Work Text:
march, 1986
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Nightmares are no stranger to Will Byers. They’ve become a constant over the past few years, one of those things he could never quite shake between all the shit that went down in Hawkins.
Still, this one is different from usual. Usually, he’ll wake up in a cold sweat, gasping, but by the time he’s fully awake and calmed his racing heart, the dream has gone hazy, fragmented, as if his brain is trying to keep him from remembering. He’d brought it up to Jonathan, once, and he said it was probably a trauma thing. His brain’s way of protecting him, or something like that.
But this one. This one, he remembers every excruciating detail of. The worst parts are burned into his retinas, flashing every time he blinks. The Upside Down. A distant storm, clouds of flickering red lightning. And, most confusing, a red landscape he doesn’t recognize. Stairs that lead to nowhere. Floating chunks of debris. A grandfather clock, of all things, that chimes, echoing, deafening. The body of a girl, strung up by vines, limbs twisted beyond recognition.
It’s so incredibly vivid that, when he wakes up, he’s half-convinced he’s having an episode, but he hasn’t had one of those in over a year, and this place—with its dark spires and blood-red sky and floating rock—is new, and then he’s sending himself into a spiraling panic, and-
“Will?” El knocks lightly on his door. Her voice is muffled through the wood. “It is six forty-five. We’re going to be late to the airport if you don’t get up.”
Will’s gaze darts around, settles on the painting still propped up on the easel in the corner. He blows out a long, slow breath. Right. The airport. Mike.
“Coming,” he calls, “just- give me like, five minutes!”
And then he’s rushing around to get everything together, rolling up the painting, and the dream slips to the back of his mind, forgotten.
Will presses his temple against the window, relishing the temporary coolness the glass provides. The van rumbles along the asphalt, and he tries to focus on that. Tries to focus on the way he can feel the vibrations thrumming through the soles of his shoes where they’re pressed against the floor, instead of the crackling of the van’s blown-out speakers, or the rank scent of weed that lingers even with the windows rolled down.
He closes his eyes, exhales silently. His head hurts, has for about an hour now. What had started as an aching, but manageable pressure has built up to a fierce, sporadic throbbing. It reminds him of the ebb and flow of the ocean—receding, then slamming back into him, piercing and abrupt. God, how he hates the ocean.
He and Jonathan had gone to the beach a handful of times during their first few months in Lenora, but just like he always does, Will had ruined it. It had been their first time bringing El along, and when Jonathan set his camera aside to wade out into the water, Will noticed the way El had hung back, staring at the dark, crashing waves with something like uncertainty. And Will hadn’t gone out any further than knee-deep in their previous visits, didn’t like that he couldn’t see what was under him, around him, in the water. Didn’t like how cold it was. But El looked at him, nervous, so he took her hand, guided her out into the waves with an encouraging smile.
And it had been fine. It had been, until the water was lapping at his ribs and something beneath the water brushed against his leg. Something cold and slimy, and he’d frozen up, fear flooding his lungs. El had had to drag him back up to the beach, and it had taken Jonathan fifteen minutes to calm him down enough for them to leave.
Will sighs, cracking open his eyes to stare dully at the beige desert landscape flying by. The brightness of it hurts, and the throbbing in his head returns, a spike of pain that lances through his skull. He’s gotten headaches before. They’re a fairly regular occurrence, actually, but this one is more persistent, worse than they usually are. Not that that should be particularly surprising. They’ve been driving for almost two hours now, trying to get to Salt Lake City as quickly as possible. It’s been stressful, and it must finally be taking a toll on him as the adrenaline wears off. He’s tired too, exhausted, really, but he can’t sleep, the whirring thoughts and ache in his head too much.
Jesus, everything’s been such a mess. Given how much he’d been looking forward to spring break, to Mike’s visit, he should have been expecting the shitshow that has been the past couple days, because this is what always happens. When he’d thought it couldn’t get any worse, it had just kept getting worse. The awkward meetup at the airport terminal. The constant third wheeling. His argument with Mike at Rink-O-Mania, then the entire mess with El and Angela and the police. El disappearing. Their house getting invaded and nearly getting shot. Watching a man who was meant to be protecting them die, and having to bury his body in the desert.
Actually, the skunky smell of the weed might be a good thing. If nothing else, at least it covers the heavy copper tang of old blood. Will tries not to think about it, tries not to look at the dark stains by his shoes, the flaky crust that’s still caked under his fingernails.
The van dips jerkily as it hits a pothole, and Will swallows a yelp, wincing, as his head smacks against the glass. He pulls away from the window, fiddles with his sleeves for a moment, pushing them back up to his elbows. Tries to distract himself, but he can’t help the way he glances at the rearview mirror, then—when he sees Jonathan is focused on the road—at Mike.
He looks so...soft. He’s asleep, arms folded and his chin tilted down to rest against his sternum. He has yet to put his windbreaker back on, and the collar of his white tee is damp, smudged with dirt and sweat. His hair hangs around his face, frizzy and untamed and greasy. It’s the longest Will’s ever seen his hair, and he thinks about brushing his hands through it, smoothing out the tangles, and his fingers twitch in his lap. His chest goes tight, fluttery, and he has to look away then, clasping his hands together as he looks towards the front.
And makes eye contact with Jonathan in the rearview mirror.
Will’s heart does an uncomfortable little somersault, mortification burning through him. He turns his head away quickly, peering out the window again as if there’s anything interesting out there, ignoring the growing warmth in his cheeks and the tips of his ears. The air in the van is stifling, suffocating.
Will slouches a bit in his seat, bottom lip clasped between his teeth, and he mourns the Walkman he’d left at home. The home that had been utterly destroyed only a handful of hours ago.
God, this spring break sucks.
The shudder of the van going still registers dimly in the back of his mind, but it isn’t quite enough to rouse him. He hovers in that space between sleep and wake, drifting. There’s the sound of doors opening, closing, quiet voices that float just out of reach.
And then there’s something poking at his bicep, and Will frowns, pulls away from the touch with a grumble. He’s sleeping, he just wants to sleep.
“Hey, Will.” Mike’s voice, close, quiet. A long pause. Too long. An unplaced tension gathering that has Will surfacing from his doze more solidly.
Without warning, a hand wraps around his forearm, a warm weight against the exposed skin. Will doesn’t tense up, but it’s a near thing. He has to fight not to hold his breath, to keep up the pretense of sleep.
Why is he pretending to still be asleep?
The hand on his arm stays still for a moment, just holding—but then there’s a thumb sweeping across his skin, slow, so slow, and it almost tickles. It brushes gently downward, then back up. Down, then up.
Will feels like he’s burning up from the inside out. Barely even notices the headache still nestled behind his eyes. His heart pounds, fast and hard, against his ribs, and he desperately hopes Mike doesn’t hear it, thinks it would be impossible for him not to.
Mike’s hand squeezes once, then he shakes Will’s arm. He speaks a little firmer this time, but his voice is still low. “Hey, man, wake up.”
Will blinks his eyes open, and any panic over being caught feigning sleep vanishes as his head pulses viciously. He groans, eyes narrowing in a squint against the brightness outside.
“Woah, you good?”
Will grunts out an unintelligible noise of affirmation. He blinks a few times, trying to force his eyes to adjust. As they do, the throbbing in his head is quick to recede, a distant echo.
“...You sure?”
And then Will’s gaze skates over to Mike, and he stills when their eyes lock, breath catching in his throat. Mike is beside him, hovering, and he’s so close that Will can make out every single one of the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. There’s an intensity to his stare that Will almost doesn’t recognize.
“Yeah.” Will’s voice is little more than a rasp, still rough with sleep, and Mike is so close that Will can see the way his pupils dilate, consuming the dark brown of his irises. Will breathes out a silent, shaky exhale, suddenly too aware of their proximity. Too aware of the way Mike is still holding onto his arm, of the few inches of height Mike has over him, of the way he has to tilt his head up, just slightly, to meet Mike’s dark gaze.
Will looks between Mike’s eyes, frozen in place, stuck, waiting.
But Mike doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, staring, and Will’s always struggled with masking his emotions, always been easy to read. But no one’s ever been able to read him quite like Mike Wheeler, and sitting here, in the back of a stuffy pizza van at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, Will thinks maybe this is it. Maybe Mike will see the truth somewhere in Will’s eyes. And maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“Will,” Mike whispers, and it’s so soft, and all Will can see is the old Mike. The Mike who walked up to him and asked to be his friend at the swings. The Mike who looked for him when he went missing. The Mike who stuck by his side when he had his episodes, when he was in the hospital, when he was possessed. The Mike who told him they’d go “crazy together.” The Mike he fell in love with.
And between one breath and the next, Will forgives him. Forgives him for everything. The lack of letters and calls the past six months, dumping his problems with El onto him, the passive-aggression at the roller rink, all of it.
Will wets his lips subconsciously, only realizes he’s done it when Mike’s gaze shifts for the first time, flicking down to his mouth, then back up. Will thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest.
“Will, I-”
A heavy bang on the side of the van makes both of them flinch. Mike jerks away, yanks his hand from Will’s arm as though he’d been burned.
“Yo, brochachos! You guys wanna grab anything to eat while we’re here? It’s probably gonna be a while before we stop again.” Argyle dips his head in through the passenger window, grinning at them.
“Oh, uhh,” Will starts, looking over at Mike, and his heart sinks when he sees him on the complete opposite side of the van, already wrenching open the door to get out. Will looks back at Argyle, flashing a tight-lipped smile.
Argyle hums, and he waits there for Will to hop out, slinging an arm across his shoulders when he does. He smells like pot and pizza grease and sweat, and Will has to grit his teeth, choke down the sudden nausea. “I think your brother is ‘round back trying to get ahold of Nancy.”
Will perks up a bit at this, turning away from where Mike has disappeared inside the gas station and carefully shrugging Argyle’s arm off him.
“Oh, thanks,” he says. He makes a vague gesture to the side of the building. “I’m gonna...”
“Oh, of course, little dude,” Argyle nods. “You want me to get you anything? I think they have a Slurpee machine here. I’m gonna pick up some snacks too, I’m freaking starving, man.”
“Just, like, a water would be good,” Will concedes. “Thanks.”
And then he’s slipping away, fidgeting with his shirt sleeve as he walks around the outside of the building. He spots Jonathan, hunched over by the payphone, and given the way he rakes a hand through his hair, tipping his head forward, it seems he hasn’t had much luck.
Will scuffs his shoe across the asphalt and Jonathan turns around, his face losing a little bit of tension when he sees it’s only Will.
“Anything?” Will asks, and Jonathan shakes his head, slamming the phone back into its cradle with more force than is probably necessary.
“No, nothing.” Jonathan sighs heavily, rubs his hands over his face.
“You sure it’s the right number?” Will asks hesitantly, and Jonathan shoots him a deadpan look.
“Yes, Will, I’m sure it’s the right number.” Jonathan sighs again, shaking his head. “I just don’t get it. I tried Steve’s place too, but it was the same thing. Something bad is going on in Hawkins. Like, really bad.”
Will’s breath hitches. When he speaks, his voice comes out strained, uneasy. “Like, Upside Down bad?”
Jonathan’s eyes soften. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just hate this. We’re so far away we can’t do anything and we’re so out of the loop. We don’t know where El is, we don’t know what’s going on, and it feels like we’re wasting our time driving all the way up to Salt Lake City on the off-chance this random Suzie girl will be able to find El.”
“Suzie will find her,” Will says firmly. Then he slumps a little. “But yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Do you think-” Jonathan stops, hesitates. Glances around for a second, lowers his voice before continuing. “Do you think, maybe, we should just go back to Hawkins? I mean, for all we know, El is there, and all this running around is completely pointless.”
And Will is shaking his head before Jonathan is even finished, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “I think we should probably stick with the plan we’ve got. It’s El, Jonathan. We can’t just leave her. She’s- she’s been through so much and she’s had so many people just give up on her. I’m not going to be one of those people.” He blows out a heavy breath, dropping his hands to his sides. “Plus, I mean, whatever’s happening in Hawkins, if El really is getting her powers back, well, what- what if she’s the only one who can help? If we go back and she isn’t there, we’d just be useless. We need her, Jonathan.”
Jonathan closes his eyes for a long moment, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
Will gives him a small smile, waving back towards the gas station. “Let’s get what we need and get back on the road, then.”
Mike isn’t talking to him. Will doesn’t even realize it at first, too caught up in Jonathan and Argyle’s bickering over whether they should bunk down in the van tonight or if they should get a motel.
“We can’t just make you pay for everything, man. We should save the money,” Jonathan says.
“We’ll use Unknown Hero Agent Man’s money for it then,” Argyle counters. “And you know I don’t mind. It’s not like you dudes had time to grab your wallets while you were being shot at.”
“Will, Mike, what do you guys think?” Jonathan says instead, and Will gives a half-hearted shrug.
“I mean, we should probably save the money for, like, gas and stuff, right?” he says, and Jonathan makes an agreeing noise in the back of his throat.
“Wheeler?” Jonathan prompts, and Mike snaps his gaze over from where he’d been staring out the window, sparing Will only a glance before looking at Jonathan.
“What?” he says.
“You think we should get a motel tonight, or save the money and sleep in the van?” Jonathan asks.
Mike frowns. “We need to get to El as soon as possible, and we’re in the middle of nowhere. Trying to find a motel would be a stupid waste of time.”
“That’s a good point,” Will agrees, and he tries to give Mike a nod, to show his agreement, but Mike won’t look at him. His gaze flickers over to Will for a split second, then shoots back to Jonathan, then back out his window, settling into sullen silence.
It’s then that Will realizes Mike is giving him the cold shoulder, realizes that Mike hasn’t spoken a word to him, has barely looked at him, since they left the gas station a few hours back.
“That’s three against one,” Jonathan points out to Argyle needlessly, but he’s still turned in his seat, and his gaze slowly shifts from Will to Mike then back to Will, and he’s got this look on his face like he’s realized something.
Will feels heat pool in his cheeks, breaking eye contact to look down, fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt. Jonathan’s gaze rests on him for a long moment, heavy and suffocating, and then he’s turning back around, and Will’s shoulders lose a bit of their tension.
“I just wish we could call Mom,” Jonathan sighs, and that reels Will right back into the conversation, even though the words were probably meant for Argyle.
“Me too,” Will mumbles.
“I hope she’s okay. I like momma Byers,” Argyle says, and Will’s brow furrows.
“Wha- why wouldn’t she be? She’s just at a conference,” he says.
Argyle hums. “I don’t know, man. Seems like a crazy coincidence that all this shit went down, like, as soon as she left. You said something’s going on back in your old town, right? Well, maybe she knew about it, too.”
Will’s first instinct is to argue, to deny. But- but Argyle kind of has a point. It really is weird that she left right before everything had fallen apart. And Murray had been with her. What was up with that?
“You think she could be in Hawkins?” Jonathan asks after a long beat of silence, evidently on the same wavelength as Will.
Argyle shrugs.
“But why- why wouldn’t she tell us?” Will says, and his tone is flat, demanding. “After everything, that’s- she wouldn’t keep that from us.”
“She would if she thought it would keep us safer,” Jonathan says quietly, and he’s right, Will knows he’s right, but that knowledge only makes him more upset. Because if she really did go back to Hawkins with Murray, and she’d lied about it—it’s Will’s fault.
He’s the reason they’d left Hawkins in the first place. Him and his problems.
Stupid. He’s so stupid for thinking he could ever get away from this. From Hawkins, from the Upside Down, from any of it.
And as hard as he tries to see the good side of things (thoughts of seeing Lucas and Dustin and Max again), guilt creeps up his throat like bile. Hawkins is his home. He misses it. But- but he doesn’t want to go back.
“Either way, she can handle herself,” Jonathan is saying, but it sounds muffled, far-away, and Will clasps his hands together so tight it hurts, forces himself to look at the brightness of the landscape outside because every time he blinks, he sees dark, slimy things. Evil things. Monsters.
He’s not there anymore. Not possessed. Not in the Upside Down. He knows that.
He knows, but sometimes it’s so easy to forget. Sometimes it feels like he never left.
Will hesitates only for a moment, then grabs his bag, slinging it over one shoulder before he opens the door.
He clambers out of the pizza van and groans, stretching his arms high above his head. The sun has all but set, the darkness of night settling over the desert like a heavy cloak. He leans into the crisp breeze, relishing the desert night air. It was one of those things that Will had been pleasantly surprised by when they’d first settled in Lenora Hills. Despite the often-overwhelming heat of the day, the nights were cool and breezy, even cold sometimes.
That temperature difference is even more noticeable out here, surrounded by little more than sand and dirt and distant mountains. Enough so that it prompts a shiver from Will, and after he’s done stretching, he rolls his sleeves down.
Footsteps crunch against the dusty ground, and when Will turns, he sees Jonathan, the interior lights of the van casting dingy shadows across his face.
“Hey,” he says, and Will folds his arms across his chest, dragging the toe of his shoe through the dirt.
“Hey.”
An awkward silence falls over them, punctuated by the sound of one of the van’s doors closing. Will jumps, but the noise is enough to get Jonathan talking again.
“Um, Argyle’s already passed out in the passenger seat, so I think I’m going to climb in the back to sleep. I just, like, I need to try to lay down. My back is just-” He makes an exasperated little sound, hands gesturing wildly.
Will chuckles. “Yeah, I get it. Just as long as there’s enough room for me back there.”
Jonathan frowns, expression caught between confusion and concern. It’s the last thing Will really sees before the van’s interior light blinks out, leaving them with nothing but the faint glow of the moon and stars to see by. “You’re not sleeping?”
“Not yet,” Will hedges. “I just want to, you know, stretch and be out of the van for a while.”
This is true. Especially knowing how much they’ll be stuck in the vehicle for the next few days, Will kind of wants to spend as much time out of the van as possible. But also, he’s just not tired. Rather, a certain jitteriness has carved its way into his bones, his racing heart, his shaking hands. He can’t settle down in the van to sleep right now. He just can’t. He needs to chill out first.
“Me too.”
Will sucks in a sharp breath, freezing up in shock at how clear and close Mike’s voice is, like he’d just appeared beside Will without him realizing.
“Oh. Okay.” And it’s too dark for Will to see his face, but there’s something in Jonathan’s voice that changes, and for the life of him, Will can’t tell what it is. Jonathan continues, and that strange tone vanishes just as quickly as it had come. “Just, come inside if you guys get too cold or something.”
And then Jonathan is turning around, and the interior light flicks back on, almost blinding with its suddenness, as he slides open the side door of the van. He shuts the door behind him quietly, and then it’s just Will, Mike, and the tiny circle of dim light that pours through the van’s windows.
Will finds himself looking down at the ground, tracing the small cracks in the earth with his eyes. He lifts his head a bit, and his gaze lands on a small grouping of rocks maybe twenty feet away. He adjusts his grip on his backpack, slinging it more comfortably up on his shoulder where it’s beginning to slide, and starts walking.
He’s only taken three steps when he hears a second set of feet crunching against the sand, long strides that quickly match his pace. Will grits his teeth for a moment, just a moment, to keep the frustrated sigh from escaping.
“What’s- um.” Mike falters, and Will tightens his grip on the strap of his bag, doesn’t look at him. “What are we doing?”
And that ‘we’ is almost enough to make Will give in, but also, it kind of makes him want to scream. Mike had made it clear in the van that he’d wanted to be left alone. So why is he acting like everything is normal all of a sudden?
Why can’t he just make up his mind? Why does he always have to make things so hard?
Once again, the light in the van goes out, and Will has to stop, wait for his vision to readjust to the dark.
“Will?”
Will sighs. He never has been able to deny Mike Wheeler.
“I’m just sick of being in that stupid van,” Will says, and he pauses, swallows when he hears the low shakiness in his own voice.
“Well, yeah,” Mike mumbles, and Will thinks he’s going crazy, because he swears Mike’s voice does this- this thing, when he talks to Will. This thing where the clipped, blunt corners of his words go all warm and soft, and Will only catches it when they’re alone, when it’s just the two of them, when Will’s the only one around to hear it.
Yeah, he’s definitely going crazy.
“But why are we coming over here?”
Will blinks, squints into the night. The moon is little more than a sliver, hardly any help, but he can still make out the faint, barely-there shape of the rocks. He continues walking, but slower now. Mike falls in step beside him.
“You don’t have to come with me, you know,” Will says pointedly, and it’s hard to keep the defensive edge out of his tone.
