at the edges, tearing apart bit by
bit.

The tears won’t stop, spilling freely like a faucet he can’t turn off. And yet, he doesn’t make a
sound—not a sob, not a gasp—just silent, endless tears.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” he whispers, his words raw and desperate. “Just… please stay away from
me … I’m gonna … I’m gonna … you don’t wanna be my friend anymore.”

He sounds like a child, pleading for forgiveness for a mess he can’t fix, for something he
can’t take back. His mouth feels unbearably dry, his entire body uncomfortable and wrong.
Everything is wrong.

Mike’s hand tightens on his shoulder, grounding him in a way Will doesn’t know how to
process. It’s steady, firm, and unyielding, like an anchor in the storm raging inside him.

“Why would I not want to be your friend?” Mike asks, his voice quiet and almost bewildered,
like the thought itself doesn’t make sense to him.

Will freezes, unsure how to respond, the words caught somewhere in his throat. Before he
can say anything, Mike’s eyes flicker to the mug in Will’s hands. “Oh, you’re gonna spill
your tea,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence.

Before Will can react, Mike is already guiding him forward, toward the front of his bed. His
touch is steady, his hand still gripping Will’s shoulder as he helps him sit down.

Mike follows suit, settling beside him, and the blue glow from the TV paints his face in stark,
impossible light.

Will places the tea carefully between them, the mug acting as an unspoken barrier he can’t
cross.

“Okay, Will,” Mike says softly, his voice patient but firm. “I want you to take a few breaths.
Can you do that with me? You don’t have to look,” he promises, knowing Will’s discomfort
with eye contact, knowing it without having to ask.
Will hiccups once, his chest tight with emotion, and nods. A quiet whimper escapes him,
small and involuntary.

His gaze shifts to the screen, following Mario as Mike takes a slow, deliberate breath. Will
flushes, his face warming as he mimics the action, feeling his lungs expand and fill with air.

Then, like the click of a switch, he lets it go, releasing the breath out through his mouth.

“One more time?” Mike asks gently.

Will shakes his head, the movement subtle but sure. The trembling has faded, replaced by an
unfamiliar calm. His heart, which had felt like it might escape his ribcage, now rests easily
within it.

“M’okay,” Will mumbles, his voice soft and breathless.

“You sure?” Mike presses, the concern lingering in his tone.

Will’s eyes drop to his lap, his shame drawing him inward.

Of course Mike can see through him—it feels like he always can, like he’s reading every
thought Will tries to bury.

Slowly, gently, Will shakes his head, unable to hold it in any longer.

The tears return, spilling over once more, unwelcome but unstoppable.

Will presses the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, as if trying to block everything out
—the tears, the feelings, the memories. But his face crumples anyway, and the sobs escape
him, harsh and aching in the quiet of Mike’s room.

“I had a bad dream,” Will whispers, his voice breaking as it rises, trembling into a higher
pitch he can’t control. His body jerks with the intensity of another sob, shaking like he might
fall apart completely.

“It’s okay, Will. It was only a dream,” Mike says softly, his fingers brushing against Will’s
back, tracing soothing circles that don’t quite reach the chaos inside him.

But Will shakes his head, the movement erratic and desperate. “It was about him…” he
sputters, the words choking in his throat, his voice stalling like a broken machine that won’t
start. “I—I don’t wanna dream about him anymore, Mike… he keeps… keeps feeling me… I
don’t want him to—I don’t…”

The sobs hit him like punches to the gut, stealing his breath and forcing out whimpers that
sound louder, rawer than anything he’s ever let himself make before.

Tears drip unchecked from his swollen eyes, streaking his flushed skin and falling like
raindrops into his lap.

“Mike…” Will’s voice cracks under the weight of it, breaking into something fragile and
terrified. “I don’t wanna dream about him anymore.”

“Oh, Will.”

It takes Will a moment to realize that Mike is crying, too. The sound of it is soft, almost
fragile, but it’s there, threading through the air between them. “Keep crying, Will,” Mike
whispers, his voice trembling. “Oh, please… you need to cry.”

For a moment, the world feels like it’s stopped. Mike’s gaze locks onto Will’s, his ebony eyes
full of something unyielding, something tender. He processes Will’s words with a care so
gentle it feels maternal, like he’s holding them close, cradling them as if they might break.

