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The Californian sun hits differently. Brighter and warmer, but El doesn’t mind. She bounces rather than walks as she and Will arrive for the first day at their new school. She can feel herself practically vibrating with excitement, clutching her new backpack like it contains her destiny. Will, meanwhile, keeps tugging at the strap of his own bag, staring at the school like it’s a battlefield he’s already lost on.
El doesn’t notice at first - not really. She just thinks he’s nervous. Or sad about leaving his friends behind. She understands that feeling. She takes a deep breath. “Are you ready?”
Will forces a smile, “Yeah. Totally.”
They walk in together, side by side. Neither of them knows yet that it’s going to be one of those days. El spends the day trying - really trying. She sits where the teacher tells her. She smiles at a girl who looks friendly. She listens hard, even when the words zoom past her like cars on the freeway.
But people here are different. Louder. Sharper. They whisper when they think she can’t hear. They stare when she answers too bluntly or doesn’t understand the joke. By lunch, she’s sitting alone on a concrete bench, picking at food that doesn’t taste like anything.
Will finds her immediately - of course he does.
“Hey,” he says gently, sliding in beside her, “how’s it going?”
“I do not like it.” Her voice wobbles. She hates that it wobbles.
Will tries to comfort her, but she can’t pay enough attention to hear him over the cafeteria noise. It grows louder and louder until she can’t hear anything except the buzzing in her skull.
By the time she gets home, El can’t take it anymore. She storms into the hallway, breathing hard, face hot. She lifts her hand on instinct to open her bedroom door - like she’s done a thousand times - and pushes inward with her mind. Nothing happens.
She grits her teeth, eyes stinging as fury overtakes her. With a growl of frustration, she shoves it open by hand instead. She’s about to slam it closed behind her when Will appears, holding the door in place, “El, hey, what’s wrong? El?”
Her knees buckle. She sinks to the floor, palms over her face.
“School is not how I thought it would be,” Her voice cracks, “Why did you not tell me?”
Will kneels beside her. He doesn’t touch her, but he’s close enough to comfort, “I hoped California might be different than Hawkins,” he admits softly, “I wanted it to be better for you.”
She sniffles, “It is not.”
“No… but look, there’s more to being a teenager than just school. We can do other fun things to make up for it,” Will offers, watching with relief as El calms the slightest bit.
She peers at him through her fingers, “Like go to the mall?”
Will blanches but swallows it down with a smile, “Yeah. Anything you want.”
The mall isn’t the same without Max, but Will tries to make it fun for her anyways. He steals Jonothan’s camera before they leave and uses it to snap pictures of the outfits she tries on. None of them feel quite right though, not like they once did.
Besides, the mall in California doesn’t look like Starcourt. The shops are different, less fluorescent and following more of a beach theme. El’s not sure she likes the style people wear here. She decides Will doesn’t either when she drags him into a store he can only frown at.
Eventually, they tire and go for milkshakes. Surely at least that cannot disappoint. The milkshake stand is in the centre of the mall and has a line, blue booth seats and a penguin as the mascot. As Will and El wait in line, she realises, “I still don’t know my favourite flavour.”
“Oh,” Will murmurs, peering over the permed heads of those in front of them, “Are there any you want to try?”
“What’s Mike’s favourite?” she asks.
“Chocolate,” Will replies without thinking.
“I’ll try that,” she decides. It doesn’t take long for them to get to the front, placing their orders with the bored teenager at the counter. When they get their drinks they come in tall, colourful cups and they sit in seats where they can people watch while they drink.
El licks her lips, excited, as she tries her milkshake. Will watches expectantly. She takes one sip and makes a face so intense Will snorts.
“Try mine,” he offers, nudging his strawberry shake toward her. She tries it, stops, considers… and grins. Will smiles wider, “Do you want to swap?”
“Yes, please,” El nods. She drinks happily for a while, her stress of the day ebbing. They sit there a while in a content silence, letting the mall crowd buzz around them.
“Do you feel better yet?” Will asks eventually, once his own milkshake is empty.
“Yes,” El says, then hesitates, “But we have school again tomorrow.”
“I know,” Will sighs in agreement, setting his milkshake aside. An idea strikes him, “What if we stick it out for each other? I can protect you, and you can protect me.”
“I don’t have powers anymore,” El points out bitterly. She sips her milkshake again and is reminded of the last time she was at the mall with Max and how they’d exploded some mean girls milkshakes. She can’t do that anymore, can’t stand up for herself. Not even from a distance.
“I don’t have powers either,” Will reminds her with a shrug. El eyes him carefully, considering, and Will continues with a cautious tone, “Do you… miss them? Or” - he winces - “don’t take this the wrong way, but do you feel more normal without them?”
El looks down at the sticky table her milkshakes left a ring of condensation on. She brushes her finger through it, “I thought I would,” she says quietly, “But I feel more different than I ever have.”
“Hey,” Will bumps her shoulder, “You know what Jonathan always tells me? It’s better to be different. Imagine being normal. That’s so boring, right?”
“Yes,” She smiles, small but real. There’s still something bugging her though and she looks into Will’s green eyes, wondering if he’ll understand, “Some normal things I would like, though, to be normal. I like having you and Jonathan as my brothers. And Joyce as my mom.”
Will’s breath catches, “I guess you never got to have that, did you? We could… change that. If you want. Do normal brother-sister things?”
She pauses to think, her eyes roving over Will’s earnest expression, “Will?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a good friend,” she decides, feeling pleased when he gives a faint smile. She adds, “I understand now why Mike was so upset when you went missing.”