“I want to,” Mike says, and he says it so quickly, so firmly, that Will can’t do anything but believe him, can’t do anything but reluctantly accept the way it makes his chest go warm.
Will stops once they reach the rocks, brushing away some of the smaller pebbles and clods of dirt with his shoe. He drops his bag from his arm, sets it on the ground. Without preamble, he sits, leans his back up against the lumpy surface of the rock behind him. It’s not entirely comfortable, but it’s the best he’s going to get.
After a brief lull, there’s some shuffling, and then Mike falls into place next to him. He’s close, probably closer than he needs to be, but Will is glad for it, because Mike radiates warmth, and Will is trying not to shiver as the chill of the night sets in.
Mike wants to say something. Will can practically feel the way he’s buzzing, itching to speak, but he doesn’t. Will wonders, briefly, how long Mike will hold out, but then he feels a bit like an asshole, so he breaks the silence with a quiet sigh.
“Okay, look,” he starts, and without meaning to, it comes out low, almost a whisper, “it’s up to you if you want to or not.”
“Want to...?” Mike prompts, and that’s enough for Will to sit forward a bit, dragging his bag towards him and feeling around for the smaller, front pocket. He unzips it, pulls out a nearly crushed box of matches and a rolled up ziploc baggie. He cracks open the plastic seal, pulls out one of the joints, leaves the other in the bag, untouched.
“Jeez, smells like-” Mike’s joking voice cuts off with an audible gasp of realization. Will busies himself with resealing the ziploc and stowing it back in his backpack. “You- you smoke?”
And Will snorts a laugh, finding something ridiculously funny about the utter shock in Mike’s voice. There’s something else too; something a little satisfied, smug, at being able to garner such a reaction.
“Yeah, I mean, not nearly as much as Jonathan or Argyle, but you know,” he shrugs, “sometimes.”
Mike is silent, but only for a moment. When he speaks, it comes out strangled. “Why?”
Will shrugs again, even though Mike probably can’t see it. “It helps.”
Mike falls quiet again, and when he stays that way, Will tucks the joint between his lips and fumbles to pull a match from the box. He strikes it, but the spark doesn’t take. He does it a second time, then drops the box to cup his hand around the tiny flame, protecting it from the breeze. He brings it towards himself, shakes out the flame and drops the matchstick to the ground once he’s got a good cherry going.
Mike is staring at him.
Will considers ignoring it. He almost does, taking a steady drag and holding the smoke in his lungs, then exhaling long, slow—but Mike is staring at him, and Will can’t help himself.
He turns a little, and in the tiny glow of the cherry, he can make out the outline of Mike, cast in dim, gentle orange and blurred at the edges, blending into the darkness around them. His face is a pale contrast to his hair, and his eyes are dark dark dark.
Will’s heart lurches. He’s suddenly breathless—and not because of the weed.
“...Can I?” Mike asks, and it’s quiet, more unsure than Will thinks he’s ever heard him.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Will says, and he carefully passes the joint over, hopes Mike doesn’t notice how badly his hands are shaking when their fingers brush. “Just, um. Just don’t do too much. Inhale slowly, and, and try not to overdo it.”
Mike’s gaze flickers between him and the joint, and Will can see him gulp, can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs with the movement.
“Okay,” Mike whispers, and it comes out a little faint. He brings it up to his mouth, and Will’s eyes follow the motion, and then he’s staring at Mike’s lips as he pulls in a slow, tentative drag of smoke, and Will doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to kiss him more than in this moment.
Mike parts his lips to exhale, and he tilts his head back slightly, and Will’s chest aches because Mike Wheeler is so unbelievably beautiful, and Will is so unbelievably in love with him.
Mike looks contemplative when he passes the joint back over to Will. “Wh-”
And then he’s coughing. Deep, breathless coughs that Will both understands and empathizes with. He’d really struggled his first time, too. But it doesn’t keep him from laughing, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as his shoulders shake.
“Sh-shut up,” Mike chokes out, regaining his breath and his wits enough to elbow Will in the side. Will pulls his hand away from his mouth, trying to dampen his smile. It doesn’t work.
“Sorry,” he says on an exhale, still giggling. “Sorry, it’s just, I did try to warn you.”
Mike grumbles, pulls his legs in and rests his chin on his knees like he used to do when the two of them were small and Mike was embarrassed or scared. It’s almost bizarre to see now, his legs long and lanky, folded up against his chest.
Will smiles, fond, nostalgic. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I was so much worse my first time. We were in Jonathan’s room, and my mom ended up barging in because she thought I was dying or something,” Will explains, and Mike cracks a smile at that, barely visible in the darkness.
They sit in a companionable silence. Will takes another hit, holding the smoke, a warmth that combats the chilly air. He closes his eyes as he blows out, humming. His hands are still shaking, but it’s barely noticeable now, the tightness stretched across his skin relaxing as the high washes over him.
“Man, I can’t believe you do this,” Mike says, all quiet, and if Will didn’t know any better, he’d think Mike sounds a little shy, a little awestruck.
“Yeah, I mean...” Will twists away from Mike, extinguishing the joint against the surface of the rock serving as their backrest. He tucks the remainder of it back into his bag, a bit careless. He leans forward as if to touch his toes, groaning at the way his back pops, then sits back again, content. Mike is so close that their shoulders brush together. He realizes, then, that he had never finished his sentence. “I mean, mostly it’s just to help me sleep.”
“Oh.” Mike takes a moment to think about this. “You still having nightmares?”
Will goes tense, breath catching in his throat. He pulls his knees up to his chest in a mirror of Mike’s posture and waves his hand in a vague, dismissive gesture. “Can we, um- let’s talk about something else.”
Silence again.
“Do you remember that one time in third grade when you found that cat at recess?”
Will perks up as the memory swims to the forefront of his brain, a bit fuzzy with time, but the important parts are still there. “Oh, yeah! Wasn’t it, like, solid black? Except for the front paws and-”
“-the tip of its tail, yup,” Mike finishes, and he shifts a little, presses his shoulder against Will’s with intent. “And you just started freaking out. I mean, like, complete hysterics, dude.”
Will scoffs, knocking his shoulder back against Mike’s. “Please, it wasn’t that bad. And what did you expect? It just walked right up and started rubbing against my leg and purring. I didn’t know what to do. It seemed cute, but what if it had rabies or something?”
“You know, to this day, I still don’t know if you were happy or terrified,” Mike says, voice thick with amusement, like he’s about to laugh, and Will finds himself smiling.
“Both,” he admits, and he can’t hide the warmth in his words, doesn’t even try. “Hey, at least it liked me. It wouldn’t even go near you.”
And then Mike leans his weight heavily into Will’s side, his chin slipping away from its spot on his own knee and tilting down, sliding over until his forehead rests against Will’s knee—and he’s giggling, like Will’s just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and then Will is giggling, too. And then they’re clinging to each other, palms pressed over mouths to muffle their breathless laughter, and Will’s wheezing, and he’s got tears in his eyes, but he’s grinning so wide his cheeks hurt, and Mike is practically laying on him, hiding little hiccupping laughs in his hand, and for just a moment, it’s like nothing ever changed.
“I want you...to join me.” Flashes of red sky and floating debris. Rocky spires ensnared by vines. The twisted, mangled corpse of a girl, jaw broken and mouth gaping and eyes gone — nothing more than dark, empty sockets. A dead, broken boy only a few yards away, a mimic of the girl. Another boy nearby, matching the others. A grandfather clock that chimes once. Twice. Thrice.
Will jerks awake with a start, a scream locked in his throat. His skin prickles with a frozen numbness, and he flails, leg kicking out and connecting with something. Or someone, rather, given the loud yelp that cuts through the pulsing of his heartbeat in his ears.
“Jesus, what the hell, Will?” Jonathan grumbles, and he rolls over, rubbing at his eyes. Will doesn’t know what he looks like, but it must be bad, because when Jonathan squints at him through the early-morning gloom, he’s instantly alert, and frowning. “Woah, hey, what’s wrong?”
Will opens his mouth to speak, but the words don’t come out. He fights to get his breathing under control, sucking in a shaky inhale.
“Will.” Jonathan shifts, sitting up, reaching forward to grab Will’s shoulders. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong, man? Talk to me.”
It takes him a second, and when he speaks, it comes out hoarse, choked. “Nothing. Just...bad dream.”
“A bad dream,” Jonathan repeats.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” Will bites the inside of his cheek, the first trace of irritation making itself known. He welcomes it, anything that’s not the prickling coldfearterror lurking just below the surface.
Jonathan searches his eyes, still frowning. “Do you want to talk about it?”
A quick glance around shows Argyle to still be passed out in the passenger seat, and Mike is sleeping too, turned away, curled against the car door. Will is momentarily grateful he’d woken Jonathan in his panic and not Mike, having been asleep between the two of them. Mike isn’t like Jonathan. Mike is stubborn. He wouldn’t let it go.
But Jonathan?
“No,” Will says. “It’s...we should get going anyway.”
And Jonathan sighs, stares at him for a moment longer, then relents, clambering back up into the driver’s seat.
Will doesn’t speak for the rest of the two hours to Salt Lake City, even after their other passengers wake up. Just leans against the car door to look out the window and tries to ignore the flickers of hazy red and twisted limbs he sees when he closes his eyes for too long.
Suzie’s home is...overwhelming, to say the least. Despite the relief of getting a break from the van, Will is somewhat glad that it only ends up being a relatively short stop before they leave again, coordinates in hand and finally able to work out some sort of a plan.
“Okay, it looks like this is going to be...maybe six hours?” Will smooths out the map, jolting as the van dips sharply into a pothole. He grabs a pen from his backpack, flipping it around his fingers as he surveys the map.
“Six hours? Are you sure?” Jonathan asks from the passenger seat, and Will ducks forward, leaning between the front seats to spread the map across Jonathan’s legs, tapping the blunt end of the pen against his lower lip in consideration.
He reaches forward, uses the pen to point to the large ‘X’ on the map, then draws a crude line up to ‘Salt Lake City.’
“It’s just- it’s mostly approximations. It’s hard to give an exact time.” He sits back on his heels and sighs, scratching the back of his head. “But yeah. I’d say six hours. Give or take.”
Jonathan surveys the map for a moment, then hums, folding it up and passing it back to Will. “Gonna be a long, boring drive.”
“No more long and boring than it was getting here,” Mike points out, voice grumbly.
“At least we’ll get there by this afternoon,” Will reasons, and he settles back into his seat beside Mike.
Mike groans, loud and long and dramatic, and rubs his eyes. When he speaks his voice is whiny, and maybe Will should be annoyed by it, but instead he finds himself suppressing a smile.
“God, this just sucks. It’s so boring. There’s nothing to do but talk.”
Will shrugs, bends his knees and pulls his feet up to sit cross-legged, holding onto his shins. He’d kicked his shoes off a while ago; they’re on the floor, somewhere, mixed in with the clutter of empty water bottles and wrappers. The smell in the van is something he’s become accustomed to, and he’s grateful for it, because he knows it’s probably bad. None of them have showered since burying a literal corpse, have only rinsed their hands and faces in gas station bathrooms. It’s gross, and Will doesn’t really like to think about it.
“Let’s talk, then,” Will says. “How’re Lucas and Dustin? How’s school going for you guys, back in Hawkins?”
And Will sort of already has an idea of how things have been going; Lucas had been incredibly consistent with sending letters, always keeping Will up to date. Him and Max both. Dustin wrote less frequently, but he made up for it with regular phone calls. The only one he hadn’t really kept up with is sitting beside him, tired eyes shifting to look at him instead of out the window.
“They’re both good,” Mike says, shrugging a shoulder. “Lucas joined the basketball team, but he’s been on the bench almost all season, and we-” Mike freezes, sucks in a breath.
Will frowns. “What?”
And suddenly Mike won’t look at him, eyes flitting everywhere but Will’s face, and he plays with his fingers in his lap. He stumbles over his words. “I, um. Well, it’s just. Did- did I ever mention Hellfire to you?”
Ahh. So that’s what this is about.
Will shakes his head, tries to ignore the sharp pang in his chest as he pastes on a smile. “No. But Dustin and Lucas, they bring it up all the time. It’s Hawkins High’s D&D club, right?”
Mike glances up at him, nods, stiff.
“Yeah,” Will says, “they talk about it a lot. About how your DM—Eddie, I think? About how he’s super cool.”
Mike’s shoulders visibly relax, and he gives Will a small smile. “Yeah. Yeah! Eddie’s awesome. I think you guys would get along really well, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Hey, maybe when all this clears up and we save the world again, maybe you can stay long enough to join a campaign? We just finished ours, but we could always use a cleric in the party.”
‘The party,’ Will thinks, and he feels a bitter stab of resentment as he looks towards the rolled-up painting sticking out of his bag. ‘The party.’
“Yeah,” he manages, and it sounds a little flat, even to his own ears. “Yeah, I’ve missed D&D.”
He hasn’t played since he left. He’d given his things to Erica, and anyways, he’d promised Mike he wouldn’t.
So he didn’t.
“I mean, it’s fun, but it’s not the same, really,” Mike says, and Will tilts his head a little, confused. Mike sees it, elaborates. “Well, it’s just- it’s great, having such a big party, but it’s not- it’s not the Party, you know? Our Party. It’s not the same without you.”
And he says it the same way he had back in California. “It’s Hawkins, it’s not the same without you.”
So casually, like it’s just the truth, like it’s not something disputable, and Will’s lips twitch into a wavering smile, throat tight with suppressed emotion.
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice cracks, and neither of them mention it.
The closer they get to ‘NINA,’ the quieter, more withdrawn Mike becomes. Will tries to keep his spirits up. He talks about school, only the good parts, and El, and jokes about stopping in Vegas. But Mike’s attention is fleeting, wandering, scattered.
It’s why Will shows him the painting. He hadn’t really been intending to. At least, not in the company of others. But Jonathan is focused on the road and Argyle is sleeping, and Mike’s silence scares him a little bit. So, he shows him.
And he lies.
He gets too caught up in Mike’s beaming, disbelieving smile, and he nearly slips up, nearly ruins it—everything. But then he’s pasting El’s name over it, and once he starts, he’s mildly horrified to find that he can’t stop. That the words won’t stop pouring out of him, that his eyes are starting to sting with tears, and he wants to sink into the floor, to stop existing, because Mike is looking at him, but Will’s vision is a blurry, shaky thing, and he can’t tell if Mike gets it—hopes he does—hopes he doesn’t.
“So yeah- El needs you, Mike. And she always will.” And he stops, waits for a response with bated breath.
“...Yeah?” Mike says, and Will’s world seems to crumble around him at the nervous hope in Mike’s voice, at the soft smile on his lips.
“Yeah,” he breathes, and he plasters on a watery smile of his own. Then Mike looks back down at the painting, and Will twists to face the window, a palm coming up to his mouth. His shoulders shake with sobs, and he squeezes his eyes shut, and he forces himself to fall apart silently.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god-”
“Just get us back on the road, Jonathan!”
“I am!”
“-oh my god, oh my god, that was fucking crazy-”
“Argyle!” Jonathan, Will, and Mike all shout in unison, and the van jerks wildly as it bumps back up onto the paved road. Will keeps one arm tight around El’s waist to keep her from flying forward, his other hand braced on the back of the passenger seat. Mike doesn’t have as much luck, and he yelps as his shoulder smacks into the car door with a thud loud enough to make Will wince.
“Jesus Christ!” Mike shouts, and Will twists around in his seat, craning his head to look out the back window of the van. It doesn’t look like they’re being followed. Not yet, at least.
As Jonathan presses his foot heavily down on the gas, Will turns back and loosens his grip on El, adrenaline still high as he looks between his companions in the vehicle. Jonathan’s hands are locked stiffly around the steering wheel, and he keeps glancing back in the rearview mirror, mouth set in a firm line. Argyle is shaking his head to himself, muttering still, more distressed than Will’s ever seen him. Mike runs his fingers through his frazzled hair, his knee bouncing up and down rapidly, betraying his nerves. But none of that matters because El, El-
Her hair is gone, buzzed down to the scalp, and there’s blood drying under her nose, and she looks like she’s just been through hell. Her eyes are so incredibly different from the last time Will had seen her; bloodshot and watery, yes, but also hard, flat, like a part of her has been stripped away.
Brenner is dead. They’d all seen it; they’d left his body in the desert sand along with all the other soldiers. Will doesn’t know much about the whole thing, only what Mike and Lucas and Dustin told him that year El had been gone. He doesn’t know much, but he knows enough.
He knows that Brenner was the doctor in charge of Hawkins Lab before Owens. He knows that Brenner put El through more shit before she was twelve than any one person should have to suffer in a lifetime. He knows that Brenner should’ve supposedly been dead around the same time Will was rescued from the Upside Down.
But he wasn’t. He’d been with El the past couple days, apparently, and now he’s dead, and Will can’t get a read on El’s usually very expressive emotions. Is she upset? Relieved? Some sort of confusing combination, like how Will felt when his parents finally split and Lonnie left for good?
He’s not sure.
But before he can think of something to say, some sort of reassurance or voice of concern, El is talking, turning to face Mike.
“Hawkins. We need to get to Hawkins,” she insists.
“I know. And we will,” he assures, “but right now, we need to get you somewhere safe, there’s gonna be people behind us.”
“No, Mike,” El presses, firm, “we need to get to Hawkins tonight.”
“We’ll never make it, that’s over 2,000 miles,” Jonathan cuts in, voice tight.
El shakes her head. “We need to find a way. If we don’t, they are going to die.”
Will’s blood turns to ice in his veins, stomach dropping out. “Who’s gonna die?”
El looks at him but doesn’t answer, and now Will is properly panicking, words shaky and near-pleading. “El, who’s gonna die?”
And she doesn’t say a word, and he knows what that means, but he’s shaking his head, stricken. “No. No, no, that’s not- I mean, what’s- why would- how...” He trails off, throat too tight to get anything else out.
“I can save them.” El breaks her gaze from Will’s to look out the front windshield, and then she’s telling them everything. About getting her powers back, stronger than before; about Henry, One; about the teetering, knife-edge danger separating the Upside Down from seeping into Hawkins. About how she doesn’t know the full extent of the situation, but that she was the one who opened the first gateway into the Upside Down and sent Henry into it, and now, he’s killing people.
That he’s killed three already, and that Max was apparently a target.
And Will’s head throbs, and his stomach twists up in nauseating knots. Max and him had grown fairly close since he’d left Hawkins. Will’s not entirely sure why, thinks maybe it has something to do with the fact that he’s far away, and that makes him easier to talk to. Because every letter Lucas wrote, he’d mention how Max is pulling away from the rest of them. How she’s become distant and withdrawn. A ghost of who she used to be.
And now this? Her being targeted by some creep with mind powers that roams the Upside Down? It makes Will feel physically ill, like he’s going to be sick. It scares him.
He blinks, realizing something. “Hey, El. You said this Henry has killed three people already. And he went for Max too, right? But she escaped. How?”
And El shrugs, her eyes glossing over and lower lip trembling. “I-I don’t know.”
She shakes her head a little. When she speaks this time, it comes out stronger, more determined. “I just know that we need to get back to Hawkins. Our friends—they are planning to stop Henry, to attack him.”
“Wait, what?” Mike stares at her, mouth dropping open. “They can’t do that!”
“We need them to wait until I get there,” El agrees. “It is the only way.”
“Okay, well, that- that means we need to contact them. We should pull off at the next gas station,” Jonathan offers, ever the voice of reason, “use the payphone there.”
“Yeah, that-”
“We might not need to,” Will interrupts. He leans forward, unzipping the backpack between his feet to riffle through its contents. He unearths his walkie and sits back, waving through the air triumphantly. He pulls the antenna up, holds the device out to El. “Think you can get through to them from here? I know it’ll be a pretty far reach.”
El takes the proffered walkie, turns it on and fiddles with the knobs until static flows through the tense pizza van. Her eyes slip shut, and Argyle turns around in his seat, and all of them—sans Jonathan, who has his eyes on the road—are watching her with bated breath. Her face goes tight with discomfort.
“El?” Mike says, pressing. “Are you-”
The static cuts out abruptly and El, eyes still closed, presses the walkie against Will’s chest.
“Talk,” she says, and Will fumbles to press the button on the side, mouth suddenly dry.
“H-hello?” he says. “Guys? This is- this is Will. Do you copy? Over.”
And for a long, agonizing second, there is nothing. But then, there’s clipping static, fuzzy words that steadily come into focus.
“-that you? Sonofabitch, you k- cutting out. Will? Ple- -firm, over.”
