Chapter Text
Six
Will Byers is six years old and not talking much.
He's a creative, shy kid—one of those sensitive types. Still hiding behind his mom and clinging onto her leg. He has one best friend, two parents at home, a dog, and an older brother he wants to be more like every single day.
And Will loves his birthday.
It's not about getting presents—although that part is pretty great too—he loves that they're all together for breakfast: him, Mom, Jonathan, and sometimes even Dad. He loves that he turns another year older, and especially loves that he feels so loved.
And birthdays were never a casual affair for the Byers family. At least, by their own definition. Will would learn later on that some kids woke up to a mountain of brand new, shiny gifts on their birthdays, or even had parties where they invited their entire class—but back when Will’s world was only a few people wide, birthdays were still a big deal.
Mom got up early and made breakfast, swapping out stale cereal or runny eggs for box mix pancakes. Will would unwrap art supplies or a gently-used toy, and back when Mom was still working at that buffet downtown, they'd sometimes go out for dinner.
On the day Will turns six, there’s a stack of pancakes on his plate, swimming in a pool of syrup. A candle drips yellow wax onto a dollop of whipped cream. Chester's tail is wagging, thumping the table legs. His snout lays warmly on Will's knee, begging for leftovers with his big, wet eyes. His favorite stuffed tiger is clutched under his arm.
Jonathan and Mom hum happy birthday quietly, in attempts to not wake up Dad, who’s still snoring loudly on the couch the next room over. And while Will's old enough to be grateful that the ever-unpredictable cloud of his father hasn't stormed through the morning, he can't help but look over. Can't help but sort of wish they'd all sit as a family.
"Make a wish," Mom prods. "Go on. Anything you want."
Will thinks very hard about what to wish for. Just last year, he'd wished to make a friend, and that came true.
This year, Will can't think of anything other than wishing to make even more friends, and he blows the candle out.
While they eat, Mom gifts him a set of three Star Wars action figures. The tan paint on Chewbacca's fur had chipped a little, but other than that, practically brand new. Jonathan slides a box wrapped in newspaper across the table.
Joyce eyes the gift over her coffee. "What's that?"
"Nothing." Jonathan shrugs, but there's an eager smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He's still so young, with his hair chopped into the same bowl shape as Will's, and his permanent teeth just now starting to fully come in. "Go on. Open it, Will."
Will shreds the newspaper, revealing a carton of a dozen colored pencils, in every hue and shade he could possibly hope for. Tag still on. They're even better than the supplies at school, and a far cry from the broken, nubby crayons he's used to.
"Sweetheart, you didn't have to do that." Joyce cranes down and presses a kiss to Jonathan's temple, giving him a grateful squeeze around the shoulders. "Is that why you were mowing for Mrs. Murphy?"
"Maybe." Jonathan gets to his feet and starts clearing plates. "What do you think, Will? You like them?"
Will nods quickly, beaming. His fingertip rolls over the pencils in their uniform rainbow order, and he's already imagining what to draw. Already wondering if he should take these to school, or if he should just keep them safe in his room.
"Happy birthday." Jonathan rustles Will's hair as he plucks up Will's plate. "Draw me something cool, okay?"
Joyce glances at the clock above their stove, then clasps her hands together. "Oh, shi—shoot. Shoes and coats, boys! C'mon. Gonna be late."
At school, Will gets a third birthday gift.
Mike, with baby fat still rounding his cheeks, and a plum colored, heart-shaped birthmark splotched from his temple to his eyelid, then rounded out into a faint heart-shape on his cheek—rifles through a backpack that's nearly as big as he is.
So far, Mike is Will's only friend in kindergarten. The year is over halfway out, and the other kids in his class are okay, but Will's lack of speaking made him something of a wallflower, easily missed and mostly ignored.
Ignored by everyone but Mike, who'd latched onto him the first morning of kindergarten. Then they just sort of stuck together.
He's already chattering as their classmates mill around the classroom, and Will's listening while he colors with a red crayon in his fist. It's the way things usually go: Mike fills their conversations, and Will's just happy to follow along.
