Chapter Text
Will wakes like he’s been yanked out of deep water.
For a moment, he was just floating through the liminal space between sleep and awareness. It felt like he was drifting in the depth of a deep ocean. But before he knew it, he was being yanked from the abyss and dropped into the harsh gravity of consciousness, gasping for air on the shore, trying desperately to make sense of his surroundings. But his dream—no, a memory from his time in the Upside Down—it's relentless.
The more he fights it, the more it tries to drag him back under like a riptide.
His chest and his head feel too heavy, a sense like he’s drowning as pressures rise within his skull, threatening to burst. And for a long, disorienting moment, he doesn’t know where he is; with half his mind still drenched in pain and fear of the past, the best he could do was lie there, staring at the nothing, trying to reel himself back to his body—back to what’s real.
The ceiling. The posters on the walls, the scent of detergent, the dry cast of dusk glooming through the drafty windows; all the mundane details that tether him, barely, to reality. To the basement. To where his slightly deflated air mattress succumbs to his weight beneath him.
Where his blanket is tangled around his legs, like a bunch of black, slimy, wrigglings, vines—
He feels his lungs burning as he kicks at them—the blankets. Not the vines. Those aren’t here, he reminds himself.
When Will frees himself, his skin, slick with sweat, cools in the frigid morning air. It’s always cold and drafty in the basement, and that has never felt more apparently to Will than now. The sensation sparks something in his mind, pulls him back under the waves of his dream for a moment; a jolt of red lightning and the feeling of that tendril forcing its way into his mouth and down his—
—A phantom pressure crawls up his throat. For a split second he swears he can feel it again; the snake-like vine forcing its way down his windpipe, cold and invasive; the wisps of decay-filled air he manages between the ceaseless choking; the taste of dirt and blood and something electric yet all-consumingly dark and evil flooding his senses—
The nausea doesn’t creep up, it hits like a punch straight to the back of his throat. His mouth fills with cold, watery saliva, forcing a sharp breath through his nose which only makes it worse; he chokes, the air lodges in his windpipe, his esophagus simultaneously contracting and relaxing, his diaphragm spasming.
Before he knows it, desperation and instinct has carried him over to the basement’s tiny bathroom, bursting through the door and dropping haphazardly in front of the toilet. The tile is frigid beneath his (likely bruising) knees, its grout lines digging into his skin as he bends over and grips the porcelain, spitting up nothing but thin streams of stomach acid and bile.
It burns nonetheless, making his nose and his eyes water. Or maybe Will’s just crying.
Yeah, he’s definitely crying.
Dammit.
Eventually, the purging finally comes to an end. His stomach cramps a couple more times, but nothing will come up anymore. And with his energy completely zapped, he slumps over, resting his sweaty forehead on his forearm and dragging in breaths of vomit air over the toilet bowl. He stays like that until the bleary sight and humid odor threatens to send him hacking again.
So despite everything in Will screaming at him not to move, he disjointedly reaches over, closes the lid, and flushes, and then finally uses the toilet as leverage to push himself up and away.
However, it turns out that there’s simply no winning for him right now. Because even though staying like that—heaving over a diluted pool of his own vomit—would’ve had him dry heaving again, merely straightening his back and lifting his head has Will’s insides sloshing, turning upside down as the world itself seems to tilt on its axis right along with them.
He falls back with a choked groan, his shoulder blades colliding with the wall behind him, eliciting another pained sound from him. Will stays like that for a moment, feeling the quiet isolation of the basement, his breathing echoing in the empty space. He turns his head slowly, neck stiff, and glances out the door at the couch. Jonathan wasn’t there; only the mess of blankets he’d sloppily folded and his crumpled, flat pillow resting against the armrest remained.
Will must’ve slept in.
Listening carefully, the noise outside his door grew clearer. Life spilling through the house and down the basement stairs: the distant clatter of dishes, overlapping voices, the dull thud of footsteps. The world going on without him. He tells himself to join them before someone comes looking, but his body feels disconnected, like a puppet with faulty and thin strings that keep tangling and snapping, one that someone else entirely is failing to control—
Honestly, Will’s not surprised that no one has come to wake him up yet.
Perhaps he’d gotten too comfortable in Lenora, but now that he’s back in Hawkins, sleep was hard to come by for Will; something the other occupants of the Wheeler house have definitely picked up on. Especially Mrs. Wheeler. Almost every morning since the Byers had moved in, Will had been the only other person besides her out of bed before 8AM.
Being awake that early means he can help her with preparing breakfast and setting the table most days, at least—a duty he sporadically gets to split with Holly on the odd occasion she also happens to be up.
