Chapter Text
All Will wanted was to not draw the short end of the stick.
He'd crossed his fingers for this, and if nothing else, that should've shown how much he needed this. Will was quite literally praying to God, Jesus, the devil, anyone— hell, he'd pray to Mike fucking Wheeler, if it could get him out of this— and in his opinion, the world at large was lucky he'd done nothing more than pray. If it would make these stupid slips of paper disappear entirely, he would've started practicing black magic.
All he wanted was one consolation prize to make this shitty apocalypse pass a bit smoother. Okay? Was that really too much to hope for?
In the cup Robin held out to him, there were four slips of paper, all penned with four names. One-in-four chances; the odds were in his favor. He pulled a slip, wincing, hoping to God for Jonathan instead of him, and— shit.
"Fuck, Steve, are you kidding me? I wanted Will."
Robin leaned over Will's shoulder, reading the name in a split second while Will struggled to decipher the scraggly handwriting under The Squawk's dim glow. Someone needed to replace those dying bulbs, but Will couldn't have focused on that if he tried, because the little slip of paper infuriatingly labeled Harrington was taking up all of his attention. Apparently, one good thing was too much to hope for, and the odds had never been in his favor.
Screw this. Will was going back to the black magic plan.
As to why they were all drawing sticks from a cup, and why these sticks decided the fate of the Party— well. Everything seemed to be Mike's fault, as of recent.
The adults— as in the Party's parents and Hopper, technically a parent to none but an intimidating father figure to everyone, now that all their lives were going to Hell in a handbasket— had decided that each member of the Party needed someone to supervise them. And maybe everyone was blaming this on Mike, since he'd decided to sneak out to the woods for no apparent reason and nearly become food for a Demogorgon, and maybe everyone was blaming the subsequent drawing of straws on Mike, too— because Nancy and Steve both wanted Dustin, and Robin and Jonathan both wanted Will, and everyone wanted Lucas but no one, and Will meant no one, wanted Mike— but Will had decided everything was fine.
He was not at his wits' end. He was not about to lose it over being paired up with Steve Douchebag Harrington, and everything was going to be fine. He was fine.
Will glanced up from his paper and tried to steel his face into an unbothered expression, no, I don't think Steve peaked in highschool, what do you mean? It wasn't that he hated Steve; Will wasn't the type of person to hate anyone, save for the psychotic interdimensional monster currently making their life hell. Maybe he disliked people, maybe he held grudges towards a few particular people, but he didn't hate people. No one deserved to be despised so heavily, and hatred wasn't something Will liked to feel, anyway.
So he didn't hate Steve. Did he like Steve?
At the moment, Steve was staring at Will like he was a strange, potentially-venomous spider that had been shoved into his hands; not scared, not exactly, but floundering and out of his depth in the way one would be if they weren't the weird kid on the playground who'd taken a deep interest in bugs. "You can have him," he hissed— by the tight strain in his voice, he might've been a little concerned that said spider was a biter— leaning off the couch and whispering in Robin's ear.
Will, also being right next to Robin's ear, heard every word. Steve noticed far too late, halfway into his next sentence of "I mean, no offense, but the kid really creeps me— oh." He turned to Will with wide eyes, going a little pale. "Sorry, Byers."
Will never liked being called by his last name. Byers always brought with it an air of his father— stale beer, rough words— and that, Will thought, made it obvious as to how much he liked Steve.
He met Steve's eye, shrugged, and crumpled the paper in his fingers. "Isn't it Lucas's turn?"
At his name, Lucas looked up from his spot on the couch, legs crossed and ankles dangling onto Dustin's shoulders. Despite Dustin swatting at his calves and hissing for Lucas to get off, you fucker, Lucas seemed only mildly interested in what was going on. "You took one for the team, Will," he said, as Robin passed him the cup. "I have all the good options."
Steve spluttered out a retort that seemed to start with your mom. Juvenile and a douche.