Will looks away, throat tight, “Oh. Ah. Yeah.” His eyes go distant and El realises she doesn’t quite understand it all, not yet, but she wants to. As they walk home from the mall, El feels lighter. Not because anything is fixed or because school will be better tomorrow. But because Will is beside her, hands tucked in his pockets, gaze flicking up at the sky like he’s searching for something but not afraid to be looking.
And El thinks maybe this is what normal feels like.
She never really got to know Will before. When she first came to Hawkins, he was missing. Then he was home but not himself, and then she was the one hiding, running, fighting monsters in the walls. And later, she’d been too focused on Mike, on the dizzy newness of love, to notice much else at all.
But now… now it feels like the two of them have been placed in the same quiet in-between. Both without powers. Both without their friends. Both learning how to be teenagers in a world that keeps changing shape around them.
She hopes they can be good friends and that she can really get to know him this time. His stories, his jokes, his drawings and the parts of him that aren’t just what other people told her. She hopes he wants that too. And as Will glances over at her, giving her a tiny smile that reaches his eyes, she thinks that yeah. Maybe he does.
***
From then on, they start to hang out a lot more - doing things that make them feel ‘normal’. It’s important to them both, especially since Joyce is often out late and Jonathan is almost never away from Argyle.
Mostly it’s the small things, like slowly turning the living room into their own personal fort. It’s a kingdom of soft lights, blankets, and snacks. Will helps El drape sheets over chairs to make a proper hideout, tying fairy lights through the fabric so the whole thing glows gently, like a lantern. El crawls inside on her hands and knees, inspecting every corner with military precision.
“It is perfect,” she declares, settling beside him with a bag of popcorn.
They watch a movie from inside - one that Jonathan recommended, something old and a bit weird. El eats the popcorn faster than Will can blink and almost falls asleep halfway through, curled into the corner with her head on a cushion. It’s the first time she’s felt… safe. Safe in a normal way. Not because the world is quiet, but because someone else is there.
When the movie reaches a lull, El pulls out her nail polish for something to occupy herself with. Joyce had bought her a set of colours but she’s yet to break them in. At first, she could barely look at the thing without feeling crushed at the memory of leaving Max behind in Hawkins. Now, she feels brave.
She tries doing it herself first, tongue poking out in concentration, but her hands shake and she keeps smudging the corners until she huffs in frustration.
Will glances up from the movie, hand half way to his mouth holding popcorn, “You okay?”
“No,” she groans, “This is… impossible.”
Will scoots closer, peering at the messy blue streaks on her nails, “Do you want help?”
El pushes her hand toward him so fast he almost laughs, “Yes, please.”
He takes her hand gently, steadying her fingers on his knee as he paints careful strokes of sparkly silver over the blue. Watching him brings forward a variety of emotions that she can barely catalogue as they fly by. One of them is admiration for his steady, artist hands but another is longing. She swallows.
“Me and Max used to paint our nails,” El says softly as he works, “She did mine for me. Like you’re doing them now.”
“Sorry,” Will mutters, hyper-focused, “I’m probably not as good as Max.”
“No, you are,” She says it with so much certainty that Will’s cheeks turn warm. He dips the brush again, trying to hide a smile.
“What else did you guys do when you hung out?” he asks, the light of the TV screen flickering across his features.
“We read comics.”
“I have comics we could read,” he offers immediately, brightening, “Jonathan gave me a whole box from when he was a kid too. What else did you do?”
“We spun a bottle,” El replies, thinking about the fun of it before they’d got caught up tracking Billy. She almost doesn’t realise when Will pauses, a surprised laugh falling from his lips.
“You… played spin the bottle?” He questions, exasperated.
El frowns, “Yes, we used it to spy.”
“To spy?” He sounds more confused than El feels.
“Yes, why?”
Will blinks, “El, do you know what spin the bottle means?”
“You spin it,” she says confidently, “and when it lands on them, you spy.”
“I see,” Will hums, looking a little relieved as he continues painting El’s nails, “Who did you spy on?”
“Mike and Lucas,” El says, wondering if Will is going to be mad. By spying on Mike and Lucas, Will himself was being spied on by extension. El watches his face carefully, trying to discern his expression. He bursts into a grin and El can’t help matching it.
“Of course you two did,” He snorts, turning her hand back and forwards to examine his work so far.
El nods vigorously, “Yeah, and Mike said we were a different species.”
Will snorts, “I remember that. Don’t worry about it, he says stupid things sometimes.”
“Yes, he does,” El agrees, “Does he ever say stupid things to you?”
“Well,” Will says, thinking, “he can.”
“Did you get mad?” El wonders out loud. She can’t really imagine Will being mad when he’s currently being so gentle with her. Asking the right questions and doing the right things until she can imagine she wasn’t some lab rat. She’s just a girl hanging out with her brother, happy in their homemade pillow fort with the fridge humming from the other room.
“Yeah,” Will admits eventually, “But he apologised and…” He shrugs, brushing another coat of blue, “It’s not a big deal.”
“Why not?” El presses.
Will is quiet for a beat, concentrating on her pinky nail. “He’s my best friend,” he says softly, “And I guess I know it’s not what he really means when he… you know. Says things without thinking,” He glances at her, “Forgiveness is important.”
“Forgiveness,” She repeats it like she’s testing the weight of the word.
“Yeah. It goes both ways.”
She watches him for a long moment as he finishes the last nail, her expression thoughtful - like she’s realising that Will carries just as many invisible things as she does.
“Done,” he says finally, blowing lightly on her fingers to help the polish dry.