It’s Dustin.
Will’s eyes fill with unbidden tears, a sharp exhale punching from his chest. “Yeah, it’s me, it’s Will! I’m with El and Mike and Jonathan and- and we’re all okay. We’re on our way back to Hawkins.”
“-ly shit, Will! We’ve been trying to get ahold of you assholes for days. What’s- I mean, how are you getting through? We’re sort of on the road right now, and Cerebro-” Dustin cuts himself off in realization. “El. El’s got her powers back.”
And Will’s nodding, even though Dustin can’t see it. “Yeah, yes, she did. We, um, we gotta keep this quick, but whatever you guys have planned with Henry and the Upside Down, do not do it.”
Silence on the other end. Dustin holds down the button for a long moment before speaking, and a flurry of other voices trail through the walkie, faint and muffled and hardly discernable.
“...did he say?”
“-the hell does he mean-”
“Steve, pull over-”
“-told you, I told you this was a bad idea-”
And then there’s clattering static, and the protesting voices cut out abruptly, then come back. One voice rings out clear above all of them.
“What are you talking about, Byers?” Max asks, and relief strikes Will so hard, he has to hand the walkie over to Mike and bury his face in his hands to keep it together.
“Hey, it’s Mike. And Will’s right. El told us you guys have some sort of half-baked plan to stop One, but you all need to wait until we get there.”
“...Listen,” Max starts, “I don’t know how much you guys know about what’s been going on, but-”
Mike cuts her off. “El told us everything. Well, almost everything. She told us enough, alright, and the only way you’re going to be able to stop this thing is with El’s help. It’s suicide otherwise.”
There’s no reply to that, so Mike continues. “Seriously. You guys need to wait.”
Max sighs, long, loud, into the walkie. “How long?”
“As long as it takes for us to get there,” Mike snaps. He shakes his head, and his voice loses a bit of sharpness. “Maybe like, two days, at most?”
Silence, again. Will imagines that Max and Dustin and whoever else is with them, they’re discussing it.
Then, to his surprise, Nancy’s voice. “Okay. We’ll lay low and we’ll wait, but you better stay in contact, Mike.” Her voice goes soft, a little quiet. “And- and Jonathan, if you can hear me, take care of them and don’t let them do anything stupid.”
Wordlessly, Mike passes the walkie to Argyle, who presses the button and holds it up for Jonathan to speak into. “We’ll walkie again sometime tomorrow morning, Nance. See you guys soon. And stay safe, all of you.”
And then the connection severs and El slumps against Will’s side with a quiet groan. Will nudges her, mouth twisting in a frown.
“Are you okay?”
She nods, rests her head against his shoulder and sighs. “Just tired.”
And yeah, that’s...Will can understand that.
The afternoon drags. There’s been no sight of government officials tailing them, and the lingering paranoia over it fades as they leave Nevada behind for Utah, ditching the wide-open desert for patchy groves of trees and civilization. They fill up the tank at a gas station, and when no one jumps out at them with guns, they all relax. El doesn’t get out, and Will gives her a long look before leaving. He’s worried, but he doesn’t pry. He does get her a pack of Skittles, though, and a bottle of water.
He’s the first back to the van, and he blinks, a little uncomprehending, when he sees that El has slid over into the spot Will had previously occupied behind the driver’s seat. She smiles when she sees him, pats the seat beside her.
“Oh, um. Here,” he says, and he hands over the Skittles and the water as he clambers back into the van. Her eyes light up as the Skittles pack crinkles in her grasp, and that helps ease some of the concern building in Will’s chest.
“Thank you,” she says, tucking the water beside her hip.
“Of course,” he smiles, nodding, and then El’s looking out the window, chin cradled in her palm.
When Mike comes back out from the gas station, arms full of various snacks, he stops in his tracks, brows coming together in a frown. He tilts his head at Will, gestures to El where she’s turned away. Will shrugs, helpless, not knowing. Mike’s gaze flickers between the two of them, then he mirrors Will’s shrug, and he’s flopping back into his seat, pulling the door shut behind him.
“So, we’ve got some options. Lays, Pringles, Kit-Kats,” Mike says, and he scatters the snacks across the floor. Will leans forward to look as Mike explains, but he finds that nothing sounds particularly appealing. He’s really not that hungry. Can’t remember the last time he was, actually, and boy if that isn’t just depressing.
“Oh, and this is for you,” Mike adds, and then he’s reaching into his pocket, and he tosses something crinkly and orange into Will’s lap.
Reese’s Pieces. Will stares, eyes a little too wide, cheeks a little too warm. He’s surprised that Mike remembered, but he probably shouldn’t be. He’s reading into things. He needs to stop doing that.
“Thanks,” he manages, and he tries not to read into the way Mike smiles, the way his gaze seems to linger on Will’s face like it has been since he first arrived in California.
“Alrighty, Wheeler, wonder twins!” Argyle slaps the side of the van, yanks open the passenger door and slides in. He turns a little to look at the three of them, grinning. “You guys ready to hit the road?”
“I’m sick of the road,” Will grumbles, and Mike snorts out a laugh, but he’s nodding his agreement, and Argyle flashes a thumbs-up as Jonathan finally returns.
“Hey, just think, bros, it could be worse,” Argyle says, in a voice almost solemn, and after another few hours of driving, Will realizes he’s right. The van rumbles along the interstate, and they’re passing back through Utah, but lower in the state, some hundred miles south of Salt Lake City. It’s still too hot, sweat building up behind his bangs, but the air is fresher, somehow, more bearable. The van doesn’t feel as stuffy as it has the past few days, and Will doesn’t know if that’s the air or the lack of smoking on Jonathan and Argyle’s parts or if maybe he’s just gotten used to it, but either way, he’s grateful.
The early evening light shines through the window on the passenger side of the van where Mike sits, bathing his sleeping profile in a warm spotlight. Argyle is snoring in the passenger seat, and Jonathan is hunched over the wheel, the faint sounds of Joy Division humming through the van’s speakers.
After its fourth loop, Jonathan had asked if anyone had anything that wasn’t the single cassette Argyle had in the van, and Will, after some digging, found an old mix at the bottom of his backpack, one he’d made a few months ago, and Jonathan had immediately swapped the tapes.
El is asleep, still leaning against Will’s shoulder. She has been for hours now. Will would be more worried about it if he hadn’t seen the exhausted set of her mouth, the sunken hollows under her eyes. No, it’s good that she’s resting. She needs it.
Will can’t nap, even if he wanted to. Even though there’s nothing for them to do but sit and wait, he can’t help the buzz beneath his skin—the nervous, crackling energy that makes him pick at his cuticles, bounce his knee, rub his fingertips against his temple. His headache from the other day has returned, it seems, though not as bad as it was. Right now, it’s just an annoyance on top of everything else.
“How’s it hanging back there?” Jonathan’s voice is low, groggy, like he’s barely keeping himself awake, and Will meets his eyes in the rearview.
He shrugs his right shoulder, careful not to jostle El. “Alright, I guess. Just, you know. Bored.”
Jonathan huffs a small laugh, reaching a hand up to rub his eyes. “Yeah, I hear you, man. This seriously blows.”
Will tries to calm his anxious jitters. He presses his palms together, tucks his hands between his knees, humming sympathetically. “How’re you holding up driving?”
“Honestly?” Jonathan says. “Next time we stop for gas, I’m gonna wake everyone up so we can talk about stopping at a motel for the night.”
Will’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Jonathan scratches at his cheek, sighing. “I know how important it is for us to hurry back, but Argyle and I have been driving for days now, and we could use a break from the van. All of us could use the break.”
“Mmm, a shower would be nice,” Will agrees, and Jonathan groans.
“God, I’d kill for a shower,” he says, and Will laughs, but not because it’s funny, really—it’s just, the world might be ending, but goddamn if he doesn’t get his hopes up at the idea of a shower and real bed to sleep in.
“So, how long are you thinking ‘til-” Will cuts himself off with a strangled gasp, muscles locking up as a burst of fiery agony lurches through his brain like a bolt of lightning, gathering at the base of his skull and shooting down his spine. He squeezes his eyes shut, but instead of the darkness of closed eyelids, he sees flashing images, too many whizzing by too quickly to make any sense of, especially through the blur of pain.
Spiders. A young boy. Stained glass with a rose pattern. Children with shaved heads in a white, pristine lab. A decayed, barren red landscape. A tall, horrifically humanoid figure composed of burned skin and slithering vines. Behind it, the Mind Flayer looms, outline dark against the bloody sky.
Then the images are gone, and all he’s left with is the searing pain of his head splintering apart. That and the dark, resonating chime of a grandfather clock. Four chimes—then nothing.
Will’s hands jerk up, one clasping over the back of his neck while the other gathers a fistful of his hair, gripping. His pulse thunders in his ears, loud, but not loud enough to drown out the overlapping shouts of everyone in the van, the squeal of tires as the vehicle brakes hard, swerving. The sudden movement nearly sends Will careening face-first into the back of the passenger seat, but then there’s an arm closing around his chest, holding him in place, and his head hurts, it hurts so bad, go away, stop, please-
And then it does. The pain evaporates so quickly it leaves him reeling, dizzy with the relief. His ears ring with the sound high-pitched, keening sobs he barely registers as his own. He opens his eyes and his vision spins.
“-shit, holy shit, man, holy shit-”
“-what’s wrong with him, Mike, what’s happening-”
“I don’t know, I-I don’t- Will, please, what’s going on?”
And then the van slams to a juddery halt, and Will slumps back against the seat, breaths already starting to even out as he presses through the muddled cobwebs in his brain. The arm around his chest pulls back, no longer needing to brace him, and two sweaty palms wrap around his wrists. Will realizes then that he’s still mostly hunched over, and there’s a gentle tug on his wrists, trying to coax his hands away from where they’re still white-knuckled in his hair. He relaxes his grip, and his hands are pulled down into his lap.
Another set of hands find his shoulders, squeezing.
He looks up, meets Jonathan’s wild eyes where he’s crouching in front of him. Will glances past him, sees the empty driver’s seat and Argyle’s open-mouthed stare from where he’s twisted around. Jonathan must’ve been in such a rush that he’d clambered between the seats instead of getting out and going around. The realization warms him, and also sort of makes him want to cry. He’s really been crying a lot lately.
Jonathan is talking, Will realizes belatedly, still dizzy and a little overwhelmed.
“-sus Christ, Will, talk to me.”
Will blinks, urges his vision to pull into focus. He opens his mouth to speak, then pales and promptly slams it shut again when he feels acid burn up his throat.
Jonathan’s eyes go wide. “Oh, shit.”
He scrambles to yank the door open, hauls Will’s upper body over Mike’s legs just in time for Will to start retching, leaning out the opened door. Nothing comes up but thin, watery bile, a testament to how little he’s eaten recently, but still he heaves, heaves so violently his eyes sting and his whole body shakes with it.
There are hands on him, all over him, and his skin burns where they touch him, even through his clothes. Jonathan’s hands hooked under his armpits, someone’s arm looped around his chest to keep him steady, and a hand on his back, his shoulder, even one on his knee.
“Don’t-” He gags, swallows. Scrambles to find something to hold onto. “D-don’t-”
“Shh, you’re alright, you’re fine. You’re fine, buddy. Deep breaths.” Jonathan’s voice is shaky, but mostly calm now, and Will blinks, tries to clear the cloudy film of tears from his eyes. He inhales, exhales. Inhales, exhales. The air shudders in his lungs.
Between one breath and the next, the last remnants of energy drift away from him, and a bone-deep exhaustion makes itself known. His locked, quaking muscles go limp all at once. His arms give out on him, and there’s surprised curses, gripping hands that shift, try to keep him from tumbling head-first out the side of the van.
“Did- did he just pass out?” Mike’s voice is high, panicked. He’s tense where Will is sprawled over his lap.
“No,” Will says, and it comes out faint, a barely-there rasp, but Mike must hear him, because he relaxes, and one of those disembodied hands on Will’s shoulder curls into the fabric of his shirt, scrunching the material in a tight grip.
“You okay?” Jonathan asks, a little wary.
“Yeah, I’m,” he swallows, cringes at the awful taste in his mouth, “I’m good.”
“Okay, we’re gonna sit you up, alright?” Jonathan says, and his voice is soft, the way it used to be when he was talking an eight-year-old Will down from a nightmare when Will woke up sobbing. Or when Will was ten and had to stay home from school because he was sick and Jonathan stayed home too, to take care of him.
Hearing that voice now, Will wants to be annoyed at being treated like a little kid, but it’s a comfort, and he latches onto it.
“Okay,” Will agrees quietly, and there’s some shuffling, and then it’s just Jonathan’s hands on his shoulders and that arm looped around his back and chest, palm flat against his ribs, holding him. They pull him up, gently guide him back into an upright position between Mike and El.
The dizziness sparks up while they’re moving him, but by the time he’s settled, it’s mostly gone. He feels fine. Just tired. So tired it feels like a physical weight pulling him down. And cold. Chills wash over him, and he trembles.
“Hey.”
Will cracks his eyes open. Jonathan has resumed kneeling in front of him, eyes boring into him.
“Hey,” Will says, and he tries for a weak smile, but his lips hardly even twitch. Jonathan notices, and he scoffs, soft, shaking his head. He grabs a water from where Argyle is holding it out, cracks it open and presses it into Will’s hands. Will brings it up to his mouth without prompting, takes small, careful sips.
“Okay,” Jonathan says when Will has drained a third of the bottle. He takes it back, caps it, holds it between his hands. “How’re you feeling?”
Will shakes his head. That voice is steadily approaching grating. He’s fine now. He hasn’t broken. He won’t break.
“Just tired,” he says, honestly, and Jonathan frowns.
“Will-”
“No, seriously,” he insists, but his voice isn’t completely there, and it comes out crackly and wavering, not firm like he wants it. “I-I just want to- to keep driving. Can we keep driving, please?”
Jonathan looks at him, at the pleading expression on his face, and considers. Then he looks at El, at Mike, quirks his eyebrows and has a silent conversation with both of them that Will really doesn’t have the energy to decipher.
“Okay,” Jonathan finally says, and he doesn’t sound happy about it. “Okay, but we’re pulling over the second the sun goes down and we’re staying in a motel for the night.”
And Will is surprised at the lack of argument, particularly from two beside him.
“Sounds like a plan, man,” Argyle agrees breezily, with a calmness that Will envies, and Jonathan gives Will one last, long look before clambering back up into the front. He flips the hazard lights off, the van still running, and then they’re pulling back onto the road, and it’s like nothing happened.
Barely audible, Will can make out the telltale strum of “Boys Don’t Cry” through the speakers. Ah. Jonathan will have to flip the tape soon.
“You sure you’re okay?” Mike’s voice is soft, too, but it’s not like Jonathan’s. This is how Mike always talks to him.
“Yeah, just.” Will sighs, shakes his head. “Just. It’s a lot. Sorry if I scared you.”
“Not your fault,” Mike says, and the arm around Will’s waist squeezes. He nearly startles; he’d forgotten it was there. Hadn’t even realized it was Mike who had his arm around him. Now that he’s aware of this fact, he’s aware of all of it. The way he’s pulled up against Mike’s side, against his chest. The way Mike’s hair tickles against Will’s ear when he moves his head. The way his breath lightly fans across Will’s temple with every exhale. The way his fingers tap erratically against Will’s ribs.
“What-” Mike hesitates. Will can feel the way his breath stutters in his chest, a pause in the rhythmic rise and fall. “What, um. What was that, Will?”
And Will clams up. Chills rattle down his spine like icy water, and he shakes, and Mike’s grip on him tightens, drags him impossibly closer.
“I-I don’t-” Will stumbles. Panic creeping back in. “I’m not- I don’t know.”
A hand, soft and small, finds both of his where they’re clasped together in his lap, and it gently pries Will’s hands apart, tugs his left hand over to hold it, tightly, fingers locking between his.
When Will looks over at El, she’s got tear tracks drying on her cheeks, and she looks like she’s afraid, like she’s shaken, but that fear shows no trace in her voice. She speaks earnestly, steady. It reminds Will of his mother—their mother.
“We’ll figure it out. It will be okay, Will,” she says, sounding so sure, and Will wishes he could believe her.
Jonathan wasn’t bluffing about stopping as soon as the sun set. He pulls off the interstate just as the last rays of light dip behind the horizon, and it only takes them five minutes to find a nearby motel. It’s actually quite nice, as far as motels go, but the issue arises in the fact that they can only book two rooms for the night, and they’re not next to each other; rather, there’s a long gap of seven other rooms separating them, something that seems to bother Jonathan.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” Will tries. “It’s just one night. It’ll be fine.”
With a heavy sigh, Jonathan relents, and the rest of them clamber out of the van to stretch their cramped legs. Jonathan tosses the second room key over to Mike, who fumbles to catch it.
“If you guys need anything, and I mean anything, we’re room 18,” he says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “Just, try to get some sleep.”
“We will,” El says. She hands Will’s backpack to him. “Thank you.”
Jonathan nods, and then Argyle is locking up the van and the two of them are splitting off towards their designated room, Argyle flinging his hands out to gesticulate as he talks.
“Well,” Mike says, turning to El and Will. “Let’s go see what we’re working with.”
The room is smaller than Will had been expecting, like the motel staff shoved two single beds into a room meant for one queen and called it a day. The beds are separated by barely a foot of space, and Will, the first one into the room, is quick to choose the bed closest to the door, setting his bag down on the crisp white sheets.
He sits on the edge of the bed, falls back onto it with a groan, staring up at the flat ceiling. Despite the exhaustion that struck him after his little...episode, he hadn’t been able to sleep in the van. It very nearly brings tears of frustration to his eyes because he’s so fucking tired, but his brain just won’t shut off.
“So...is it cool if I take first shower?” Mike asks, and El murmurs some sort of agreement, and Will raises his hand in a thumbs-up. There’s some shuffling, a door closing, and a few moments later, the muffled spray of running water.
“I’ll go last,” Will says to the ceiling. “I’ve got a few spare shirts in my bag that you and Mike can have, too.”
“Okay,” El agrees, and Will thinks that’s the end of it, that they’ll sit in silence until Mike gets done in the bathroom, but-
“You’re going to sleep like that?” El’s voice, thick with amusement, has Will leaning up onto his elbows to look at her.
“I don’t know if I’m gonna sleep at all, at this rate,” Will grumbles, and El’s brow furrows, forehead scrunching up.
“Why?” she says, and she toes off her shoes, comes over to sit next to Will on the bed. “Is everything okay?”
Will throws his head back, sighing. “I don’t know. It’s just, I’m super tired, but I haven’t been able to sleep in the van since we picked you up. Even when, like, everyone else was napping. I don’t know, it’s like my brain just has too much going on.”
El nods, like she understands. She brings a hand up like she’s going to comb her fingers through her hair, then freezes, drops it back into her lap. Will’s heart aches for her. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Will hums, pushing himself upright. “I don’t even know where to start.”
El is quiet for a long moment. The shower runs in the background. “I am afraid for our friends.”
Will slumps a little, a hand coming up to rub his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. It just seems like every time we think this- this stuff in Hawkins is over, it comes back. Every time, it comes back, and we just can’t get away from it, even after moving halfway across the country.”
He shakes his head, equal parts disbelieving and frustrated. “I’m just so tired of it, El. Why’s it always us? Why’s it always me?”
“You?” El says, and Will looks down at his lap, picks at the skin around his thumbnail. He takes a breath, steeling himself.
“Just- well. Earlier today. In the van. My, um- my- whatever that was.” He exhales sharply. “It wasn’t just a headache. I’ve had headaches before, and this wasn’t even in the same ballpark, El. It hurt so bad I thought my whole head was going to split in half. It felt like I was dying. And...and I saw- things.”
“Saw things?”
“Yeah, like...like, flashes of stuff. Pictures. I don’t know, but-” Here his voice cracks, lowers into a shaky whisper. He looks up, meets her eyes. “Whatever’s going on with Hawkins, with Henry, I’m still connected to it.”
El’s eyes go wide, and she leans forward to grip his shoulders, something urgent and alarmed twisting her expression. “Will. What did you see?”
“It was too fast for me to make out most of it,” he admits quietly. “But there was this- this house, all boarded-up and old and abandoned. And...and this white room full of- full of kids with shaved heads. And this place that looked like the Upside Down, but like, if Hawkins wasn’t there. Just an empty wasteland. Th-the Mind Flayer was there. And-”
Will chokes, fighting to get the words past the tightness of his throat. “And- and I think I saw Henry. One.”
