Chapter Text
Will is twelve years old, and he loves lots of things. He loves riding his bike. He loves the X-Men comics. Any comics in general, really! He loves Dungeons & Dragons. He loves his family—his brother Jonathan is a little quiet, but tries to spend time with Will when he’s not working. And he sticks up for him. And Mom is, well. Mom. He loves her, obviously. She makes the best lasagna, with a thick layer of cheese on top, and lets him drag the spoon around the pan to get the leftover bits after it’s all gone.
He loves his friends. Duh. Without them, he wouldn’t have anyone to play D&D with. And he especially loves Mike.
Mike kind of has his own spot on the list of people Will loves. It’s pretty high up there. Which makes sense—Mike is his best friend, the person he’s known the longest and knows the most about. The person he trusts with everything he’s got. Mike is it. And Will knows—well, he hopes, at least—that he’s that person for Mike, too. His favorite.
They’ve spent the last two weeks planning a new campaign, and Will’s absolutely psyched about it. Mike’s really into it tonight, lowering his voice and writing his emotions across his face, across his body—he’s always so expressive. It makes him a great player, a great storyteller. Will’s so lucky that he gets to be Mike’s friend.
He tamps down on that thought, shaking his head a little. Head in the game, Byers. Head in the game.
The sprinkler sounds outside the Wheeler’s basement, whirring and sputtering to life.
“Something is coming. Something hungry for blood.”
Will leans forward intently, mental images blooming in the landscape of his brain. Mike’s voice just has that effect—the realism of it all is insane. Immersive.
Mike looks around the table. “A shadow grows on the wall behind you, swallowing you in darkness. It is almost here.”
Will’s pulse hammers. “What is it?” he blurts.
Next to him, Dustin pales. “What if it’s the Demogorgon?”
The question sends an immediate round of groans around the Party. Will leans back in his chair, mind racing, new images flying through his imagination.
“Oh, Jesus, we’re so screwed,” Dustin continues, clearly losing hope. Thanks, Dustin.
“It’s not the Demogorgon!” Lucas hisses, hands flying up in exasperation.
Mike clears his throat, obviously fed up with the interruptions. “An army of troglodytes charges into the chamber!” he exclaims, slamming a fist down on the table.
Dustin smirks; a lopsided, toothless grin. “Troglodytes?” he parrots, as if they’ve already won. Will’s not so sure.
“Told ya,” Lucas mutters.
Will gives an obligatory chuckle, but he’s still waiting for Mike’s next words. Anticipating. That can’t be it—something else is gearing up. Something big. He can feel it.
Sure enough, Mike’s voice goes soft. A warning. “Wait a minute. Did you hear that?”
The hair on Will’s arms stands on end. He stares at Mike, eyes wide.
“That…that sound?” Mike thuds his hand gently on the wood in time with his words. “Boom. Boom… Boom!” He slaps the board, setting all the game pieces ajar, making every member of the party jump in their seat. Will shifts forward, hanging onto Mike’s every syllable. God, he loves this. He doesn’t know what his life would be without D&D. Without Mike, and the rest of the Party. Boring, probably.
“That didn’t come from the troglodytes,” Mike says, shaking his head. “No, that—that came from something else.”
The Party waits on pins and needles. The air is thick with tension.
“The Demogorgon!” Mike finishes, slamming the figure down triumphantly.
Again, a chorus of groans go around the table. “We’re in deep shit,” Dustin says matter-of-factly.
“Will, your action!” Mike shouts, barely giving him time to breathe.
Will flexes his hands, stressing over every possibility. So many options, so little time. “I–I don’t know,” he worries.
“Fireball him!” Lucas suggests.
Is he crazy? “I’d have to roll a thirteen or higher!”
“Too risky,” Dustin agrees. “Cast a protection spell.”
Lucas tsks in disapproval. “Don’t be a pussy. Fireball him!”
“Cast protection,” Dustin insists. Will’s head snaps back and forth between them, between the two impossible choices. Play it safe or go for the risk? What should he do?
Mike bangs the table sharply. “The Demogorgon is tired of your silly human bickering!”
By that, he means he’s tired of it. The corner of Will’s mouth ticks up. Classic Mike.
“It stomps towards you. Boom!” Mike continues, face alight.
“Fireball him!”
“Another stomp. Boom!”
“Cast protection.”
“He roars in anger!”