El lifts her hands, admiring the shimmering finish, “They are perfect.”
He smiles, shy and proud, “Thanks.”
She sits back, curling her legs under her, and thinks that maybe this is what she needed all along. Not powers. Not battles. Not monsters. Just someone sitting with her. Someone patient and kind. Someone who stays. Someone like Will.
***
It doesn’t take long before Will and El fall into something like a rhythm.
They don’t just hang out. They talk. Sometimes about school, sometimes about movies, sometimes about nothing important at all. And El notices slowly that these moments are becoming her favourite parts of the day.
Their walks home from school especially. The air warm while Will kicks pebbles along the sidewalk and El trails beside him with her backpack bouncing against her spine. She looks forward to those walks more than she’d ever admit. Not because anything big happens, but because Will listens. Because he explains things she doesn’t understand without laughing. Because she’s starting to feel like she knows him.
Like a brother. Like a friend. It’s why she doesn’t mind asking one afternoon -
“Will?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you teach me to draw and paint?”
He stops mid-step, eyebrows raising, “Sure. Why do you ask?”
“It’s for a project,” she says, tugging at her backpack straps, “And you’re the best that I know.”
Will flushes a little at that, “Thanks, El.”
The second they get home, they set up at the kitchen table by spreading out everything: watercolours, pastels, charcoal that gets on their fingers, pencils in three different hardness levels and Will’s favourite acrylic paints. El gazes at all the equipment feeling a little lost until Will explains, “It’s so you can figure out your favourite medium.”
It looks like an explosion in an art supply store.
“So,” Will asks, pulling a piece of paper forward, “what do you want to draw first?”
“Um… I don’t know. Maybe people?” El suggests, looking down at her own blank piece of paper in front of her. Will’s given her a pencil and she holds it as deftly as she can.
“Okay. Do you have someone in mind?”
El shrugs, “Let’s do each other.”
Will freezes for a half-second, then grins nervously, “Okay.”
They sit opposite each other. El tries not to think too much as she listens to Will’s careful instructions, watching as Will sketches with easy confidence. She keeps up, barely, even though Will slows down. When they finish, they swap pages. Will slides his paper over and El just stares.
“Wow,” she whispers, brushing a fingertip over the soft lines of her hair, her eyes, her awkward smile, “How did you do it so well?”
“Practice,” he mutters, ducking his head modestly, “Should we go again?”
They do. Twice. Three times. El tries different tools, smudges charcoal all over her face, and Will laughs in a way that fills the room up.
Joyce comes home halfway through their third attempt. The radio clicks on as she starts dinner, some soft Fleetwood Mac track drifting through the house. Jonathan’s out - probably with Argyle - but the place still feels cozy.
El eventually gives up, dropping her pencil dramatically. Will snorts. “It’s okay. You’ll get better, I promise.”
Joyce calls from the kitchen, “El, sweetie, could you get the mail in?”
Her tone suggests she already knows what’s waiting so El gets up in a hurry. She bounds outside, bare feet on the cool porch steps and grabs the little bundle of envelopes in the box and starts flipping through.
There’s a letter addressed to her. From Mike. Her face brightens. She rushes inside and drops onto the chair beside Will. She reads it to him - every line - even though some bits make her blush and some make Will look away like he’s trying really hard not to listen.
When she reaches the end, she looks through the other unopened letters and frowns, “There is not one for you.”
Will shrugs too quickly, “That’s okay, El.”
“Why has he not sent you a letter yet?” El questions, tenderly running a hand over her own letter. It warms her heart, even if she feels her stomach drop the slightest bit at the from written at the bottom.
“I only sent mine last week,” Will says, voice careful, “He probably hasn’t gotten it yet.”
El doesn’t feel convinced as she watches Will’s pencil strokes get harder until the lead snaps all together. He gives a noncommittal sigh and reaches for the sharpener. El watches the furrow of his eyebrow as she grabs a fresh piece of paper, “Will, do you want to write something in my letter?”
She grabs her gel pen, addressing the paper to Mike in her neatest, blockiest handwriting.
Will shakes his head quickly, “No, no, it’s fine.”
El frowns, really looks at him, then slides her paper closer, “Could you draw something then? I’m going to tell Mike we’ve been practising.”
He hesitates. Only for a second. Then he nods, “Yeah. Okay.”
He finishes sharpening his pencil and holds his hand aloof. He thinks a second before he starts, his hands admirable as they dash this way and that, the picture forming easily on the page. El watches him, wondering why her chest feels tight. Maybe because she can tell he misses Mike.
Or maybe because she’s learning to see Will properly now - really see him - and she can tell there’s something he’s not telling her.
***
A week passes before El checks the mailbox again. When she does, her heart sinks despite the letter addressed to her. There’s no second envelope. Nothing addressed to Will. She forces a smile when he comes up beside her, but Will only glances at the empty space in the box and gives the smallest nod, like he expected this.
Like he’s getting used to expecting it. El hates it. Especially as she watches him walk back inside a little slower like he’s sinking. El tears her letter open right there and then, her eyes scanning over the words. Usually, she will smile or laugh at the dumb jokes but right now she feels frozen.
She reaches the end and realises Mike hasn’t mention Will at all. Not a single word. Even when he acknowledged her drawing, there’s nothing about Will’s own. She folds the letter carefully, the way Joyce taught her, and swallows thickly.
El doesn’t know what she wants to say but she knows she should do something. She quickly scales the hallway, knocking gently on Will’s door before cracking it open, “Hey, Will?”
