Chapter Text
Will knew something was wrong back in Lenora. He just didn't know how to confront everyone. How do you even begin telling your mom, brother, and estranged best friend that they had missed your birthday?
The words had stuck in his throat that entire day, lodged somewhere between his heart and his mouth, too heavy to force out. He'd waited all morning for someone to say something—anything. A "happy birthday," a hug, even just a knowing smile. But nothing came. His mom had been distracted, talking about her job, which he later learned was actually a lie (she had found Hopper). Jonathan had been high, eyes glazed and distant. And Mike—fresh off the plane for spring break—had his attention fixed on El, the way he always did.
Will had woken up that morning with cautious optimism. Birthdays had never been huge celebrations in the Byers household—money was always tight, and after everything with the Upside Down, the Mind Flayer, the move to California, celebrations felt almost frivolous. But they'd always been acknowledged. Always. His mom would make his favorite breakfast—chocolate chip pancakes with way too much syrup. Jonathan would give him something small but meaningful—a mixtape, a sketch, a book he thought Will would like. And before everything got complicated, Mike would call first thing in the morning, would be the first voice Will heard saying "happy birthday."
This year felt different before it even began. Mike would actually be here, in California, arriving on Will's birthday like some kind of cosmic sign. Will had lain awake the night before, staring at his ceiling, imagining how it might go. Maybe Mike would remember. Maybe he'd planned it this way on purpose, arranging his spring break to coincide with Will's birthday. Maybe tomorrow—today—would be the day things finally went back to normal between them.
The hope had felt fragile even then, like something made of glass that Will was carrying with shaking hands. But he'd let himself hold it anyway.
But that morning in Lenora, Will had come out to the kitchen to find his mom already dressed for work, gulping down coffee and looking stressed. No pancakes. No "happy birthday, honey." Just a distracted "morning, sweetie" as she answered yet another phone call.
Will had stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching his mom pace back and forth with the phone pressed to her ear, her voice low and urgent. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but her body language screamed stress—shoulders tense, free hand gesturing frantically, that little crease between her eyebrows that meant she was worried about something.
"Mom?" Will had started, his voice small, tentative. Hoping to catch her attention between words, between breaths.
His mom had glanced at him, and for just a second, Will had thought she would remember. Thought he saw recognition flickering in her eyes—oh, March 22nd, my baby's birthday—but then whoever was on the phone said something that made her expression shift back to worry.
"I've gotta answer this, baby. There's cereal in the cupboard. Make sure Jonathan gets up for school, okay?" And she'd turned away, already moving toward her bedroom, the phone still pressed to her ear, her voice already responding to whatever crisis was happening on the other end of the line.
Her bedroom door had clicked shut behind her, leaving Will standing in the kitchen with the words dying on his lips.
The silence that followed felt enormous. Will had stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, waiting for it to open again. Waiting for his mom to come back out, to slap her forehead and say "Oh my God, Will, I almost forgot—happy birthday, sweetheart!"
But the door stayed closed. And the muffled sound of his mom's voice continued through the wall, animated and stressed and focused on something that wasn't him.
Will had told himself she'd remember later. She was just stressed. Things had been hard since the move—new job, new city, trying to make ends meet without child support from Lonnie. The bills were piling up. The rent was higher here than it had been in Hawkins. She was probably on the phone with the landlord or the electric company or someone equally important and urgent.
She'd remember at dinner. She had to.
He'd poured himself a bowl of cereal—generic brand, because that's all they could afford—and sat at the kitchen table alone. The house was quiet except for the muffled sound of his mom's voice and the crunch of his cereal. No birthday pancakes. No candles. No family gathered around to sing off-key while Will blushed and smiled.
Just Will. Alone. On his birthday.
He'd tried not to let it sting. Tried to tell himself it was fine, that birthdays weren't a big deal anyway, that he was fifteen now and probably too old to care about this stuff. But the hurt had settled in his chest anyway, heavy and persistent.
Jonathan had stumbled out of his room half an hour later, eyes bloodshot, moving slowly. He'd been wearing the same clothes as yesterday, his hair a mess, that telltale sweet smell clinging to him that Will had learned to recognize. Weed. Jonathan was high. Again.
Will had tried again, hope flickering back to life despite everything.
"Hey, so, did you remember—"
"Dude, not so loud," Jonathan had groaned, pressing his palms to his temples like Will's normal speaking voice was physically painful. "I've got the worst headache."
"But Jonathan, it's—"
"Can we talk later? I really need to just... sit in silence for a minute. And then Argyle is driving us to the airport a little later to pick up Mike, yeah?"
Mike. Right. They were picking up Mike today. Mike, who was flying in for spring break. Mike, who Will hadn't seen in person in eight months. Mike, who arrived today, on Will's birthday, which should have meant something but apparently didn't.
Will had wanted to push. Wanted to grab Jonathan by the shoulders and shake him and say It's my birthday. How can you not remember? You've known me my entire life. You were there when I was born. How can you forget?
But Jonathan had looked so miserable, so clearly struggling, that Will had backed off. Had swallowed down the hurt. Jonathan was clearly dealing with something—the move, the rough patch with Nancy, the weight of being the oldest and having to help support the family. It was fine. He'd remember later too.
So Will had nodded and retreated to his room, where he'd sat on his bed and stared at his calendar. March 22nd. Circled in red marker. His birthday, marked and noted and impossible to miss.
Except everyone had missed it.
The morning had dragged on. Will had tried to distract himself with drawing, but his heart wasn't in it. Had tried reading, but the words blurred together on the page. Had considered calling Dustin or Lucas back in Hawkins, but what would he even say? "Hey, just calling to remind you it's my birthday"? That felt pathetic.
So he'd just... waited. For his mom to finish her call and remember. For Jonathan to sober up enough to realize. For Mike to arrive and somehow, miraculously, acknowledge that today was special.
Then Mike had shown up, and Will's heart had lifted despite itself.
They'd all piled into Argyle's van—Will, El, Jonathan, and Argyle—and driven to the airport. Will had sat in the back, watching California scenery roll past, his stomach twisted with anticipation. Mike was coming. His best friend was finally, actually coming to visit. After eight months of barely any contact, Mike was going to be here. In person. Real and solid and present.
And it was Will's birthday.