Instead of stooping to his level, Lucas raised his eyebrow in Steve's general direction. Thoroughly cowed— Lucas could level some fearsome are-you-a-fucking-idiot looks— Steve went quiet, watching Lucas fish out a paper slip with deep concentration. Will should've closed his eyes and furrowed his brow when he drew a slip, too. Maybe his luck wouldn't have been quite so abysmal.
The slip wavered in Lucas's hands when it caught the breeze of The Squawk's box fan (no air conditioning for a broken-down warehouse). He squinted, reading the spidery handwriting Will could recognize from miles away, eerily similar to his own.
"Jonathan," he said, slowly. His tense look collapsed into a small, relieved smile.
Lucky him. In the back of his mind, Will wondered what he could bribe Lucas with for them to switch slips.
Shuffling through a box of cassettes was Jonathan himself, insisting under his breath with Robin that no, he wasn't going to steal her tapes, even if she did have a live recording from The Smiths circa 1983. He glanced up, shoulders going stiff as they flicked to Mike before relaxing when he caught sight of Lucas's paper. "Oh, thank— I mean, uh," he stalled, sending a surreptitious glance towards Mike again— who, currently, was staring Jonathan down with an affronted look of what the fuck did I do— "Lucas. What's up, man?"
"Sinclair's great," Steve agreed, nodding his head. "You got lucky, big Byers."
Scowling was a look that graced his brother's face quite often, but not even Will was sure he had seen Jonathan's annoyance turn into that sharp of a glare. "Really."
Disdain of Steve ran in the family. It wasn't like they didn't have a reason; the Byers had been placed dead last in the social hierarchy of Hawkins since day one, while the Harringtons (more like Harrington, single, since the senior Harringtons did nothing but sit around and count their money) floated peacefully on top, uncaring and undisturbed.
Sitting up top must've been boring, Will thought. Why else would Steve decide to take a job as resident popular douche?
Time and time again, Steve had seemed to delight in slighting Will's brother and the Byers as a whole. From smashing the camera Jonathan had spent months saving up to buy— yes, what his brother did with that camera was undeniably wrong, but two wrongs wouldn't made a right— to attempting to beat Jonathan bloody (attempt was an overstatement, in Will's opinion) and calling his family a bunch of screw-ups, Will was starting to think this bullying had swung past the point of hatred and wrapped around to an obsession. It made Steve look like more of an idiot than Jonathan could ever be.
Maybe being so fulfilled was what made him such an asshole. Maybe he was unhappy with his basket of friends and opportunities to pick and choose from, and maybe Steve decided to take out that unhappiness of having everything he could ever want on someone who had nothing at all. Maybe his perfect life made him look down on anyone less than him, and maybe that was what led him down that alleyway, watching his friends spray-paint SLUT in big red letters on the brick wall and goading Jonathan into a punch. I'm not even surprised what happened to your brother. I mean, your family is a disgrace to the entire—
Will took a breath, steering his brain from that alleyway.
Steve was an ex-asshole. People changed. When Will saw him, all he heard was Jonathan's broken voice, murmuring to his mom; fucking asshole, said he wasn't surprised what happened to Will, and I'm the one who got arrested. Steve fucking Harrington. He remembered Jonathan stretching his vowels, covering up the way his voice had started to shake.
People changed, but Will wasn't the type to forget. He was getting tired of forgiving, too.
"Don't call him big Byers, dickwad. Jesus." Dustin shuffled from his spot by the couch to elbow Steve in the side. Somehow, Lucas's ankles were still on his shoulders. "Throw me a slip, Robin!"
A crumpled piece of paper landed past Dustin's face and onto Lucas's lap. Robin only looked vaguely sorry as Lucas read another paper, sighing in relief at the pristine, looping print. "You got Nancy," he said, tossing the slip into the garbage can in the corner without looking up. Steve gave an appreciative whistle while Dustin pumped his fists.
"Not Mike," breathed Nancy, clasping her hands like she'd been praying for this. Will couldn't blame her. She dealt with more than enough of her brother by living with him.