She stops abruptly. Will is sitting at his desk, shoulders shaking slightly. His hands fly to wipe at his eyes the second he realises she’s there.
“El,” he says, too quick, voice too high, “What’s up?”
But El’s eyes flick down. She sees the paper he tries to hide, the half-written letter addressed to Mike Wheeler with lines crossed out and rewritten until the page is tired. She sees the scrunched-up balls of paper overflowing from the bin too. Her chest goes tight.
“Why doesn’t he send you letters?” she asks softly.
Will swallows, staring hard at his hands, “I don’t know, El. Maybe he doesn’t want to be friends anymore? Or he’s just busy? It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” she insists, watching as Will scrunches up his letter, tossing it at the bin, “He is your best friend.”
He winces like the words hurt, “Please, El. Don’t say anything. I don’t want to cause trouble and he’s probably just too busy with school to write to two people.”
Two people. El knows he means her. It makes her feel strange. Wrong. Protective. She lets out a slow breath and sits on the edge of his bed, “Let’s do something to make you feel better,” she says, deciding for both of them.
Will hesitates and she takes his hand, “We look out for each other, remember?”
She’s glad when he smiles, even if it’s small.
They collect every snack in the pantry like raccoons, pile them onto the coffee table, and pick the stupidest movie they can find. Something loud and cheesy. They sit cross-legged under the same blanket, throwing popcorn at the screen whenever a character makes a terrible decision.
For a while, Will laughs and El feels relieved every time she hears it.
Joyce is working late again, and Jonathan won’t be home for hours, so the two of them attempt dinner alone. It goes about as badly as expected - they burn the edges, undercook the middle, and somehow melt a spoon. But they eat it anyway. Together at the table, trying not to gag.
When Jonathan finally walks in and takes a huge bite, his eyes go wide and he chokes out, “What is this??”
Will and El just look at each other and burst out laughing.
***
By the end of their first term, El has learned that school is mostly noise and walking and pretending she knows what’s going on. She follows Will through the hallway, keeping close enough that she can hear him talking over the sound of lockers slamming shut.
That’s when she sees it. A girl that’s pretty with hair curled at the ends who steps up to Will with a shy smile, clutching her binder like it’s a shield.
“Um… hi,” the girl says, “I liked your project in art class.”
Will’s face goes pink, “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”
The girl sways a little, hopeful, “Maybe we could work together next week? Or, um, hang out sometime?”
Will stares. Not meanly. Just… blankly. El waits for him to say something. Anything. But he only shrugs one shoulder, “Maybe. I dunno. I’ve got a lot going on.”
It’s gentle, but the girl’s face falls. She mumbles something and walks away, hugging her binder tighter. El watches her leave, then turns to Will. She examines his face a moment but nothing seems to have changed, he’s gone back to talking but El interrupts him, “Will, why don’t you have a girlfriend?”
He just laughs, a startled, breathless sound, “What? Why do you ask?”
“All the others do,” she says as they dodge someone throwing a football, “Mike, Lucas, and Dustin,” She tilts her head, “Why not you? Girls like you.”
Will sputters, “I just… I don’t,” He rubs the back of his neck, “There’s more important things to me than girls.”
“Oh.” El studies him. She can feel him hiding something, but she doesn’t know what it is. Not yet. They walk home in a content quiet for a while, the sun beating down on them and sweat pooling. El doesn’t mind, she won’t have to be trapped in school for a full two weeks. She thinks that’s worth it.
Eventually, her eyes drift to the cassette sticking out of Will’s Walkman. He’s got the headphones hanging around his neck, but she can hear the music still faintly playing, “What are you listening to?”
“Oh,” Will blushes again, holding it up, “It’s kind of stupid.” He shows her the label: Eyes that see in the dark - Kenny Rogers, “My cassettes are still packed so… I took one of Mom’s. Do you know this song?”
He gently places the headphones over her ears and she listens intently. The song starts gently with a man singing until a woman joins in. She says, too loudly over the music, “Who is the lady?”
“Dolly Parton,” Will explains.
The music floods her head, warm and bright, “I like it,” she says, still way too loud.
Will snorts, “You’re shouting.” She grins and takes the headphones off. He smiles too - soft and relieved, “It’s not bad, but I can show you better music. If you want?”
El nods eagerly, “Yes.”
Back home, the house is quiet even though Joyce is in the living room making frantic calls for her telemarketer job. They give her quick hugs as they pass before entering Will’s bedroom. El sits on the end of his bed, dumping her bag on the ground, while Will starts digging through the still half-open boxes stacked against his wall. He mutters to himself until he finds a pile of old records and cassettes.
“This,” he says reverently, holding one up, “is The Cure.”
El sits cross-legged, watching the way his whole face lights up when he talks about music. He sets up the record player, drops the needle, and the room fills with this dreamy, drifting sound.
They listen. Then Will plays another. And another.
He fanboys over each one, telling her why a certain bass line is special, or why the lyrics matter, or how Jonathan first introduced him to this band when he was little. His hands move a lot when he talks - wide, enthusiastic gestures.
El listens like she’s learning a brand new language. Eventually, she speeds off to her room to grab her own cassette to show Will. She slides it into his Walkman and slides it over his head like he’d done for her earlier. As Material Girl starts playing, he smiles, “I should’ve guessed you’d like Madonna.”
“She is very good!” El agrees. They ‘borrow’ Jonathan’s boombox and slip the cassette into that instead so they can dance. El’s the most keen, dragging Will off the floor to join her. Soon, they’re spinning in the middle of his room, socks sliding, both of them breathless.
