Chapter Text
Will Byers doesn't recall a day of safety.
Whether it was the distant memory of dodging shards of glass hurled by his father or his desperate attempts to escape the clutches of interdimensional monsters, the warmth of comfort always seems to elude him. Despite feeling the blistering heat of California, it didn't really chase away the feeling of danger that continuously loomed over him.
A deep blue coats his room in a soft, diffused glow; he woke up earlier than he should.
A shiver travels down his bare arms, and this makes him miss the warmth of his blanket, but the cold night serves as a stark contrast to the usual sun-bathed shores of California.
He sits up, and before he can really distinguish his surroundings, he feels the tremors in his hands make their way down to his feet. Uneven breaths resonated in the room, and Will felt the dryness of his throat as he swallowed.
Carefully, his trembling legs took a step, and it took everything in him not to collapse as his feet thudded down the hallway and to the bathroom. His reflection met him in the mirror as he leaned over the sink, heaving up nothing at all.
Regardless, his throat burns.
This isn't a surprise, but he assumes that pretending to have had three meals a day would've been enough to convince his body to work itself past the brink—enough to convince everyone else. Still, he doesn't linger on his regrets, but he stays there longer than he admits. Hands braced against the sink, he sways, and his vision darkens, but he waits for the feeling to pass anyway.
His stomach churns, angry at the absence.
A lump forms at his throat before he takes a breath. His hand trembles, but nonetheless, Will brings his hand to his neck, placing two fingers just underneath his jaw.
One beat. Two beats.
His breath shudders.
Three beats.
Alright. He figures three is enough proof to tell that he's alive.
Looking in the mirror, he immediately regrets his decision. What stares back at him mocks him, a culmination of every bad choice he’d convinced himself didn’t matter. He didn't think that it would catch up to him.
Not like this, at least, but the evidence stood stubbornly in his reflection.
He practices a smile.
Sleep doesn't come to him easily, so he does what he knows best—he paints.
What he paints doesn't always reflect his current psyche, but at times like this, in the dead of the night when the city sleeps, he can't help but wander through memories he'd locked away. He doesn't want to remember; he never does, but the illusion of safety that distance provided him seems to think it's okay to wander.
But he paints.
He paints until his thoughts don't consume him; he paints until he forgets the violation he felt from possession—the disgust of sharing your body, of losing all autonomy.
He loses himself in his thoughts and red paint pools at the base of his brush, but a knock on his door snaps him out of his stupor.
His mother's voice sounds from behind the door, "Will, can I come in?"
He shakes his head out of his thoughts, "Um—yeah, mom. The door's open."
The door cracks open a little, and Joyce peeks her head in with a soft smile.
"Hi," Joyce's voice drops to a whisper, "What are you working on so early?"
The brush in his hand slips slightly, and Will notices the subtle ways Joyce's smile conveyed something else, as if it were strained. He doesn't doubt its genuineness, but he doesn't stop himself from likening it to someone carefully choosing words to break bad news. Or a person walking on eggshells.
Will looks down.
Or a person guarded.
"It's nothing," he sends a smile in return, "Just... working on something for school last minute."
"Okay," Joyce nods absently, arms crossed. "That's good..."
A beat of silence washes over them. Will doesn't know where else to look, but the awkward silence has him wishing he had kept trying to fall asleep instead of staying up to paint.
Joyce walks towards him and sits on his bed. Will notices her shifting eyes, and his hand tightens around the brush, unknowingly bracing himself.
"I just... I noticed the light was still on in your room," she starts. "I was worried that maybe—"
Will regrets not pretending to be asleep.
"—you were having trouble sleeping again?"
He flinches at the implication of it.
Again.
Does she know?
He shakes his head. "No, mom, it's really not that, I swear..."
Will meets Joyce's eyes, and his lie falters on his tongue just a little bit after seeing her worried expression.
"I think... I think I'm just having trouble." Will stammers. "You know, since moving away from Hawkins..."
She studies him, her smile fading just a little. “Then you’ll tell me if it ever is. Promise?”
His jaw tightens.
"Yeah, I promise," his shoulders slump, "Don't worry, Mom. I'm okay and—I mean—We'll all be. Eventually..."
Joyce sends him a tight smile and doesn't hesitate to pull him into her arms. "I know, my baby." Will doesn't freeze, but he stops breathing momentarily before he allows himself to melt in her protective embrace, and Will feels her growing smile on his shoulders.
"But I swear to you, I'll make it better here." She kisses the crown of his head before pulling away to meet his wavering eyes.
If there was one thing he wasn't good at, it was hiding his emotions. The moment her eyes met his, Will felt himself unraveling. The fragile composure he thought he had was quickly falling apart at the seams, the strings holding it together coming undone.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Oh, honey… You know I love you, too.” Her eyes glimmer with a sheen of tears as they crinkle at the corners. She laughs softly and reaches for him naturally. "Why don't you go wake up Jonathan and El for me?"