"What the hell?" Mike threw his hands in the air. "Seriously, what did I do?"
Will could've answered that a million times over. The rest of the group saved him by exchanging a pointed look, passed around their haphazard circle and landing on Mike's affronted expression. From his spot on the couch, far too close to Will for comfort, Mike slunk down into the cushions, crossing his arms and deepening his scowl.
One of Mike's hands brushed against Will's arm. With great effort, Will kept himself from flinching away.
With one slip left in the cup, Robin attempted to toss it to the garbage; instead, it flew past Jonathan's head, landing in a box of tapes. Instead of at least trying to look sorry, she ignored the cup and circled the couch Mike and Will were sitting on until she stood right in front of them, then stopped to face Mike with a growing, shark-toothed grin. It wasn't like Will knew Robin very well, but even he'd been around enough to know that her resting face always screamed mischief.
"Michael," she said, simply.
Mike shook his head. "Okay, no," he said, voice rising. "Nope. No way." His eyes were wide and panicked, like the thought of having Robin next to him every time he went outside was equivalent to lethal injection. Will felt similarly about Steve, so he couldn't judge.
"I hope you remember that this buddy system," she said, drawing out the word buddy to make Mike scowl, "is your fault in every single way. Remember that when you're cursing my name."
"I'm cursing it right now," Mike muttered, sinking further into the couch. Will watched, vaguely amused— Mike's eyes went all wide and pouty when he was annoyed, and Will's traitorous heart fluttered at the sight— until his eyes accidentally caught Steve's, and all that amusement went away.
He watched, stomach churning, as Steve swallowed so thickly Will could see it in his throat. Steve's eyes stayed on Will for one fraction of a second, face contorted into a grimace like he'd never been more uncomfortable than he was now, looking at Will. After that fraction, Steve glanced away, hands coming to fidget with the hem of his ironed polo as his gaze darted around the room.
"So," drawled Robin, clapping her hands, "is everyone ready to be buddies?"
The group gave a collective groan. Will crossed his fingers again and hoped the end of the world would hurry up.
The first time Hopper had suggested the buddy system, every teen in the room had immediately shot it down (some with violent head-shakes, some with expletives). Either way, it had been pushed aside; the Party was too old to be babysat, and the teens nearing their twenties had better things to do than babysit, no matter how many times Joyce and Hopper tried to explain how it wasn't babysitting. Apparently.
The second time Hopper suggested the buddy system had garnered more agreement, probably because he'd said it while pressing a rag to Mike's torn-up thigh.
No one could wring an explanation out of Mike that night, nor in the subdued days that followed. He'd said he left something important, then refused to elaborate on where he'd gone or what said important thing was, facing the concerned wrath of even his own mother with nothing more than a quiet voice and sullen shrugs.
That was another strange behavior in Mike that had appeared recently; the risk-taking, the volunteering for every patrol of the woods and every trip to the thankfully (or not, Will couldn't really decide) closed rifts, the sitting out on the Wheeler's front porch late into the night with nothing more than a pocket knife for company. Mike was becoming a little too eager to throw himself off a cliff, and now that Mike had gotten his leg shredded, Will was starting to fear a repeat incident of the time Mike had literally jumped off a cliff. It was something he'd laughed off the first time he'd heard it, spurred on by Dustin's casual tone— Mike jumped off a cliff for my teeth, Will, he's got some crazy guts. He was finding it harder to laugh now.
He would've told Mike this, but there was something else nagging at Will, something making it hard for him to even look Mike in the eye. He would've come to Mike with his concerns long before he'd had to fend off a Demodog all alone, would've done something to talk Mike down from the edge, anything to calm him down in the face of their oncoming doom. He would've talked to Mike, really, if not for the first strange behavior.
This risk-taking, this protectiveness and self-disregard? All of it seemed to center around Will.