Surely that meant something. Surely Mike would remember. Mike always remembered. Even when they were fighting, even when things were weird between them, Mike had never forgotten Will's birthday. Never.
The airport had been chaos—people everywhere, announcements echoing through the terminal, the smell of coffee and cleaning products and recycled air. They'd waited at the gate, Will's heart hammering in his chest, his eyes scanning every face for Mike's.
And then there he was.
Mike Wheeler, taller than Will remembered, his dark hair flopping into his eyes, wearing a brightly colored shirt and visor that didn’t look like his normal attire at all. He'd been scanning the crowd too, and when his eyes had landed on El—El, who had come along to pick him up, of course—his whole face had lit up in a way that made Will's chest ache.
Mike had rushed forward, had swept El into a hug that lasted too long, had held her like he'd been drowning and she was air. And Will had stood there, off to the side, waiting his turn. Waiting for Mike to pull back and see him and smile that smile that used to be just for Will.
But when Mike had finally released El and turned to greet the rest of them, his eyes had passed right over Will. Had landed on Jonathan, on Argyle, had given them each a nod and a "hey, man," and then had turned back to El like she was the only person in the world.
"Will's here too," El had said, and it had taken her saying his name for Mike to actually look at him.
"Oh. Hey, Will."
That was it. "Hey, Will." Not "happy birthday." Not a hug. Not even a proper smile. Just a distracted acknowledgment before Mike's attention had slid right back to El.
They'd walked out of the airport together—Mike and El hand in hand, Jonathan and Argyle talking about music, and Will trailing behind like an afterthought. The whole drive back to the house, Mike had been focused on El. Asking her questions, telling her stories about Hawkins, laughing at things she said.
Will had sat in the back of the van, pressed against the window, invisible.
And Will had told himself it was fine. Mike had just gotten off a long flight. He was jet-lagged. Excited to see El. It made sense that he'd be focused on his girlfriend. Will would get his turn later. They'd have time to catch up. Mike would remember eventually.
But Mike never did.
They'd spent the afternoon unpacking Mike's stuff—he was staying at the Byers' house for the week—and Mike had talked nonstop about Hawkins. About Dustin's new radio to talk to his girlfriend Susie. About Lucas and the basketball team. About some campaign Eddie had run and how they had beat Vecna with Erica rolling a D20.
He'd talked about everyone except Will. And he hadn't mentioned birthdays at all.
El had suggested they go out. Do something fun. And she'd picked the roller rink, because she'd been wanting to try roller skating and thought it would be fun with Mike there. Will had hoped, even then, that maybe at the rink someone would remember. That maybe they'd planned a surprise. That maybe this was all leading to something.
But no.
They'd spent hours at the roller rink—Will had watched Mike and El skate together, watched Angela and her friends mock El, watched everything fall apart in spectacular fashion. And through it all, not one person had said "happy birthday."
Not when they'd arrived. Not during the chaos with Angela. Not on the drive home in Argyle's van, everyone silent and shaken. Not during the tense, awful aftermath where Mike and El had fought and Will had tried to make himself even smaller than usual.
The entire day had passed. Will's fifteenth birthday. And no one had remembered.
By the time they'd gotten home that night, after the disaster at the rink, after Mike and El's fight, after everything had fallen apart, Will had been too exhausted to bring it up. What would he even say? "Hey, by the way, it was my birthday and you all forgot"? It felt pathetic. Desperate. Like he was begging for attention, for someone to care.
And maybe that's exactly what it was. Maybe Will was just being needy, demanding recognition he didn't deserve. Maybe fifteen wasn't even an important birthday. Maybe he should just let it go.
So he'd swallowed it down. Buried it deep where all the other hurts lived—the casual dismissals, the "we're friends" repetition that felt more like Mike trying to convince himself than stating a fact, the way El got all of Mike's attention and Will got the scraps.
Will had gone to bed that night alone his room, he had hoped to share with Mike but Mike had insisted on staying on the couch. He'd lain in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the house settling, the muffled voices of his mom and Murray talking in the living room, the distant sounds of traffic outside.
Happy birthday to me, he'd thought bitterly. Fifteen years old and completely invisible.
Will had told himself it was fine. People forgot things. Life got busy and complicated, especially with everything they'd been through. But birthdays weren't supposed to be forgettable, were they? Especially not to the people who were supposed to love you the most.
The logic didn't hold up, not really, and Will knew it. Because his mom had never forgotten before. Not when they were living in Hawkins paycheck to paycheck after his dad left. Not when she was working three jobs to keep them afloat. Not during the weeks after he'd come back from the Upside Down, traumatized and hollow. She'd always, always remembered his birthday.
She'd once told him about the day he was born—how it had been the scariest and most beautiful day of her life. How she'd held him for the first time and thought he was the most perfect thing she'd ever seen. How she'd promised herself she'd never let anything hurt him, would protect him no matter what.
And she had. She'd fought monsters to get him back from the Upside Down. Had moved across the country to keep him safe. Had believed him when everyone else thought he was crazy.
So how could she forget the day he was born? How could that happen?
The question haunted him, but he pushed it aside. Pushed it down with all the other questions he didn't want to examine too closely. Questions like: why did Mike barely look at him anymore? Why did Jonathan seem annoyed by his mere presence? Why did he feel like he was constantly apologizing for existing?
He'd gotten good at swallowing things down. Good at making himself smaller, quieter, less of an inconvenience. He swallowed the skating rink fight with Mike down to the best of his ability too, even though Mike's words still echoed in his head some nights. "We're friends, we're friends!" Repeated like a mantra, like Mike was trying to convince himself as much as Will.
The skating rink. God, the skating rink.
Will could still feel the humiliation burning through him, the way his stomach had dropped when Mike had shouted those words. Because the thing was, Mike hadn't needed to clarify. Will hadn't been confused about their relationship status—hadn't been trying to imply they were anything other than friends. He'd just been trying to tell Mike that he missed him, that their friendship mattered, that things felt wrong between them and Will wanted to fix it.
They'd been looking for El after she had been humiliated, Mike was going frantic checking everywhere, and Will had finally worked up the courage to say something. To address the elephant in the room, the distance that had grown between them like a canyon neither of them knew how to cross.