In fact, Mike decodes Will's silence so easily that, when he recants their days at school to Mom and Jonathan when he comes over, his stories of, "so, and then Will said…" turn into corrections of, "Well, he didn't say it, but…"
It feels good, though, being understood so well by someone outside of Will's tiny world of Mom and Jon.
"Okay, wait." Mike finally turns toward him, clutching a piece of canary-yellow construction paper in attempts to hide it. "Close your eyes."
Will squints at him to ask why.
"Cause it’s your birthday," Mike says, like it’s obvious. "Duh."
Mike's weird. Always adding little flairs and embellishments like these to everything he does. Making things dramatic.
Will giggles. He obliges, and the classroom goes dark.
There's the sound of a piece of paper landing on the tabletop. "Okay—open them!"
Will glances at the crookedly folded paper.
Mike grins so widely that he displays each one of his baby teeth. "Open it," he says. "It's a card. I made it for you."
When Will gingerly peels the birthday card open, Mike’s uneven handwriting is displayed across the page.
The p’s in happy are backwards, the y wobbly and curled at the end, and the k in Mike is also flipped the wrong way. The word birthday is etched in their teacher’s steady print, and it seems like she'd also added the punctuation for him.
Happy birthday, Will!
Love,
Mike W
"Do you like it?" Mike hurriedly gestures towards a scribbling of stick figures at the bottom: two boys with huge, red smiles. One wears a storm cloud of black hair, and the other boy is crowned with swirls of brown crayon. "I know I can’t draw as good as you, but—look! I made us over here."
Then his little hand points to a sandy-colored blob near the corner. "And, and see, I made Chester there, too."
Will has no idea why his eyes are abruptly welling with tears.
"If it's—if it's not good," Mike's saying, now wearing an apprehensive frown, "you're not gonna hurt my feelings. But Mrs. G helped me with the spelling, and—"
Will quickly shakes his head, no, no, and splits into a grin. He's just never gotten a present from someone outside of his family before, and maybe that's why this simple card feels so overwhelming. Will wishes there was some way he could tell him thank you, but luckily Mike understands him, and he's immediately back to smiling.
"Are you gonna have a party?" Mike quickly leaps to the next question. "Because, my big sister Nancy had this crazy party for her birthday—well, it was actually just our family and her friend Barb—but it was still super fun. Are you gonna have one? Are you having a party? Can I come?"
Will shrugs, not sure who he’d even invite. Mike's his only friend, and besides, he’s never had a birthday party before.
"That's okay," he replies, zipping his backpack closed. Mike rests his arm over Will's back and dips them into a hug. Their elbows bump, and Mike's sticking his pinky finger out.
"We can have our own party," Mike promises, and he's giddy, like it's a secret. He curls his finger securely around Will's, and Will's pinky finger promises back. "Just you and me."
At age six, Will takes that to heart.
Seven
Will Byers is seven years old and starting to talk more. He believes in Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, and he most firmly of all believes in birthday wishes. Just this morning, he wished for his family to be happy, and, just to see if he can throw a second one out to the universe, he wished to go see his best friend.
And now buckled in the backseat of his mom's bright green Pinto, clutching a dusty charity shop board game in his lap like it's the most precious treasure in the world.
"And you'll tell Mike's mom to call me, right?" Mom's eyes meet Will's in the rearview mirror. "If you need anything?"
"Uh huh." Will kicks his feet, antsy. "I will."
"And remember, I'm picking you up at four so we can go to dinner, so be ready."
"'Kay." Will's legs stop their fidgeting. "Is Dad coming with us?"
Mom's eyes go back to the road. "No, it's just gonna be you, me, and your brother, okay?"
Something sour Will doesn't quite understand grows acidic in his chest. He searches hard for the words, and manages to ask, "Did he forget?"
"No," Mom says after a moment, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel. "He didn't forget. He's just busy, baby."
"Okay."
Dad's presence lately has been scattered as stars. He sleeps through the days and mostly vanishes at night. Maybe not stars, though, more like rare asteroids that crash-land and wreak wildfires through Will's house in his destruction.