Each boy’s chatter overlaps until the table’s nothing but a mess of tangled shouts and commands and story cues, crowding Will’s head until he only has one thought left.
Don’t be a pussy. Take the risk.
“Fireball!” Will shouts, shaking the dice and releasing it with bated breath. He watches, frozen, as it rolls across the table, across and across and… right off the edge. Crap.
They dive for it. Will bangs his elbow on the floor in his haste to get down, to check the result. Did it work? Did his action pay off, or is he dead?
“Where’d it go?”
“I don’t know,” Will shouts back, army-crawling across the floor.
“Is it a thirteen?” Dustin asks from halfway across the room.
“I don’t know!” he repeats, growing steadily more annoyed. If Dustin wants to know the roll so badly, he can just look for it himself. After all, he’s the only one that’s not even trying to find the dice.
The basement is a cacophony of noise, a steady stream of oh my god oh my god from Dustin, Mrs. Wheeler calling Mike from upstairs, the rushing in Will’s own brain. Find the dice. Find it. Save the Party. Defeat the Demogorgon.
“Mom, we’re in the middle of a campaign,” Mike calls up, squinting into the light on top of the staircase.
“You mean the end?” she says pointedly, tapping her watch.
Will slumps with disappointment. “Why do we have to go?” he groans. It had just been getting good!
Mike, seemingly with the same thought, races up the stairs to argue with his mom. Will sighs and continues the hunt, checking behind one of the numerous unlabeled boxes in the basement. What’s even in there?
A minute later, he finds it, sitting calm and deadly by the corner of the bookshelf. Seven-side up.
“I got it,” he says to the others, carefully cradling the dice in his hand. He looks to Lucas, brow furrowed. “Does the seven count?”
Lucas’s face falls. “It was a seven?”
Will nods, still waiting.
There’s a considering beat. Lucas tilts his head to the side. “…Did Mike see it?”
Will leans over to look past him. Mike’s upstairs. “No.”
“Then it doesn’t count.”
He frowns, but says nothing, walking over to put the dice away and grab his bag.
Still. He can’t imagine keeping a secret from Mike.
The boys walk through the house, all blurred motion and polite goodbyes to Mike’s parents until they’re standing in the driveway, bikes at the ready.
“There’s something wrong with your sister,” Dustin proclaims loudly, closing the door behind him. He looks slighted, which means Nancy probably said something rude to him. She’s been really moody lately. Will doesn’t think he’ll ever understand girls.
“What are you talking about?” Mike says, already sounding tired.
“She’s got a stick up her butt,” Dustin replies, kicking the stand of his bike.
“Yeah,” Lucas agrees. “It’s because she’s dating that douchebag, Steve Harrington.”
“She’s turning into a real jerk,” Dustin mutters.
“She’s always been a jerk!” Mike says emphatically, watching them mount their bikes.
The pressure of the un-confessed roll bounces around in Will’s stomach, leaving him vaguely nauseous and wholly guilty. He should probably tell Mike.
“Nuh-uh. She used to be cool,” Dustin argues. “Like the time she dressed up as an elf for our Elder tree campaign.”
“Four years ago!”
“Just saying!”
Yeah. Will’s gonna tell him.
Dustin and Lucas ride away into the night, but Will stays behind, sidling closer to Mike.
“It was a seven.”
Mike jolts, turning his head towards Will. “Huh?”
“The roll,” Will clarifies, feeling a little silly. Mike probably wasn’t even thinking about the game anymore. “It was a seven. The Demogorgon, it got me.”
Mike frowns, eyes pooling with concern. As if Will had actually been hurt, instead of just pretend-hurt. Will feels his stomach settle with relief. He knew talking to Mike would make him feel better. It always does.
“See you tomorrow!” he calls happily, kicking against the ground to set off his bike. As he leaves, the front light flickers. The Wheelers have been having some weird electrical issues lately.
He doesn’t think much of it. He’s more focused on the idea of tomorrow. When he can see Mike again. See the whole party. Keep playing their campaign. It’ll be so good. He can’t wait.
He catches up to Dustin and Lucas eventually, and they ride in companionable silence until they have to part ways.
“Night, ladies,” Lucas teases, peeling off onto his street.
“Kiss your mom night for me!” Dustin shouts after him. Will rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. Just a little.
When it’s just the two of them left, Dustin looks over at Will. “Race you back to my place? Winner gets a comic.”
Will’s smile turns into a full-on grin. “Any comic?” he checks.