"And us?," Will had asked, and his voice had been shaking because this was scary, putting it out there, making himself vulnerable.
And Mike had looked at him with this expression—panic, maybe, or discomfort—and had said, "We're friends. We're friends!"
The repetition had felt desperate. The emphasis had felt defensive. And Will had wanted to say Yes, I know we're friends. I'm not asking for anything more. I just want what we used to have. I just want you to see me again.
But Mike had taken it as... what? A threat? An assumption? Will still wasn't sure. All he knew was that Mike had felt the need to firmly, explicitly establish that they were "just friends," and the emphasis on the "just" had felt like a door slamming in Will's face.
“But we used to be best friends.” Will replied instead.
Will had replayed that conversation a hundred times since then, dissecting every word, every inflection. Had he said something wrong? Had he pushed too hard? Was Mike uncomfortable with him in some way Will didn't understand?
The worst part was that Mike had been right—they were friends. Just friends. That's all they'd ever been, all they could ever be. Will knew that. Had known it for a while now, ever since he'd started to understand the feelings that twisted in his chest when he looked at Mike, feelings he couldn't name and didn't want to examine too closely because naming them would make them real, and making them real would make them something he'd have to deal with.
But hearing Mike say it, hearing that slight panic in his voice, that need to establish boundaries Will hadn't even been trying to cross—it had hurt. It had hurt in a way Will couldn't quite articulate, even to himself.
It had felt like rejection. Like Mike was pushing him away preemptively, before Will could even ask for what he really wanted (which he wouldn't, could never, because that was impossible and wrong and would ruin everything).
So he'd swallowed that down too. Added it to the collection of things he didn't let himself think about.
But now, being back in Hawkins, it seemed like things had gotten worse. So much worse.
At first, Will had attributed it to the chaos of moving back, of getting resettled, of dealing with the aftermath of Vecna and Max's condition and all the trauma they'd collectively endured. Everyone was processing. Everyone was dealing with their own stuff. It made sense that he'd fall through the cracks for a little while.
Except it wasn't a little while. It was constant. Persistent. And it was getting more pronounced, not better.
The move back to Hawkins should have been a relief. Should have felt like coming home. They'd left California suddenly, urgently, in the wake of everything that had happened with the military and the lab and Vecna. The Byers house in Hawkins had been destroyed, so they'd moved into a small rental on the edge of town—not their old place, but close enough. Close enough to be familiar.
Will had thought things would get better once they were back. Back where they belonged, where they had history and friends and roots. Away from California and Angela and the constant reminders that they didn't fit in there.
But it hadn't gotten better. It had gotten worse.
He felt like a ghost in his own house now—translucent, easily looked through, barely there.
The realization had come gradually, in small moments that accumulated like water damage—invisible at first, then suddenly everywhere, rotting everything from the inside out.
Jonathan constantly ignored him, which had never happened before. His brother, who had always been his protector, his confidant, the one person who always saw him, now looked right past him. Will would try to catch his eye across the living room, would hover in the doorway of Jonathan's room hoping for an invitation to come in and talk like they used to, like how he said he missed as well. But Jonathan was always busy. Always heading out with Argyle, or holed up with Nancy (they'd gotten closer almost immediately upon returning to Hawkins), or just... gone. Emotionally if not physically.
The first time Will had knocked on Jonathan's door after they'd settled back in Hawkins, his brother had barely looked up from the community college brochure he was reading.
"Hey, do you maybe want to—"
"Kind of busy right now, Will."
Will had stood there for a moment, waiting for Jonathan to realize what he'd said, to look up with that apologetic smile and make room for him anyway. That's what the old Jonathan would have done. The Jonathan who used to let Will hide in his room during their parents' fights, who would put on music and let Will draw while he developed photos. The Jonathan who had held him when he'd woken up screaming from Upside Down nightmares, who hadn't said a word, had just held him until the shaking stopped. The Jonathan who had taught him to develop photos and drive and how to tell when someone was lying to you.
That Jonathan would have set aside whatever he was doing, would have made space for Will without hesitation. Would have seen that Will needed him and responded accordingly.
But this Jonathan just kept reading, kept his eyes down, and Will had backed away silently, closing the door with a soft click that felt impossibly loud in the quiet house.
It happened again two days later. Will had knocked, tentative, and Jonathan had called out "kind of busy" without even asking who it was. And then again the day after that. Until Will stopped knocking altogether.
Now he'd lie in bed at night, listening to the sound of Jonathan's music filtering through the wall that separated their rooms, and feel utterly alone despite being separated by just a few feet and some drywall. Sometimes he'd hear Jonathan laugh—at something Argyle said on the phone, or something on TV—and Will would wonder what it would take to make Jonathan laugh like that with him again. Wonder if he even could. Wonder if Jonathan would even notice if Will stopped trying entirely.
There was one night, about a week after they'd moved back, when Will had worked up the courage to try one more time. Jonathan had been in the kitchen making a sandwich—turkey and cheese, the way he always made it—and Will had come in, had started making his own sandwich, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother at the counter like they used to. Like when they were kids and would make elaborate sandwiches together, competing to see who could stack theirs higher, laughing when everything inevitably fell apart.
"So, how are things with you and Nancy?" Will had offered, trying to find common ground, trying to connect through Jonathan's relationship since nothing else seemed to work.
"Mm-hmm," Jonathan had responded, not looking up from his task. Not really listening. Just making sounds that approximated engagement without actually engaging.
"Are you guys, like, still okay? I know you had been arguing a lot back in California, so I guess I was wondering if things are better now?"
"Yeah."
"That's good. That's... that's really good, Jonathan. I know how much she means to you."
"Yep."
The monosyllabic responses had felt like walls going up, brick by brick. Will had tried one more time, desperation creeping into his voice.
"I was thinking maybe we could hang out this weekend? Like we used to? Maybe drive around, listen to music, just... talk? I feel like we haven't really talked in a while and I miss—"
Jonathan had paused then, had actually looked at Will, and for a moment, Will had thought he'd gotten through. Thought he saw something like recognition flicker in Jonathan's eyes—a moment of Oh right, my little brother, when did I stop paying attention to him?
But then Jonathan's eyes had gone distant again, unfocused, like he was looking at something far away. Or like he was looking through Will rather than at him.