For a few minutes, there is no school. No missing letters. No pressure. It’s just music and joy. Once again, El is reminded of why she likes having Will as her brother. Eventually, they collapse in a heap on the floor, both panting and staring up at the ceiling fan turning lazily above them.
“I like being normal like this,” El says between breaths, “It is nice.”
“Yeah,” Will whispers, smiling at the ceiling, “It really is.”
There’s a tiny pause before El asks, “What music does Mike like?”
Will’s face falls into a full-body frown, “His music taste sucks. Don’t go down that road.”
“Why does it suck?” she demands, rolling onto her side.
“It doesn’t suck, I just… don’t like most of it,” Will shrugs, thinking it over, “He’s got a few gems, I guess.”
“Like what?”
Will sighs, pushes himself up, and rummages through his desk drawer. He pulls out a cassette with messy handwriting across the label: For Will :)
El blinks, “He made that for you?”
“Yeah,” Will murmurs, turning the cassette over in his hand once before slipping it into the boombox, “He tried to convert me. I hate almost every song on it but one.”
When he presses play, Smalltown Boy fills the room. El sits very still and listens. She listens deeply even though she doesn’t understand all the words. Most of all, she hears something heavy in Will’s breathing and sees something distant in his eyes. Something that doesn’t match the way he said the song was “okay.”
“I like it,” she says softly, “But… what does it mean?”
“It’s up to interpretation,” Will tells her, but he’s staring out the window, jaw tight.
El doesn’t understand yet. But she feels the weight of it.
“Can I borrow your Walkman?” she asks. He nods without looking up, “And this tape?”
He’s a little more hesitant then but hands it over anyway.
That night, she lies in bed with the headphones over her ears, replaying the song again and again. The words stick to her skin, to her thoughts, to the little ache sitting behind Will’s quiet smile.
She picks up her pen to write to Mike.
I haven’t practiced much drawing. Me and Will have been busy. We’ve been listening to music and dancing. I like Madonna a lot. Will says you have “bad music taste” but I do not think that is true. I think he is being dramatic.
Will also showed me the tape you made him. The one with the songs. I listened to it too. The Bronski Beat song is my favourite. I miss you. I hope you are eating enough and not staying up too late. I hope you write back soon.
She pauses. Perhaps it’s not the right thing to say, but she finds herself trying.
Will checks the mailbox every day (I told him not to worry, but I think he does anyway) so write soon. Okay. That is all. Love, El.
And for the first time, she wonders what Mike hears when he listens to music. To the songs he put on Will’s tape.
***
Some nights, El still wakes up choking on her own breath.
Not loudly, not screaming - just that quiet, horrible gasp someone makes when the world in their dream was darker than the one they opened their eyes to. Her sheets are twisted around her legs, her T-shirt damp at the collar. The room is still and soft, the fairy lights dimmed, but her chest is tight with leftover terror. A shadow appears in the doorway.
“El?” Will whispers, “You okay?”
She doesn’t answer at first - she’s still catching up and trying to remember she’s safe here, in California, in a normal house with normal walls.
Will crosses the room in three quick steps and crouches beside her bed. “Hey,” he murmurs, touching her shoulder gently, “Hey, I’m here. You’re okay. Can you look at me?”
She forces herself to. His face is blurry in the dark, but steady.
“Nightmare?” he guesses.
El nods, swallowing hard, “I… I do not want to talk about it.”
Will goes still. He knows exactly what that means. He sits on the floor, leaning against her bedframe so their shoulders almost touch.
“I understand,” he says quietly. There’s a long, soft pause until Will nudges her and asks, “Wanna get a midnight snack?”
She nods.
They creep into the kitchen like operatives on a mission, though Will nearly knocks over a stack of Tupperware and El keeps opening the fridge too fast, letting the light spill out. Will prepares hot chocolate while El grabs the mini marshmallows. It’s not long before they’re drinking their sickly sweet concoctions, sitting up on the counter swinging their legs. It’s quiet in that comfortable way.
“Do you think nightmares ever stop?” El asks.
“Yeah,” Will says softly, “I think they fade when you get enough good memories to drown them out.”
Before she can respond, the hallway light clicks on. Joyce appears in her robe with her hair a mess and blinking blearily. She looks stunned when she spots them, “What are you two doing?”
“We are bonding,” El deadpans. Will has to stifle a laugh.
Joyce squints, “At one in the morning?”
Will shrugs, mouth full of marshmallows, “We had… ideas.”
Joyce sighs, but she smiles, “As long as you get enough sleep, alright?”
“Okay, Mom,” Will says, and El echoes, “Okay, Mom.”
Joyce leaves, muttering something about teenagers. Once she’s gone and the hall light is off again, El turns to Will, “I thought of something else normal we can do.”
“Oh?” he grins, “What’s that?”
“I heard some girls talking about friendship bracelets and I want to make some.”
Will brightens instantly, “That’s cute. Yeah, we can go to the store tomorrow. Buy beads. Make them after school.”
So that’s exactly what they do. The very next afternoon, they’re sprawled out on the living room rug with an explosion of beads and strings between them - neon, pastel, sparkly, matte. El runs her fingers through them like they’re treasure.
“Which are your favourite?” Will asks.
“The purple,” El replies easily, eying the sparkly purple beads, “What about you?”
“Yellow is my favourite,” Will says, tilting his head, “Should we do yellow and purple?”
She thinks for a moment, then her eyes widen, “What if we mix three colours? And make one for Mike too? What’s his favourite?”