She cradles his cheek, and Will leans into her just as softly, "Let's have breakfast together this time."
"Okay," Will smiles.
The warm smell of eggs and batter wafts through the kitchen, and the familiar sound of frying oil fills the space, replacing the distant hush and bustle of the street just outside the Byers’ home so early in the morning.
El pads down the stairs, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her brown hair sticking up in different directions.
Will walks up to El and gently runs his fingers through her hair.
She hums, sleepy yet appreciative, judging by the way she doesn't shy away but leans more into his touch. He doesn't fight the smile creeping on his face. Will finds it cute—how El seems to have a way of making the simplest things and gestures adorable in the most unexpected ways.
“Morning, El,” Will says.
El hums something in return that he guesses might be a greeting and slumps into the chair nearest to her. Jonathan is already there, elbows on the table, staring blankly at his plate like he’s still half-dreaming.
The chair scrapes against the floor as Will sits across from him.
Joyce sets the final plate in front of El. “Eat while it’s hot.”
El smiles softly, blinking herself awake as she reaches for her fork. “Smells good.”
“Always does,” Jonathan mutters, already reaching for his second batch of waffles.
They eat together in that quiet, domestic way—forks scraping, plates shifting, the radio murmuring low in the background. It’s domestic, normal.
Will chews slowly, eyes drifting outside towards the window where the usual sight of the neighborhood greets him.
“You okay?” Jonathan snaps him out of his sightseeing.
Will startles a little. “Yeah. Fine.”
Joyce glances at him from over the kitchen counter. She doesn't pry.
She promised not to do that too much anymore.
But El watches him closely instead because, for some reason, she always notices. Her head tilts at him slightly, but she, too, doesn't ask.
Still, Will feels their worry, and he shifts in his seat, uncomfortably forcing down another bite.
His hands find themself reaching for the syrup, and he catches a glimpse of Jonathan's face, who gives him a weird look.
"Seriously?"
"What?" He raises a brow, syrup already pouring on his eggs.
Jonathan shakes his head, "That's still gross, just so you know."
"Oh, really?" Will scoffs, "You're the one talking about gross?"
"Yes. You and Mike," Will knows it wasn't meant any other way, but still, he flinches. "You're both gross for liking syrup on eggs."
He frowns, and Jonathan catches the moment the light beams from his eyes. An idea forms in Will's head, and his grin grows all the while Jonathan is squinting at him, almost always suspicious of his next move.
"If we're talking about gross, we should talk about that smell, huh, Jonathan?"
Jonathan's eyes turn sharp.
"You know, that smell." Will goads him. "In your room. Or the van. Or you—"
"Don't you dare." Jonathan sits up rigidly.
Will's mouth twitches up at his brother's escalating panic before he whips his head towards the kitchen.
Jonathan's eyes widen in alarm.
"Hey—"
"Mom—"
"Don't you—"
Joyce's body turns, but not completely, momentarily distracted by her pouring a cup of coffee. "What is it, boys?" she asks.
Jonathan leans over the table and drops his voice to a harsh whisper, "You tell her, you lose van privileges."
Will's brows furrow, "Van privileges? That's not a thing. Mom'll just make you drive us to school anyway, and it's Argyle's—"
"The 'I'm not dropping you off' privilege."
"Oh, come on—"
"What is privilege?" El cuts in.
"That's what Will won't have if he doesn't stop right now—"
Joyce sets her mug down on the table, "What did you want to ask me, Will?"
Jonathan sends a sharp look at Will, who returns it with another big grin.
"Jonathan—"
Jonathan gets up, "Alright, Mom, we're going. We're gonna be late now."
"We are?" El stands up, alarmed.
"No, we're not, he's just—"
The scruff of his shirt is pulled up. "Let's go!"
He laughs loudly, and for a moment, he lets himself believe it was okay to forget the chaos they left behind in Hawkins—the Upside Down, the disgusting invasion of the Mindflayer, all the missing people, and—
"It's not my fault you don't like girls!" he exclaims.
Fuck.
Mike.
Despite everything that happened, he forces himself to shake away the feeling of guilt and shame he felt deep down. Right now, he simply wants to forget, and he pleads to whoever might hear him—he pleads with them to allow him this one small thing; to grant him this peace. Because at least here, in Lenora, he could pretend to be normal.
Even just for a while.
When he said he missed his best friend, he didn't expect his wish to be granted in the form of an imposter.
There's another version of everyone in your life everywhere you go.
He thinks back to Max's words in her letter to him yesterday as he stares unblinkingly at the new transfer student that the teacher introduces to class.
Wow.
Now he really must be going crazy.
