Archive of Our Own ^beta

One moment, Mike Wheeler is in the Byers' kitchen, carefully pouring himself a cup of juice, and the next, he’s plunged back into the Upside Down.

The radio had been playing the hits of the week. Mike had been listening to it while he waited for Will to get back from the store with Joyce, and he'd gotten up to pour himself a glass of orange juice. His legs throb, but it’s hardly a bad day, and his joint supports help. 

He feels for the counter, once he finds it, he follows the buzzing sound to the fridge and then runs his hands over the drinks inside until he finds the one shaped like the orange juice bottle. Smelling to confirm, he smooths his hand over the drying rack, cautious not to knock anything off and onto the floor, until he finds a glass, then he grabs it.

That’s when it happens. The radio switches from Master and Servant by Depeche Mode to a sickeningly familiar song. It’s a song he used to love, and then he'd been forced to listen to it day after day, hour after hour, and now the mere mention of it churns his head with nausea.

Smalltown Boy sings from the speakers, and Mike is thrust back into Henry’s grip.

He forgets in an instant that he’s in the kitchen. The vines shackling him feel too real, curling around him like slithering slugs. The music plays in his head, and he chokes on the stench of rot and blood.

“No…” He rasps through the vine choking him, tying him to the beam behind him, “No, please, please, please!”

Vecna’s uncanny cackle sends shivers cascading down his back like claws digging into his skin and dragging down. As he approaches, blood squelches under his feet, getting closer and closer until Mike can feel the heat of Vecna’s body.

“It’s time,” Vecna says, his voice a low rumble, a promise of coming agony and death.

Mike sobs, terror thrumming like ice through his veins. He writhes and struggles, but the vines refuse to give. Vecna’s hand snaps down, and claws embed themselves in his forehead, clamping down like a jaw.

Mike screams, and once he’s started, he can’t stop. Even when his throat burns, and there seems to be no air left in the world, the terror keeps coming.

***

Jonathan is in his room when the loud clatter of shattering glass makes him jump. He only pauses for a moment. Frozen still with the surprise, and then he breaks into a sprint, bursting out of his room like it’s on fire. The worst possibilities flicker through his mind. Has someone broken in? Is Mike hurt?

He’s halfway down the stairs, and then the screaming starts. Jonathan practically skips the last four and flings himself into the kitchen.

It’s good that he’s wearing shoes. Glass crunches under his feet, trailing up to Mike, who is curled up on the floor, hands over his ears and screaming his head off. It’s then that Jonathan hears the music. A sentimental song he’d introduced to Will, and Will had introduced to Mike. Of course, they hadn’t heard it since-

Oh.

Jonathan slams his hand down on the mute button, then steps over the glass and kneels beside the boy, briefly scanning him for any signs that he’d been cut, but he doesn’t seem hurt.

Jonathan reaches forward, his hands hovering over Mike but not touching, “Mike, hey!” He exclaims over the screams.

Mike rocks back and forth, hands over his ears, and for a moment, Jonathan is in the past, staring at a tiny, chubby-cheeked boy with his hands over his ears to block out the input. Mike hasn’t done that in so long.

Taking a breath, Jonathan clamps his hands down on Mike’s wrists and pulls them away from his ears. Mike screeches, trying desperately to tug his hands away, and guilt sits heavily in Jonathan’s stomach, but he won’t be able to get to Mike if the kid can’t hear him.

“Mike!” He calls, and Mike twitches, his head moving as if he’s looking around. Jonathan shuffles closer. He wants to scoop him up and take him away from the glass before it can hurt him, but he knows manhandling him right now isn’t a good idea. “Mike, you’re safe, okay? You’re home.”

Mike reaches for him like a babe reaching up their arms pleadingly, and Jonathan obliges. He sweeps forward and curls his arms around the boy. One hand brushes over his hair, and the other keeps them pressed firmly together, plastered like a shield around Mike.

“You’re safe.” Jonathan chants, the same way he would for Will, “That monster is dead. He can never hurt you again.”

Mike hiccups, shuddering hard and clinging desperately to Jonathan. It could have been worse. Jonathan is lucky Mike is lucid enough to realise who he was.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.” Jonathan says again, “You’re in our kitchen. Will will be back soon. I’m here with you.”

“Y-You’re here.” Mike repeats. He focuses on the woodsy and warm smell that all Byers have. The arms holding him mean he can’t possibly be back there.

He clings to Jonathan until the icy terror has faded away a little, and then he lets him go, feeling a little bashful, “I-I’m sorry-”

“Nothing to be sorry for.” Jonathan dismisses his apology.

Mike shifts. He’s about ready to faceplant into the sofa and maybe hibernate for a decade, but Jonathan’s hands lock down on his arms and stop him.

“Wait,” Jonathan keeps Mike in place, “There’s glass everywhere, and you’re only wearing socks.”

Guiding him to a safe spot, Jonathan helps him onto a stool. The boy’s feet rest on the ring in the centre of the stool, and Jonathan grabs the broom from the pantry and begins to sweep the glass into a pile.

“I don’t want you cutting your feet.” The older boy says.

Mike shrinks in his seat as he listens to the broom’s tassels brush the floor and the clink of class, “I-I’m sorry.” He says again, regardless of whether or not Jonathan wants to hear it, “I-I just-”

“Mike,” Jonathan chuckles. He couldn’t care less about a broken glass, and he knows his mom will feel the same. Besides, she’s broken her fair share of glasses herself. “It’s okay, bud. I’m just worried about you.”

Warmth stirs in Mike’s chest, and he smiles. Of course, Jonathan wouldn’t care about the glass. The older boy has been taking care of him for years, ever since Will brought him home. For a long time, Jonathan felt more like his sibling than Nancy did. Back when he and Nancy barely spoke, and Mike had been an afterthought in his own home, the Byers had stepped up. Joyce had come and picked him up more than once when he was sick, and Jonathan had patched up his skinned knees and made food for him and Will after school.

“I’m okay,” Mike reassures him. He’s a little shaky; he probably will be for the rest of the day, but he’s okay. “Thank you.”

Jonathan squeezes his knee, “You don’t have to thank me, buddy.” He says warmly, with the same gentle voice he uses with Will, and once he’s swept up the glass, he pours Mike some orange juice and joins him sitting at the kitchen counter.

Mike takes a sip and breathes easily. Jonathan has always been there for him, and he always will be.