But that’s besides the point. What Will’s trying to say is that he knows that they know he isn’t sleeping much. Everyone has probably seen it; Will’s the first up besides Mrs. Wheeler and the last drift off to bed. They’re probably just being considerate by letting him catch up on the shuteye he’s clearly been missing.
They’re not just forgetting him down here—
And while he appreciates the consideration, he sort of wishes they hadn’t. If Jonathan had shaken him awake when he’d gotten up himself, maybe he’d have woken up before he’d drifted too deep into that demented nightmare.
Except, it’s not just a nightmare, it’s a memory, he reluctantly reminds himself.
He wishes it was just a nightmare. But even pretending it is is futile.
It takes another round of long, deep breaths before he dares to move again; for him to clumsily plant his feet under himself and rise from the floor. And still, when he stands, the floor seems to drop out from under him. He grips the sink for balance, waiting out the wave of vertigo that crashes through his body and the white noise swelling behind his ears.
Will waits for the world to stop shivering at the edges.
When he lifts his head, the mirror greets him with a face he only half-recognizes. Skin sticky and pale, eyes wide and bleary, cheeks gaunt and slightly flushed. It’s not like he’s gone face-blind or something—it’s just that… while it looks like himself, it doesn’t feel like him. There’s something subtly off about it, like he’s looking through a window into somewhere he shouldn’t be. And the longer he stares, the more uncanny the image staring back seems, the more it blurs and ripples and distorts.
He forces his eyes shut and blindly finds the faucet knob. When he gets the water running, he cups it in his hands and splashes the warmth against his feverish yet chilled and pasty skin, washing away the lingering ickiness of his cold sweat.
The water wakes him up just enough to absently start going through the motions of getting ready—all the while avoiding the mirror. However, he must slip away again at some point because, honestly, he barely remembers brushing his teeth or slipping on some clothes. Will only comes back to himself after he’s fully clothed, standing in the middle of the basement with a minty tang on his tongue.
A light flickers.
And the sweater suddenly feels too tight around his neck and—
He blinks once—twice, and for a moment the basement darkens. The smell of dust and decay fills his lungs. And somewhere deep below the surface of it all, he can feel something waking up.
—and he's tearing it off and scrounging through his brother’s drawer for something warm and much, much looser. He finds a plain sweater with buttons he can unfasten at the neck, and slips it on over his white t-shirt; it hangs off of him like he’s a living coat hanger, but at least he can breathe again.
Right. He’s breathing.
He’s breathing perfectly fine.
Will’s breathing but he’s not hearing properly—at least not properly enough to catch the creak of the basement door opening. He doesn’t hear the footsteps bounding down the steps either— at least not as much as he feels them, the vibration traveling down through the carpeted floors and under his socked feet, faint but familiarly rhythmic, steadying in a way the rest of the world isn’t.
It’s not until a pair of hands grip his shoulders, firm but careful, that he fully snaps out of his stupor, his eyes opening before Will had even realized he’d closed them. He stares into nothing for a moment before a voice, deep and uncertain, warbles through the haze.
“Will?”
Mike, hair still slightly disheveled from sleep but completely dressed for the day. His expression is caught between confusion and concern.
Will nods.
He wants to respond—with actual words, but all of them seem to have vanished. They’ve run away and hid behind his internal monologue like a scared, wounded animal. It makes Will feels four-years-old again, back when his brain had suddenly decided he simply couldn’t speak; that speaking was the most monumental and risky and frightening task in the world, one he lacked the courage to try again, not after his past attempts had led to nothing but hurt—
“I was just coming to wake you up. Breakfast is ready,” Mike says, his voice quieter now, almost tentative.
Will’s tongue is thick and coarse, scraping the roof of his mouth like that would help conjure up a coherent reply or as if the answer he was looking for was written somewhere up there in braille. But it doesn’t and it’s not, and all Will can do is blink at him.
He can’t get the words out—
Not for the heartbeat in which the world behind Mike glooms with that same blue, sickly low-light from his dream. The murkiness of the Upside Down, faint but real. The cold tingling up his arms—
Then it’s gone, leaving behind a hollow echo in his head. It’s like the chasm of flashbacks that had suddenly opened up between him and reality has just as abruptly closed.
Maybe it’s because of Mike.
Yeah. He’s here now and Will is a little more okay. A little actually okay.
With that thought, Will’s focus latches onto Mike’s hands, feeling how they linger on his shoulders before moving down, then tracing each individual finger as they slide to wrap around his upper arms.
“Hey. You okay?”
Will opens his mouth to answer, but whatever disconnect there is between his mind and his mouth is still there. He’s still stuck, his throat closed with the lingering feeling of that appendage latching on and—
Even if he could speak, he doubts he’d be able to explain. How would he even describe it, what happened to him? Everything in him is still turning, too. His stomach, his vision, his sense of balance. It’s like he’s been spun around too many times and asked to walk a straight line.