Other kids' dads give them piggyback rides, walk them to school, or come in to volunteer on field trips. He's seen it with his own eyes, and it sparks a sad sort of jealousy. Will just doesn't get why he can't have that. He thought, maybe, today, he'd get a little bit of it, but he's too embarrassed to ask again.
"Are you going to play your new, um, your dragons game?"
"Yeah." Will smiles at the faded depiction of medieval warlocks and monsters on the box, flanked by purple lightning. DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS is scrawled across the lid in maroon block letters.
A smile slips into Mom's voice. "Well, tell me if it's any fun. Me and Jonathan thought it looked right up your alley."
The Pinto's tires squeal to a brake in the Wheelers' driveway. Will's fumbling for his seatbelt buckle before the engine's even off. He's had playdates at Mike's house before, and he's certain it's his favorite place in the whole world.
Mike comes over to Will's house too, sometimes. He watches Will draw, or they talk Jonathan into playing a board game with them. He always snuggles up next to Chester and agonizes about how he just wishes his parents would get him a dog, and how he wishes he had a big brother, because Jonathan Byers is a complete and utter celebrity to Mike.
It's fun, and Will likes sharing his space with Mike. But he loves going over here instead.
The Wheeler house is like a castle. Two whole stories and a basement beneath it all that might as well be a toy store. Mike has nearly every action figure in nearly every collection, and the good legos with none of the pieces missing from their sets. Will could literally live in that basement and never get bored.
Mom twists around in her seat. "And, really, you promise you'll call me if you need me, right?"
"I promise," Will says, anxiously tugging on the door handle.
There's a shout outside. "Will's here! Will's here!"
Mike has left the front door wide open behind him as he runs across the yard. He's in a green and blue striped shirt, dotted with a few marker stains. There's a band-aid plastered on one of his twiggy knees, and a card waving in his hands.
Mike knocks the wind out of Will when they hug, and he almost loses the board game to the driveway.
"Happy birthday!" Mike's bouncing on his feet, his arm not leaving where its wrapped around Will's shoulders. He's always been sort of prone to excitement that way, like it bubbles up and he doesn't know what to do with it. Mrs. Wheeler had once described him as hyperactive. "What's this? What'd you bring? Oh, wait!" He steps back and unfurls the paper in his hands, smoothing it out. "I made you your—yeah!"
Mom laughs. "What's that?"
"A birthday card," Mike explains. "I always make one. You can see it, too," he tells Mom, like it's a grand gesture to let her in on. "This one's really good. Um, you can open it now, Will, if you want."
Will attempts to balance both the box and the card in one arm as he unfolds it. Mike's handwriting has gotten better, but his drawings have not.
Happy birthday Will! is drawn out in all capitals, followed by a litany of exclamation points.
The next line reads, Thank you for coming to my house—but he'd misspelled house, and Nancy's swirly handwriting corrected it for him—then, and thank you for being my friend.
Love,
Mike
A stick figure rendition of Mike and Will take up the rest of the page, with smiles drawn just as big as last year's. They're surrounded by hearts doodled in every color.
Will crinkles his nose, and he's sniffling when he smiles. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Mike grins, probably feeling rather accomplished. "What game did you bring? Do you wanna go play? We could go in the basement, or—"
"Michael! You can't just leave the door open when the air's on!" Mrs. Wheeler calls as she starts towards the driveway. In the crook of her arm, a baby's pinkish face peeks out from a swaddle. "Oh, hi, Joyce!"
"Hey, Karen!" Mom replies, extending a wave. "Oh, wow, is that little Holly already?"
Mike's tugging at his wrist, complaining: let's go, let's go, while Will's busy rereading his card and Mom is starting to gush over baby Holly.
"Happy birthday, Will," Mrs. Wheeler says, her smile gentle and lipstick always pristine.
"Thanks," Will squeaks. "And, um, thanks for letting me come over."
Mom mouths something inaudible towards her that looks like thank you.
"Oh, it's not a problem," Mrs. Wheeler replies easily, adjusting the sleeping baby up to her shoulder. "We love having Will around. And Mike's been so excited, going on about it all week."
Mom laughs gently. "Same here."