“You what?”
Will jolts, flinching in surprise at the abruptness of Mike’s loud voice. He hadn’t even noticed the shower turning off, the bathroom door opening.
Will’s gaze shoots up just in time to see Mike drop his bundle of dirty clothes on the floor, mouth agape in shock. Will doesn’t know how much of the conversation Mike caught, but clearly it was enough, because Mike is staring at him in something verging on horror. Then contempt.
Then he’s speaking, but the voice isn’t Mike’s. It’s too low, too harsh. Like the Flayed.
Will blinks, and he’s not in the motel room. He’s in that red hellscape of his recent nightmares, floating debris drifting overhead and a storm brewing in the distance.
“Will,” the voice that isn’t Mike’s says, and then Will’s looking straight into the eyes of Henry himself, face distorted with vines and burned and dark with something like icy rage. “What are you doing here, Will?”
And Will blinks, and then it’s gone. He’s back in the motel room. The nightstand lamp flickers for a second, buzzing, then stops.
He’s sitting on the bed, but Mike and El are both in front of him, now, and El has him by the shoulders, shaking him.
“Will? Will,” she says, voice tight with worry.
Mike still looks horrified, but it’s edged with concern, not anger, and in any other situation, maybe it would be funny to see Mike making such a face while he’s half-naked with a towel around his hips, hair wet and disheveled, looking a little like a wet dog, dripping water all over the motel room carpet, but right now, it’s not funny. It’s so not funny, Will’s entire brain goes blank with panic, a rush of adrenaline prompting his fight-or-flight response.
And it’s flight. For Will, it’s always been flight.
He’s got the door wrenched halfway open before he even registers that he’s gotten up, but then it’s slamming shut in his face, the knob ripped from his grasp. He whirls around, sees El with her hand outstretched, fresh blood trailing from her nose, and her face is pleading and sad and scared.
“Will, it’s okay,” she says, slow, like she’s trying to talk him down from something, and Will doesn’t understand, can barely process anything through the rushing panic, the fear. His hands, clammy and cold, reach for the doorknob a second time.
“Will.”
His gaze darts over to Mike, who stares at him with huge eyes, palms up and out. He takes a small, half-step forward, and Will can’t help the way he shrinks back against the door. Is it real? Is it real?
“I’m sorry,” he blurts, breathless. “I’m sorry, I don’t- I’m sorry.”
Mike’s face creases with confusion, but he shakes his head, takes another step. His voice is gentle, like Will’s going to shatter into pieces if he talks any other way. And maybe he’s right.
“It’s okay,” Mike says, careful, placating. “It’s alright. I- ‘crazy together,’ right? It’s okay, Will. It’s just us.”
Crazy together.
Mike helped him through this before. He stuck by his side the entire time. He helped save Will when he was possessed.
“I don’t, I don’t know what-” The realization strikes Will like a punch to the gut. The panic leaves him in a rush, but the fear doesn’t. The cold, raw fear of knowing.
“The spy,” Will says. He looks up, meets Mike’s eyes from across the room. “The spy, Mike.”
Mike blinks once, twice. Brows knitted in confusion. And then, he goes pale, eyes blowing wide. Frozen.
“The spy,” Mike echoes faintly. “Holy shit.”
Will showers last. He tries to enjoy it, the feeling of finally being clean, and he does, but it’s mostly overshadowed by the way the hot water scalds like sharp pinpricks where it hits his skin.
He likes it cold.
Will turns the temperature higher, grits his teeth against the burn.
He’s not possessed. Not like he was a few years ago. Will isn’t sure how exactly he knows this, but he does. Knows with one hundred percent certainty. And really, how could he be? He’s been nowhere near Hawkins, the Upside Down.
Ever since his possession, Will has had some sort of unexplainable connection to the Upside Down, to the Mind Flayer. He could sense when the Mind Flayer was active—had this sinking, stomach-dropping sensation every time it happened, like plunging into icy water. He got goosebumps, a tingle on the back of his neck, like he was being watched. It helped them fight the Mind Flayer last year, when it took Billy as its host. The Party called it True Sight.
But this? This is different. Like someone dialed the connection up to eleven. It’s like the part of the Mind Flayer that stuck with him back then is- is growing, somehow. Branching out like the roots of a tree. He’s linked to the Upside Down. Linked to Henry.
And it scares the absolute shit out of him.
Is Henry seeing into Will the same way Will is somehow accidentally seeing into him? Is he going to be able to take control, like the Mind Flayer did? Is Will going to turn on his friends? Expose them? Hurt them? Kill them, like he killed those soldiers in the tunnels? Like he killed Bob?
By the time Will’s stepping out of the shower, he’s forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths, struggling to tug his last clean shirt on because his hands are shaking so badly. He brushes his wet bangs out of his face, wipes the condensation off the mirror, scrutinizes his foggy reflection.
I’m me. I’m still me.
It’s not as reassuring as he wants it to be.
He opens the door and steps out of the humid bathroom, flicking the light off behind him. There’s a rush of cool air to greet him, and he closes his eyes against the blissful relief of it against his flushed skin, but then he just feels sick.
“Hey,” Mike whispers, and Will’s attention is redirected. He pauses, processing.
Mike is sitting cross-legged on the far side of the bed Will had claimed, but Will is more focused on the thin, brown canvas paper in Mike’s lap, curled at the edges, held open by careful fingers.
His painting.
“Oh- hey,” Will answers lamely, shifting on his feet. Mike presses his lips together in a thin smile, looks down to roll the painting back up.
“El’s asleep,” he points out needlessly, leaning over to slide the painting back into Will’s bag. The shirt Will lent him, a soft grey polo, is a little too short on Mike’s long torso. It rides up, reveals a thin strip of pale skin. Will flushes, looks away.
“We should probably try to sleep, too,” Will says after a beat.
“Yeah, for sure,” Mike nods. “But- can we talk, first?”
“What about?” Will hesitates, slowly making his way over to the bed. Mike clears his throat, eyes flitting across Will’s face, then down to the bedspread.
“Well, it’s just...” Mike huffs a breath, closes his eyes, and shakes his head a little. His shoulders slump. “I- just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”
“Been worse,” Will smiles grimly, only half-joking, but the smile falls when he sees the way Mike is frowning.
“It’s always you,” Mike says on an exhale, so quiet Will barely hears it over the soft rattle of the A/C, reaching up to rub his eyes. “Why’s it always you?”
“Hey, we’ll figure it out,” Will assures. He pulls his legs up on the bed, scoots closer so that he’s across from Mike. “We’ll get back to Hawkins and end this, for good this time, and then it’ll finally be over.”
Mike nods, but his eyes are still downcast, sad. “But what about after that?”
Will blinks. “What do you mean?”
Mike’s gaze snaps up to Will’s, a storm of emotion in the tense set of his face. Once upon a time, Will would have been able to read that emotion as easily as reading a book. Now, he’s drawing a blank, unable to place anything except a sort of intense desperation.
“What about after that?” Mike repeats. “You and El go back to living in California and I go back to Hawkins and everything goes back to how it was?”
Will must be missing something. “Well, I- yeah.”
Mike is shaking his head again. Will stares, shocked, at the glossy sheen forming over Mike’s eyes. “I don’t want it to go back to how it was. That’s not fair. I-I know you said that I’m the heart of the Party-”
Will tenses.
Mike continues, oblivious. “-but, but I’m just not, Will. Okay? I’m just,” he scoffs, “I’m just some jerk who keeps pushing his friends away. All last summer, I was awful. I tried to keep El on a leash and I was such an asshole to you. And neither of you deserved that, and I’m sorry.”
Mike raises his head, eyes bright and watery. “Will, you’re the heart of the Party, okay? Not me. You always have been. And I know I’ve been a horrible friend and I know it’s selfish of me, but you and El are two of the most important people in my life and I miss you. I miss you so much, and I keep ruining everything, and I-I couldn’t even write you letters-”
Will grabs a fistful of Mike’s shirt, yanks him into a hug. Mike’s breath hitches, and then he’s hiding his face in the space between Will’s shoulder and neck, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Will holds him tighter, presses his cheek against Mike’s hair, rocks them gently.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I forgive you. It’s okay.”
“I miss you, Will. God, I really fucking miss you-”
Will exhales a wobbly little laugh, looks up to keep his own tears from falling. “I’m- I’m right here, though.”
And Mike is shaking his head, hands curled in the material of Will’s shirt. “I keep losing you. The Upside Down. The Mind Flayer. California. And now this. You’re- I can’t lose you again.”
The tears spill over Will’s cheeks, and his voice cracks. “I’m- Mike, I’m scared too, but- but I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m right here.”
Will wakes up too warm, skin prickling uncomfortably, buried under the comforter. He throws it off of himself, grimacing, and struggles to sit up. The sun shines weakly through the window, just beginning its ascent.
A quick glance around the room shows El to still be asleep, nothing more than a lump beneath the sheets on the other bed, but-
Mike is nowhere to be seen.
Will slips out of bed stiffly. He kind of regrets wearing his khakis to bed, but they are the only pair of pants he has, and there was no way in hell he was going to sleep in the same bed as Mike Wheeler in just his underwear.
He stumbles to the bathroom, twisting the faucet and cupping his hand under the cold stream, leaning down to gulp a few mouthfuls. It tastes like pennies, like the California tap water Will hates, but it’s cold and it soothes his dry mouth, so he can’t really complain. He splashes some onto his face, cards his fingers through his sweat-damp bangs.
“...believe you! I seriously...” It’s muffled, barely discernable, but Will straightens up when he recognizes the raised voice as Jonathan’s, and then he’s jogging out of the bathroom and over to the door, where it’s louder.
“...wasn’t that big-” Will opens the door, and the sound hits him much clearer, sharper. “-of a deal! And I’m telling you now, so-”
Mike’s stubborn, snarky voice is cut off abruptly as Jonathan slams him against the side of the pizza van with a thud. Jonathan holds him by the shoulders, and Will sees the way Mike’s eyes go wide, surprised.
Will is surprised too. So surprised he’s frozen in place, staring.
“I told you,” Jonathan snaps, voice low, “if anything happened, you come get me. How could you possibly think that waiting to tell me was a good idea?”
Mike scowls, surprise vanishing in a flash. “He’s not a baby, Jonathan. What difference would it have made if I told you last night?”
Will’s mouth drops open in shock at the realization they’re talking about him.
Jonathan scoffs in disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now? You haven’t even called in months, you basically ditched him, and you think you know what’s best for him?”
“He can make his own choices! Jesus, I can’t believe my sister is dating you.” Mike shoves at Jonathan’s arms. “You’re fucking crazy. Get your hands off me!”
Mike’s face is bright red, eyes dark with anger, and Will can’t see Jonathan’s face, but he can see the tight grip he has on Mike’s shoulders, and he can see the way this is about to get seriously out of hand. He abandons his spot by the motel door to rush over, loose pebbles on the asphalt digging into the bottom of his socked feet.
“Cut it out, guys! What the hell?” Will shoves his way between them, pushes his palm against Jonathan’s chest. He’s grateful for the way Jonathan steps back without much prompting, but now he can see the storm of emotion etched into Jonathan’s face, and Will doesn’t think he’s seen him this angry since that one time Lonnie locked Will out of the house overnight because he’d missed dinner, had lost track of time playing D&D with the Party.
“Seriously, what is going on?” Will asks, lowering his hands but staying firmly rooted in place. He looks from Jonathan over to Mike, whose back is still pressed against the van.
“Your brother-” Mike starts, but Jonathan cuts him off with a scoffing laugh, throwing his hands up.
“See, this is why-”
“Knock it off,” Will snaps, “both of you.”
A tense silence falls. Will turns his back on Mike to face Jonathan. “Explain.”
Jonathan frowns, fixes Will with a pointed look. His voice is grudgingly calm. “Mike said you had an episode last night. And that he thinks it was connected to what happened in the van yesterday.”
Will nods, slowly.
“Jesus, Will.” Jonathan shakes his head, groaning in exasperation. “You have to tell me these things. How else am I supposed to know what’s going on?”
“I was going to tell you this morning, Mike just beat me to it,” Will points out. He presses his lips together. “And- and he’s right, Jon. It really wouldn’t have made any difference if we brought it up last night.”
Mike makes a small, pleased sound behind him. Will turns sharply to face him, and Mike blinks, taken aback.
“But,” Will says, jabbing a finger into Mike’s chest, “you didn’t need to be a jerk about it.”
Mike’s brows scrunch together, mouth dropping in an expression of indignation.
“Just- let’s get El and Argyle up and get back on the road. Jesus.” Will huffs, shakes his head, leaving his brother and his best friend in the parking lot to go back to the room and get his things around.
The day spent in the van is near-hellish. The drive is tense and silent and boring, almost unbearably so. The only reprieve is that, as they start getting into the lush mountains of the Rockies, the blazing sun isn’t as severe, and Will actually enjoys the winding, climbing curves of the roads, the way the peaks and valleys of the mountains rise and fall along the horizon.
But it doesn’t last any longer than a few hours, and by late afternoon, they’re passing from Colorado into Nebraska, and Will’s lower back is a ball of tight, cramping muscle from hunching over his sketchbook, and his fingers ache from gripping his pencil for so long. A page of jagged, half-shaded mountain peaks stares back at him, a few lines pressed too dark from where the van had jerked or dipped while Will was drawing.
“Alright, kiddos,” Argyle says from the driver’s seat. “We’re taking the next exit for gas. Get your shoes on.”
Even he has lost some of his usual spark. His voice still carries that California drawl, but it’s heavy, tired.
“Thank God,” Mike groans, stretching. His back pops loudly, and Will grimaces at the sound.
“We can’t stop for too long,” El says firmly, on Will’s other side. The seating arrangement is still throwing him for a loop, if he’s honest, but neither Mike nor El has brought it up, so Will tries to let it go.
“We’re actually making really good time,” he points out, flipping his sketchbook shut and leaning forward to shove it back into his bag. “We should at least see about getting some real food instead of snacks this time.”
“Oh, now that’s a good idea, baby Byers,” Argyle says. “You know what sounds absolutely shmackin’ right now?”
“Not pizza,” Will says quickly. “Anything but pizza.”
Argyle laughs, so loud and abrupt it jolts Jonathan right out of his nap.
“Nah, man,” Argyle agrees. “They don’t have any Surfer Boy’s out here, anyway, and I’m not about to eat at shitty Dominos. Nah, I was thinkin’ like, Dairy Queen, ya know? Like, a Blizzard? Sounds top notch right about now.”
El leans over to Will, face scrunched up in confusion. “What is a ‘Blizzard?’”
“It’s like a milkshake,” he explains. “Just...thicker, I guess.”
“Yeah, they have to flip them upside down before they give them to you,” Mike adds.
“So, gas and then we’ll hit up the Queen’s drive-thru?” Argyle says.
“Sounds good to me,” Will nods, bending over to tug his shoes on, and the two beside him hum in agreement.
Within fifteen minutes, they’re all piling out of the van and filtering into the gas station. Mike makes a beeline for the bathroom, Jonathan goes up to the desk to pay, and Will finds himself watching on, amused, as Argyle grabs a large styrofoam cup and proceeds to show El how to mix different drinks at the soda fountain machine.
“And that tastes good?” El says, skeptical, as Argyle squints down at the dark mixture of Dr. Pepper, Coca-Cola, Sprite, and Mountain Dew.
“Try before you deny,” Argyle says, grabbing a lid to press onto the cup and poking a straw through it. He holds it out to El, eyebrows waggling. She frowns, but takes the cup, bringing to straw to her lips hesitantly.
She sips, and her eyes slam shut, mouth flattening into a thin line. She shoves the drink back at Argyle, shaking her head.
Will laughs. “Not good?”
“No,” El says, staring at the cup in disgust, and Argyle frowns, takes a drink of his own.
“Ohh, I see,” he says, nodding, and he pops the plastic lid off the cup. “I think I put in too much of the Dew. Here.”
And then he’s dumping the drink down the drain of the dispenser like a menace, and he gestures to the soda options. “What do you think?”
And as he and El are working together to assemble their weird little concoction, Will notices that Mike and Jonathan are both unaccounted for. He spares Argyle and El one last glance, then he turns and makes his way back outside. Almost immediately, he makes out their hushed voices. Worried, he starts towards them, but just before he can round the corner of the building, where they must be, he realizes that neither of them sound hostile. He stops, listening.
“...know how Nancy and Steve were dating? You know, back when- when Will was in the Upside Down and everything.” Mike’s voice is quiet, almost a mumble.
“I mean, yeah. Why?” Jonathan sounds confused, bordering on wary.
“Well, they broke up, and you and her got together. But you liked her before that, right, when you were still just friends? Even when her and Steve were a thing?”
Shuffling. Jonathan clears his throat. “I, well, I guess so. What does this have to do with-”
“How did you know?” Mike interrupts.
Jonathan’s voice loses its hard edge, leaning into something softer. “How’d I know what?”
“That...that, you know, you- that you loved her. Like, really loved her, not- not as a friend.”
Silence. Will stares, unseeing, at the cracked asphalt at his feet, mouth suddenly dry as a California summer, heart about to beat right out of his chest.
“I don’t know,” Jonathan says awkwardly, breaking the heavy quiet. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like, I knew I wanted to protect her, and I was willing to do almost anything to keep her safe. But honestly, there was a lot going on. It just kind of happened. It’s hard for me to say when.”
A loud sigh. “But, like, when did you realize it? What was the tipping point?”
Jonathan hums, contemplative. “I’m not really sure. I mean, Murray helped us pull our heads out of our asses so we actually did something about it, but I definitely knew before that. I think- yeah, I think it was Christmas.”
“Christmas?”
“Yeah, right after we got Will back,” Jonathan says. “You guys had just wrapped up your campaign, and I was picking Will up from your place and Nancy, she gave me a present.”
“A present?” Mike whispers.
“Yeah, a new camera. And, okay, Steve might’ve been the one who paid for it, since he broke my last one, but Nancy- she’s the one who picked it out and put the effort into making sure I liked it. I think it was her way of apologizing. For everything that had happened.”
“...Oh.” Mike’s voice cracks.
The gas station door slams open with a loud bang and ring of a bell. Will whirls around, eyes wide, feeling caught.
“Yo, let’s go, bros!” Argyle shouts. “I’m ready for some chicken tenders and fries!”
Will nearly trips over himself in his rush to put himself beside El, weirdly out of breath.
“Are you okay?” El asks, frowning. She holds out the cup in her hand. “Do you want a drink? Argyle and I fixed it.”
Will struggles for a moment to unstick his throat, jumps when he sees Mike and Jonathan round the corner.
“Uhh, yeah. Sure,” he says, strangled, taking the cup and hastily bringing to straw to his lips.
It tastes awful, like blue raspberry battery acid, but Will takes several long gulps of it, keeps the cup clasped tight in his hands until he’s back in the van and El tugs it away from him.
“Mike, do you want to try?” El asks, once she’s taken another sip.
Mike jumps, looks over. “Sorry, what?”
“Here,” El says, and she holds the cup out to Mike, who leans over Will to take it, and for a second, Will can feel Mike’s breath on his face, the firm pressure of his shoulder against Will’s own.
“Thanks,” Mike mumbles, leaning back. Will tries to ignore the way his heart trips over itself when Mike pulls away from him, nearly pressing his back against the van door to put space between the two of them.
Will shakes off the feeling, looks up just in time to meet Jonathan’s gaze in the rearview. Will flushes, quickly looks away.
He needs to stop reading into things.
As soon as they pass the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign, Will is digging his walkie out of his bag, trying and failing to relax the tense set of his shoulders.
“Hello?” he says, holding the speaker up to his mouth. “Dustin, you there? It’s Will. We just passed into Hawkins, over.”
Nothing.
“Dustin?” Will tries. “Do you copy?”
“Maybe they switched channels?” Jonathan suggests, and Will shakes his head.
“No, they said channel six,” he says firmly. He clears his throat. “Dustin, this is Will. We just crossed into Hawkins, over.”
Rustling static. Then: “Little Byers? That you? It’s Robin.”
Will’s shoulders slump, relieved. “Hey, Robin. Yeah, it’s me. Where do you want us to meet you guys?”
“Umm- hang on.” She cuts out for a few moments, then returns. “Yeah, okay, so do you know how to get to the old junkyard?”
Will frowns, thinking. “Uhh, no, I don’t-”
“I do,” Mike interrupts. “It’s where we hid El after my house was compromised. But why are you guys there, Robin? What’s wrong with my house?”