Is this what it feels like to be in shock?
He looks at Mike, meets his eye as if staring deeply enough could convey this all without words, just like back when they were little kids—
And then the lights flicker again.
Once. Twice.
A soft, electric buzz ripples through the air as the basement dips in brightness, color draining for just a fraction of a second.
Will’s breath catches. Mike’s hand tightens on his arm, instinctive.
Mike looks up at the bulb above them, then back at Will. “Did you—?” He doesn’t finish the sentence, cutting himself off like he’s no longer sure what he was trying to ask. Did you see that? Did you do that? Instead, he leans in closer and urges, “Seriously, Will, are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out,” his voice tight, nervous.
Will swallows hard, the motion painful. The back of his throat tastes faintly of copper, and its iron tang clashes harshly with the lingering mintiness on his tongue. Had he bit something by accident? He swallows again, trying to chase the odd flavour away. It doesn’t work.
“Will, you’re scaring me.”
And that, that’s what gets him to break the mental lock on his vocal cords and finally choke something out:
“I–I‘m fine. I’m okay.” The words sound thin and insubstantial, like he’s mouthing them underwater, but he needed to say something because he was scaring Mike.
And scaring Mike is the last thing Will ever wants to do.
Mike frowns, clearly not convinced—which is funny because neither is Will.
“Really,” Will adds, forcing a small, shaky breath. “I just… I just got up too fast, that’s all. I’m okay.”
His friend's eyebrows pull together, his mouth opening to argue: ‘You’re obviously not okay—in fact, you clearly aren't even remotely close to being okay!’ emphasizing the words just like that.
So Will continues before he can, “Let’s go upstairs. I don’t… want to miss breakfast.”
Mike hesitates, searching his face, obviously looking to press the issue. But Will doesn’t wait. He moves past him, toward the stairs, each step a conscious effort.
The thought of eating… yeah, it's maybe not the first thing he wants to be doing right now. However, it’s either that or he tells Mike that he isn’t feeling well and why—and yeah, Will also doesn’t want to do that either. At least if he goes upstairs, Mike probably knows better than to prod in front of the others.
So breakfast it is—
Except, Will only makes it two steps before the vertigo hits again, the world pitching sideways. It’s woefully unhelpful in his attempt at an escape; contrary evidence against Will’s case for feeling just fine.
“Whoa—!”
Mike reacts just in time for Will’s knees buckle, catching him by the arm again before he can fall.
They stumble a bit, Mike mumbling, “Hey, easy. Slow down.”
Will grips the railing, knuckles white, eyes wide as the floor swims beneath him. He can feel the warmth of Mike’s hand around his bicep, grounding him, the only solid thing in a world that keeps slipping away.
“Just… dizzy,” Will manages. He swallows and straightens himself again. “You can let go now.”
Mike doesn’t buy it, not for a second—doesn’t even dignify Will’s assurances with a reply. He simply keeps a firm hand on Will’s arm as they slowly, carefully ascend the stairs together. Mike’s stubbornness is probably a good thing considering how each step feels like it could give way beneath Will, like the wood might dissolve into that same gray rot he’s seen in his dreams.
When they reach the top, the smell of breakfast really hits him. Toast, scrambled eggs, syrup, coffee, bacon. Familiar. Comforting. It should be enough to make him feel safe, to make him feel here, but the sounds of conversation, of laughter and dishes clinking, all blend together into an ugly, overwhelming blur, only sharpening the wrongness he feels inside him, like he’s an ugly, dark stain on this otherwise bright morning.
Mike stops him at the top of the stairs. With one foot still on the top step, he looks up at Will with a heavy expression, one hand still encircling his upper arm. “Will, seriously. Tell me what happened.” His tone is low, deliberate now, though the worry still bleeds through. “Is it—like before? Like the now-memories—”
“It’s nothing, Mike. Really.” Will shakes his head too quickly, trying to pull out of Mike’s hold.
He resists. “It’s not noth—”
“Boys!” Mrs. Wheeler’s voice breaks the tension with that odd blend of cheerful and stern only mothers seem to have mastered. She’s standing by the kitchen opening, one fist resting on her hip and the other ovenmitt-covered hand waving them toward the table. “Let’s go. Sit down before it gets cold.”
With that, she turns away and disappears into the dining area, expecting them to follow. And Will attempts to do just that only to be abruptly reminded of Mike’s persistent grip on his arm. He’s practically yanked backwards, and the sudden disruption makes the floor waver faintly under his feet. He has no choice but to lean back into Mike until he regains his equilibrium.
