Chapter Text
Joyce wakes before the sun.
Not because she has to, no. Nor because her alarm has gone off, shrieking for her to get up. But, rather, because her body no longer remembers how to rest without vigilance.
These days, sleep comes in shallow stretches, interrupted by half-dreams that dissolve the moment she opens her eyes. There is no monster chasing her anymore, no lights blinking on and off this far away from Hawkins, no muffled cries from Will suffering through a nightemare, or floorboards creaking from down the hall, setting them all on edge.
Only the quiet remains.
Privately, Joyce thinks the quiet is worse.
She lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of their new home, counting the faint hairline cracks in the plaster.
Getting up is easier than staying still. Movement has always been her refuge.
The kitchen smells like yesterday’s coffee and the faint citrus of dish soap. Joyce rinses her mug before she uses it, even though it’s already clean, going through the motions to calm her trembling fingers. A cigarette dangles from her lips and she breathes in the nicotine gratefully.
Her hands move on automatic: she fills the kettle, sets it on the stove, and wipes down the counter where no crumbs remain. There is comfort in repetition. Proof that things can be put in order, even if only briefly.
She thinks, not for the first time, that she is very good at surviving.
She has survived near poverty, a marriage that hollowed her out, a town that whispered about her dwindling sanity, monsters that tore through walls and kidnapped children alike. She has survived losing Bob, losing Hopper, nearly losing Will more times than she can count. She has survived the kind of fear that would destroy someone much weaker, and Joyce had always considered herself weak, for the longest time.
What she does not know how to do is stop.
Grief did not arrive at her doorstep as a single, catastrophic wave. It has instead seeped in slowly, like water through a cracked foundation. It lives in the small, ordinary moments: the empty passenger seat of the car, the absence of boots by the door, the way no one complains anymore when she reorganises the pantry for the third time in a week.
Hopper should be here. That thought lands with dull regularity, and Joyce lights another cigarette before she can second guess herself, needing that blessed calm to sink into her skin so she can stop thinking about all of it.
Her thoughts persist.
Because Hopper should be here to drink her shitty coffee and grumble about the kids and pretend not to care while caring more deeply than anyone she has ever known. He should be here to argue with her about bills and schedules and whether they really need another box of cereal or if they should treat Jane to a box of eggos this week.
Instead, there is silence.
Joyce does not scream into it. She does not collapse. She absorbs it.
She has always been good at absorbing things.
At work, she smiles. She nods. She does what is asked of her and then a little more. Murray, Nancy, Jonathan called her strong, a survivor. She accepts the words with polite gratitude and stores them somewhere behind her ribs, where they join all the other labels she has learned to wear.
But Joyce is strong in the way a house with a cracked beam is strong. She is still standing, yes, but she's also under constant strain.
Being strong means you don’t fall apart in public. Being strong means you keep going. Being strong means you don’t ask for help until you absolutely have to.
She still worries about her kids constantly, obsessively, the way she always has. Will seems happier here in California, lighter somehow, especially with that new friend of his, and that eases her mind a little. But happiness itself makes her nervous. It feels temporary. Like something could take it away if she stops paying attention to herself and her surroundings for only a second.
It happened with Bob. It happened with Hopper. What’s next, her mind whispers in the dead of night. Who’s next?
Jonathan worries her in a different way.
Her eldest has always carried too much on his shoulders, and she knows it. She sees it in the way he moves through the house, already scanning for what needs fixing, what needs doing, who needs help. He learned that from her, from her absence after the divorce. That knowledge sits heavy in her chest.
Jane worries her as well. Joyce watches her daughter carefully, and sees how the girl eats, goes to school, writes letters, and how on the surface, she is doing everything right. But Joyce knows what it looks like when you're retreating from the world. She knows the signs of someone folding inward. Jane is quieter than she should be, more withdrawn. Her smiles are practiced. Her laughter comes half a second too late sometimes.
Some of it is her stunted development, yes, but Joyce can read between the lines, remembering Will’s quiet episodes, when kids at school were calling him Zombie Boy, knows Jane isn't telling her things.
Joyce wants to reach out. She wants to ask the right question, say the right thing, crack whatever shell is forming around her daughter. But she is afraid. Afraid of pushing too hard. Jane has already lost so much.
(Sometimes, Joyce wishes Hopper were here; she thinks he’d have known what to say to Jane.)
Late at night, when the house is still and the world feels far away, Joyce allows herself to think about Hopper properly. She thinks about the way he smiled when he was tired, the way he hovered in doorways, the way he loved her kids as fiercely as if they were his own.
She thinks about the future they were never given the chance to build.
The grief is not sharp anymore. It is dull, constant, embedded, and has become part of her daily routine, like brushing her teeth or locking the doors. She carries it with her to the grocery store, to work, to school meetings. It lives in her posture, the slight hunch of her shoulders, the way she presses her lips together before she speaks.