"Maybe," he'd said. "I might have plans with Nancy. I'll let you know."
He never let Will know. And when that weekend came, Jonathan had indeed gone out with Nancy, leaving Will alone in the house with their mom and Hopper and El, feeling like an intruder in his own home.
Will had wanted to confront him about it. Had wanted to corner Jonathan and demand to know what had changed, why his brother didn't see him anymore. But how did you even start that conversation? "Hey, why are you ignoring me?" sounded petulant, childish, like Will was whining for attention.
And maybe he was. Maybe that's all this was—Will being needy and demanding and unable to accept that people had other priorities. That he wasn't the center of anyone's universe anymore.
But it wasn't just his brother.
His mother forgot about cooking for more than four people, instead having cooked for her, Jonathan, El, and Hopper. There was never enough for him.
The first time it happened, Will had come to the dinner table and froze. Four plates. Four sets of silverware. Four chairs pulled out. He'd counted them twice, thinking maybe he'd miscounted, that his eyes were playing tricks on him. Maybe there was a fifth place set somewhere he wasn't seeing. Maybe his brain was just tired and misinterpreting what was right in front of him.
But no—there were only four.
Four plates of spaghetti. Four glasses of water. Four forks, four napkins, four chairs positioned around the table. Enough for Joyce, Jonathan, El, and Hopper. Not enough for Will.
"Oh!" His mom's hand had flown to her mouth when she saw him standing there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the table. The guilt that flooded her face somehow made it worse—made it real in a way Will had been trying to deny. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. I just—I don't know where my head was. Here, let me—"
She'd scrambled to make him a plate, piecing together leftovers while everyone else sat in uncomfortable silence. Hopper had looked at Joyce with concern. Jonathan had stared at his food. El had watched Will with those wide, assessing eyes, curious and pitying in equal measure.
Will had forced himself to smile, to say it was okay, that he wasn't that hungry anyway. The lie had tasted bitter on his tongue, mixing with the pasta his mom had hastily prepared. But he could feel El's eyes on him throughout the meal, curious and pitying, and that was almost unbearable.
El, who had fit into his family so seamlessly it was like she'd always been there. El, who his mom doted on, checking in with her constantly, asking about her feelings, her dreams, her adjustment to normal life. El, who Hopper was building a life around, learning to be a father to, protecting with that fierce devotion that had once been directed at Will during his worst moments. El, who Jonathan actually talked to at dinner, asking about her day, her feelings, her experiences with genuine interest and engagement.
El, who had slipped into the space Will used to occupy and filled it so completely that there was no room left for him.
Will didn't hate El. He couldn't. She'd been through too much, had suffered too deeply, deserved all the love and safety his mom could give her. She'd been tortured in a lab, used as a weapon, isolated from normal human contact for most of her life. She'd lost Hopper, gotten him back, almost lost him again. She'd been through her own version of hell, and Will would never begrudge her the family and love she'd found with the Byers.
But watching her get everything Will was losing—his mom's attention, Hopper's protection, Jonathan's engagement, a sense of belonging in this house—it created a complicated knot of emotions in his chest that he didn't know how to untangle.
Jealousy felt too small a word for it. Resentment too cruel. It was more like... grief. Grief for the family he'd had before, the one where he'd felt secure in his place, certain of his importance. The family where his mom had dropped everything to fight for him, where Jonathan had put his whole life on hold to protect him, where he'd mattered most.
Now that certainty had eroded, leaving him standing on shifting ground, never quite sure if he was welcome or just tolerated.
The dinner thing happened again three days later. And then twice the next week.
Each time, his mother's guilt was palpable, crushing. She would apologize profusely, her eyes welling with tears, her hands shaking as she scrambled to fix her mistake. And Will would feel awful—awful for making her feel bad, awful for needing to be remembered, awful for existing in a way that required accommodation.
He felt bad bringing it up but he also felt anger at being forgotten—a hot, shameful anger that he didn't know what to do with. Was he supposed to just not mention it? Let himself go hungry? Show up to the dinner table every night and politely ask if someone could please remember to feed him?
But mentioning it made his mom cry, made Hopper clear his throat awkwardly, made Jonathan finally look at him but with annoyance, like Will was causing problems. Like Will was being dramatic by expecting to be included in family meals.
"It's okay, Mom," Will would say, the same words every time. "Really, it's fine. I should have said something earlier. I should have reminded you. It's my fault for not speaking up."
But it wasn't fine. And it shouldn't be his responsibility to remind his own mother that he existed, that he needed to eat, that he was still her son.
The anger scared him. Will wasn't used to being angry at his mom. She'd sacrificed so much for him and Jonathan, had fought monsters and governments and her own fear to bring him home from the Upside Down. She loved him. He knew she loved him.
Or at least, he used to know that. Used to be certain of it.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
So why did she keep forgetting him?
That question kept him up at night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of his house settling around him. The creak of floorboards. The hum of the refrigerator. The distant sound of traffic from the main road. And underneath it all, the question: Why? What had changed? What had he done wrong?
Maybe he'd become too much of a burden. Maybe after everything—the Upside Down, the Mind Flayer, the move to California and back, the constant worry and fear and trauma—maybe his mom was just tired of dealing with him. Tired of having a son who came with so much baggage, so much history, so much damage.
Maybe it was easier to focus on El, who was starting fresh, who didn't come with years of trauma attached to every interaction. Sure, El had her own trauma, her own damage. But it was different. She was powerful. Special. Important in ways Will had never been.
Will was just the kid who'd been taken. The victim. The one who needed saving over and over again. Maybe his mom was tired of saving him. Maybe Jonathan was tired of being the protective older brother, tired of always having to worry about Will, to check on him, to make sure he was okay. Maybe they'd all just... moved on.
Moved on to El, who needed them in ways that felt more important. Who could fight monsters instead of just running from them. Who could save the world instead of needing to be saved.
The thought was devastating. But it also made a terrible kind of sense.
So he started making himself scarce during dinner. Started grabbing whatever he could find in the kitchen earlier in the evening—a sandwich, some leftovers, whatever was available—and eating alone in his room. It was easier that way. If he wasn't there, they couldn't forget to include him. If he removed himself from the equation, he wasn't setting himself up for disappointment.
The logic was sound, even if it made him feel even more invisible.