“Yeah,” Dustin agrees.
That’s all Will needed to hear. He pushes his feet on the pedals, raising up on his seat. His speed doubles, and before Dustin realizes what’s going on, Will’s gotten a head-start.
“Hey!” Dustin yelps, trailing after him. “I didn’t say go!”
Will ignores him and pedals faster, feeling the wind rush through his hair and whisper against his skin. Another thing for the list: nights like these. The sound of Dustin’s laugh.
“I’m gonna kill you!”
Will whoops into the dark. “I’ll take your X-Men 134!” he calls back, already tasting his victory.
The thrill wears off a little as he rides further, losing Dustin in the process. That’s okay, though. He’ll get the comic tomorrow. It’s just one more thing to look forward to.
As Will pedals, he brainstorms ideas for their next campaign. Maybe Mike would want to work on it with him. Maybe Mike would even let him co-lead it. Maybe—
The light on his bike flickers, causing his vision to go dark for a minute. Will frowns and looks down, hitting the glass front with the palm of his hand.
He looks back up. There’s a man on the road.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimes.
The shock makes his hands go slack on the handles, makes his tire veer sharply to the side, makes his bike run straight off the street and into the ditch. Will lands hard on his side with a rough grunt. The pain is delayed a second or two, but once he feels it, he feels it.
Wincing, he pushes himself to his hands and knees. There’s no time to take stock of his injuries, because something’s growling, low and dangerous.
He was wrong. It isn’t a man. It’s some kind of animal.
Will does the only thing he can think of: he runs. He’s close to his house, so he pushes his legs to their limit, muscles burning, until he makes it to the front yard. He swears he can hear the beast snarling behind him, can smell its rancid breath.
Mental images of the Demogorgon flash through his head from earlier, and he shakes it off. No, this is something different. Something worse. Something real.
He hurries inside, giving a quick, obligatory pat to Chester as he crowds him at the door. “Mom? Jonathan?” he calls, craning his neck to look down the hallway.
No one answers. He can feel his pulse trilling along his veins, at least seven times faster than it should be.
Will makes for the window, trying to check if the thing is still out there. At first, he thinks there’s nothing, but—
He sees it. Not quite man, not quite animal. Something in-between. Something terrifying.
Will jumps away from the window, then heads for the phone. 911. They have to be able to help.
His fingers shake as he spins the dial. They keep shaking as he lifts the phone to his ear, hearing nothing but his own labored breathing.
Static. Growling. Panting. His own, or the beast’s?
“Hello?” Will says. “Hello?”
More static. Barking. Chester. Barking, barking, barking. Scared. Both of them.
There’s no reply. A dark shadow passes over the frosted glass of the front door, and the lock begins to move, like invisible fingers are inching it along.
Will’s twelve, and he’s never been more terrified. Not even when Dad called him those mean words, called him queer, hit him so hard he couldn’t get back up. He was scared then, he was even sad. But this is different. Bone-deep. He doesn’t even feel real—he feels like he’s floating above his body, above the house, watching this all go down.
He wonders if he’s going to die. He’d never even be able to finish his campaign.
The lock snaps, and so does Will.
Drop the phone. Run. Run, runrunrunrun—
There’s a gun in the back shed.
Dad taught him how to use it last year, stood behind him with a too-tight grip on his shoulder and told him that they wouldn’t go home until he killed something.
Two hours in, Will shot a fox. He cried silently the whole way home, face turned into his palm so Dad wouldn’t see. He can still remember the feel of its fur against his skin as he cradled it in his lap, the way it didn’t die right away, but instead went still and struggled to breathe.
Atta boy, Dad had said. It was one of the rare times Will had seen him smile.
Will busts into the shed, beelines for the back, and fumbles for a bullet. Every second of hesitation is a second wasted. A second that could cost him his life.
Load the gun. Load it. Don’t be a pussy.
He clicks the safety off, hefts the gun over his shoulder, and waits. For a long, harrowing moment, all he can hear is the rattle of his chest as he struggles to breathe. He sounds so young. Like a baby.
Will swallows down his fear and stares at the door unblinkingly. Kill the monster. Take the risk. Cast fireball. Shoot the gun.
Of course, he hadn’t expected it to come from behind him.
The light burns bright into his retinas. The whole room shakes, wood paneling nearly busting at the seams.
A rolled seven. An unrewarded risk.
The beast’s got him.