She does not talk about it.
Talking would make it real in a way she is not prepared for yet. Talking would mean admitting that she is tired, that she is angry, that she is afraid she cannot keep doing this forever. Joyce Byers does not allow herself that luxury.
There are moments, though. Fleeting, treacherous moments that land like a blow, like the smallest twist of a knife to her heart.
When she's standing in the aisle of a hardware store, reaching automatically for a brand Hopper preferred. When she hears a laugh that sounds just a little too familiar. When she catches sight of a man with the same broad shoulders and stubborn stance.
In those moments, her breath stutters. Her vision blurs. She grips whatever is nearest and waits for the feeling to pass.
It always does. Everything passes.
That is both the problem and the promise.
Joyce tells herself she has no choice but to keep moving. Her kids need her. The world is unpredictable. So she keeps moving. The radio is always on at home. The television hums in the background of the house. (Jane likes the static too, Joyce has noticed; sometimes Jane will slink into the living room in the evenings and curl up on the couch with her and they’ll watch the TV channel together).
But, the truth of the matter is, Joyce Byers is not broken. She is bent, stretched thin, holding herself together with sheer force of will and a love so fierce it borders on desperation.
She aches for Hopper, yes. But that does not take away her ability to be there for her kids.
It has been an hour or so since Joyce woke up, a better day then, than some of her worst sleepless nights. Joyce is working at the stove when the house begins to wake up. The radio rumbles on the counter, and a song is being aired. It bleeds into the clatter of pans and is hardly audible, but it's moreso there for background noise. Joyce flips eggs with practiced efficiency, the smell of toast warming the kitchen, mingling with cheap coffee and butter.
Will is the first down the stairs, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still a little unruly no matter how much Joyce insists he comb it properly. His clothes fit better now — they’re not new, not exactly fashionable, but they’re clean and he looks more put together. His sweater actually reaches his wrists, Jonathan even found him jeans without frayed hems.
Will pauses in the doorway, eyes bright. “Morning,” he says, already halfway to the table.
Jane follows more quietly, socked feet padding down the stairs, her sleeves tugged down over her hands. She lingers near Joyce for a moment, watching the eggs hiss in the pan, the steam rising. Joyce hands her a plate without comment, and Jane accepts it with a small nod, a familiar ritual between them.
Jonathan comes last.
He’s already dressed, jacket on despite the mild California morning, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and another set neatly by the door. The sight of it makes Joyce’s chest tighten, her son will be out of reach, back in that town, but she doesn’t say anything. Jonathan is old enough to take care of himself, she knows. But she does glance at him, checking over him without meaning to: his eyes are tired, his jaw tense. He's got the look of someone already thinking three steps ahead of the day; his mind is clearly on his travel route.
“You’re gonna be late,” she says gently, not a reprimand.
Jonathan shrugs. “Bus doesn’t come till ten.”
He sets his bag down and joins them at the table. For a moment, there’s only the scrape of chairs, the clink of forks against plates. Toast with peanut butter. Eggs stretched thin with milk. Orange juice poured carefully so it lasts the week.
Will talks with his mouth half full, excited in a way that feels new and precious. He tells Joyce about an art project he’s finishing, about a teacher who complimented his work, about how the last day before spring break is going to be amazing because they've got a half-day, which means he's missing english in fourth period. He swings his legs under the chair, barely containing himself.
Jane listens, quiet but attentive. When Will mentions his excitement for Mike’s visit in the next few weeks — just a passing comment, a reminder — her head lifts. Her shoulders straighten. Something in her expression softens, like a window cracked open to let air in.
“He’ll be here soon,” Joyce says, spooning a bite of eggs into her mouth and washing it down with a sip of coffee.
Jane nods. “Yeah.”
It’s only one word, but it’s brighter than anything she’s said all morning, even as her eyes flicker, troubled. Maybe she’s anxious. It had been a while since the two had seen each other after all, although not the longest they’ve been separated.
Jonathan watches the two younger kids, something unreadable passing over his face. He reaches for the last piece of toast and splits it without thinking, sliding half toward Jane. She looks at it, then at him, then takes it with a smile, biting into it eagerly. Her eyes brighten at the crunch, and Will steals her last bite of eggs while she’s distracted. Jane squawks but relents when Will slides the rest of his eggs back to her in apology, eyes curved in amusement.
After a few minutes, Will checks the time, groans dramatically, and bolts up to grab his jacket. Jane follows more slowly, tugging on her sneakers, lacing them up in little loops. Joyce hands them their lunches — brown paper bags folded tightly — and presses a kiss to each of their heads as they pass.
“Have a good day,” Joyce says. “Both of you.”
“We will,” Will promises, already halfway out the door.
Jane hesitates just long enough to look back. “Bye,” she says, softer, but just as gentle.