No matter how it sounded, he wasn't being egotistical. Will had gotten used to Mike disregarding him, slighting him (an empty mailbox for Will, an armful of letters for El) and hurting him (it's not my fault you don't like girls!) so Mike suddenly trying to protect him? Mike offering to go on every single patrol Will was assigned to, trailing Will everywhere he went from the relief center to his own basement because he wanted to hang out? That was out of the ordinary.
Will wasn't saying Mike's world revolved around him. Before this, hoping to take up an inch of space in Mike's mind only happened on a good day. Now, however, he was having. . . thoughts. Thoughts that were absolutely not productive, or helpful, or even possible, but Mike's sudden onslaught of attention was doing anything but making these thoughts go away.
(Mike, brushing his shoulder against Will's as they walked home from the elementary playground— it had become their place of refuge, standing on swings and climbing ladders they were too large for to feel like kids again— and Will, stupid, hopeful Will, dreaming of taking Mike's hand the next time they brushed together, basking in the sparks that flew from their touch, ignoring the pit of guilt sitting thick in his stomach like a coiled vine.
Mike, lingering in the basement until the clock began to tick towards morning, and Will, watching him recline on the couch and biting back the plea of sleep here, please, this couch can have room for two if we try. Mike, nodding off on Will's shoulder before flinching up with a start, face red in the dim light, and selfish, selfish Will, wondering what else he could do to make Mike flush so prettily.
Mike, spending time with Will like a friend was supposed to. Mike, trying to rekindle their friendship, and Will, staring at the sparks and wishing for something more.)
And there he went again, distracted by his daydreams of Mike knowing what Will was and still wanting to look him in the eye. Right now, Will had a much more pressing problem to handle— the evening patrol he was scheduled for with Steve Douche— sorry, Steve Decent Guy Harrington.
The patrol itself wasn't Will's problem. If not for the events of last night, Will would've hopped on his bike and cycled around the woods himself, considering that the most dangerous thing anyone had found on these patrols Hopper insisted were necessary was a slug-sized Demodog. Even taking the events of last night into account, Will still would've gone by himself; the woods held some less-than-pleasant memories, sure, but he'd prefer going alone than letting Steve lag behind him.
Hopper's words, however, were still ringing in Will's ears from the night before. Any of you run off, he'd said, glowering, and I swear to god, I'll sip my coffee and watch through the window when a Demodog tries to maul you.
The image of Hopper smiling around the rim of his mug while Will died a gruesome death at his cabin window was one that came to mind quite easily, and besides, incurring the wrath of his soon-to-be stepdad (at least, that was what El insisted he'd be) wasn't exactly something Will wanted to do. So Steve it was.
Last night, when they'd left the radio station, all the Party had decided to pile into Steve's shiny BMW. Will had sat stiff on the edge of the leather seats, worried his sheer presence would leave a stain while the rest of the Party bickered and squabbled, much to Steve's chagrin. If you scratch those seats, you're paying for upholstery repair, he'd muttered, sending off Lucas and Dustin in quick succession, before stopping Will— and Mike, by extension, with them both living at the Wheelers— with a quick Byers! as he gingerly climbed out of the car.
He'd turned around slowly, possibly more tense than he'd been in Steve's car. He meant to say something, but all his words rolled together in a thick lump when he met Steve's eye. The last thing Will wanted to do was talk to him.
I'll radio you at six tomorrow, he'd said, trying for a smile that quickly faded when Will continued to say nothing. Capiche? At Will's prolonged silence, he faltered. Uh, capiche? Like, do you understand, you know— and at Will's raised eyebrow, he sighed, clearly giving up— okay. See you at six for the patrol. Bring a weapon.
So here Will was, fiddling with the knob of his walkie in one hand, holding the handle of a shotgun tight in the other. Periodically, he checked the gun to make sure the safety was still on, or glanced to the clock as it ticked past six-ten. He would've radioed Steve himself, but Steve had made no mention of what channel he'd call in on. Will flicked between all seven and hoped for the best, the best being Steve not showing up at all.