“Um, yeah, so it’s a really long story and we’ll explain when you get here, but basically, try to stick to the outskirts of town and, Wheeler, you should keep your head low. Do not try to go home.”
Mike frowns, snagging the walkie right out of Will’s hands.
“Why, exactly?” he asks.
“Mike,” Nancy says, huffing an annoyed breath, “just listen. Be discreet. We’ll meet you there.”
“Nancy, what is going on?” Mike starts, but the only answer he gets is static. “Shit.”
Argyle pulls the pizza van up next to a camper, throwing the vehicle in park.
“This the place, little dude?” Argyle asks, but instead of a reply, Mike is yanking the door open and clambering out. Will is close behind him, gaze shifting around nervously. There’s scattered, abandoned cars that remind him of the desert junkyard where they’d buried Unknown Hero Agent Man.
In the center of the junkyard is an old, severely rusted bus, sheet metal and wooden boards blocking most of the windows and a wall of tires along the top, like some sort of fortress.
The bus door flies open, and Will’s eyes go wide at the sight of Dustin, Lucas and Max trailing behind him.
“Byers!” Dustin shrieks, and he nearly trips over his feet in his rush to tackle Will in a bone-crushing hug. Will stumbles back and laughs, delighted.
“You have no idea how good it is to see you, man,” Lucas says from over Dustin’s shoulder, and then he’s throwing himself into the hug too.
“I missed you guys too,” Will says through a watery chuckle.
“Max,” he hears El say, and when he looks up, he sees the two of them holding each other in a tight embrace. Off to their left, Mike and Nancy are talking in low voices, and hovering by the bus are Lucas’s little sister Erica, Robin, Steve, and someone Will doesn’t recognize. He has long, curly hair, dark eyes, a leather jacket, and he’s bouncing on his feet, though Will can’t tell whether it’s from impatience or excitement.
“Cute as this is, let’s maybe take the family reunion inside?” Steve says, and Dustin nods, releasing his grip on Will and stepping back.
“You’re right,” Dustin says. He jogs back over to the door of the bus, waves a hand wildly. “Well, come on! In, all of you.”
They pile onto the bus, some flopping into the few seats that remain, others settling on the floor. Will ends up on the floor, somehow crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with Robin on one side and El on the other.
“Dude, we have so much to tell you, shit’s been crazy here,” Dustin says.
“Absolutely bonkers,” Robin agrees.
“Yeah, um, we’ve got some stuff you’ll want to hear, too,” Jonathan says after a long beat, eyes flitting over to Will. He sits up a little straighter, smile quickly replaced by something more somber.
“Wait,” Erica suddenly pipes up. “I think we need to get introductions out of the way first. Because you four,” she waves between Will, Mike, Jonathan, and El, “I know, but who are you?”
Argyle blinks, points at himself in question.
“Yeah, you,” Erica says, and Argyle’s mouth splits into a dopey grin.
“I’m Argyle.” He slings an arm over Jonathan’s shoulders. “Johnny here’s my best friend.”
“He drove us,” Mike says briskly. “That’s his pizza van.”
“Well, technically, it’s the company’s pizza van-” Argyle is saying, but El quickly speaks over him.
“Who are you?” El asks, and Will follows her gaze to the long-haired boy he also doesn’t recognize.
“This is Eddie,” Dustin says, and the boy in question—Eddie, apparently—gives Dustin a shove.
“I can introduce myself, Henderson, thanks,” he says, and that’s when Will realizes why the name sounds so familiar.
“You’re the party leader for Hawkins High’s D&D club,” Will says, and Eddie looks at him, brows raising.
“Yeah, Hellfire Club,” Lucas confirms.
“You’ve heard of me,” Eddie says, and it’s not really a question, but Will nods anyway.
“Yeah.” He manages an awkward smile. “I’m Will.”
And Will isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it’s definitely not the way Eddie’s eyes light up, the way he springs over to shove himself between Will and Robin.
“Will the Wise? The cleric?”
Will stammers, eyes darting from Dustin to Eddie. “Uh, yeah. Well, I was. Back when I, you know, played.”
“It’s an honor,” Eddie says, sounding serious, and then he’s got an arm over Will’s shoulders, pulling him into his side. He waves his other arm in a vague gesture towards Dustin and Lucas. “These idiots never shut up about you. But this one-”
He jabs a finger in Mike’s direction. “Man, he was the worst. Especially early on.”
“Shut up, Eddie,” Mike snaps. “Don’t we have actually important stuff to discuss? Like, I don’t know, why we’re here instead of literally anywhere else?”
“We can’t be seen,” Nancy says. Will turns to her, frowning, but Jonathan beats him to the punch.
“Why not?” he asks.
“The first victim Vecna took, it was at Eddie’s trailer,” Dustin says. “So now the whole town thinks Eddie’s some sort of serial killer, and that Hellfire is a cult that’s working with him. Hence why your house isn’t safe, Mike.”
“Vecna?” Mike says, disbelieving. “Like from the campaign?”
“He’s talking about One. Henry. Whatever you want to call him,” Max says. “But yeah. Eddie’s a suspect, and now, so are all of us.”
“You’re kidding,” Jonathan says, but the solemn faces of the group prove their seriousness.
“Wait, okay, hang on. You? You’re a murder suspect?” Argyle says, and he’s staring at Erica, eyebrows high on his forehead. “How old even are you?”
“I’m eleven. And not a murder suspect, but I did slash the tire of a cop car and aid in Lucas, Dustin, and Max’s escape.” Erica smiles, like she’s proud of this.
“Woah, wait, you did what?” Steve says.
Lucas shakes his head. “We had to meet you guys at the gate, and they would have caught up otherwise.”
“Gate?” Mike says. “Sorry, what gate?”
“That’s the other thing,” Dustin nods. “Every victim Vecna’s taken, a small gate has formed where they were killed.”
“Snack-sized gates,” Robin chirps.
“Yes,” Dustin says, “and Max realized that Vecna’s clock, it always chimes-”
“Four times,” Will whispers, suddenly cold. “Four deaths. Four gates.”
Dustin blinks at him, surprised. “Um, yeah. Wait, how do you know that? El?”
“Not...not exactly,” Will hedges. He shifts, uncomfortable, as everyone turns to him. He sighs, resigned. He looks between Dustin, Lucas, and Max, the easiest of the group to explain this to. “Do you guys remember my True Sight? How I could sort of...feel when the Mind Flayer was active?”
“Yeah, but you’ve been in California,” Lucas says, confused. “There’s no way it could work that far away. That’s impossible.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘impossible,’” Will mumbles, and Dustin’s eyes go wide.
“Wait, you’re saying you’ve had your True Sight this whole time? Even when you weren’t here?”
“No,” Will says, then hesitates. “I mean, it’s been quiet, up until a few days ago. I haven’t felt it at all since yesterday, though. I was kind of expecting it when we crossed into Hawkins earlier, but- nothing.”
“A few days ago?” Nancy presses.
“Yeah, the night before Mike flew in. I had this- this nightmare. At least, I thought it was a nightmare. Now I’m not so sure.”
“You never said anything about this,” Jonathan cuts in, frowning.
“I thought it was just a nightmare,” Will repeats.
“That would’ve been the same night Chrissy died,” Eddie says quietly.
Silence falls in response to this revelation. Then there’s a flash of ginger hair, and Max is crouching in front of Will, eyes wide and worried, headphones snug over her ears.
“Will, how long have you been having nightmares? And what are they about? Personal stuff? Trauma?”
Will shakes his head, a little taken aback. “I mean, I’ve sort of always had nightmares. This one was different though.”
“Different how?” Max presses.
“For starters, I actually remember it. And I didn’t know where I was. It was definitely the Upside Down, but it didn’t look like Hawkins. There was this- this red fog, and these floating bits of rock and stuff. Oh, and there was a-”
“-grandfather clock,” he and Max say in unison, and Max’s face drains of all color.
“What? What is it?” Jonathan urges, and Max leans away from Will, lips pursed.
“It’s- I think it’s Vecna’s lair. It’s not the actual Upside Down, it’s Vecna’s version of it. I saw it too, when- when-” She sucks in a breath, makes a sharp gesture with her hand.
“Jesus,” Steve whispers.
“What- um.” Will almost doesn’t want to ask. “Eddie, you were with Chrissy when it happened?”
Eddie stiffens next to him, but he nods.
“What did it...look like?”
Eddie exhales long, slow. His voice is measured calm, but there’s an undercurrent of shakiness. “Her, um, her arms and legs snapped. And her eyes- it was like there was something in her head, pulling. It was...awful.”
Will swallows around the lump in his throat. “I think I saw her. Or- or her body, I mean. And, I’ve had a few similar nightmares since then, and- there were two others.”
“Fred,” Nancy whispers.
“Patrick,” Lucas says, a hand coming up to his mouth.
Dustin’s voice is high, breathy. “Holy shit.”
“That’s not the end of it, either,” Will says. His skin prickles uneasily. He picks at his thumbnail, struggles to meet Dustin’s eyes. “Remember those episodes I had a few years ago? Around Halloween, before I got...possessed?”
Dustin’s eyes blow wide, and there’s a loud, sudden commotion as various people try speaking over each other.
“Hold up- you were possessed?” Eddie says incredulously.
“Oh my god, this is nuts, this is absolutely crazy,” Robin rambles. “I can’t believe I got roped into all this. I just scooped ice cream. I scooped ice cream-”
“-bad, this is really bad, this is so, so bad-”
“Shut up!” Mike shouts, and the bus goes quiet again. He huffs, gestures to Will. “Keep going.”
Will nods in thanks, clears his throat. “I had another one. I got this random, killer headache in the van, and I saw a bunch of things. Images. And, that night, we stopped at a motel, and I was telling El about how I thought I saw Henry, and then Mike came out of the bathroom and he just- it wasn’t really him. He sounded all wrong, like, like Billy did when he was Flayed. And then it’s like I wasn’t even in the motel anymore. I was in the Upside Down, and Henry was there, and he- he was mad that I was there.”
“Woah, wait, he was mad? You’re sure?” Max asks, and Will nods.
“Yeah. He asked what I was doing there. Like I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be.”
“He said the same thing to me,” Max says, “when I got there. When I was under his curse, he started out by showing me all this- this super personal shit. But I ran, and I think I accidentally got into his mind, like how he was in mine. You must’ve done the same thing.”
“So, what, you think Byers is cursed too?” Steve says, hands coming up to grip his hair.
“No,” Max says. “This is something different. I’m still marked as the fourth sacrifice; I know that for sure. And you haven’t even been in Hawkins. How could he have cursed you when you haven’t been here?”
“I’m not cursed,” Will agrees, hand coming up to cup the back of his neck. “The Upside Down and everything in it is a hive mind, remember? When I was possessed by the Mind Flayer, I could see into the Upside Down. Just flashes, at first, but the- the worse it got, the more I could see.”
“A spy,” Mike mumbles.
“Exactly. A spy,” Will says. “And we used it to find Hopper, when he got lost in the tunnels, but, by that point, I was so connected to it, it- it-”
“It spied back,” Mike finishes. “It spied back, and it used Will to lure a bunch of soldiers into a trap, and everything Will knew, it knew. We had to knock him out and take him to a place he didn’t know.”
“But that’s...” Nancy shakes her head, horrified. “We burned it out of you. We got rid of it.”
Will shrugs, looks down at his lap. “Apparently not all of it.”
Silence.
Then, Robin is speaking, voice panicked and rushed. “So- so, what, this is the same thing all over again? Little Byers is slowly getting possessed as we speak?”
When no one speaks up in response to this, Will does, lifting his head.
“Maybe,” he says. “It’s hard to say. It feels different this time. It’s like my connection to Henry is- it’s stronger. Because he’s stronger. Like...” Like he’s becoming a part of me.
Will shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter either way. If I’ve been accidentally spying on Henry, that means it’s just as likely he’s been spying through me. That makes me a liability.”
“You’re saying Vecna could, theoretically, be hearing all of this?” Robin says, gaping.
“Theoretically,” Mike says, “yes.”
“You can’t be here,” Dustin realizes. “When we make our plan. You can’t be involved.”
Will smiles, a little sad. “Yeah.”
There’s a loud squeak as the bus door pushes open, and Will watches as the large group of teens—young and old—filter off the bus, all splitting off into smaller groups of conversation. Will sits back, directs his gaze towards the clouds. Somehow, they seem closer, here in Hawkins. In California, the sky is never-ending. Impossibly far away. Here, it’s like the sky is just out of reach, like he could stretch upward and brush the clouds with his fingertips.
He wishes he had his paints, or colored pencils, or oil pastels, or something. He itches to put the sight on paper, to capture it. He thinks watercolor would work best, muted and pastel and delicate.
“Are you doing alright?”
Will looks down, shielding the early evening sun from his eyes to give El a smile.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” he says, and she clambers up onto the roof of the pizza van to sit beside him. Will can’t help the way his posture slumps a little, relieved to not be treated differently by anyone. Even though they all agreed that he needed to step away so they could talk about the serious stuff, they didn’t seem happy about it, like they were upset on his behalf. It’s nice.
“I was expecting Mom to be here,” he admits into the quiet breeze. “I hope she’s okay.”
El tilts her head, thoughtful. “Would you like me to see where she is?”
Will blinks, surprised at the offer, still not used to her having her powers back. “I mean, you don’t have to. I’m just worried, that’s all.”
El nods, pulling her legs up to cross them, shifting to face Will a little better. “I will find her,” she assures, eyes closing.
Will picks at the loose thread at the hem of his shirt, trying to keep quiet. He doesn’t want to distract her.
“Oh, the camper?” Will looks over, listens in on the conversation between Steve, Eddie, and Argyle, who are the closest to the pizza van.
“Nah,” Steve is saying, “Eddie hotwired it for us. And stole it. But that part’s besides the point.”
“Hey, we both stole that thing. Don’t forget, you were our getaway driver,” Eddie points out.
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says dismissively, turning to walk away, and Will stares, shocked, as Eddie scoffs, drapes himself across Steve’s back and wraps his arms around his shoulders to keep him from leaving.
“If I’m going down for grand theft auto, you’re coming with me, big boy,” Eddie grins, spinning Steve around. Steve stumbles, nearly trips, and he slaps at Eddie’s arms in protest.
“Hey, cut it out,” he says, attempting for stern, but he’s laughing.
Will frowns, wondering.
Then a hand grabs his wrist, tight, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. “Jesus, El, what-”
And he stops, because El’s face is bone-white, frozen with horror. She stares into the distance, unseeing.
“Woah, El, hey,” Will hastens, facing her fully. “What- what’s wrong? What is it?”
He waves a hand in front of her face. She blinks, eyes darting up to meet his.
“What-”
Her grip on his wrist loosens, and then she’s scrambling to slide off the roof of the van.
“Woah, El!” Will yelps, nearly face-planting into the ground in his haste to follow. “Slow down!”
But she doesn’t slow down; rather, she takes off in a dead sprint towards the woods, where the train tracks run along the ground, and Will doesn’t think twice before rushing after her.
“El, Will, where’re you going?” Jonathan calls, but Will doesn’t answer, doesn’t have time to explain if he wants to keep up with his sister.
“El!” he shouts. “El, come on!”
But she runs. So Will follows.
He follows her through the woods, cutting through Merril’s farm, behind Hawkins Middle, through a small playground, then back into a different section of woods, and Will is heaving, barely keeping up.
“El,” he wheezes, his run now more of a plodding jog. “Slow...down.”
And this time, she does. She comes to a full stop, in fact, so abrupt that Will nearly bowls her over with his momentum.
He bends over, hands on his knees, gasping.
“What’s...” He doesn’t finish, because when he straightens up, he realizes. Hopper’s cabin, battered, holes still punched through the walls. And in front of it, two parked, shiny black cars.
Will gulps, nervous, mouth dry. His heart is still racing, and his legs feel like jelly, but he’s struck with a burst of adrenaline, fear-fueled energy.
“What are we doing here?” he hisses. El’s still staring at the cabin. The only sign of her own struggle with the impromptu three-mile run is the way her shoulders rise and fall with her heavy breaths.
She continues forward in a slow walk. Will sticks by her side.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he whispers.
She doesn’t answer.
Will, becoming increasingly frustrated, waves to the cars parked nearby. “Who’s here, El?”
She shakes her head a little, which isn’t much of an answer, and Will huffs in annoyance, but follows her up the creaky porch steps. He stands by her side when she brings a fist up, knocks on the door in a pattern Will recognizes.
It’s Morse code.
Us.
Will frowns, opens his mouth to ask, but he doesn’t get the chance as the door is yanked open, so rough and sudden that he nearly flinches back in surprise.
At first, Will doesn’t recognize the man standing in the doorway. He’s thinner than when Will last saw him, and his head is shaved clear down to the scalp, shorter than even El’s, and he’s got scars peeking out of the neckline of his shirt, and his eyes are so haunted-
“Hey, kiddo,” Hopper says on an exhale. His lips twitch into a smile. “It’s good to see you.”
El chokes on a laughing sob and launches herself into Hopper’s arms.
“So, let me get this straight,” Jonathan says. He’s pacing, running his fingers through his frazzled hair. “You got a package from Russia and instead of telling us about it, you told Murray, and you two went to Alaska to trade to get Hopper back, got drugged and kidnapped, survived a plane crash, and somehow managed to not only break into a Russian prison, but break back out with Hopper?”
“Don’t forget about the part with the Demogorgon,” Hopper calls from the kitchen. “That’s a very important detail.”
“Yes,” Mom says, directing a dirty look towards the kitchen. “Yes, Jonathan, that’s pretty much what happened.”
“Jesus, is it just me, or are all the Byers, like, existing on a whole different plane of existence?” Steve murmurs. Will frowns, sees several nods from around the room.
“Definitely,” Nancy says.
“It’s not even a contest,” Mike agrees, and the two share a look that Will can’t decipher.
“Okay, listen, Jonathan, this isn’t the most important thing right now,” Mom says, gathering the attention of most of the scattered group. She gestures vaguely. “One of you, I don’t care who it is, just explain to me what the hell is going on.”
“Yeah,” Hopper grunts, ambling in from the kitchen to take the open cushion next to Mom on the overturned sofa. El scoots in beside him, leaning her head against his shoulder. “And don’t leave anything out.”
“Well, maybe leave some stuff out,” Erica says, directing a very pointed look towards Will. His mother’s gaze snaps over to him, and Will shifts, uncomfortable.
“What do you mean?” Mom asks Erica, still looking at Will.
“We’ll get to that,” Dustin says. “First, we should start with the killings. Eddie?”
“Hm?” Eddie looks up from the ground, twirling a ring around his finger, blinking in surprise. “Oh, my turn to talk?”
“Yes,” Dustin sighs. “Explain the Chrissy thing.”
Will sits back, half-zoning out of the conversation. The cabin has always been pretty small, but with it being as destroyed as it is, the large group is crammed in a tight circle around what used to be the living room. Will is pressed between Max and Mike, and this close, he can hear the faint strains of Kate Bush through Max’s headphones.
“...went to talk to Victor Creel,” Nancy is saying when Will feels Mike tense beside him. Will looks up at him, and Mike is frowning, his gaze flitting around the cabin, like he’s looking for something.
“You okay?” Will whispers under his breath, careful not to interrupt Nancy.
“Yeah,” Mike replies, just as quiet. He turns his head to peer into the kitchen, shakes his head a little, frown deepening.
“Mike?”
“Yeah, no, I just- I swear I heard...” He trails off.
Will’s gaze wanders back over to Nancy.
“...Robin and I figured out that music was...”
Will freezes, breath catching as his stomach drops, skin prickling with cold numbness, like he’s just been plunged into icy water. It’s a feeling he knows.
He’s here.
Will looks over just in time to see Mike’s eyes go glassy, distant, then roll up into the back of his head, eyelids fluttering—and Will is struck by a fear so intense his ears ring, and for a horrific moment, he can’t speak, can’t move.
Then everything comes crashing down.
“Mike, Mike!” he screams, and all awareness, all rational thought goes right out the window, replaced by sheer, raw panic. He grabs Mike by the shoulders, shakes him roughly.
No. No no no.
“Give him back, Henry!” Will sobs, suddenly so angry that he sees red through the blur of tears. So angry he doesn’t even notice the way the lamp in the corner starts flickering wildly. “Let him go!”