“Blue,” Will says instantly, without having to think.
El doesn’t question it. She just nods, already picking out beads. They make one for each other first - El’s is messy but heartfelt, Will’s is neat and carefully patterned. Then she strings beads for Mike’s bracelet, tongue poking out as she concentrates.
“Will,” she says suddenly, “how did you and Mike become best friends?”
He smiles at his bracelet string, “We met in kindergarten. On the swings. He asked to be my friend. And we just… have been ever since.”
“How did you stay friends so long?” she asks, genuinely curious.
Will thinks, his fingers stilling on the beads, “I guess sometimes you just find your person early on,” he says softly.
“Your person?” El repeats, puzzled.
“Like… not as in, ah, I meant your friend-”
El feels like she’s missing something important but she rushes to ask anyway, much quieter, “Do you miss him? Mike?”
Will releases a breath and El watches his eyes glaze over the slightest bit. Like he’s trying to hide it, “Yeah. Of course I do.”
“Has he sent you a letter yet?” she asks, even softer.
Will doesn’t answer. El picks up the finished blue, yellow and purple bracelet and ties the knot firmly, “I’ll send his bracelet in the mail. Maybe then he will write?”
Will doesn’t look at her, his eyes are trained on the bracelet in her hand. El doesn’t miss the crack in his voice as he nods and agrees, “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”
She doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know what she’s done wrong. But she can feel it - the way the air changes around them when Mike’s name comes up. Like a bruise being pressed so it’s not enough to cry out, but enough to flinch.
She remembers the scrunched papers in the bin. The empty mailbox. The way he said “busy” like he didn’t believe it. El doesn’t understand everything yet but she understands loneliness and waiting for someone who doesn’t come.
She ties the knot on the bracelet tighter. For Will. For Mike. For whatever this is she’s starting to see.
***
El wakes with a start. Her head jerks up from where it had been resting on her folded arms at the kitchen table. She must’ve fallen asleep doing homework - or pretending to. The room is dim except for the weak afternoon sunlight slanting through the blinds.
Will sits across from her, a half-finished drawing in front of him, pencil hovering mid-air. His expression softens when she blinks awake.
“Bad dream?” he asks gently, “You were… mumbling.”
El rubs her eyes, throat tight, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” He closes his sketchbook, “Do you want to talk about it?”
She hesitates - and then the words spill out, sharp and trembling, “I’ve killed people, Will.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t gasp or look away in shame. He just offers his hand. El grips it like a lifeline. Will rubs his thumb over her knuckles as he says gently, “So have I, El.”
She shakes her head. “But - that was not your fault. You didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Neither did you.”
She looks at him, stunned.
“It wasn’t your fault when it happened either,” Will says softly. He leans forward, elbows on the table, “You need to cut yourself some slack. Don’t you remember what I told you? About forgiveness?”
“It goes both ways,” she murmurs.
He nods, “Yeah. I know it’s hard sometimes to forgive yourself for things like that. I know it is.”
El nods. Perhaps Will is the only person who knows the way she does. Still, her breath shakes. Will sees it.
“Look,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “What about this: I forgive you.”
El stares at him, “You do?”
“Yeah,” He reaches out, pushes a stray curl out of her face with his free hand, “It doesn’t matter what bad things have happened to you or that you’ve done. You’re my sister. And I forgive you.”
El swallows, her eyes stinging but she still manages to say, “I forgive you too, Will.”
He smiles at that, looking down shyly. Somehow, El doesn’t find it comforting. It hurts. Will’s so kind with her, so gentle. Even after everything that’s happened. She breathes in deep, but she still sounds shaky, “So… you don’t blame me?”
“For what?” Will asks, confused.
She looks away, fixing her gaze on the clocking ticking steadily on the wall, “I opened the gate to the Upside Down. You never would’ve gone missing if-”
“Don’t even say that, El!” His voice forces El to look back, to meet his eyes, “I don’t blame you. I never have.”
“I think Mike does,” she whispers.
“What?” Will freezes.
“He was so angry when they found that body in the water,” she murmurs, picking at her homework still sitting forgotten on the table, “He had this look in his eyes. Sometimes he still looks at me like that. Like I scare him.”
Will’s face softens, “I’m sure he doesn’t mean it,” He nudges her knee, “If it helps… you never scared me. Even with your powers.”
A small smile blooms, however reluctant, “Thanks, Will.”
He offers a smile back before standing up, “Should we do something fun now? I think we need it.”
They end up back at the mall. El likes it, even if it reminds her of Max. Besides, she’s starting to make new memories. The more time she and Will spend shopping, the more she realises he doesn’t mind it either as long as they stop by the shops he likes too. Ones that sell cassettes, or art equipment or milkshakes. He always lets her start off at the shops she likes, though, which is how they get to Claires, flicking through the magazine racks.
El snatches one with bright colors and fashion on the cover, flipping pages loudly until she spots what Will’s looking at. She pauses, surprised.
“Oh,” she says, peering over at the page he’s stopped on. She grins and quotes Max, “You’ve found Ralph Macchio!”
Will’s head snaps up, “What do you know about Ralph Macchio?”
“He is the Karate Kid,” El answers proudly, “And he is hot.”
Will nearly drops the magazine, “Y-yeah, he is - I mean-”
El blinks, “Will, you can find him hot too. I think most people do.”
Will swallows hard, “El, it’s…” He looks around and lowers his voice, “Boys aren’t supposed to find other boys… hot.”
“Why not?” she asks, genuinely confused.
He bites his lip, “You’ve heard of the Bible, right?”