Channel two. His and Mike's private channel; Will heard a rush of static, a noise that sounded like a wet cough, and a sudden, harsh silence. Channel three, the Party's general channel, yielded more static. Channel four—
"Byers? Hello-o, Byers? God damnit, need to get Dustin on this broken piece of shit—"
A loud crack of static ripped through the room as Steve, presumably, banged his walkie talkie on something solid. Unwilling to hear the abuse towards the walkie any longer, Will bit the bullet and attempted to get out a normal sentence instead of an irritated groan. "No one talks on channel four," he said, doing his best to steel his voice into sounding normal. It worked, mostly.
Look. Will wasn't going to let his disdain show. He'd make a decent, unassuming impression on fallen-King Steve, play as nothing more than his shadow for the next few months, then fade away when they either won the battle against Vecna or died in a blaze of fiery torture. His feelings weren't a problem unless he made them one.
"I don't understand why you all use these things," Steve muttered. His mouth was way too close to the speaker; Will could hear his breathing, deep and heavy. Jesus. "Seriously, what happened to talking through a telephone?"
"Do you have a phone that can fit in your backpack?" Will was going to have to get his expressions under control, or else he'd keep giving Steve a deadpan stare that would never pass as unassuming.
A sigh crackled over the radio. ". . . Fair. I'm outside your house, by the way."
The best, the possibility of Steve never speaking to him again, had flown right out the window. Will bit back a sigh of his own, checked to make sure his gun was loaded for the fourth time, and trudged up the basement stairs, clicking off his walkie before giving Steve a response. He held onto his mantra, repeating it under his breath; my feelings aren't a problem until I make them one.
It had worked for most of his life. Hopefully, my feelings don't matter applied to handling peppy jocks, too.
"These patrols are pointless." Steve kicked a rock with his shoes— Adidas, pristine and new, way out of the Byers' budget— as he peeked into the woods, nail bat trailing the ground with a harsh scraping sound. "Like, hello, any interdimensional monsters here? No? Okay, thanks!"
Will wanted to agree with him. In his opinion, these weekly 'patrols' were glorified walks around the woods, existing for the sole purpose of making everyone feel better about the way Hawkins was slowly crumbling to pieces. At least the forest isn't swarming with Demogorgons, they'd sigh, soothed, as another shop on Main Street shuttered its doors and another For Sale sign blew off a lawn and into the street.
This town was already dying. No one needed to see a Demodog to prove it.
The gun in Steve's left hand was hanging limp, dangling off his fingers. Will decided not to agree with him and clenched the handle of his own weapon tighter. How could anyone even dual-wield a bat and a gun?
"You hate this too, right?" Steve turned to Will, head tilted and bat-clenching hand up like Steve was trying to pull an answer from him. "It's not just me?" He raised his hand further, almost to his head like he was about to run it through his hair— even with the world falling apart around them, Steve still earned his title of The Hair— then dropped it abruptly when he realized his fingers were full. Will wasn't going to say the mere action of Steve trying to run a hand through his hair pissed him off, but— well.
Steve had everything going for him, down to his trust fund and perfectly-coiffed hair. Even standing in the presence of his good looks (objectively, Will insisted to himself, though he couldn't help but admit that Steve wasn't not nice to look at) was enough to remind Will of what he'd never have, like pressing on a bruise that refused to go away.
He didn't hate Steve for it. Steve was born into his place in life, and Will was born into his. That didn't mean seeing Steve take everything down to his styled hair for granted didn't irk Will, or depress him. Maybe a bit of both.
"Not just you," Will agreed, keeping his eyes on the footpath. They were traveling down a little dirt path that ran near the woods, closer to the Byers' old house than the main part of town. Surprisingly, Steve seemed comfortable on the dirt, kicking up dust with his shoes like he couldn't care less if they got dirty. Probably because he'd always have money for the laundromat.