There’s an abrupt, jerking sensation in his chest, and then a nauseating weightlessness, like he’s falling. He blinks, and just as quickly, the feeling is gone, but he’s no longer in Hopper’s cabin, and Mike is no longer in front of him. He stands in an echoing, black void. Alone. The ground ripples below his feet like water.
His head whips around, frantic. “Mike? Anyone? Mike!”
He turns, and there, he sees Mike, several yards of distance away. He’s shaking his head, eyes wide.
“No, it’s- it’s not like that,” he says, and Will moves closer, frowning. Who is Mike talking to?
And, as if just the thought is enough, a room starts to materialize around them. A familiar room.
They’re at Rink-O-Mania. Will is standing on the rink, but he’s stuck in place, staring, because the rink is empty. The entire building is empty, in fact, except Mike, Will, and-
“Two letters. I’ve been gone six months, Mike, and you could only be bothered to send two letters?”
Will watches, stunned, as a mirrored version of himself scoffs, glares at Mike.
“Will, come on,” Mike says, stepping forward, and the other Will shoves him so hard he nearly trips.
“No, Mike,” the other Will snaps, harsh. “You know what? Screw you. I’m done.”
Mike looks at him, face falling. He whispers, “What?”
And the other Will seems to explode with sudden anger, arms flying out. “I’m done, Mike! Done! You’ve been a fucking horrible friend and I’m sick of being the only one who puts in any effort. What, you thought if you just pushed me away and only talked to El, you could trick yourself into actually loving her? Well, news flash, Michael, it doesn’t work like that!”
I would never say that. Will steps forward once, twice. The realization comes slowly, like trying to catch smoke in his hands. That’s not me. That’s not me.
And then he’s running, footsteps echoing against the polished floor of the rink.
“Mike!” he shouts, but Mike doesn’t seem to hear him. He stares at the other Will, expression open and vulnerable and hurt.
Will vaults over the side of the rink without a thought, scrambles to shove himself between Mike and this strange, distorted version of himself. He grabs Mike’s shoulders, shakes him.
Come on. Look at me. See me.
And Mike does. He blinks down at him, the pain on his face giving way to confusion. “Wha- Will? But you- how are you-”
“You continue to impress me, Will Byers.”
Will jerks around. He throws an arm back, shoves his palm against Mike’s chest, and Mike stumbles back, grabbing Will’s wrist.
“Henry,” he says slowly, and he watches, horrified, as the other Will grins and the flesh starts to melt off his face, shifting, and then it’s Henry standing before them, skin held together by slithering vines, clawed hands hanging by his sides.
“I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk,” Henry says, his voice that dark, Flayed rasp.
“Not interested,” Will says, and it comes out shaky, but he makes up for it by the glare he levels at Henry, taking another step back, pushing Mike with him.
Henry takes a step forward, matching them. He tilts his head to the side. “You don’t even want to hear what I have to say?”
“No,” Will snaps, “I don’t. Get out of Mike’s head. You don’t even want him, remember? You want Max.”
“That is true, I would prefer Maxine as my fourth,” Henry agrees. “But you’re the one I really need. You’re the final piece, William. You’re special. Like I was. All that untapped potential.”
Will steps back, shaking, and Henry follows.
“I knew there would only be one way to unlock it. And between your mother, your brother, and your...best friend, well-” He smiles, a twisted thing. “Michael was the easiest pick.”
“Let him go,” Will says, breath hitching.
Mike grabs his shoulder. “Will-”
“Let him go!” Will roars, and in a blur of motion, Henry flies backwards, and the roller rink crumbles around them, shattering into fractured pieces—and Will screams, keels over, grabs his head as it splits open with agonizing, splintering pain.
And then he’s falling again, weightless, air rushing around him. Untethered, unfeeling.
He slams back into awareness with an abruptness that has him gasping, disoriented. His mind spins, struggles to catch up with everything around him—the lightbulbs exploding in a shower of glass and bright light-
-the blur of overlapping, panicked shouts-
-the trickle of blood from his nose, warm and wet as it spills over his lips-
-the steady, angry throb of his head-
-in front of him, Mike Wheeler.
Will’s hands are still on Mike’s shoulders, but Mike’s eyes are no longer vacant. They’re big and brown and locked on Will’s face, and his mouth is moving, like he’s talking, but for the life of him, Will can’t tell what he’s saying.
But it doesn’t matter, because Mike’s here, and he’s okay.
Will’s vision grows dark at the corners, creeping in, and his knees buckle without warning, and Mike barely catches him before he hits the ground, and Mike is talking to him, yelling, but it doesn’t matter because Mike is okay-
Consciousness is a slippery thing, and in the comfort of the knowledge of Mike’s safety, Will surrenders to the pull of darkness.
They don’t talk about it. A day passes, and they don’t talk about it.
They don’t talk about the way Will came to on the floor of the cabin with Mike holding him, shaking him, screaming like Will had just died instead of blacked out.
They don’t talk about the roller rink, or what Will saw while Mike was under Vecna’s curse.
They definitely don’t talk about the shattered lightbulbs, the bloody nose, the way Will went into Mike’s mind and somehow, impossibly, managed to push Henry out.
They don’t talk about it. Will and Mike, that is.
“He tried to get me on his side, too. A long time ago,” El tells him.
“Really?”
“Yes,” she says. “He...he tricked me. I thought he was good. But then- then he killed them.”
Will bites his lip, looks up at her. “Killed who?”
She gives him a sad, haunted smile. “Everyone.”
Oh. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay,” she says. She leans over, rests her hand over his. “I just wanted you to know, you’re not alone, Will. We will kill him. For good, this time.”
“Right,” Will nods. A loud bang sounds from elsewhere in the cabin, and Will jumps, glances towards the door. He’s on edge. They all are.
There has been exactly zero activity from Henry and the Upside Down since the whole Mike incident yesterday, and the adults are acting like that’s a good thing, making sure Will is far out of earshot and has a babysitter so they can discuss plans.
Will tries not to be bothered by it, especially by the fact that he’s now on 24/7 watch. If it were someone else, he’d want to do the same. It’s a safety precaution, he knows. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting, being closed off in El’s old bedroom like a disobedient child while everyone else talks battle tactics.
It’s a relief, at least, knowing that he’s not possessed like last time. He’s just, you know, being forcibly recruited by the mastermind of the Upside Down.
“Right,” Will repeats, quieter this time. “And Henry wants me because I have...powers. Like you. And- and like him.”
Maybe it’s not much of a relief.
“This is good,” El insists. “It means you are not part of the hive mind. It means when we kill Henry and close the gates, you will not die, too.”
A silver lining, at least.
“Do you...” Will sighs, looks down at his hands. “Do you ever wish you were just- normal?”
El is quiet for a long, long moment, but she scoots closer, leans against him.
“Sometimes,” she finally admits. “But being normal would be pretty boring, don’t you think?”
Will huffs a choked laugh, blinking back tears. “You know, Jonathan told me something like that once. And- and maybe you’re both right. Doesn’t make it any less hard though.”
“I guess we’ll both just have to be not-normal together, then,” El says firmly. She hums, considering. “We’ll be a whole, not-normal family. You and me and Jonathan, and Joyce and Hop.”
Will’s lips twitch in a smile, and he swipes at his eyes, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice.”
“So I was thinking, maybe after all of this, we can go see a movie at the Hawk? Maybe Saturday? ‘We’ being the Party, of course. Us four, Max, and El,” Dustin is saying.
“They opened back up, then?” Will asks.
“Yeah,” Lucas says, “it took a few months but most of the places downtown have reopened by now, you know, with the mall and everything...”
He trails off, subdued, but Dustin quickly picks the conversation up, steers it back into something cheerful.
“What do you guys think? Sound like a plan?” He waggles his eyebrows, grins goofily.
“What’s even playing right now?” Mike asks, present in the exchange despite the headphones he wears, the barely audible sound of “Smalltown Boy” by Bronski Beat leaking through them. It had been Nancy and Max’s idea. A precaution.
Dustin shrugs. “No clue.”
Will smiles, but a pang of sadness strikes him between the ribs. Back before...everything, movies were something the Party took seriously. They always kept a close eye on new releases, on what was in theaters, Mike and Dustin especially. On nights when they weren’t planning or playing a campaign, the four of them were often at the Hawk, arguing in hushed whispers and spilling popcorn all over the floor.
“We should,” Will says, firm. “We should go. That sounds like fun.”
“Okay, but I am not sitting next to Mike,” Lucas says, but his joking tone betrays him, and his eyes are bright, crinkling at the corners. “He talks the whole time.”
Mike’s mouth drops open, face scrunching in offense. “I do not!”
“You do,” Dustin says, laughing. He puts on a mocking impression of Mike’s voice. “You’re all, ‘that camera angle makes no sense from a third person point of view,’ and, ‘I can’t believe how predictable that ending was.’”
“Oh my God,” Lucas groans, “and he always guesses the plot twist in, like, the first five minutes.”
“That’s because they’re predictable, Lucas!” Mike argues. Then, defensively: “It’s not my fault most movies follow, like, the most simple A to B plot imaginable! You’d think they’d show a little more creativity.”
“They are pretty predictable,” Will agrees, shrugging.
Dustin laughs, shakes his head. “Okay then, Mr. Writer and Mr. Artist, maybe someday the two of you can work together on a comic that gets a movie adaptation, and then you can show ‘em all how it’s done, eh?”
“You know what, maybe we will,” Mike grumbles, properly sulking now, and Will’s cheeks go warm, but he laughs anyway.
“Hey, dorks.”
They all turn in tandem, meet Max’s eyes where she’s leaning into the doorway. She smiles, tight-lipped, fiddling with the Walkman on her belt.
“Time to go.”
The mood plunges into something somber.
“Just, give us a minute?” Lucas says, and Max nods, dipping back out of sight.
The four of them turn back to face each other. For a long moment, no one speaks.
“Hey,” Dustin finally says, and it’s got a forced lightness to it. “You guys be safe, okay? We’ve got that movie on Saturday.”
“Yeah,” Mike nods. “You too.”
And then Dustin is stepping forward, dragging all of them into an awkward hug. Will wraps his arms around whoever is closest, but he’s quickly shoved to the middle, like how he always used to be, when he was still the smallest Party member, and his chest goes tight with the nostalgia.
“Let’s kick this bastard to hell and back,” Lucas says, and Will nods, emphatic.
“We’ve got this.”
They separate, watery smiles exchanged, and then Lucas and Dustin head for the door.
“Okay,” Mike exhales. He turns, steps over to grab the long cloth hanging on the TV. “Let’s do this.”
Will swallows, nods, then turns around. He takes in the sight of the battered cabin one last time before he closes his eyes.
Mike comes up behind him, and Will feels the soft pressure of the cloth over his eyes. It shifts a bit as Mike ties a knot at the back of his head.
“Is that too tight?” Mike asks, words low and soft.
Will considers, opens his eyes to warm darkness. Not even a sliver of light. “No, that’s perfect.”
“Good. Hang on a sec,” Mike says, and there’s shuffling, then the familiar weight of a Walkman being pressed into his hands, headphones fitting snug over his ears.
“You ready?” Mike asks, quiet, muffled through the barrier of the headphones.
“Yeah,” Will says through an exhale, and Mike’s hands adjust his grip on the Walkman, position his thumb over the play button.
Will takes a deep breath and presses it, and the familiar opening strum of “Should I Stay or Should I Go” fills his head. It’s loud enough that he can’t hear anything else, but then, that’s the whole point.
Mike’s hand finds his shoulder. He guides Will carefully out of the derelict cabin and down the old porch steps, into the woods. Will’s foot catches on something—a tree root, or a stick, maybe—but he’s caught before he can even stumble, and then Mike is pushing down, gentle but firm, and Will slides into the seat of a car without issue. He fumbles for a moment for his seatbelt, clicking it in place.
If he strains, he can make out the indistinct buzz of nearby conversation, so he turns up the volume on the Walkman.
A weight dips down the seat beside him. Will turns towards it out of habit, despite not being able to see, but then there’s a knee pressing against Will’s, a firm, silent support, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that it’s Mike.
Will doesn’t say anything, knows he wouldn’t be able to hear a response, but he doesn’t need words. He pushes his knee back against Mike’s. A reassurance.
Crazy together.
The vibration of a car door slamming. Then another.
The shudder of the engine turning over, starting, then the rumble of the car in motion.
This is the extent of Will’s knowledge. The plan to kill Henry is now officially in action, but he only knows that he’s being taken to an undisclosed location, far from the active members of the group. The déjà vu makes his head swim. At least this time he’s allowed to be conscious, if nothing else.
The song ends. Will rewinds the tape, starts it from the beginning. Guitar fading into percussive, resonant vocals.
“Darlin’ you got to let me know,” Mick Jones declares. “Should I stay or should I go?”
Will leans into the music, into the song that has saved him time and time again. For years he’s torn himself to shreds over it, over the question he could never answer.
And now, he thinks he’s finally made up his mind.
“So, you got to let me know- should I stay or should I go?”
Will’s headphones are the first thing to come off. The Walkman is gently pulled from his hands, and he frowns.
“What are you doing?” he says. He shifts, crossing his legs where he sits on the ground. It’s spongey, soft, and there’s a gentle breeze on his face—they’re outside. “I thought-”
“How do you feel?” Jonathan interrupts, abrupt, but not unkind.
Will thinks about it, really thinks. “Fine. A little tired, but that’s not really new.”
“Not too hot? Or too cold? Anything like last time?” Jonathan presses, and Will shakes his head.
“No, nothing,” he says, and it’s true, and that almost scares him more than if he could feel Henry. It’s like the connection has been severed. It’s new. Unsettling. “He’s not...dead, I know that, but he’s also not- here. He’s somewhere else.”
Will blinks, squinting at the sudden burst of light as the blindfold comes off next, without warning. It slips down around his neck, hangs looped like a scarf.
They are outside. In the woods. But Will has lived in Hawkins for pretty much his entire life, and he knows most of the woods like the back of his hand. This place, though, is unfamiliar. He’s grateful for it.
“Hey.”
Will redirects his gaze, focuses on Jonathan. On their mother, hanging over Jonathan’s shoulder. On Mike, lingering off to the side.
Déjà vu—again—strikes him between the ribs, hard, makes him almost breathless.
“What’s your name?” Jonathan says, and Will can’t help the way his lips twitch into a smile.
“Will. William Byers,” he says, and there’s an undercurrent of humor to it, a laugh buried in his words.
Mom steps forward and opens her mouth, but Will cuts her off before she can speak.
“My birthday is March 22nd,” he says warmly, and points to each of them in turn. “You’re Jonathan, my brother. You’re Mom. And you’re Mike. My best friend.”
Mom exhales sharp, tears welling up in her eyes, and she rushes forward, drops to her knees to wraps him in a tight hug.
“I’m still me, Mom,” he says, assuring, hugging her just as tight. “I’m okay.”
“I’m glad, baby.” Her voice is choked, relieved. “I’m so glad.”
“I missed you, while you were gone,” he whispers, and she pulls back, a wobbly smile on her lips.
“I missed you, too.” She looks up at Jonathan, grabs his hand. “Both of you.”
Jonathan smiles, crouches to join their little bubble. “No more ‘business trips’ to Alaska, okay?”
And Mom laughs at that, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’ll set foot in Alaska ever again, if I can help it.”
Mike flops down beside him, but Will hardly spares him a glance, too busy watching, frowning, as Jonathan and Mom stand several feet away, a walkie held between them, speaking in hushed whispers.
It’s been half an hour. The sun has started going down, the forest steadily darkening around them. As far as Will knows, they haven’t gotten any updates from the others yet. He desperately hopes they’re not so far away it’s a connection issue. He knows from experience how spotty the reach on the walkies can be at times.
“Hey,” Mike says, and he nudges Will’s shoe with his own. Will tears his gaze away from his brother and mom, looks over to Mike. He’s got this half-smile playing on his lips, soft and reassuring.
“Hey,” Will says, quiet.
Mike scratches the back of his head. “You still feeling okay? Normal?”
Will holds back a snort of laughter, thinks of his and El’s conversation a few days ago. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Good,” Mike nods, “that’s good.”
Will studies him. The way he lowers his gaze to his hands, picks at a loosening thread in the frayed knee of his jeans.
“What’s wrong?” Will asks, frowning.
“What?” Mike looks up sharply, expression startled. His fingers pause where they’re tugging that thread. “Nothing.”
Will’s frown deepens. “Mike, if it’s important, you should tell me. Remember, in California, you said we should be a team.”
And Mike’s face scrunches, lips pursing like he’s eaten something sour, but then it’s gone, expression smoothing back into something relatively blank.
“Right,” Mike says, “yeah. This isn’t related to the Vecna thing, though. I’m just...confused, I guess.”
“About what?”
Mike’s gaze flits over him once, then twice, and he shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
Will sighs, loudly. “Mike-”
“Okay, not ‘nothing,’” he amends, “but we can talk about it later. It can wait ‘til all this shit is dealt with.”
Will thinks about arguing, but Mike’s face has that firm, stubborn expression, the one Will, despite almost ten years of knowing him, has only been able to break a handful of times.
He decides to leave it.
“Okay, but we are talking about it,” he states, tone brooking no room for argument.
“Promise,” Mike nods, bringing his hand up and holding out his pinky finger. Will scoffs a laugh, but he links his pinky with Mike’s.
“Promise,” Will agrees, and Mike’s face splits into a grin.
They’re just pulling their hands apart when the walkie crackles loudly, and Lucas’s voice comes through, rushed and a little unnerved.
“This is Lucas, checking in for Creel House Crew. We had some trouble come up- uh, but everything’s fine! The plan worked, Max is okay, and Eleven says the Vanguard is on their way back to meet up with the Trailer Troop at the gate. Over.”
Jonathan glances over at Will and Mike, who stare back, eyes wide.
“What ‘trouble’?” Jonathan asks. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.” Lucas’s voice wavers. “Just- some asshole from the basketball team showed up. Almost stepped on Max’s Walkman. But Dustin picked it up before he could, and I-I kept him distracted long enough for El to get Max out of there.”
Faintly in the background, Will can hear Dustin say, “So take that, you piece of shit!”
“And El?” Jonathan presses.
Shifting, shuffling static.
“I’m alright,” comes El’s voice. She sounds tired, exhausted even, but proud. “Max’s distraction worked. Hop and the others got him while he was after her.”
“So he’s dead?” Mike asks, eyes meeting Will’s, hopeful. “It’s...all over?”
Will feels a tug of belief, of warm assurance—but it curdles like something spoiled.
Something’s not right.
He’s still looking at Mike when that familiar, hollow cold washes over him. Goosebumps pebble his skin, and it’s like his lungs have dropped out of him, like he can’t breathe.
He’s still looking at Mike when Mike goes white, the tentative smile quickly replaced by open-mouthed horror. His lips form a single word. No.
He’s still looking at Mike when his vision goes dark, and he starts falling.
Mike Wheeler knows fear. He has known it since he was three years old, scared of the dark and the monsters hiding in his closet. He knew it at five, when he saw the other kids on the playground running around together, laughing, but he was alone. He knew it at nine, when Will showed up on the Wheeler’s doorstep at 7pm on a Tuesday, a school night, shaking and silent, tear tracks cutting through the palm-shaped redness on one cheek, his lip split and bloody.
Mike knew fear at twelve, when Will didn’t show up to school, and he and Dustin and Lucas were pulled out of class to talk to the police. He knew fear a lot at twelve. Seeing them pull Will’s body (fake, fake, fake) from the murky waters of the quarry. Troy holding a knife to Dustin’s face. Jumping off the quarry. Running from the government. Watching a girl he’d only just met give her life to protect him and his friends from the Demogorgon.
He knew fear at thirteen, when his best friend disappeared on Halloween night, only to be found in an alleyway, eyes wide and stricken and so incredibly scared. He knew fear when his best friend slowly forgot everyone, became host to a monster that was almost unfathomable. He knew fear when his best friend looked at him, and there was no recognition in his eyes.
He knew fear at fourteen, when the monsters they killed didn’t stay dead. He knew fear when his thoughts began to whisper, to turn on him—thinking bad things, wrong things. He knew fear when his best friend accused him of “ruining the Party” because of El. He knew fear because nobody could know. Not even Will.
He knew fear when he told his best friend, “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls,” and he’d seen the look on his face. He knew fear when El kissed him the day before she and the Byers left, and he’d realized he couldn’t get rid of them, the thoughts, couldn’t make them go away.