He thinks that it's about time that Mike's absence in his life would start to weigh in on him, but unfortunately, right now, it wasn't all in his head. Will doesn't remember what the teacher says; he simply remembers the new transfer student's eyes scanning the room, almost expressionless. His chin lifts and Will sees it; scrutinizing, observing, cynical and—
His dark eyes meet his.
Will rips his gaze away as if burned by the intensity of it, because the resemblance almost scares him. It was almost uncanny—same eyes, same height, same everything. His dark eyes and hair stood in stark contrast to his pale skin, almost untouched by the striking rays of the California sun if not for the redness on his nose.
But as similar as he is to Mike, his demeanor is almost entirely different.
Will pauses, contemplative, and he steals another glance.
He looks...
The new student's eyes are glazed over.
He looks like he’s not here, he thinks.
As if part of him has drifted somewhere else entirely, but Will doesn’t linger on the thought, afraid of what might surface if he does. And he doesn't really dwell on it any longer as the transfer student—he must've missed his name—draws even closer to him.
His heart jumps before the chair beside him scrapes softly against the floor, and the transfer student plops down into the empty seat beside him.
Will stiffens, but forces himself to relax, eyes trained stubbornly ahead on the teacher's handwriting.
Tap, tap, tap.
Distinct, silent taps could be heard in the classroom.
Will doesn't bother to turn his head to acknowledge the source of the sounds to be the person beside him, with his head thrown all the way back, seemingly bored out of his mind. He couldn't blame him, honestly; he was barely holding on himself.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He glances.
Tap, tap, tap.
A soft laugh erupts from under his breath, his body reacting before anything else. The transfer student pauses and tilts his head to him.
Suddenly conscious of the eyes that follow him, Will brings a hand to his mouth, and he feels a stare boring into the side of his face. Will peeks from the side, and dark eyes lock with Will's green ones.
He swears he can practically feel the amusement trickling from them before he looks away to escape his gaze.
Silence stretched, but the sound of graphite scraping on paper and the distant chatter of other people only made the silence even louder between them. He hears a quiet rustle at his side, and he senses him settling into his chair more comfortably, leaning on the table as if closing the already-small distance and inching closer to his space.
A nervous finger scratches at his thumb, and he's afraid to break the silence first.
Still, he supposes the worst he could do was ignore him.
"Do you..." The transfer student turns his head. "Do you happen to know Morse code?"
At this, he stops, like he wasn't expecting it, and a snort leaves his mouth, "What, like the dots and dashes for sailors?"
He takes note of his distinct accent.
Will exchanges a smile, "Yeah, that."
"I know the one where you don't die," He taps three times on the table, followed by three slow, long taps, then three quick taps again.
"SOS," Will dictates, "Yeah, I figured."
The transfer student shrugs, "Is plenty. If you're sinking, you don't need poetry, and besides, who's listening? The desert?"
"Well, I got your message at least, so," Will replies, "I thought you might know."
“Ha. I know lots of things. Just not the boring kind—yet.” He leans back, eyes sharp. “But if I ever need it, I’ll learn it faster than you.”
Will laughs, and the others' eyes crinkle at the edges so subtly that he almost misses it.
“So,” Will leans close, “What did you need saving from that has you sending so many SOSs?”
He leans in, voice low, and Will notices the way the other person mirrors him, “This boring class. Would be a lot more bearable if California weren’t so…”
“Hot?”
“Yes. Hot.” The other exhales dramatically. “Too much sun. Too much sweat.”
“Oh—uh, yeah,” Will says. “I guess… it’s really different here.”
“Different?” He scoffs. “That’s generous. It’s loud, sunburned, and full of people who think they’re clever.”
“And are you?” Will asks. The student tilts his head. “Are you one of those people?”
“Nyet.” He shakes his head and grins, “Just clever.”
"So that's a no?" Boris shrugs, and a faint smile tugs at Will’s lips. “You have a lot to say for someone who just showed up.”
“I prefer selectively talkative,” He says. “Less effort. Filters out stupid people who speak only to waste time.”
“That’s… one way to live, I guess.” Will gives him a polite smile. “I’m Will.”
“Boris Pavlikovsky.” Boris stretches lazily in his chair, one arm draped across the table. “Nice to meet you, William.”
He leans back on his chair again, and Will can't help but glance down at his easy smirk, as if Boris had already figured everything out.
It felt like Boris had already finished labeling him, like he'd already been quietly sorted into some invisible category of "person". The imagery makes him uncomfortable, and he shifts in his seat, his mind flashing back to the way he talked, or where his hands were, or even the way he got too comfortable with his own tone and voice, of his words.
Shit.
He feels way too exposed.
The inside of his mouth feels dry, and Will tries to avoid putting a name to it, but the feeling of being seen both unsettles and pulls him in.
The hand on the table twitches.
He closes his eyes.
He wishes this feeling would pass soon.