Jonathan watches them go, standing in the doorway until they disappear down the street. When he turns back, Joyce is already rinsing plates, her movements steady.
“You be careful,” she says, not looking at him.
He nods. “I will.”
He shoulders his bag again, pauses, then leans in to hug her. It’s brief, awkward, but sincere. Joyce holds on for half a second longer than she means to.
“Call when you get there,” she reminds him, aware she’s nagging by the twitch of Jonathan’s eyebrows, but she’s his mother: she’s allowed to nag a little.
“I will.” Jonathan promises.
By the time Will and Jane reach the school gates, the morning fog has already burned off.
The campus is loud; students cluster in loose knots across the lawn, music leaking from a portable Sony Walkman cassette player nearby, voices overlapping in bursts of laughter. Someone skates past on a board, wheels rattling against concrete.
Will pauses at the gate.
He doesn’t mean to, not consciously. It’s just a habit — a check-in, a reflex. He glances at Jane, quick and subtle, making sure she’s okay. And Jane is, for the most part. Her shoulders are set. Her expression is neutral in the way she’s practiced into place.
“I’ll see you after?” Will says.
Jane nods. “Okay.”
They split there, moving in opposite directions.
Will heads toward the art wing, and the noise thankfully thins out with every step, the roar of the hallway dulling into something distant and unfocused. The lockers give way to white-painted walls smudged with old fingerprints and flecks of dried paint. The air changes, too — it smells sharply of turpentine, and it feels dustier, maybe because of pencil shavings. The sharp smell is undercut, however, by the faint, papery smell of sketchbooks.
This is Will’s favourite class.
Fewer students pass through, and the ones who do move slower, careful not to jostle canvases or drip paint onto the tiles. Sunlight slants through the high windows, catching on motes of dust suspended in the air. Will likes that last part best. It feels like the light makes everything feel hushed, almost reverent; he wants to draw it one day.
He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, fingers brushing the worn edge of his sketchbook through the fabric. His breathing evens out as the noise recedes. Admittedly, this is one of the few places where he doesn’t feel watched or on edge, where he doesn’t have to think about how he stands or where to put his hands. But then, art has always been a refuge for Will.
Someone calls his name before he reaches the doors.
“Byers!”
Argyle jogs up beside him, hair already frizzing out in the heat, dark curls springing loose from the band he never bothers to tie properly. It sticks out in every direction, sun-bleached at the ends, like it’s been shaped more by wind and salt air than by a mirror. His grin is easy and unguarded, all crooked teeth and easy confidence that Will wishes he had.
Argyle is taller than Will by a couple of inches, all loose limbs and restless energy, shoulders slouched like he’s perpetually mid-shrug. His clothes hang off him in that effortless, lived-in way — faded band tee stretched thin at the collar, jeans worn soft at the knees, the hems fraying where they brush the tops of his sneakers. There’s always the faint smell of sunscreen and something herbal clinging to him, carried along by the warmth of the day. That is, when he doesn’t stink of weed.
Argyle moves like he’s never in a rush, even when he’s jogging over to Will, like time bends a little to accommodate him. He bumps Will’s shoulder with his own, not hard, just enough to announce himself.
“You ready for the show today or what?” Argyle asks. “Mr. Alvarez says that if anyone spills paint on the floor again, he’s gonna make us stay after class — even with the half-day.”
Will laughs, a quiet huff of a sound. “He says that every week.”
“Yeah, but one day I’ll be right.”
They fall into step together, having done this often enough that it no longer requires thought. Argyle walks a little too close, swinging his backpack lazily against one hip, humming under his breath — something low and off-key, a tune Will doesn’t recognise but likes anyway.
Argyle talks as they go. About a song he caught on the radio late last night, about his cousin’s car finally breaking down for good, about how the cafeteria pizza somehow tastes worse every week, had Will tried it yet? None of it feels important, and that’s part of the appeal. Will listens, nodding, chiming in when it feels natural — which, strangely, it does.
The conversation doesn’t feel like something he has to decode.
In Hawkins, Will always felt like he was playing catch-up, like everyone else had all moved on with their lives so easily. Here, things aren’t perfect, but they’re manageable. He has friends. People who wait for him before class, who save him a seat at lunch without making a big deal of it. Teachers who look at his drawings and see effort, and they don’t give him deep looks of concern in a small town where everyone knows that the Byers kid went missing for a week in the woods.
Argyle glances at Will’s sketchbook tucked under his arm. “You bringin’ that today, or you finally gonna trust me to not spill paint on it?”
“Hm …” Will smiles, softer this time. “I don’t trust you.”
“Harsh. Fair, but harsh.”
Argyle laughs, loud and unapologetic, and for a moment Will feels something loosen in his chest. It still surprises him, how easily Argyle takes up space, how little he seems to care who’s watching him. There’s something grounding about it. Argyle doesn’t ask Will to be louder, or cooler, or different, either. He just lets him exist as is.