He knows fear at fifteen, too. He knew it a week ago, when he’d walked through the airport terminal and saw El, but all he could think was Will, Will, Will. He knew fear when Will tried to hug him, then. He knew fear at the roller rink, when Will said, “What about us?” He knew fear when he saw Angela’s face and the skate in El’s hand. He knew fear when Will keeled over in the pizza van, holding his head, breath hitching in pained gasps. He knew fear in the motel room, when Will stared at him, unknowing, scared, backed up against the door. He knew fear when he’d been at the cabin, then at the roller rink again, but it was empty except for him and Will, and Will was mad, Will was hurt, Will was done with him.
Mike Wheeler knows fear.
But this? This is a fear unlike anything he’s ever experienced. It consumes him slowly, burns him cold and bright from the inside out, festers like something infected and rotting. It settles over him with a thick oppressiveness, like death itself. Everything around him becomes nonexistent.
In that moment, he can fathom nothing but the boy in front of him as his face goes blank, empty, and his eyes roll up into his head, whites flashing.
His best friend of ten years. The boy who always put others first. The boy who made him a painting and lied about it because he thought it would make Mike happier. The boy who thinks he’s the Heart. The boy he’ll go crazy together with. The boy he keeps losing. Will. His will.
He can’t lose him again.
Reality crashes back into him with his pulse roaring in his ears and panic turning his brain to a fuzzy, static mess. He might be yelling, he thinks, but he’s not sure. He’s definitely grabbing Will’s arms, grabbing tight—too tight—but it doesn’t matter because Will isn’t responding, isn’t reacting to anything at all, and somehow, impossibly, the fear kicks up a notch, and everything is suddenly too bright, too vivid, too real.
“Will!” he’s screaming, and he can hear himself now. His voice is high, a barely recognizable thing, vocal cords protesting the onslaught. “WILL!”
A sharp elbow to the bicep. He hardly notices. But then he’s being grabbed, pulled away, and he thrashes, shaking his head wildly because Will is in danger, Will is in danger, don’t you see he’s going to die-
“Calm down!” Jonathan yells, and Mike’s chest heaves too-fast, gasping breaths, and Joyce is rushing forward, scooping up the headphones and the Walkman Mike had been using, had lost somewhere amid his panic.
“Help him, help him!” he sobs, and he’s crying now—fat, stinging tears that burn the corners of his eyes, stream down his cheeks. Will’s sitting there, still, frozen completely except for his eyes, which move beneath his eyelids frantically, like that time behind the school when they’d all been looking for Dart and Will went missing and they found him but he wasn’t moving, and they thought he was having an episode, but it was like this, it was just like this, and-
“Is it working? Nancy and Robin said it should work. It should work,” Jonathan says, and Mike wants to hit him, wants to break free from Jonathan’s vice-like grip and turn around and punch him, scream at him, because Jonathan’s voice shakes, but he sounds mostly calm, and how can he possibly be calm?
“I-I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t- Will, please, baby, can you hear me? Wake up, Will, I need you to wake up.” Joyce cradles Will’s face, grabs his shoulders, drags her fingers through his hair. She, at least, is panicking appropriately.
But Will isn’t responding, still, and Mike doesn’t know what to do. He’s helpless and he’s angry, and he’s never been so scared in his life-
And then Will starts floating, and Mike Wheeler thinks, this time, the fear might just tear him into pieces.
Will is in his bedroom. Except—no. Not his bedroom. Not anymore. It hasn’t been since they moved from their old home in Hawkins. And it looks different from the last time he’d been here. Instead of band and movie posters, there are a few scattered drawings, but the walls are mostly bare.
He frowns, steps towards the nearest drawing. It’s his D&D character, Will the Wise, and Mike’s Paladin. But it’s...bad. Like it was drawn by a kid. His signature is a fumbled mess of green crayon in the bottom corner of the page.
A door slams hard enough to shake the walls, and Will flinches, jerks back on instinct.
“You can’t keep coddling him like this, Joyce! He needs to learn.”
Will’s blood turns icy in his veins. He hasn’t heard that voice in years.
“He didn’t do anything wrong, Lonnie!” Mom shouts back, and Will stumbles back, staring at the door in mingled shock and horror.
“Bullshit!” Lonnie snarls. “He skips baseball practice to go play at the arcade? He’s been treading thin fucking ice, but I will not tolerate a son so blatantly disrespectful. It’s bad enough that he’s a fag-”
“Don’t you dare call him that!” Mom snaps, and Will remembers this argument. Remembers it because Jonathan had been out of the house, at the library, and-
“Get out of the way.” Lonnie’s voice is low, dangerous. A warning.
Silence. Will’s heart pounds, fast and hard, against his ribs.
“I’m serious, Joyce. Move.”
“No.”
Silence, again. Silence that is quickly broken by a deafening crash, the sound of shattering glass, then heavy footsteps, quickly approaching. Will’s bedroom door flies open, so hard the knob leaves a dent in the wall, and Will can’t move, freezing just like he had when this happened, when he was nine and weak and small, and Lonnie was the scariest monster he’d ever encountered, even worse than the bullies at school.
Lonnie storms over, grabs Will by the arm, rears back to hit, and Will ducks down, squeezes his eyes shut, because he remembers this. Remembers the sting of the slap, the bloody lip, sprinting out the front door and running all the way across town to Mike’s because he’d been so scared, and he hadn’t known where else to go.
But the strike doesn’t come. Will slowly opens his eyes, then gasps, staring in open-mouthed shock at his surroundings. He’s not at home anymore. He’s at the police station, and he’s looking at Hop, in his chief uniform, and his mother, leaning into Hopper’s space, a cigarette between her shaking fingers.
This, Will doesn’t remember. He looks between the two of them, but it quickly becomes evident they can’t see him. Like he’s not there. A ghost.
“Look, he’s...he’s a sensitive kid,” Mom says. Her voice lowers. “Lonnie...Lonnie used to say he was queer, called him a fag.”
“Is he?” Hopper says, his voice its usual gruffness, but he leans forward, eyes narrowing a bit, and Will’s heart trips over itself.
And then Will blinks, and he’s somewhere else. It takes him a moment to identify it in the darkness, distracted by the static of the downpour outside, but Mike is in front of him, frowning, and Will realizes he’s in the Wheeler’s garage.
“El’s not stupid!” Mike snaps, and Will remembers, stomach flipping. “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!”
It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.
“Stop,” Will says, and it comes out a choked whisper. “Stop.”
“What’s wrong, Will?” Mike says, stepping closer. His voice lowers, dark and not-his. Flayed. “Can’t handle the truth?”
“What do you want?” Will shouts, voice breaking. And then, once again, he’s somewhere new. Only, it’s not new. He’s been here. In his dreams. In his vision at the motel.
The fog swirls around him, thick and red. Debris drifts by overhead. In front of him, Henry stands, body a horrific amalgamation of vines and burned flesh. He looks worse than Will’s seen before, hunched a little, skin blackened and scorched, one clawed hand missing completely.
And he looks- not angry, exactly, but...annoyed. Annoyed, but smug. Like he’s won.
“We are more similar than you realize, Will. Both of us were...sensitive children. We were different. Seen as freaks. But we are special. You are special.”
Will takes a shallow breath, tries to swallow his nerves. He speaks flatly. “And?”
Henry blinks, seemingly surprised by Will’s coldness. “I chose you that day, you know.”
And Will sees himself, small and alone, riding his bike through the dark. He sees the silhouette of something tall and dark. He sees himself crashing his bike. Running home. But the creature unlocks the door. It follows him into the shed. It gets him.
“It was you,” Will whispers, a hand coming up to the back of his neck. The monster that took him. The possession. The visions. “It’s always been you.”
“You’re important, William Byers. More important than your friends and family would ever know. They’ve hurt you. All they’ve ever done is hurt you. You are worth nothing to them.”
Flashes of memories. Lonnie leaving. Being alone in the Upside Down, hiding in Castle Byers. Lucas and Mike refusing to play D&D last summer, leaving him to trail behind. The way they made fun of his campaign. Day after day passing in Lenora, waiting for a call or letter from Mike that would never come.
Mike’s words at the roller rink echo in his ears. But you knew she was having trouble for like a year and you didn’t tell me.
I didn’t know she was lying to you!
Which is why you decided to be a douche to her all day?
I wasn’t being a douche!
You were! You were! You were rolling your eyes, you were- you were moping, you were barely talking- you basically sabotaged the whole day.
Henry continues, pressing, vehement. “Don’t you want to show them how foolish they were? Don’t you want to hurt them, like they hurt you?”
Will sighs. He feels very, very tired. “What do you want, Henry?”
“I want you to join me. Together, we can fix the flaws of the world and turn it into something better.”
Will closes his eyes for a moment. He’s Henry’s last shot, he knows. He’s injured, weak from Hopper and El and the others’ combined attack. He wants Will to become his foot soldier. His host. His link between worlds.
Will is his last chance. His only chance.
Will takes a deep breath. Opens his eyes.
“No.”
Henry tilts his head, just slightly. “No?”
“No,” Will repeats. “I won’t help you. You’re right about one thing. I am a freak. But it doesn’t matter how much my friends and family ignore me, how much they hurt me. Because I love them.”
Something about Henry changes then. His relative calm is replaced by a cold, thunderous rage, and Will clenches his trembling hands into fists at his sides.
“Your selflessness is not noble. It is a weakness. One I can’t fix.” Henry steps forward, and Will tries to take a matching step backwards, but he’s quickly stopped by vines that catch him by the ankles, hold him in place. Fear pools, acidic and boiling, in his stomach.
Henry takes another step, leans his face down to meet Will’s eyes straight-on.
“You think you are brave?” Henry hisses. “I’m in your mind, Will. I can see everything. You have no self-preservation. You care for others far too much. So you are going to watch.”
Before Will can even blink, Henry steps back and raises his arm, and then Will is raising up off the ground, floating, arms out by his sides, and he can’t move. His throat is tight, breaths shallow, panicked.
And then there’s a flash, and the red haze breaks apart some distance away, a frayed portal revealing trees, leaves tinted orange in the setting sun, and in the center of the image, he sees himself, suspended in the air, motionless, yards above the forest floor. Below, Mom is reaching for him, face a mess of frenzied tears, and Jonathan has his arms wrapped around Mike’s chest, too-wide eyes stuck on Will’s levitating body. And Mike—Mike looks shattered, chest heaving, face blotchy and tear-stained and eyes wild with panic, with terror.
They’re all screaming, voices overlapping and distant.
And Will watches, frozen with sick fascination, as his left leg snaps below the knee, bone twisting. He doesn’t feel it, doesn’t feel anything past the burn of nauseating dread.
He’s going to die. He’s dying.
The voices of his family cry out with louder, newfound horror. He can just barely separate them, but Mike...he’s the loudest. He’s easy to hear.
“Will!” he sobs. “Will, please! Come back! I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything, please, I need you! I need you!”
“You can still stop this,” Henry says. “Join me.”
Will heaves a choked, broken sound, looks at his family. At the way they’re suffering, and it’s his fault, his fault, his fault-
Except, it’s not. It’s Henry’s.
Anger burns through him, bright and hot and pulsing. Will grits his teeth and pushes.
Henry flies back, and Will hits the ground, hard. He gasps, staggers to his feet. Henry stands, too, and he’s angry, but his rage is the opposite of Will’s—it’s cold, piercing.
Henry raises his hand, palm out, and without hesitation, Will does too, and it’s like a wall of force hits him, dampened but still strong. His feet slide backwards on the ground. Will brings his other arm up, pushes back, and his blood sears through his veins, rushing and painful. He finds his footing, digs in.
He feels the steady flow of blood stream from his nose, down his lips, dripping from his chin. His head feels tight, pressure building, like he’s going to pop.
His feet are slipping. He can’t do it. He’s not strong enough.
Footsteps splashing through puddled water. A breeze brushing his hair. Suddenly, someone beside him, shaved head identifiable even at the edge of his vision. Her arms fly up in a mirror of Henry’s, of Will’s own.
“I’m here!” El says. “Keep holding him!”
Will can’t speak, can’t even nod, forcing all of himself into keeping Henry at a stalemate, but El steps forward as if Will had answered, shoulders drawn back and set.
“Henry, enough!” she shouts. “It’s over! You have lost!”
Henry’s image flickers, vines and burned skin flashing in contrast to a pale, angry face and white, blood-stained scrubs. He laughs, and the sound is distorted, human and Flayed all at once. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
El draws herself up to her full height. “Me too.”
For a moment, there is nothing. Nothing but the sound of blood rushing through Will’s ears, the pain pulsing through his body, the pressure in his head. And then there’s light, smoky and too bright, that envelops Henry’s body, consumes him whole.
It only lasts for a few seconds. When it fades, particles of ash scattering, there is nothing there. Henry is gone.
Will’s energy leaves him in a quick burst, and his arms fall limply to his sides. He stares at where Henry just was, almost uncomprehending.
He’s gone. He’s really gone.
El turns to him, and she smiles, bloody nose and all. His sister.
Will smiles too, a wobbly, close-lipped smile. Then his knees buckle, and he’s falling.
He loses consciousness before he even hits the ground.
The hospital stay would probably be boring, Will thinks, if not for his constant influx of visitors. It’s no small number, either; for the first two days, everyone piles into the room, something they only manage to get away with because Hopper is officially back, officially an American hero, and while he hasn’t taken Powell’s spot as Chief, Hop has the same pull he always used to, maybe even more now.
It’s overwhelming. It’s too much.
Yet, every time his nurse comes in the check on him, he assures her he’s fine. Same with his mom. Because it’s overwhelming, it’s too much, but in a good way. In the best way.
Because they’re all here. They’re all alive. Every one of them.
After those first two days, the group dwindles, visits becoming more sparse for the busiest ones, like Hopper, Steve, Robin, Nancy, and Eddie. Argyle stays in Hawkins for a few days, but then he bids them goodbye, says he has to be back in time for school to start back up on Wednesday. It’s crazy to Will, the knowledge that everything has happened in the span of just over a week. A week.
After forty-eight hours of around the clock supervision, Mom deems him safe in the company of the others, and she comes and goes, split between Will, finding the Byers a temporary living accommodation, and helping Hopper fix up the cabin. El considers going with her but never does. Will spends days on end insisting she should spend more time with her dad, but she’s stubborn, and she never listens. Jonathan is much the same, hesitant on leaving Will for longer than a few hours, but Will actually manages to convince him (he may or may not call into question his brother’s strained relationship with Nancy to push him into leaving).
The Party hangs around the longest. Max, Lucas, Dustin, El, and Mike. The entire four days of his hospital stay, they show up from the moment visiting hours open until visiting hours end. They fill him in on everything. About the plan he never got to hear about. How Hopper, Nancy, and Steve (“The Vanguard,” Dustin insists) went to attack Henry in the Upside Down while Max baited him at the Creel House. Max was joined by El, Lucas, and Dustin, and Erica was the middleman, relaying messages between the two groups. Lucas’s eye is still swelled shut, a testament to how lucky they had gotten.
Robin, Eddie, and somehow Argyle ended up being the distraction team (“Trailer Troop”), luring away the Demobats, and apparently Eddie nearly got himself killed, but Robin had stopped him before he could do anything stupid.
Will and El relay their side of things. When they finish talking about the final battle with Henry, Dustin’s eyes light up, and he grabs the Sharpie they’d all used to sign Will’s cast and sets it on the tray table, insists that Will try to levitate it.
Will humors him. Holds his palm out and focuses.
Nothing happens.
“Maybe it’s like with El last year,” Lucas suggests. “After Starcourt. She lost her powers when she used them too much, too.”
“But she got them back,” Dustin is quick to point out. He turns to Will. “You could get them back.”
But Will just smiles, shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t think I want them, honestly. More trouble than they’re worth. And besides, we already have a mage in the Party. We don’t need two.”
In the end, the Byers split up. The cabin is only so big, after all, and cramming five people into such a small living space just isn’t practical. It’s Mike and Nancy who propose Will and Jonathan stay at the Wheeler’s residence, and Mom steps out of the hospital room to call Mrs. Wheeler and talk about it with her.
Sure enough, the day Will is discharged, Nancy picks him, Jonathan, and El up in the Wheeler’s station wagon, El claiming the passenger seat before Jonathan has a chance, forcing him into the back with Will. Will fumbles with his crutches, nearly smacks Jonathan in the face with one of them as he shifts them out of the way.
Nancy glances back to check that they’re buckled, then she’s tearing away from the hospital pick-up, talking with El and driving a little too fast.
“You know,” Jonathan says, leaning over to Will. His voice is low, almost conspiring. “Mom told me not to tell you ‘cause she doesn’t want you to get your hopes up too much, just in case, but she’s been looking into jobs. Apparently Flo, at the station, is retiring next month.”
Will turns to him, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Jonathan says, smiling. “She hasn’t made a final decision yet, but I think she plans on us sticking around. She’s been on the phone, like, constantly at the cabin. I’m not supposed to know, but I overheard her the other day. She’s looking into getting a trailer, over in Forest Hills Park.”
“But...” Will stumbles, caught between tentative excitement and worry. “What about the house back in Lenora? And all our stuff? And school? And- and what about Argyle?”
Jonathan shrugs, bumps Will’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it all out. One thing at a time, yeah? And I’ll miss Argyle, but you guys come first.”
Will bites his lip, thinks about the letter he’d seen on the kitchen table two and a half weeks ago, from Lenora Community College.
“You know,” he says quietly, “Mom and I will be okay.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to...you don’t have to compromise your future just because you feel like you have to stick around. You should do what makes you happy.”
Jonathan frowns, gaze darting up to Nancy, then back. “What are you talking about, Will?” he asks, a whisper, tone bordering on defensive.
“I saw the letter. For Lenora Community,” Will says. “And if we’re staying in Hawkins, I know it’s just going to be the same thing. You’ll apply for Hawkins Community or Purdue. Somewhere close. What happened to wanting to go to NYU?”
Jonathan stares at him, speechless. He doesn’t say a word, even as they pull up in the Wheeler’s driveway and Nancy and El hop out of the car. Mike and Holly step out the front door to greet them. Will shifts his crutches, gives Jonathan a smile.
“Just- think about it, okay? And maybe talk to Nancy, too. I’m sure she’ll understand,” Will says, and Jonathan breaks into a small, disbelieving smile, shaking his head.
“That was some pretty good ‘big brother’ advice, Will the Wise,” Jonathan says.
Will grins, waves a hand towards the window, where El is leaning down to talk to Holly. “I’ve had a lot of practice the past few months.”
Will sits quietly on the Wheeler’s living room sofa, Jonathan and Mike on either side of him. El stands in front of the TV, waiting, and Mom hovers, a ball of nervous energy.
“You have everything you need?” Mom looks between him and Jonathan. “Will, your backpack? Oh, and your antibiotics-”
“I’ve got it, Mom,” Will says, amused, fond.
She smiles, ruffles his hair in a way that makes him feel like he’s five again.
“Okay,” she exhales, turning to face Mrs. Wheeler where she’s watching the exchange from the La-Z-Boy.
“Thank you again, for letting them stay, Karen. Especially on such short notice,” Mom says, and Mrs. Wheeler nods, standing up to pull Mom into a quick hug.
“Of course, Joyce, anything for your boys.”
“I swear,” Mike mumbles under his breath, grabbing Will’s attention. “I think she likes you two more than her actual kids.”
Will stifles a snort. Whispers back, “Mm, I don’t think so. She loves Holly plenty.”
Mike leans back, face scrunching up in that goofy way that it does when he’s offended by something. Will turns away, presses his lips together to hide his grin.
“Alright, boys,” Mom says, and Will is momentarily caught off-guard as she pulls him into a crushing hug. She does the same to Jonathan, stepping back and putting a hand on El’s shoulder.
“You be good, okay?” Mom says. “Don’t be causing any trouble.”
“We won’t,” Will and Jonathan say in unison, and Mom nods, turning to El.
“Ready to go?”
“Yes,” El agrees. She brings her hand up in a small wave. “Bye, guys. I will be back tomorrow, for lunch.”
“Have fun with Hop,” Jonathan says, and then they’re slipping out the door. Mrs. Wheeler hums, hands on her hips.
“Well, it is getting a little late. I think I’m gonna go put Holly to bed. You boys feel free to stay up as long as you like.” She turns towards the stairs, then pauses, turning back. “Oh, and Will, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask, alright sweetie?”
Will blinks, startled. “Oh, um, yeah. Of course.”
She smiles, then resumes her path towards the stairs, leaving Will, Mike, and Jonathan in the living room in silence.