He'd sit on his bed, plate balanced on his lap, and listen to the murmur of conversation from the dining room. Hear his mom laugh at something Hopper said. Hear Hopper's gruff voice telling some story from his day. Hear El's quiet questions and Jonathan's replies, actually engaged, actually present in a way he never seemed to be with Will anymore.
They sounded like a family. A complete family. One that didn't need him to be whole.
Some nights he'd skip dinner entirely, claiming he wasn't hungry when his mom called him to the table (on the nights when she remembered to call him), just to see if anyone would notice. Would push back. Would insist he eat something, would be concerned about his health, would show any sign that his presence or absence mattered.
But they never did. They'd just accept his absence with distracted nods—"Okay, honey, if you're sure"—and go on without him.
And it wasn't just his family. It was also his friends.
Dustin was always with Steve nowadays, or hanging with Mike and Lucas. Will had tried calling him twice last week—the phone had rung and rung and rung until he'd hung up, embarrassed, hoping no one had been home to ignore it. Because the alternative—that someone had been home and had simply chosen not to answer when they heard it was Will—was too painful to consider.
When he'd finally caught Dustin at the arcade, his friend had been enthusiastic to talk to him but distracted, already looking over Will's shoulder for the others.
"Will! Hey, man!" Dustin had greeted him with a smile that seemed genuine enough, that megawatt grin that had always been so infectious. "Where have you been?"
The question had stung more than Dustin probably intended. Where had he been? He'd been right here. In Hawkins. Available. Waiting for someone to call, to invite him out, to remember he existed. He'd been exactly where he'd always been.
"Around," Will had said, trying to match Dustin's casual tone. "Just... around. How have you been? How's Suzie?"
"Oh man, Suzie's great! We're planning this whole thing for when she visits after everything gets cleaned up with Vecna, I'm gonna show her around Hawkins, introduce her to everyone—well, everyone who's left, I guess. And oh, you should see the upgrades I made to Cerebro! Steve helped me recalibrate the antenna array and now we can pick up signals from even further away. It's so cool, Will, you'd love it. And Robin has this theory about—"
And Dustin had launched into an explanation that Will only half-understood, his hands gesturing wildly, his eyes bright with excitement. He talked about Steve and Robin like they were his primary friend group now, like the Party was something from the past. He mentioned projects and inside jokes and experiences that Will knew nothing about, that had happened while Will was in California, that Will would never be part of.
Will had listened, had tried to follow, had attempted to contribute to the conversation. But every time he'd opened his mouth to add something, to share his own thoughts, Dustin had kept talking, steamrolling over him in his enthusiasm. It wasn't malicious. Will knew Dustin well enough to know that. Dustin had always talked a lot, had always gotten excited about things and rambled. It was part of his charm.
But before, Dustin had also listened. Had asked Will questions. Had cared about Will's opinions and thoughts. Had made space in the conversation for Will to exist.
Now, Dustin just talked at him rather than with him.
"Hey, we should hang out sometime," Will had offered when Dustin finally paused for breath, trying to sound casual even though his heart was pounding. "Maybe play some D&D? I know Eddie's gone, but we could still run a campaign. I've been working on some character ideas—"
"Yeah, definitely! That sounds awesome! I'll call you," Dustin had said with a grin, and Will had felt a flicker of hope.
Then Lucas had shown up, and Mike right behind him, and suddenly Dustin's attention had shifted completely. He'd turned away mid-conversation, greeting Lucas and Mike with an elaborate handshake they'd apparently developed while Will was in California—some complicated series of movements that ended in a fist bump and finger guns. It looked practiced, familiar, like something they'd done a thousand times.
Something that didn't include Will.
And just like that, Will had ceased to exist.
The three of them had started talking—about Max's condition (no change), about a new comic book series (Will hadn't heard of it), about plans for the weekend (that Will wasn't invited to). Will had stood there for a moment, watching the three of them interact, watching the easy camaraderie that used to include him. Waiting for someone to turn back, to pull him into the conversation, to remember he was still standing right there.
No one did.
Will had slipped away after a few minutes, and he was pretty sure nobody noticed. He'd walked out of the arcade, gotten on his bike, and ridden home, and the whole time he'd waited for someone to call out to him. To realize he'd left. To care.
But nobody had.
Dustin never called.
Will had waited for three days, keeping close to the phone, jumping every time it rang. But when it was for him, it was always for Johnathan or El.
Never Dustin. Never any of them from the Party.
On the fourth day, Will had called Dustin back. The phone had rung eight times before someone picked up. Eight long rings while Will's anxiety built, while he convinced himself that Dustin wasn't home, that this was a wasted call, that he should just hang up.
"Henderson residence," Mrs. Henderson's cheerful voice had answered, and Will had felt a rush of relief mixed with dread.
"Hi, Mrs. Henderson. It's Will. Is Dustin home?"
"Oh, Will! How nice to hear from you, honey. I'm afraid Dustin just left with Steve. They're going to be out all afternoon, I think. Something about helping Steve pick out a new car? I don't really understand it, but you know how boys are with their cars. Can I take a message?"
"No, that's... that's okay. Thank you."
He'd hung up and stared at the phone for a long time, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest. Dustin had said he'd call. Had said they'd hang out. Had said "definitely" with that big smile like he'd meant it.
But when it came down to it, Steve was the priority. Steve, who was older and cooler and could drive. Steve, who had been there fighting Vecna while Will was in California being useless. Steve, who mattered in ways Will apparently didn't anymore.
And Mike, and Lucas, and the new dynamics they'd built while Will was gone. The Party had reformed without him, had filled in the gaps his absence had created, and the shape they'd taken didn't include a spot for Will anymore.
Lucas was always at the hospital or with Mike. Will understood that—Max was hurt, possibly dying, in a coma with no clear prognosis. Lucas was going through hell. Will didn't begrudge him that, would never expect Lucas to prioritize anything over Max right now. If someone Will loved was in the hospital, he'd be there every day too.
But it still left a gap, another person who used to be there but wasn't anymore.
He'd gone to visit Max once, after Lucas had mentioned (in passing, not really to Will but Will had been in earshot) that visitors were allowed. Will had brought some of his drawings—landscapes, mostly, peaceful scenes he thought might be nice for Max to have when she woke up. If she woke up. Scenes that might remind her that the world was still beautiful, still worth fighting for.