“Yes.”
“In it, it says that if a man likes another man, it’s a sin,” Will explains.
“But why?” El frowns, nowhere closer to understanding. She knows what a sin is. In the lab, sin just meant doing something wrong that earned punishment. But liking someone doesn’t seem wrong to her. Not in the way Will says it or in the way he looks scared of it.
“I don’t know why,” Will admits with a shrug, “It just is.”
“Who wrote the Bible?”
“Well… lots of people.”
El frowns, “Then they’re stupid,” She folds the magazine shut and places it back in the rack, “You can like boys if you want, Will. I like boys.”
Will’s face floods with warmth like relief and gratitude all tangled together, “Thanks, El. Just… don’t tell anyone, okay? It’s… it’s a secret.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” she promises, turning to point at the video store, “Should we rent Karate Kid? I want to watch it again.”
Will laughs easily, “Sure.”
So by the end of the night they curl up on the couch with their usual popcorn and blankets. They coo over Ralph Macchio together and El watches as Will relaxes. They’re in the middle of reenacting the crane kick when Jonathan walks in, sighs and walks back out again.
After dinner, Will walks to his room humming the soundtrack and El goes to hers. She pauses once she enters, spotting Will’s Walkman still sitting on her dresser.
She picks it up, slides the headphones on, presses play. Smalltown Boy starts immediately. And suddenly the song sounds different. Not just sad or lonely but like it’s telling a secret. One she’s starting to understand.
She picks up her pen and writes her next letter to Mike.
Will and I get along very well, she writes slowly, He’s different, like me.
She writes about school starting again, but crosses it out. Somehow, it doesn’t seem as important.
***
The second term of school has only just started and El already hates it. When they walk in, everything is too loud again - lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, crowds funneling through hallways that never feel wide enough.
Will keeps his eyes on the floor and El sticks close, the way he always sticks close to her. Still, they run into problems. They’re almost at their classroom when a boy shoves past, muttering something under his breath that El doesn’t catch - but Will does. He flinches.
A second later, another boy snickers loudly, “Move it, faggot.”
El stops dead. The hallway moves around her, but she stands still, cold crawling up her arms. Will doesn’t react. Not outwardly. He just exhales, small and sharp, and keeps walking. El grabs his sleeve to stop him.
“Will?” she whispers, “What is… faggot?”
He closes his eyes for a moment - like he’s trying to choose the least painful version of the truth. Eventually, he says softly, “It’s a mean name for gay people.”
“Gay?” El repeats.
“When you like people the same gender as you,” he explains, “You know… boys liking boys or girls liking girls.”
“Oh,” El’s voice goes small, “I’m sorry they call you that, Will. How do they know you are gay if it is a secret?”
Will gives a tiny, humorless shrug, “I guess they don’t know. They just assume,” He pauses a moment before saying bitterly, “But they’re not wrong.”
El swallows, nodding slowly. She slips her hand into his, giving it a gentle squeeze, “Let’s do something normal to make you feel better.”
Will finally smiles, eyes tired but relieved, “Yeah. Okay.”
They call Jonathan and ask him to pick them up after school and drive them to the mall. He agrees, albeit hesitantly, so people are staring as the Surfer Boy Pizza van lumbers up to the school gates. Naturally, both Argyle and Jonathan are there greeting them as they get in.
As soon as El’s settled in her seat she sniffs and asks, “What’s that smell?”
“That’s good ol’ Mary Jane,” Argyle offers, kicking the van into gear as Will slides the door closed behind him.
“Who is Mary Jane?" El questions.
“Argyle!” Jonathan reprimands at the same time.
“It’s no one, El, don’t worry about it,” Will adds, buckling his seatbelt but she can see him wrinkling his nose too.
“How about some music?” Jonathan says next, too loud to be casual. The radio gets turned up a notch and they drive along happily enough. El’s forgotten about her confusion by the time they get to the mall, the windows of the stores drawing her in.
***
“Will, do you think I am boy crazy?”
They’re settled on the floor of El’s room surrounded by notebooks, pencils, and a stack of magazines spread between them like a protective circle. Technically, they’re supposed to be doing homework. In reality, they’re… coexisting.
El is hyper-focused on a magazine quiz, her tongue poking out slightly as she circles answers in bright marker. Will pretends to work on math but keeps glancing up every few seconds, amused by her intensity.
Will blinks at her question, “Why do you ask?”
“This magazine says I am,” she says, holding it up, “But I still have more questions to answer. What is ‘falls fast’?”
Will opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, “Um.”
Joyce calls down the hall, “Are you two even doing your homework? I’m hearing a lot of chatter!”
“Yes, Mom!” they answer in perfect unison, grinning at each other all the while.
Will sighs, tapping his pencil down on his maths homework though it’s more doodles than actual math, “Okay. ‘Falls fast’ means… it doesn’t take long for you to fall in love. You catch feelings quickly.”
El hums thoughtfully, “And how do you know? When you have… fallen in love?”
Will takes a deep breath. She can hear it, “I guess you just feel it,” he says slowly, “Your heart beats fast. You get butterflies in your stomach. When they’re happy, it makes you happy. And when they’re sad, you want to fix it right away.”
“And you want to be with them all the time?” she asks.
“Yeah, just like that,” He agrees.
El studies him with a careful eye, a smirk forming, “So you have been in love?”
“What? I never said-”
“But you know how it feels-”
“That was a general answer,” he retorts, his blush and the small smile quirking his lips giving him away, “It doesn’t mean I’m in love.”