“Well,” Jonathan says, rising to his feet. “I’m gonna go talk to Nance.”
“‘Talk,’ huh?” Mike says, tone mocking, a smirk on his face. Jonathan glares at him.
“Yes. Talk.” Jonathan folds his arms, gaze flitting between Mike and Will once, twice. Pointed. He looks at Mike, brow raised. “Unless you two need supervision?”
He says it flat, but when Will turns, Mike’s face is flushed bright red, almost alarmingly so.
Will stares at him.
“No, Jonathan, we’re fine,” Mike bites out.
Jonathan nods, lips twitching, and then he leaves, footsteps muffled against the carpet.
Will and Mike sit on the sofa, Will’s casted left leg propped up on the coffee table. It’s silent, besides the faint murmur of the TV.
“Your brother is the worst,” Mike grumbles.
Will snorts, recalling the fight in the motel parking lot. “Yeah, you two have been at each other’s throats a lot recently. What’s up with that?”
Mike shakes his head, dark hair spilling over his shoulders, cheeks still pink. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Wha-”
Mike jumps up, cuts Will off with a clap of his hands. He shuts off the TV, bustles over to grab Will’s crutches, offers them out. “Let’s go up to my room. Hanging out down here is weird.”
Will sighs but acquiesces, standing carefully and tucking the crutches under his arms. Getting used to them hadn’t been very difficult, but he’s only been on them for a few days and he already hates them. Hates the way they dig unpleasantly into his armpits, hates how slow and wobbly they make him. His doctor told him that he’d be stuck on them for two months, minimum, before he can even think about starting to put weight on his leg again.
Will broke his arm, once, when he was seven and he and Mike were competing to see who could jump further on the monkey bars at recess. They lied and told Mom and everyone else that he’d fallen from the top of the jungle gym on accident. Actually, come to think of it, Will thinks Mom probably still doesn’t know the truth behind that. He’d worn a cast for weeks, even had a sling.
But this is so much worse.
“You coming?” Mike says, pulling him from his thoughts, and Will nods. He follows Mike to the bottom of the stairs. Here, he hesitates, wavering. They’d chosen Mike’s room for Will to stay in because these stairs are carpeted, as opposed to the wooden basement stairs (and also because everyone is insistent that Will sleep in a real bed instead of on the basement couch, but Will is a much more focused on the former right now).
Mike notices Will’s pause, turns around three steps up. He looks between Will and the banister, head tilting, considering.
“Do you...” He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, waving a hand. “I mean, do you want me to help you?”
And there’s something about it that makes Will’s ears burn. He hopes Mike can’t see it. “Maybe just, um, take these?” He steps to the side, carefully leans his weight against the wooden banister and frees the crutches from under his arms, holding them out.
Mike is quick to come back down the steps, take the crutches, and tuck them both horizontally under his right arm.
Will straightens up, both hands on the banister. He eyes the stairs, the way there’s a small landing and then they continue up to the second floor. There’s a grease stain on the third step, a barely-there smudge of black against the navy carpet from where Lucas had tripped on his way up and dropped a slice of pizza. It was Mike’s eleventh birthday, and they’d all four been hyped up on Cola and Reese Cups, and they’d been shoving each other and racing up to Mike’s room to read his newest comics.
“Hey.” The suddenness of Mike’s voice nearly makes Will jump. His tone is soft, tentative.
“Do you want to lean on me?” he asks.
It takes a moment for Will’s throat to unstick, a tight ball of nostalgia and nerves. “Please?”
Mike comes closer beside him, tugs Will’s right hand away from the banister and brings it over the bony line of his shoulders. Mike shuffles closer still, wraps his free arm around Will’s waist, firm, supporting.
Will closes his hand over Mike’s shoulder, fingers pressing into the hollow above Mike’s collarbone.
“Let me know when you’re ready,” Mike says on an exhale, and he’s so close Will can feel his breath on his cheek, across the bridge of his nose.
Jesus.
Will nods once, sharp. “Ready.”
It’s slow-going. Painstakingly so. They pause after each step, readjusting, and Mike accidentally smacks the crutches against the wall, and Will accidentally bumps his cast against one of the steps and has to stop, grit his teeth, because it fucking hurts. By the time they make it to Mike’s room, Will is leaning almost all of his weight into Mike’s side, his grip on Mike’s shoulder probably tight to the point of it being painful.
“I think I’m sweating,” Mike says, grimacing, releasing his grip around Will so he can sit on the bed. “Are you sweating?”
Will sits down heavily, wincing. He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Hopefully going down is better,” Mike says, propping the crutches against his closet door. “Or else I guess you’re gonna be stuck up here for the next few weeks.”
Will chuckles, scoots up on the bed to gently prop his leg up on the sheets, and he takes in his surroundings for the first time. Mike’s room is a stark difference from the last time Will had seen it. Gone are the scattered dinosaur toys and Legos on the floor, replaced by piles of rumpled clothes and notebooks tumbling out of his backpack. Will even spots a guitar propped against the wall on the other side of the bed.
The walls are decorated with new posters, a large ONE-WAY street sign hanging above the bed, a greyscale Escher print below that. Will pauses, eyes stuck on the corkboard in the corner. There are a few pictures of the Party, including the one of them with their science fair trophy from fifth grade. But Will’s more focused on the drawings. His drawings. Some are done in pencil, some in crayon, and their neatness varies, the clumsy lines betraying just how much better his art has gotten over the years. Most of them are tacked up on random scraps of paper, nothing more than bored doodles Will would do in class and pass off to Mike just out of habit. He didn’t realize Mike kept them.
“Here’s some spare pillows. For your leg.” Will rips his gaze from the corkboard, twists to look at Mike. He takes the pillows with a murmured ‘thanks,’ deposits them on the bedspread.
Mike stands for a moment, hovering, awkward. “Uhh. You want a change of clothes?”
Will considers, looks down at the slightly too-big basketball shorts Lucas lent him and the threadbare henley that Will had worn beneath his plaid overshirt during their little road trip from Lenora to Hawkins. There’s still dirt smudged on one of the wrist cuffs. He hesitates, then brings the collar up to sniff it.
He wrinkles his nose, wincing. “Ugh. Yeah. Just a shirt, though.”
Mike hums, turns to rummage through one of his dressers.
Will leans back on his palms, head falling to the side, gaze straying back to the guitar. It’s an acoustic. It looks like a hand-me-down, but it’s still in beautiful shape. The wood is light and polished, complementing the dark fretboard. Will’s never played, never even held a guitar, but his fingers itch to reach over and pick it up, sweep his thumb across the strings.
Mike’s never mentioned any interest in music past singing shrill renditions of pop songs. Will wonders what Mike’s singing voice actually sounds like. If he’s any good.
Will bets he is.
A bundle of soft fabric smacks him in the face, obscuring his vision. Will yelps, flailing as the shirt falls into his lap.
Mike is laughing.
Will looks up, glares, ears hot with embarrassment.
“Jesus, Michael, a little warning next time,” he says, petulant, “scared the crap out of me.”
Mike shakes his head, laughing even harder, almost breathless with it, and he’s beautiful, and Will’s so in love with him he feels sick with it.
“Okay,” Will says, smiling now, unable to help it, “okay, jeez, it wasn’t that funny.”
But Mike is still laughing, hitching little snickers, so Will grabs one of the pillows Mike gave him, and he flings it across the room, right into Mike’s stupid, pretty face. Will’s eyes go a little wide when he realizes that he threw the pillow harder than he’d meant to. Mike’s laughter cuts off with a startled gasp as it hits him, and he rears back, face frozen as the pillow drops to the floor.
They stare at each other in mirrored shock.
And then they’re both cracking up, obnoxiously loud. Will leans forward, arms around his chest, and he laughs and laughs and laughs, so hard tears gather in the corners of his eyes and his ribs ache.
God, how he missed this.
It’s remarkable how effortlessly Will and Mike slip into WillAndMike again, falling back into a rhythm of ebb and flow banter with such ease Will feels a little dizzy with it.
“What about this one?” Mike flops down on the bed beside him, shoves a VHS in his face. “A Nightmare On Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge. It came out last November, like, a few weeks after you guys moved.”
Will breaks his distracted gaze from the Hellfire logo on the shirt Mike lent him to study the tape, humming. “Nope, haven’t seen it.”
Mike’s mouth drops open. “Are you serious right now?”
Will shrugs. “The only movie we actually went and saw in theaters was Pretty In Pink, and that was El’s idea.”
“Okay, but this,” Mike grabs the tape, waves it emphatically, “this is, like, a cult classic, Will. It’s so bad it’s good.”
“So, what, you want to watch it?” Will asks. “Like, right now?”
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t see...” Mike blinks, snaps his gaze down to the watch on his wrist. “Holy shit, it’s almost two in the morning.”
Will’s mouth drops open in surprise. He checks his own watch, just to be sure. “We’ve been talking for three hours? Jeez, that’s crazy.”
Something in Mike’s expression closes off, sharp and sudden.
“Yeah,” Mike says, and it sounds stilted, lacks a warmth Will hadn’t even noticed was there before.
“Woah, what’s wrong?”
Mike pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, looks away. “What do you mean?”
“You got weird just now,” Will says, pushing himself upright from where he’s slouched against the headboard. “What happened?”
Mike sighs through his nose, cards a hand through his hair, glances at his closed bedroom door. He straightens the hunched curve of his spine, bends his knees to sit cross-legged. “It’s just. Remember the other day? When we agreed to...talk?”
Will nods. He does.
“Okay well, I want to. Talk, I mean,” Mike says, strained, shoulders raised and tense. He wraps his arms loosely around his torso, still looking at the bedroom door.
Will frowns. Whatever this is, it’s clearly been eating at him.
“Let’s talk, then,” Will says, soft, leaning over to try to catch Mike’s gaze. Mike looks over at him, their eyes locking, and Will gives him a small smile.
Mike swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. His words come out rushed, spilling over each other.
“I know you lied about the painting.”
Will’s smile slips right off his face, blood running cold. The air rushes from his chest, leaves him winded, almost gasping, like he’s been struck. “Wh-what?” he whispers.
Mike looks back over at the door, voice quietening. He’s upset. “You lied to me. You never lie to me. I brought it up to El back at the motel, when you were in the shower. She said she didn’t commission it. She said you wouldn’t even let her look at it.”
Mike wavers, words stumbling. “She- she said- she said she thought it- that you were painting it for a girl. That you liked.”
Will’s heart pounds, fast and hard, against his ribs. He’s too hot, dizzy, feels like he’s burning alive. His mouth is dry, glued shut.
He knows. He knows.
“And then you- there was your whole speech in the van, and...” Mike winces, “and I noticed you were really upset, and you were...you were crying, but I-I didn’t know why.”
He sounds frustrated. Angry, almost.
He knows, he knows, he knows.
Will realizes, then, that he can’t run. His crutches are out of reach, and he doesn’t think he could get to them before Mike stops him. He definitely couldn’t get down the stairs before Mike caught up.
Mike pulls his gaze away from the door, looks at Will, and his inhale audibly catches in his throat, eyes going wide.
“Will?” Mike says, and he scoots towards him, frowning. “Are you-”
“I’m sorry,” Will blurts, and it drags out of his throat like shards of glass. His eyes sting, vision blurring. “I’m sorry, Mike, I’m sorry-”
“Woah, hey,” Mike says, and reaches a hand out. Will chokes on his rushed stream of apologies, flinching back hard. He squeezes his eyes shut, tucks his chin down against his chest, shoulders raised and tense, and his hands fly up, palms out, to protect his face.
Silence. Tension.
Will holds his breath, frozen, waiting.
“I’m not mad.” Mike’s voice comes out hushed, fragile like something in him will shatter, has shattered. “I’m not mad. I promise. Will, please.”
Will inhales, silent, shallow, and forces himself to look up, hands lowering.
Mike looks devastated.
Will’s defenses crumble. He shakes, guilt and shame burning bitter in his throat. He chokes on a sob. “I’m, I’m sorry-”
Mike reaches out again, and this time, Will lets him. Mike takes him by the shoulders, pulls him in against his chest, and Will lets him, fisting his hands in the material of Mike’s shirt and pressing his face into Mike’s shoulder, breaths deep and shuddering and fighting off the clawing edges of panicked tears. He’s so sick of crying.
The room falls mostly silent, and the embrace, Will realizes now that he’s not quite on the brink of losing it, isn’t very comfortable. His casted leg sticks out awkwardly between them. One of Mike’s hands is pressed flat between Will’s shoulder blades, the other cupping Will’s neck, and it’s too warm, but Will can’t bring himself to pull away yet. Wants to hide, just a little longer.
Mike chuckles, sudden, watery. “You know,” he says weakly, “this is just like at the motel, only the other way around.”
Will refrains from shaking his head in protest. This isn’t the same. This is different. Worse.
He wonders, grimly, if this is the last conversation Mike will ever have with him. Wonders if he’s about to lose the best friendship he’s ever had over a stupid crush and a stupid painting. Wonders if he ruined everything.
“I’m sorry,” Will rasps, and it’s quiet, muffled against Mike’s shoulder.
Mike’s arms tighten around him for a moment, squeezing. He sighs, heavily, leans his cheek against Will’s hair.
“El and I broke up last week.” The confession is soft, a low murmur.
Will goes still, feels the panic trying to take ahold again, but it’s dampened by confusion. They what?
“After she told me that she didn’t know anything about the...the painting, well, we talked. It was-” Mike’s voice catches. “It was scary, but...but it was a relief, too.”
A relief?
“What are you talking about?” Will says hoarsely, and he clears his throat to rid it of that roughness. He hadn’t even known. He supposed it explained why Mike shared a motel bed with him instead of El, and why Will kept ending up in the middle during the drive, but he’s more confused as to how there weren’t more hints than that. He’d been around both El and Mike constantly the past few days, hours upon hours at the hospital, but neither of them seemed upset, or were even awkward around each other. Though, he supposed, El spent most of the time sitting and reading comics with Max, not Mike.
“It’s better for both of us this way,” Mike says. “She can figure out who she is independently. You know, without me dragging her down.”
Will opens his mouth to protest, but Mike continues before he gets a chance.
“Don’t even try to argue that,” he says, firm. “Because I did. I couldn’t be what she wanted me to be, and she wasn’t happy. It’s better for her this way.”
“And you?” Will whispers.
Mike’s grip goes tight, tense, then loosens slowly. “And me. It’s better for me because,” he falters. His words come slow, strained, like pulling teeth, “be-because...because I’ve been...hiding.”
Hiding?
Will shakes his head, confused. “I don’t understand.”
Mike exhales, trembling. “Do you remember me telling you about our fight? About how I couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear?”
Will nods, nose bumping Mike’s shoulder.
“She was upset because I couldn’t tell her I loved her,” Mike says. “And, well, I couldn’t say it because I didn’t. Like, obviously I love her, but it’s like the way I love Mom and Nancy and Lucas and Dustin, you know?”
Will sucks in a breath, feels his heart slam once, hard, against his ribs.
What about me? he thinks. What about me?
“It just feels like all I’ve done over the past year is lie to her. And to everyone else. And...to myself. And I can’t even really be upset that you lied about the painting because I’ve been lying to you for years.”
“Mike-”
“I’m just. I’m tired of lying. I’m tired of pushing you away and I’m tired of hurting you.” Mike’s voice cracks. “Because you mean so much to me, Will.”
Will leans back, pulls away from the embrace. He doesn’t go far, just far enough that he can see Mike’s face, can gauge whether this is genuine, or if it’s some sort of cruel joke.
“What are you saying, Mike?” Will asks slowly, wary.
Mike’s eyes, red-rimmed and glassy and dark, meet his. His mouth presses into a thin line and he inhales a long, deep breath through his nose, like he’s bracing himself.
“I love El the way I love my mom and my sister and Lucas and Dustin.” A beat, time suspended on the space between them.
“But not the way I love you.”
Not the way I love you. Not the way I love you.
Will feels dizzy, fuzzy, like the oxygen he’s breathing isn’t getting to his brain. His skin flushes, warm, and he stares at Mike’s face, open and honest and determined and scared.
“You-” Will’s voice trembles, catches, drops to a whisper. The tears are back, stinging at the corners of his eyes. “You promise?”
Mike holds his hand up, pinky out. Will, in a daze, does the same, links their fingers together.
Mike smiles. “Promise.”
Their hands lower, still joined, to rest against Will’s thigh. The room falls quiet, soft with the sounds of their breath.
Will finds himself staring down at their hands. At the contrast between Mike’s pale, nimble fingers, and his own tanned ones, courtesy of the California sun. At the soft, branching veins on the back of Mike’s hand, faint blue lines blurred under smooth skin. Will wants to trace them, map them out with his fingers. He wants to flip Mike’s hand over to see the creases of his palm, wants to see whether Mike’s fingertips are soft or if they’re calloused from picking at guitar strings.
So, in a rush of bravery, he does. He unlinks their pinkies and carefully takes Mike’s hand in his own, turns it over. Mike’s breath hitches across from him, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t pull away, so Will thinks, maybe, this is okay.
He sweeps his thumb across Mike’s palm, touch feather-light, marvels at soft ridges and lines.
“Will,” Mike whispers, and Will startles, broken from his reverie. He starts to pull his hand away, feeling caught, but Mike stops him, threads his fingers between Will’s and holds. Will stares at their locked hands.
“Will,” Mike says again, hushed, like a secret, but more insistent this time. Will drags his gaze up to meet Mike’s eyes, and he stills when he sees how close they are.
They breathe each other’s air—soft, silent. Mike’s eyes are dark, all-consuming, and there’s a sudden tension around them that hadn’t been there before, the air charged with it.
Mike’s gaze drops to Will’s lips. And stays there.
“Will,” Mike says, a third time, and it’s shaky, barely audible now. Will almost convinces himself he imagined it, until Mike continues. “Will, I... can- can I...”
Whatever he’s trying to say, it won’t come. He squeezes Will’s hand, draws in a long breath, and then his other hand reaches up to take Will by the shoulder. Mike pulls him in, and before Will realizes what’s happening, their lips are brushing, chapped and warm.
They draw back, noses bumping. Will opens his eyes. Hadn’t noticed he’d closed them. Mike’s cheeks are pink, eyes wide, unsure.
“Sorry,” Mike says, sounding breathless. Will stares, head fuzzy, empty, like someone took his brain and shook it like an Etch-A-Sketch. “Sorry, I-I just. I didn’t mean to-”
And this time, Will is the one pulling him in, detangling his fingers from Mike’s to wrap both arms around his shoulders and drag him close, press their lips together with purpose. Mike gasps into his mouth, and then he seems to melt, tilting his head, pressing back. And Will’s never kissed anyone before, doesn’t know what he’s doing, but Mike’s hands come up, one curling in the fabric of Will’s borrowed Hellfire shirt and the other settling on Will’s hip, and his nerves vanish because this is Mike. It’s Mike, and Will trusts his lead, follows close behind like he always has.
Mike kisses him soft and slow and careful, like Will is something delicate, something fragile. Will brings his hand up into Mike’s hair, strands slipping between his fingers, and he presses close, closer, catches Mike’s lower lip between his teeth as if to prove that he won’t break.
Mike makes this high, choked sound like a whimper, and Will shudders, licks across Mike’s lip to soothe. His fingers tighten in Mike’s hair, and he tugs, careful, and Mike’s head follows, tilts up with it. He’s pliant, soft in Will’s hands like putty, and Will feels high with it, floaty and lightheaded and barely real.
It takes enormous willpower for him to pull away, breath spilling heavy between them, chest full and warm.
Mike looks dazed, lips red and eyes glassy, pupils blown. His face is rosy, a pretty pink blush spreading across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. Will wants to kiss him again.
“Woah,” Mike says on a breathless exhale.
Will grins, lopsided and a little pleased. “Yeah?”
Mike blinks at the smile on Will’s face, and his cheeks flush darker. It’s cute.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Mike grumbles, and Will, feeling bold, takes Mike’s hand back into his own, laces their fingers together.
“Like what?”
“Like- like...”
Will squeezes his hand. “I love you too, Mike.”
Mike smiles, shy and sweet. He uncrosses his legs, crawls up the short distance between them to curl into Will’s side against the headboard, his head ducking down to rest against Will’s chest, over his heart. Will wraps his arms around him, holds him tight.
That’s how Jonathan finds them the next morning, when he comes in to call them down for breakfast. He smiles and closes the door quietly. On second thought, breakfast can wait.