Will keeps crying, his sobs spilling out in uneven waves, but now he’s looking at Mike. Both
of them are crying, their tears mingling in the shared space between them.

And then, naturally, their hands meet.

The gap between them closes, sealed by the quiet touch of Mike’s thumb brushing over Will’s
knuckles. Slowly, Will’s fingers loosen, the tension unraveling bit by bit.

Mike moves carefully, his every motion deliberate as he pulls Will against his chest.

He’s so gentle, so mindful not to hurt him, and yet everything feels like it’s speeding up. The
moment stretches and compresses all at once, as if time itself is trying to hold onto them,
refusing to let them go.

Will’s arms wrap around Mike’s shoulders, and Mike’s arms settle around Will’s hips.

They sit there, tangled together, their tears soaking into each other’s skin.

Will cries openly, his face buried against Mike, while Mike wipes his snotty nose against Will
without hesitation. It doesn’t matter. None of it feels like a bother.

They’re touching, and it’s a touch that feels long overdue, like something they’ve both been
waiting for without realizing it.

Will tries not to melt into it, tries to hold himself back—but it’s futile. He lets go, sinking into
the embrace, and Mike follows, their movements folding into each other like a dance.
It’s messy and imperfect, but it feels infinite, like they could stay in each other’s arms
forever. And for now, that’s enough.

“You’ve gone through way too much, Will,” Mike whispers, his breath brushing against
Will’s hair in a way that feels grounding, anchoring. “It’s gonna be okay. They’re just
memories now. The shadow monster’s gone. The gate is closed.”

Will’s face burrows deeper into the soft fabric of Mike’s hoodie, muffling his trembling
voice. “I hurt you, Mike,” he mumbles, the words cracking like glass.

Mike shakes his head gently, his voice firm but kind. “You never hurt anybody, Will. You are
the one who’s hurting.”

“No. Mike. You don’t under—”

“Will,” Mike interrupts softly, and Will feels it before he sees it—fingers threading carefully
through the damp, slightly tangled strands of his hair.

The touch is featherlight but steady, pulling Will back from the edge of his spiraling thoughts.
“Oh, that’s the problem with you. You blame yourself. Please… don’t blame yourself.
Please…”

Mike’s voice falters at the end, a crack splitting through his resolve, and Will’s grip tightens
around him instinctively.

“I won’t, Mike,” he whispers, the words barely audible. “I promise I’ll try not to.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault, okay?” Mike’s tone is earnest,
like he’s trying to pour the weight of his belief into Will’s breaking heart.
Will nods against Mike’s chest, the motion small but sincere. As his breathing slows,
becoming steadier, he notices how heavy his eyelids have grown, how much his body craves
the comfort surrounding him.

“Can you tell me that?” Mike’s voice is softer now, but there’s an edge of urgency to it,
something almost pleading.

“Tell you what?” Will whispers back, his voice fragile.

“Tell me you won’t blame yourself anymore,” Mike says gently, his words wrapping around
Will like a safety net.

A yawn escapes Will before he can stop it, his exhaustion creeping in. He sniffles, his voice
thick as he answers, “I won’t blame myself anymore.”

“You’re a good person, Will. You don’t deserve that.”

Will shudders slightly, the words sinking into him like sunlight breaking through a storm.
“I’m a good person?” he asks, his voice trembling.

“Of course you are. The moment I met you on the swings, I knew that for a fact.” Mike’s
fingers move through Will’s hair again, the gentle motion calming him further.

It’s then that Will leans in closer, his body curling naturally into the warmth of Mike’s.

For the first time in what feels like forever, he feels warm. Not just physically, but in a way
that reaches into the deepest, coldest corners of him. He feels comfortable. He feels loved.

His breaths even out, shaky at first but soon softening into quiet snores. Mike glances down
at him, his arms still securely wrapped around his friend. “Will?” he whispers, but there’s no
reply.
The tea between them sits untouched, its warmth lingering but forgotten in the quiet moment.

Will shifts slightly, settling deeper into Mike’s embrace, and lets out a breath that feels like
letting go of everything weighing him down.

“Night, Mike,” Will murmurs softly, his voice barely audible.

“Night, Will,” Mike replies, his own voice thick with emotion. And in that moment, he
realizes—this, right here, is what he needed all along.
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