"It's always: 'Everyone, Will's coming over!' and 'Will said this, Will drew that…'"
"Mom," Mike groans, mortified. "Stop. We're going in the basement now."
"Okay, okay." Mom attempts to fuss with Will's hair as he hugs her leg goodbye. "I'll be back at four. I love you."
"Love you, too," Will says, pressing her face into her sweater. "Oh, wait, can you take my card home?"
"Of course." She plucks up the paper, careful not to crease or damage it. "This was very kind of you, Mike."
Mike's still dragging him by the wrist. "Yeah, I know. Okay, Will, let's go play downstairs."
"Michael."
Mike gets a bit sheepish. "I mean, thanks, Mrs. Byers."
Mom just chuckles, tucking the card into her purse. "Have fun, baby. And just ask nicely to use their phone if you need me, okay?"
Will starts to repeat, "I will," just as Mike says, "We'll be okay, Mrs. Byers," in this weirdly grown-up voice he gets. He smiles up at Will's mom, teeth stained blue. "I promise."
Mrs. Wheeler sighs a laugh in Mom's direction. "Kids."
"Kids," Mom says back, and Will doesn't get it.
Mike rambles as they pad across the lawn, "What's the game? Looks super cool. Did you get that today? From your mom? Is it new? Can we play it together? Have you played it before?"
"Oh, yeah," Will says, letting Mike hold onto the box. "I just got it. I don't know how to play, but maybe we could figure it out together?"
"Yeah." Mike's grin is bright. "Race you to the basement?"
"And the game was fun?"
"Yeah," Will replies, feeling sluggish from the long day. They'd returned to a dark house after dinner, and Will proudly attached Mike's card to their fridge alongside his own drawings. "You get to make your own characters."
"Oh, yeah?" Jonathan's sitting beside him on his bedroom floor as they share a chocolate bar. "Did you decide what you wanna be?"
"A wizard," Will says simply, passing the candy back to Jonathan.
"Cool." Jonathan pushes the foil wrapper down and takes a bite. "Did you—"
"—It's the constant excuses, I'm so sick of it!"
"I work my ass off for this family, so, sorry if I'm not here to babysit—"
Jonathan sighs in the direction of his firmly shut door. Will curls his knees up to his chest.
"This family? You want to talk about this family? It's Will's birthday today, you know. Did you even talk to him? Get him anything? He missed you!"
"You're hysterical."
Will winces, dread pooling in his gut. "Do you think they'll—"
Jonathan curtly shakes his head. "It'll be fine. Let's just talk about something else. Did you draw your, uh, your wizard guy?"
"Not yet," Will says shakily. His eyes don't leave the poster-clad bedroom door, too tuned in on the muffled yelling outside. "Um, Jonathan?"
"Yeah?"
Will draws a breath. "I'm really scared."
"Glad to know the money I put on this table is going towards—"
"What, like we weren't supposed to get him a gift?"
"I don't know, Joyce, maybe if you stopped blowing all our money—"
"Oh, I'm the one blowing our money? On what? How much did tonight's booze cruise run you?"
Jonathan grits his teeth as he seems to rack his brain for a solution. "Yeah," he eventually says, quiet. "Me, too."
"He's not gonna come in here, right?"
"No, he won't."
"Are… you gonna go out there?" Will asks hesitantly. He scans his brother's face for a lifeline, hoping for an immediate no, I won't go.
But it's always the same routine, when it gets scary like this. Will sits in Jonathan's room if the front door slams too harshly, or the weight of their father's footsteps sounds too staggered or heavy. They find things to talk about and try to get distracted. Jonathan was only ten the first time he put on a brave face and tried to go make peace in the hallway, telling Will to stay behind him.
He has to wonder if Jonathan ever wishes he had a big brother of his own, instead of always being the one to go into the hallway.
"Um." Jonathan reaches to fidget with his hair, scratching a piece behind his ear. Finally, he shakes his head. "No. I'll stay here with you. Tell me more about your game."
Will begins explaining the process he and Mike took to design their characters, deciding their classes, abilities, alignments. There's a lot that goes into the game that they don't really get, but it's nice to just make stuff up, to create new versions of themselves.