“Will,” Mike says, quietly now so the sound doesn’t carry beyond the hall.
Will looks desperately to the kitchen—
“Hey—look at me.”
Damnit.
Reluctantly yet unable to stop himself, Will does. The motion is sluggish, his eyes glassy.
“What happened?” Mike asks, voice low but insistent. “Was it a nightmare? A headache? You know you have to tell someone—tell me if you're having headaches or–or—” He hesitates. The word visions doesn’t make it past his lips, but it hangs in the air between them anyway.
For a moment, Will doesn’t answer. He just stands there, shoulders drawn in, like he’s shrinking away from something only he can see. He hopes Mike can't see the war happening behind his eyes; fear, confusion, guilt, swirling and squeezing through the folds of his brain.
“No, it’s not that… It’s—” Embarrassingly, he almost chokes on the breath he takes, cutting his sentence short.
“It’s what, Will?” Mike urges, his eyes wide and pleading.
“It’s…” Will licks his lips and glances back at the kitchen. “I’ll tell you after breakfast.” Will’s words come out small, almost apologetic.
Mike frowns, impatient, but he must figure that later is better than never because he doesn’t argue. “Promise?”
Will nods, not quite meeting his gaze and not quite promising either. “I just—need a minute. I don’t… I don’t even know how to explain it yet.” He hates the way his voice cracks slightly on the last word.
Mike searches his face, trying to read him. And for a moment, Will thinks he’s going to push again, but then his expression softens. Mike finally drops Will’s arm, but his hand stays hovering in the air between them, uncertain, like he’s debating—
“Boys!”
Both of them jump slightly as Mrs. Wheeler calls for them again, this time sounding marginally more impatient.
Will quickly (or as quickly as he’s currently able) moves away, but Mike keeps close behind him, one step slower, ready to catch Will again if he stumbles. He can feel Mike gazing intently at his back; at the stiff set of his shoulders and the way his hand brushes the wall as if testing its solidity.
It’s reassuring as much as it is suffocating.
He spent breakfast pushing around his scrambled eggs and biting his nails into his palm, trying to keep himself from slipping away, from reliving the memory.
Flashes of it kept appearing behind his eyes every time he blinked. The chaos of the overpopulated breakfast table was disorienting; sounds of utensils clinking against plates and idle morning chatter warbling in and out of focus. And it felt like he was moving in slow motion while everything else was speeding forward without him.
Joyce had noticed, because of course she had. But Will had managed to brush off his unkempt appearance and quietness as being groggy from waking up late—all while stubbornly ignoring Mike's blazing gaze boring into the side of his face.
This was bad, though; he’ll admit that much to himself.
There was this sickening feeling of foreboding that won't go away, and he knows that he should say something. He knows, because it’s not just him that this information could affect now. And besides, that was the deal, wasn't it? Hopper had said that they’re all meant to be on the same page now; that if they want to put a real, final end to this, they need to one: not be stupid, and two: be working in full rapport with one another. And while Will is perfectly aware of this fact—and of how stupid and selfish not saying anything would make him—he still doesn’t want to have to explain it just yet.
Yes, it’s stupid and it’s selfish, but explaining also means admitting that it really happened. That’s it truly is a memory he’d somehow forgotten just coming back to him now, out of the blue.
Why now? Why now after all these years?
That in itself is a reason to talk. Maybe these memories are a sign of the times; an indication of the beginning of the end.
And yet, he still can’t talk…
He just needs a little more time, that’s all. Just to get his psyche in check before he does any real deciphering. Just a couple more hours to understand what this memory may mean for him and the situation at large.
That’s what he tells himself as he dumps the rest of his eggs onto Jonathan’s plate and gets up to dispose of his own in the sink: just make it through the day, through school, being as normal as possible, and then he’ll talk to someone—even if it means spending the day like he had just spent breakfast; fighting with his own mind to stay tethered to reality.
But like the sick, cosmic joke his life apparently is, the moment he’s all but resigned to the idea, his mind slips away again—
A voice, deep and bone rattling and reverberating around his skull:
“At long last, we can begin.”
It’s only another flash of the memory coming through, not even triggered by anything specific, but it punches the air right out of his lungs; ignites a cold dread that crawls across his skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. And when his hands go limp, sending his plate shattering to the ground with an ear-splitting crash, Will doesn’t even notice—
Not until the subsequent, pin-drop silence fills the room.
He barely notices and yet feels all too much how every eye in the room is now staring at him; he doesn’t need to turn around to see the confusion and startle on their faces. His ears are ringing with the resounding splintering of his plate against the kitchen tile and the sheer force of his blood rushing to his head. His throat felt sore and tight, like he was breathing through a straw.
And all he can think is:
Shit, shit, shit, shit—