Stop, he thought to himself, guilt settling thickly in his stomach. Steve had never even done anything to him, and if he kept thinking this way, all this disdain he was hiding would bubble up into anger and he'd up doing something he'd regret. Like bashing something to bits with Steve's stupid nail bat, or being a snippy asshole with him until the tables turned and Steve had a reason to hate him. According to Dustin, Steve wasn't even a jerk anymore. Even if his constant refusal to use Will's first name was making him think otherwise, Will would give Steve the benefit of the doubt. He had to, or he'd lose it.
Will was good at bottling himself up, okay? Sure, it inevitably exploded— think Will yelling and what about us? to a room full of people or saying, starry-eyed and stupid, we could play Nintendo in your basement for the rest of our lives— but for the most part, he was damn good at hiding. He had to stop letting the disdain simmer before it boiled over, and that meant no more thinking about Steve's ironed polos and spat-out insults to his brother. No more.
Tepid silence trickled between them. Will could've put his hand in it and watched his fingers come away wet and sticky, lukewarm and uncomfortable. The quiet continued, interrupted only by the occasional call of a cicada, until Steve's radio started to blare.
"The Police!" Steve grinned, pulling the walkie from his back pocket to turn up the volume. "Man, Robin's on her game. I love this song. Every little thing she does is ma-agic. . ."
Will had nothing against The Police. Some of their songs were great, but this one, with its poppy beat and repetitive lyrics, was irritating. To put it lightly.
Steve hummed the next few bars. Somehow, he managed to make the song worse. "You, uh—" and he paused, voice faltering as he glanced to Will— "you like this song?"
"It's fine," said Will, running the smooth handle of the gun under his thumb as a distraction. Steve's eyes flickered to Will's hand, momentarily. "Every Breath You Take is better."
"Really? You— jeez, Byers, loosen up on that gun." Reluctantly, Will stopped fidgeting with the handle. Being near the woods still set Will on edge, even with the clear lack of danger; it helped, a bit, to know he'd come more prepared than when he'd crashed his bike back on Mirkwood. "I, uh— anyway. I think that one's kind of creepy. Sounds like the singer's stalking you."
They turned a corner, following the path as it veered deeper into the woods. The light dimmed under the tree cover, and Will tensed. "Yeah, well, this one's annoying." Immediately after he snapped, Will's stomach started to churn and his mind whirled— stupid, can't even handle one hour with him, what the hell has he ever done to you? "Sorry," he murmured, staring off into the trees.
At first, Will thought Steve didn't seem phased. He just shrugged, spinning his bat around a little in one hand as they marched on. "Hey, no, I get it. Guy sings the same line over and over again, it gets kind of tiring, you know?" Then, Will dared to glance over and look at his face. Bad move.
Steve was practically studying him. His eyes were roaming over Will like he was trying to see inside him, get into his brain and see how it worked, but not in a way that looked like he was succeeding. Will knew many people with that searching stare— standing in front of Mike's sister made Will feel like she'd stripped his brain raw, and looking his mom in the eye made him want to open up his brain for her— but Steve?
The guy had no clue on how to open Will up. Will could see the confusion in Steve's eyes as they looked over the stiff tension of his shoulders; the guy was completely and utterly lost, but Will couldn't understand why Steve was trying to figure him out in the first place. That made two lost people, then.
His suspicions were confirmed when Steve spoke again, loud voice echoing in the silence. Will tried not to wince, but based on Steve's vaguely-wounded frown, he failed. "You know," he said, starting slowly, hands twitching like they wanted to soften Will's tense posture, "you're a little unnerving, Byers. I can't get an angle on you."
"Why do you want one?" Will had been called a lot of things, but unnerving was a new one. It was a nicer word than he'd expected Steve to use (though thinking Steve was an ass who would just call him a freak made Will feel like an ass, because Steve hadn't even done anything to him) and Will even liked it, somewhat. He could've used the ability to push people away by being unsettling when kids like Steve (again, there came the guilt) were trying to make him cry on the playground. Unnerving was leagues better than girly.
"Well," said Steve, "I've got one idea. You still think I'm a total douchebag."