He'd spent hours on them, getting every detail right. The way light filtered through trees. The reflection of clouds on water. The gentle curve of hills against the horizon. He'd poured all his hope into those drawings, all his belief that Max would wake up and see them and know that people were waiting for her.
But when he'd arrived at the hospital, Lucas had been in the room with Max's mom, and both of them had looked at him with polite confusion when he'd appeared in the doorway.
The hospital had smelled like antiseptic and artificial air, that particular scent that reminded Will of his own hospital stay after the Upside Down. He'd stood in the doorway of Max's room, clutching his drawings, and watched recognition fail to dawn on the faces of the two people inside.
"Can I help you?" Mrs. Mayfield had asked, not unkindly, but with the tone of someone addressing a stranger. Someone who didn't belong.
"I'm... I'm here to see Max. I'm a friend. Will Byers?"
Recognition had flickered across Lucas's face, but it had been slow, uncertain. Like he was trying to place where he knew Will from. Like Will was someone he'd met at a party once, or a friend of a friend whose name he couldn't quite remember.
Not like they'd been friends for years. Not like they'd fought monsters together. Not like Will had been there when Lucas and Max first got together, had listened to Lucas stress about asking her to the Snow Ball, had helped him pick out what to wear.
"Oh," Lucas had said finally, and something had clicked, but it had taken too long. Way too long. "Right. Um. Max isn't really up for visitors right now. She's still... it's not a good time."
"I brought her some drawings," Will had said, holding up the folder like evidence. Like proof that he belonged here, that he had a right to visit. "I thought maybe when she wakes up, she could... I don't know. I thought she might like them."
Mrs. Mayfield had smiled at that, the kind of smile you give to well-meaning strangers. "That's very sweet of you. You can leave them with the nurse if you'd like."
Not "thank you for thinking of her." Not "Max would love these." Just a polite dismissal, a socially acceptable way of saying please leave now.
Will had nodded, had stammered out an apology and a hope that Max would get better soon. Had left the drawings with a nurse who'd also looked at him like a stranger, and fled, embarrassment burning through him.
Lucas hadn't been lying—Max clearly wasn't conscious, wasn't receiving visitors in any meaningful sense. The machines around her bed had beeped steadily, her eyes had been closed, her face peaceful but empty. She wasn't there to see anyone, friend or stranger.
But the way Lucas had looked at him, that momentary blank confusion before recognition set in, it had shaken Will to his core. Lucas was supposed to know him. They'd been friends for years. They'd huddled in Mike's basement planning campaigns. They'd fought the Mind Flayer together. They'd been through literal hell together.
How could Lucas look at him like he was trying to remember his name?
Mike was always with Lucas, Dustin, or El and never tried to talk to him.
That was the one that cut deepest. The one that kept Will up at night, the one that played on repeat in his head during quiet moments.
Mike, who had promised—promised—back in Lenora that they'd be a team. "I think it'll be easier if we're...we're a team. Friends. Best friends," he'd said, sitting on Will’s bed, his voice earnest and hopeful.
And Will had believed him. Had let himself hope that maybe things could go back to how they used to be, back when it was just the two of them against the world, back when Mike looked at him like he mattered. Like he was important. Like he was seen.
Mike had been Will's first friend. His best friend. The person Will had trusted most in the world. They'd built forts together in Mike's basement, elaborate constructions of blankets and chairs that were their fortresses against imaginary enemies. They'd fought imaginary dragons together, had created entire worlds in their campaigns. They'd shared secrets and dreams and fears in the darkness of sleepovers, had promised to be friends forever.
“If we’re both going crazy. Then will go crazy together, right?”
Mike had been the one who'd never given up when Will was in the Upside Down. The one who'd insisted he was alive when everyone else was losing hope. Will could still remember waking up in the hospital, disoriented and scared, and seeing Mike's face—the relief and joy and love there, so clear and uncomplicated.
But it felt like Mike's promise back in Lenora was long forgotten now. Like those words had meant nothing. Or worse—like they'd been true in the moment but had faded away as soon as they got back to Hawkins, as soon as real life resumed and Will's usefulness expired.
Will had tested it, in small ways. Scientific method, almost. Gathering evidence to support or refute his hypothesis that Mike didn't care about him anymore.
He'd positioned himself in Mike's line of sight at the arcade, pretending to play a game while actually watching Mike in his peripheral vision. Waiting to be noticed. Waiting for Mike to see him and come over and suggest they play together, or just to say hi, or to acknowledge Will's existence in any way.
But Mike's eyes had passed right over him. Had landed on Dustin, on Lucas, on the game he was playing, on everything and everyone except Will. And after twenty minutes of being invisible, Will had left.
He'd shown up at the Wheeler house three times, hoping to catch Mike. Twice, Nancy had answered the door and told him Mike was "out with Lucas." The third time, Mrs. Wheeler had said Mike was in the basement and had invited Will to go down.
Will had descended those familiar stairs with his heart pounding, hoping that maybe this time would be different. Maybe Mike would look up and smile and things would feel normal again.
But Mike had been bent over a campaign map with Dustin, planning something elaborate, and when Will had reached the bottom of the stairs, Mike had glanced up briefly and then back down at the map. No "hey, Will." No "want to join us?" Just a moment of eye contact and then dismissal.
Will had stood there for five minutes, waiting. And then he'd left, and he was pretty sure Mike hadn't noticed.
The worst had been at the video store. Will had been browsing the horror section—the one thing he and Mike had always agreed on, their shared love of scary movies—when Mike and Dustin had come in. They'd been talking and laughing, and Will's heart had lifted. This was perfect. They could pick out a movie together, like old times. Could plan a movie night, just the Party, like they used to.
Will had literally stood next to Mike—close enough to touch his shoulder, close enough to hear every word of his conversation with Dustin about practical effects versus jump scares, about which movie they should rent. Close enough that there was no way Mike didn't know he was there.
But Mike's eyes had never shifted to him. Had never acknowledged his presence. Had stayed fixed on Dustin, on the video cases, on anything and everything except Will.
Will had stood there for five full minutes, frozen in disbelief, waiting for the moment when Mike would turn, would see him, would say something. Anything. Waiting for confirmation that he was really being ignored, that this wasn't just his imagination running away with him.