He misses the Party — of course he does. Dustin’s constant chatter, Lucas’s steady presence, Mike’s intensity. But settling into California has been a relief in a lot of ways he doesn’t always like admitting to himself. It's proof that there wasn’t something inherently wrong with him. That he wasn’t permanently stained by Hawkins, or by the Upside Down and the things that happened to him.
Proof that he could belong somewhere with someone.
Argyle nudges him again, lighter this time. “You’re thinking too hard, Byers. I can tell.”
Will blinks. “I am not.”
“You are,” Argyle says, unbothered. “Your eyebrows do that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing,” Argyle repeats, gesturing vaguely at his own face.
Will huffs out another laugh. “You’re so weird.”
“High praise, coming from you.”
They reach the art wing, the smell of paint and dust already drifting through the open doors. Argyle slows, glancing at Will sideways again — quieter this time, more careful.
“You good?” he asks.
Will pauses, really considers it.
“Yeah,” he says. He means it.
Argyle nods, satisfied, and holds the door open for him with an exaggerated bow. “After you, Picasso.”
Will rolls his eyes, but he grins as he steps inside. Still, as they reach the classroom, his eyes flick back across the courtyard once more, searching instinctively for Jane.
She’s already gone.
Jane’s classroom is loud.
Chair legs shriek against linoleum as students shift and sprawl, backpacks thudding to the floor. Someone laughs too hard, slamming their hand against their desk and making Jane flinch before she can stop herself, fingers tightening together in her lap. A boy in the back row makes a show of gagging when the teacher’s back is turned, clutching his throat, his friends dissolving into muffled laughter. Someone else mimics him under their breath. Jane keeps her eyes fixed on the chalkboard, spine straight, feet planted flat against the floor.
She has learned how to disappear long before California. She just hadn’t realised it was a skill she would need again.
A folded piece of notebook paper skids across her desk, stopping just short of her elbow. The edge brushes her sleeve. She doesn’t touch it.
From two rows back, a girl leans forward, chewing gum loudly. She doesn’t bother lowering her voice. “Hey,” she says, sweet and sharp all at once. “Did you forget your costume today, Jane?”
A few kids snort and giggle to themselves, but Jane doesn’t turn around. She keeps her gaze forward and counts the seconds between breaths, the way Joyce taught her. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Slow. Careful.
Her sweater itches where it touches her wrists. The seams of her socks feel too thick inside her shoes. She presses her heels into the floor, grounding herself in the weight of her own body, reminding herself that she is not what they say she is.
The chalk squeaks as the teacher writes a date on the board. Jane copies it down exactly, careful with each number, each letter. Her pencil moves steadily even as her chest tightens, even as laughter curls around her like smoke.
She does not cry.
She has learned that, too.
At lunch, Jane hovers at the edge of the courtyard, her paper bag lunch clutched in her hands.
Will sits beneath the broad shade of a tree with Argyle, his so-called best friend, and a few others. One of his knees are drawn up on the bench, and his sketchbook is open across his lap. He’s half-listening to whatever Argyle is saying, pencil moving in absent arcs — until his gaze locks on her, standing alone near the building.
For a moment, he starts to rise. And that’s when Jane turns away.
She loves her brother. That isn’t the problem. The problem is that Will fits here in a way she does not. He has friends. A place. And she knows him; Will would make room for her without hesitation, would shift over and smile and pretend it was nothing — even though she sits stiff and silent, even though she does not know how to exist beside him and his friends.
Will has helped her countless times before.
But it doesn’t feel fair.
So Jane walks toward the far end of the courtyard, lowers herself onto the concrete with her back to the crowd, shoulders folding inward, and ignores him. She starts to eat but she can hardly taste the food. Her eyes drift to a cluster of girls passing by; her name slips from their lips in muffled giggles and mocking tones.
She glances toward Will, sprawled under the shade of the tree, sketchbook open, laughter spilling effortlessly between him and his friends.
Jane doesn’t resent her choice.
(Will hesitates.
He recognises her body language immediately — her too-straight shoulders, the way her gaze fixes somewhere past him. The unspoken plea wrapped tight behind her eyes: don’t. please don’t.
Argyle tracks his line of sight. “Your sister?”
Will nods.
“You wanna—”
“She’s okay,” Will says, too fast. Then, softer, almost to himself, “She just … needs space sometimes.”
Argyle studies him for a second, then nods, easily. “If you’re sure.”
Will sits back down, the bench creaking beneath him. Guilt settles low in his chest, beneath his ribs. He tells himself this is what Jane wants — that he’s listening; Jane asked for this space, even if she didn’t say it out loud, and he’s listening to what she wants. It has to count for something, right?
He sighs, and hopes he’s doing the right thing.)