Her eyes light up immediately, “Who is it? No - who is he?” El expects him to giggle or try to hide a grin behind his hand. Instead, Will freezes like a deer-in-headlights. El’s excitement fades when she sees the look on his face, “Oh,” she says softly, “Does he not like you back?”
“No, El,” His voice cracks the slightest bit and he picks at the carpet, “He has a girlfriend.” El feels her face fall as Will continues seriously, “El… remember, you can’t tell anyone that I’m like this, okay? Not even Mike. Especially not Mike.”
“He would understand,” she insists, trying to reach for his hand, “He is your best friend.”
Will pulls away. It’s the first time he has and El feels stung. Will just sniffs, “I don’t think he would, El. It’s not that simple.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
The quiet between them isn’t quite gentle like it usually is. It feels sharp and heavy. El tries to help, nudging Will’s knee with hers, “You can tell me anything. I will keep your secret.”
Will tries to smile but it’s as bitter as he sounds, “Thanks.”
Once again, El’s struck with the feeling she’s done something wrong.
Later that night, El sits cross-legged on her bed, the soft hum of the Walkman still echoing in her ears as she begins writing her next letter to Mike.
Dear Mike,
Today is day 185. It feels more like 10 years. Joyce says time is funny like that, emotions can make time speed up or slow down. We’re all time travellers if you think about it. For example, this week is going very fast. I think because I am so busy. I have to make something called a ‘visual aide’, I hope Mrs Gracie will give me an A.
Some exciting news, Joyce got an amazing new job - she gets to work from home. She says she likes the freedom. Will’s been painting a lot but he won’t show me what he’s working on. Maybe it’s for a girl?
She pauses, staring at the words. It feels wrong to write “girl.” She knows it isn’t true. But Will asked her to keep his secret. So she will. She continues writing until she’s said everything she wants but pauses again before signing off, remembering how Mike ended his last letter. She bites her lip as she finishes: From, El.
***
El wakes up buzzing. Not nervous-buzzing. Happy-buzzing. Mike is finally coming to visit. Mike, who’s supposed to be the person who makes everything make sense. And she wants to look… nice. Better than nice. Good.
She stands in front of the mirror, frowning at her hair until she hears soft footsteps going down the hall. Will. As he passes her door, he glances in and smiles weakly, “You want help, don’t you?”
El smiles and holds out her comb.
She sits on the edge of her bed while he works through her hair, gentle and patient and talking quietly about the weather and everything except the real things lurking under both their ribs.
When he’s finished doing her hair, El turns around, “Can I borrow another shirt? One of yours?”
Will blinks but nods. He disappears into his room as she adds the final touches on her hair. When he returns, he passes her a soft, worn-in button up and she presses it to her nose with a grin, “It still smells like you,” she says brightly.
She bounds out of the room like she’s lighter than air. Everything feels good. Everything feels right. Until the airport. When El glimpses the label on her flower gift. She reads it as her smile falters. Again, it says From, Mike. Not love. Just from. Somehow, the word feels cold. But she tries to ignore it.
She turns to watch the reunion she’s been imagining for weeks - Mike and Will hugging, smiling, laughing like they used to. Instead she sees Will step forward first, eager, while Mike hesitates. Their hug is awkward and uneven, like something’s off-balance. Like something’s wrong.
El frowns, confusion prickling behind her ribs. This isn’t going how she thought it would at all.
Her hope still stands that she can right things, but even that comes crashing down after the events at the roller rink. Even the next morning, things can’t go right. Mike comes to her and she expects an apology, not to be called ridiculous.
That’s when El snaps. She just can’t take it anymore. She stands as she says, “I’m going to talk with Will.”
Mike freezes, spluttering, “What? What for?”
“He understands me.” She doesn’t wait for a response. She just slams the door on his confused face.
“Will?” she calls as she marches down the hall, already crying without meaning to.
When she enters, he’s pacing, tense and rubbing red eyes - clearly upset too. Seeing him hurting only makes her crying double. This really wasn’t how things were meant to go at all. She sobs as her words fall out of her mouth like spilling water from a shattered glass, “Will… I don’t think Mike loves me anymore.”
Will turns instantly, forgetting his own troubles, “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”
“He never says it!” she cries, “He never says he loves me!”
“Sometimes it’s a hard thing to say,” Will murmurs, reaching for her.
“I don’t find it hard,” El points out as she falls into his arms, tears wetting his shoulder.
“That’s because you’re El,” he says, voice soft and sad, “And you have a big heart.”
She wipes her eyes, “He’s not just upsetting me, Will. I can see you are hurting too. What is it? What are you not telling me?”
Will bites his lip hard and looks away, “It’s nothing, El. Seriously.”
But she knows him now, the way his shoulders curl inward, the way his hands tremble, the way his breath shudders like he’s holding something jagged inside his chest. She thinks of Mike’s awkward hug. She thinks of Will’s red eyes. She thinks of that song. Smalltown boy. Running, running, running.
“No,” she whispers, more to herself than him, “It’s not nothing.”
Will looks up, startled.
El meets his eyes and for the first time, she’s starting to realise the kind of the secret he’s protecting. It’s not clear yet, not fully formed, but it’s there. She feels the truth floating between them like a ghost neither of them can touch.
She reaches out and takes his hand gently.
“We’re going to be okay,” she says. She doesn’t know what “we” means - her and Will, her and Mike, all three of them tangled together. But she means it anyway. Will squeezes her hand once, grateful and terrified at the same time. And for now… that has to be enough.
Something’s wrong with all three of them.
And El’s finally starting to understand the shape of it.