But the confirmation had come in the form of Mike and Dustin making their selection—some slasher film Will had been planning to recommend—and heading to the counter to check out. They'd walked right past Will, still deep in conversation, so close Will could have reached out and grabbed Mike's arm.
But he hadn't. Had just stood there and watched them go. Had watched Mike leave without ever knowing Will had been there.
Will had gone home after that and cried for the first time since moving back to Hawkins. Had locked himself in his room and let himself fall apart, muffling his sobs in his pillow so no one would hear. So nobody would know how pathetic he was, crying because his best friend didn't notice him anymore.
Because what was he supposed to do with this? How was he supposed to cope with the fact that his best friend, his Mike, couldn't even see him anymore? Or worse—could see him but chose not to acknowledge him. Chose to look right through him like he was made of glass.
The worst was when he'd overheard Mike making plans with the others—right in front of him.
It had been in Mike's basement, during what was supposed to be a Party gathering. But it had really just been Mike, Lucas, and Dustin. Will had been there too, sitting on the couch with a controller in his hands, playing some game. Or at least, he'd thought he was playing. He'd realized later that they'd moved on to the next game without him, that he'd just been sitting there with a controller, pushing buttons that did nothing.
"So we're meeting at Steve's at 3 to discuss El's new plan for helping Max, then having a team meeting at 5 to discuss Vecna and the Military?" Mike had been saying to Dustin and Lucas, his voice casual, matter-of-fact. Making plans the way he always did, organizing their lives because Mike was good at that. Mike was a planner.
Will had been sitting right there, on the basement couch not five feet away. He'd heard every word clearly.
"Sounds good," Lucas had agreed, nodding. "I'll make sure I'm back from the hospital by then. Max's mom said visiting hours are shorter on Thursdays anyway."
"Perfect," Dustin had added, already pulling out his notebook to write it down. Dustin always wrote things down. Said his memory was too full of important science facts to remember social plans. "We can grab pizza after. I'm starving already just thinking about it."
"Yeah, and then maybe see if Steve wants to hang out? He said something about teaching us to drive. Well, teaching me and Lucas. I think he's given up on you, Mike."
They'd all laughed at that, this easy, comfortable sound that Will used to be part of. Mike's defensive "I'm not that bad!" and Lucas's "Dude, you almost hit a mailbox going five miles an hour" and Dustin's wheezing laughter.
Plans had continued to take shape—detailed, specific plans that clearly had been discussed before, that were being finalized now. Plans about El, about Max, about Vecna, about things Will should have been part of. Things the Party should have been doing together.
Plans that Will was hearing about for the first time, sitting right there in the same room, apparently invisible.
And then they'd all headed for the stairs. Just stood up and started walking, still talking, still laughing. And Will had waited—waited for the invitation, for the "you coming, Will?" that used to be automatic. That used to go without saying, because of course Will was coming. Will was part of the Party. Will belonged.
But it never came.
They'd just... left. He'd heard their footsteps on the stairs, heard the basement door open and close. Heard their voices fade as they moved through the house and out the front door. Heard their bikes rattling down the driveway.
And Will had sat there in the basement alone, staring at the paused game on the screen, wondering if they'd even realized he'd been there at all.
The answer, clearly, was no.
Will had sat in that basement for another hour, unable to move, unable to process what had just happened. The basement felt different in the silence—bigger, emptier, colder. All the memories that lived in this space—the campaigns, the forts, the sleepovers, the promises of friendship forever—they all felt like lies now. Like stories Will had told himself that had never been true.
Part of him kept expecting someone to come back, to poke their head through the door and say "Hey, Will, you coming? Sorry, we thought you were right behind us." But no one did.
Eventually, he'd turned off the TV and the console, his movements mechanical, automatic. Had put the controllers back in their places. Had looked around the basement one more time—at the table where they'd played so many campaigns, at the couch where they'd watched so many movies, at the corner where they'd built their best fort—and felt like he was saying goodbye to something. To a version of himself that had belonged here. That had been wanted here.
He'd gone upstairs, moving through the Wheeler house like a ghost. Mrs. Wheeler had been in the kitchen, humming to herself while she washed dishes, and had looked genuinely surprised to see him.
"Oh, Will! I didn't know you were here. Are you staying for dinner?"
Even Mrs. Wheeler hadn't known he was there. And he'd been in her basement for two hours. In her house, under her roof, and she'd had no idea.
"No, thank you, Mrs. Wheeler. I should get home."
"All right, dear. Tell your mother I said hello."
The bike ride home had been long and cold, despite the sun’s warmth. Will had pedaled slowly, in no hurry to get back to a house where he'd eat dinner alone in his room while his family would be out at the team meeting he apparently hadn't been invited to. A meeting about things that affected all of them, that the Party should be handling together, that Will should have been part of.
But he wasn't part of it anymore. That much was clear.
He was sick of it. Sick of constantly being put on the back burner.
The anger was building now, layering over the hurt like sediment. Because this wasn't normal. This wasn't just people being busy or distracted. This wasn't the natural drift of friendships or the normal changes that came with growing up.
This was systematic. This was everyone in his life simultaneously forgetting he existed, simultaneously deciding he didn't matter enough to include. This was being looked through, walked past, talked over, forgotten.
And Will couldn't make sense of it.
What had happened to his friends and family? Why had they forgotten about him?
The questions circled in his mind like vultures, picking at something already dead inside him. Had he done something wrong? Had he changed in some way that made him less worthy of attention, of love, of basic acknowledgment?
He tried to think back, to pinpoint when things had shifted. Was it California? Had something happened there that made him different, wrong, forgettable? But his family had started forgetting him in California too—his birthday, for instance.
Was it earlier? Was it the Mind Flayer? Did some part of him get left behind in the Upside Down, some essential piece that made him worth remembering? Was he just a shell now, a hollow imitation of a person that others could sense wasn't quite right?
Or had they changed—had their experiences while he was in the Upside Down, while he was in Lenora, fundamentally altered them in ways that left no room for him anymore? Had they moved on to bigger things, more important things, and Will was just a remnant of their childhood that no longer fit their lives?
Maybe he'd been gone too long. Maybe they'd learned to live without him and found they preferred it that way.