There was no accusation in his tone, but Will flinched back like he'd been hit. Steve had the only angle that mattered, and Will had been found out. "You— what? I don't think that," and it came out so strangled, Will considered disappearing into the woods and lying down in the dirt until a Demodog came to maul him.
"Hey, it's no big," he said, waving Will off with a short swing of his nail bat. His tone was light, casual, like they were discussing the weather. Yeah, you think I'm a total fucking asshole. Sure is sunny out. "I mean, we've never even talked to each other before. And I know this is, uh, a little weird for the both of us, so—"
"You could get out of it," Will said, before immediately regretting it.
Steve tilted his head. "What?"
Will was trying to shove that resentment down. That didn't mean it was working.
Look. There was a reason he'd been called a queer, and it wasn't just for his hand-me-down plaids and crayon boxes; Will was emotional. His heart was always threatening to burst with feeling, and no matter how hard he tried, a bit of that emotion always snuck through the cracks. Right now, that feeling was burning resentment, guilt-ridden and sickening. And what made the resentment burn— no matter how much Will wished it wouldn't, how much he wished he didn't care— was the way Steve coasted through life while Will had crashed and burned since he was born.
Steve didn't know what it was like to be scorned by an entire town. Steve watched it happen, stopped to stare, laughed a little when someone whispered zombie boy and moved on. Steve didn't know what it was like to be hated for something that Will hadn't even had a name for while King Steve ruled over Hawkins High. Steve had watched, silently encouraging, as the town assumed he'd been kidnapped by a queer like Will.
At best, Steve was complicit, and at worst, he spearheaded the hatred. Will wouldn't be surprised if someone like Troy used to look up to him.
"You know you could leave," said Will, tiredly. "You know how to use that boatload of Harrington cash and charm, right? If I'm such a freak, use it to get out of being stuck with me."
All his friends saw Steve as a protector, a brave, upstanding guy who chose to hang out with a bunch of scraggly teenagers because he liked them. Dustin told Will once that Steve was awesome— a complete dork, he'd said, grinning, but awesome— and Lucas had said he's genuinely a good guy, you know? I mean, he doesn't look it, but he's good. Even goes to all my games. And sure, Mike had nothing to offer in support of Steve, but Will's dislike was seperate from Mike's disdain towards, as he put it, insufferable jocks. Even Robin was best friends with him, and Robin was anything but the sort of person who would hang out with someone who got called a king back in highschool.
A nagging part of him couldn't look past how Steve used to be when he hadn't heard so much as a hint of an apology. Part of him looked at Steve and tensed, waiting for the insult Will was sure would fly out of his mouth, and part of him couldn't listen to Steve's words when he only heard Jonathan. He called me a queer, said it wasn't a surprise what happened to Will, hell, wish I could beat him to shit again. Entitled jackass— cue Jonathan's hoarse breathing and Joyce's murmured comforts, and cue Will's strangled gasp as he stumbled back to his room. No one in this town wanted me back, he'd thought, twelve and terrified. The way the townsfolk talked about him only made Will sure that he'd been taken to Hell because he belonged there.
"Oh." Steve's face fell a little, frowning for a fraction of a second. "So that's what you're—" and he stopped himself, shaking his head and swallowing his words— "Okay. I get it."
You don't. You can't. Will stayed quiet, letting Steve talk on, letting guilt and resentment eat away at his stomach.
"For the record, I don't have charm," Steve continued, laughing slightly, "not anymore." It fell flat when he noticed how Will was looking at him, resigned and waiting like he knew Steve would turn on him. No matter how hard Will tried to push that face away, it wouldn't budge. "Can't deny the cash, though. And— you know I don't think you're a freak, right?" He had his hands up in defense, like he was genuinely offended Will saw him that way. Seriously? "You're a, uh— you're a good kid. I wouldn't be here if you weren't."
Steve sounded like he thought Will was supposed to fear being a freak. Like he hadn't gotten used to it after being different all his life, like straying from the norm was something he had to hate.
Yeah, Will couldn't help himself then. He laughed, dry and humorless, before catching himself and swallowing it down. "You say it like it's such a bad thing."
That got Will something. He wasn't trying for it, but he still managed to make Steve flounder. His eyes went wide and he blinked hard; once, twice, then for a third time as Will's sentence seemed to reverberate around in his brain. Will could almost hear it hitting the sides of his skull. Was Dustin's sheer existence not enough to convince Steve that some people didn't mind being out of place?
"It's just Steve, you know," he said, finally. "Not Harrington."
"Don't call me Byers, then."
Silence thickened in the air. Will took a breath, trying to calm himself. It would've worked, too, if the bushes hadn't started to rustle.
Steve didn't seem to notice. He was still staring at Will, head tilted listlessly, whereas Will had been on high alert since the age of six. It took the tiniest of noises to put him on edge, and shaking foliage was more than enough; instantly, his eyes darted to the trees, gripping the handle of his gun tight as their leaves quivered, squaring his shoulders and clicking off the safety—
A snarl ripped through the forest, low and heavy. The leaves stopped rustling.
That got Steve's attention. He stepped in front of Will near instantly, white-knuckling his nail bat as the snarls drifted closer. Pounding footsteps echoed through the trees. "Stay behind me," said Steve, teeth grit. "Stay behind—"
When the Demodog sprang from the bushes, Will realized Steve wouldn't be calling anyone by their last name anymore, not if he didn't act fast. The monster was rushing straight towards him, mouth extending wide and claws splayed out to pierce perfectly through Steve's thin polo. He'd be a shield for Will, fall over and knock Will down flat, and leave them both ready to become dog food. They were close to that already, too; Steve was firing wildly with one hand, swinging with the other, blinded by fear as his hands shook around his weapons. A few shells bounced off the distant trees, hitting the trunks with a grim click.
They were going to die if Will didn't do something, but he was frozen. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe; he was frozen, and Steve was going to die, and he was going to die. He'd spent the last few minutes of his life resenting the person he was going to die with, and fuck, Steve's handgun had run out of ammo. Will could hear the sad, pathetic chink as he fumbled with the gun, how Steve himself made a frustrated noise as the Demodog stalked closer to the both of them. The sound practically reverberated in Will's chest— he couldn't die here, not like this, he couldn't let Steve die here—
Will blinked, and he was standing in front of Steve, aiming round after round into the Demodog's open maw. Eyes on your target, he heard his father murmur, align your sights, square your shoulders. Get the fucker in the brain, right under its eye. He wasn't shooting a rabbit, but the advice worked as much as it made his stomach churn.
"Shit," he heard Steve murmur from behind him. The Demodog paused mid-spring, mouth glistening from a good five rounds to the throat. It fell to the ground and twitched feebly, dying, but Will kept going— what do you mean, you don't want it to die? Don't be a pansy, come on, take a look at its head. See if your aim was off. His father was hours away and still snarling in his ear.
A distinct click alerted Will that he'd exhausted his bullets. He kept his hands tight on the gun, grip shaking as he pointed it to the now-still monster, eyes blurry and dim. We're gonna do that again, next weekend. Make you into less of a god damn coward.
"Byers!" A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Will flinched hard, shaking it off as he kept his gun trained on the Demodog. It could still get up. He had to stay focused, vigilant, his father reminded him, you never know when a fucker's gonna steal your kill. "Fucking hell, dude, it's dead. It's been dead."
The hand came back to his shoulder, and Lonnie's voice blinked out from his mind, putting Will back in his body. His shaking, sweating, sour-mouthed body, seeming awfully small compared to the gun in his hand. For a moment, he felt like a child again, holding a rifle too large for him to defend against a threat even larger.
Slowly, Will lowered his gun. He kept his hand on the trigger, twitching as he watched the Demodog's still body. "It's just Will," he said, shakily.
"Okay," said Steve. He took a deep breath, swallowing thickly at the sight of a bloodied corpse. Will couldn't blame him. "Okay, Will. We need to work on your form."