The thought was devastating but persistent. It would creep up on him at random moments—while he was drawing in his room, his pencil moving across paper almost without his conscious input, while he was lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling and listening to the house settle, while he was mechanically eating dinner alone, food tasting like ash in his mouth.
Maybe his absence had been easier for everyone. Maybe they'd reorganized their lives around the hole he'd left, and now that he was back, he was just disrupting the new equilibrium they'd found. He was the wrong puzzle piece trying to fit into a space that had closed without him.
Maybe they wished he'd stayed in California. Maybe they'd been relieved when he left, grateful for the distance, and his return had been an unwelcome surprise they were too polite to mention.
It made him bitter. It made him sad. But more than anything, it made him feel desperately, achingly alone.
Will had never felt truly alone before, not like this. Even in the Upside Down, even in the worst moments of the Mind Flayer's possession, he'd known people were fighting for him. He'd known he mattered. His mom had torn through dimensions to find him. Mike had refused to give up. Jonathan had put everything on hold to search. He'd been lost, but he'd been missed.
But now? Now he wasn't sure anymore.
Now he was right here, in the same town, in the same house, supposedly safe and found. But nobody seemed to notice he was there. Nobody seemed to miss him when he wasn't around. Nobody seemed to care whether he existed or not.
He'd started keeping track, mentally tallying each forgotten moment like evidence in a case he was building against his own worst fears. Each missed dinner. Each unreturned call. Each time Mike's eyes slid past him like he was furniture. Each day that passed without anyone acknowledging his presence.
Forgotten birthday: March 22nd
Missed dinners: seven times and counting
Phone calls not returned: Dustin (three), Mike (two, both went to voicemail and were never acknowledged)
Plans made in front of him without invitation: four times
Direct interactions where someone looked confused about who he was: Lucas at the hospital, Mrs. Mayfield, the clerk at the comic shop who'd known him since he was six, Mrs. Wheeler
Times his own brother walked past him in the house without acknowledging him: too many to count
Times Mike looked right through him: too many to count
The list grew longer every day. Will had started writing it down, keeping a journal hidden under his mattress where he documented each incident with clinical precision. Date, time, what happened, who was there, what was said, how long it took for anyone to notice him.
He wasn't sure why he was doing it—what he planned to do with this evidence—but it felt important. Like if he could just document it thoroughly enough, he could prove that this was real, that he wasn't being overly sensitive or paranoid. That there was a pattern here, something systematic and wrong.
Because there was still a small part of him that wondered if maybe this was his fault. If maybe he was misreading things, seeing rejection where there was only distraction. If maybe he was being too needy, too demanding of attention, too unable to accept that people had their own lives and he wasn't the center of anyone's universe.
Maybe he was just broken in some fundamental way that made him invisible. Maybe everyone else could see it—this wrongness in him—and that's why they forgot. Because he wasn't worth remembering.
But the evidence didn't lie. Numbers didn't have feelings or biases. And the numbers showed, clearly and irrefutably, that Will Byers was being systematically erased from his own life.
And there was a small, hurt part of him—a part he was almost ashamed of—that wanted to test it further. Wanted to prove that he was being forgotten, that he wasn't just being sensitive or paranoid. Because if he could prove it, then maybe it would hurt less somehow. Maybe it would be easier to accept if he had concrete evidence that he really was invisible now.
Maybe if he had proof, he could stop hoping that things would get better. Could stop waiting for someone to notice, to care, to remember. Could stop setting himself up for disappointment.
The idea had been growing in his mind for days now. A test. Something definitive. Something that would force a confrontation with this reality he was living in.
He could disappear for a day. Just not come home after school, or not show up for dinner, or spend the whole day somewhere else. See if anyone noticed. See if anyone called, came looking, worried about where he was. See if anyone cared enough to wonder.
Or he could do something more direct. Show up somewhere he was clearly supposed to be—a Party gathering, a family dinner, a planned event—and see if anyone questioned his absence when he didn't show. See if they even registered that he'd been gone. See if the space he should have occupied remained empty or if they just closed ranks and moved on without him.
Or—and this one made his stomach twist with a mixture of dread and dark curiosity—he could stop trying. Stop positioning himself in Mike's line of sight. Stop showing up at the Wheeler house uninvited. Stop calling Dustin and waiting for calls that never came. Stop trying to join conversations at dinner. Stop fighting to be seen. Just... stop. Pull back completely. Become as invisible as everyone seemed to think he already was. And see how long it took for anyone to notice. See if anyone noticed at all.
The thought was both terrifying and oddly liberating. Because at least then he'd know. At least then he'd have his answer. Either people would notice his absence and reach out, proving that he did matter, that this was all some horrible misunderstanding, that they did love him and wanted him around. Or they wouldn't, and he could finally accept that he'd become invisible. Could stop fighting for a place that didn't exist anymore. Could stop hurting himself by hoping.
He just didn't know yet what that test would look like. But he'd figure it out.
He always did. He'd always been good at figuring things out on his own. At solving his own problems. At surviving.
Will closed his journal and slid it back under his mattress, then lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Through the wall, he could hear Jonathan's music turn off. From down the hall, he heard his whole family gathering to leave for a meeting he wasn't invited to—voices calling to each other, the rustle of jackets being pulled on, the jingle of car keys.
They were leaving. Going to some meeting about Vecna, about Max, about El's powers. Important things. Party things. Things Will should have been part of.
But nobody had invited him. Nobody had even thought to ask if he wanted to come.
He heard the front door close. Heard Hopper's truck start up and pull away. And then silence.
Will was alone in the house. Alone with his thoughts and his journal full of evidence and his growing certainty that something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.
Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he’d start testing things for real. Tomorrow he’d try one more time to make his mom see him — to make her acknowledge that she knew who he was. And if that failed—when that failed, because deep down he already knew it would—he’d stop trying to force it. He’d start asking questions. He’d see whether he was actually fading from the people around him… or if he really was losing his mind.
And then he'd see what happened.
Then he'd know for sure if anyone still remembered that Will Byers existed.
He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Just the questions, circling endlessly.
What's wrong with me? Why don't they see me? Why don't I matter anymore?
And underneath it all, the growing fear that maybe the answer was simple:
Because there was nothing there to see.