"And I can cast all sorts of spells," Will's saying. He's torn his eyes away from the door, counting familiar stacks of comic books and toys scattered around Jonathan's messy floor instead. "It's super cool. You can be anything you want."
Jonathan is still distracted, but Will knows he's listening—his brother is just in two places at once right now.
"Okay, walk away, then. Just walk away. Like you always do."
"Fucking Christ."
"Really? Tying another one on?"
"Jesus, I can't get a beer?"
"That's awesome," Jonathan offers with a thin smile, turning back to him. "Can Mike cast spells, too?"
"No," Will says. "Only I have magic."
Jonathan nods, looking very introspective for a twelve year old. "That makes sense."
"It does?"
"Yeah, I think so."
In the kitchen, the fridge rattles loudly. The argument turns to murmuring, some low grumbling out of Dad, then the volume picks right back up.
"Don't wanna see that shit in my own house—it's not fuckin' natural."
"They're seven years old, Lonnie, for god's sake."
"Jonathan's already turning out to be a freak, I'm not raising a—"
The sound of the fridge door slamming and Chester's barking overshadows the rest of the fight. Jonathan's lower lip wobbles.
"You're not a freak," Will mumbles, nervously picking at a loose thread in his socks. It's what Jonathan would say, and he wants to be brave like him.
Jonathan shrugs. "I don't care what he says about me."
That just makes Will inexplicably sad. It's so easy to tell when his brother is lying.
"I'm sorry they fought on your birthday, Will."
Will drops his chin to his knee. "Yeah." There isn't much else to say.
They have a sleepover that night, Will staying in Jonathan's room until long after the fight seemed to end—doors were slammed and Dad's car started up loudly and puttered away, but it didn't meet as explosive of a conclusion as it could've.
When Will sleeps, he dreams about sorcerers and dragons and knights with silver swords.
Mike's card is missing from the fridge in the morning.
Eight
On Will's eighth birthday, the pancakes are burnt. Slightly.
Mom, exhausted from another graveyard shift, fusses around the stove, fanning away billowing gray smoke. "Jon? Sweetheart, could you help—"
"One sec," Jonathan calls from the laundry room. "Feeding Chester."
The clattering of kibble into a bowl. The smoke detector screeches, and Chester howls. Mom curses under her breath as she scrambles to switch the thing off.
"What's fucking racket?" booms from Will's parents' bedroom, and the air in the bright, chaotic kitchen becomes a graveyard.
"It's your son's birthday," Mom sighs, clipped. She shifts the smoke detector silent. "If you remember. Or you feel up to showing up. Or, you know, ever getting him something."
"Relax, I got something."
Will's dad always commands attention when he enters a room.
It's like everything that resides in it has to go completely still—petrified to move an inch, to talk, to even breathe. His hand is already raised defensively when he crosses the threshold, as if bracing for an argument. Or maybe hoping for one.
"Look." Their plates clatter with the weight of another gift hitting the table: a dull, metal baseball bat. It lands atop the off-brand crayons Jonathan had saved up for, and rustles the wrapping paper shrouding a comic book from Mom.
"There you go," Dad grits out, but he's not talking to Will. "Happy birthday. You satisfied?"
Jonathan sinks into his seat and mumbles, "He doesn't even like t-ball."
Dad looks up. His hand plants on the kitchen table. "What's that, boy?"
The air’s shifted. Will can always feel the storm before it happens.
"Lonnie." Mom's mouth is a tight line. "Seriously? Not now."
Jonathan meets their father’s leering gaze. His shoulders roll back. "Said he hates t-ball."
It impresses Will, how Jonathan’s voice has stopped wavering when he talks back to Dad. Terrifies him at the same time.
Long gone was the anxious warble in Jonathan's tone, and the way his eyes used habitually to shift down was replaced by a steady glint of defiance—something Will guessed only came with being thirteen and having a greater grasp on the world.
"Will's quitting t-ball," Mom says. "You knew that."
"You would," Jonathan corrects under his breath, "if you went to literally any of his games."
Dad barks a laugh, husky and undercut with the rancid stench of days-old liquor. Will wants, so badly, to be literally anywhere else. To magically teleport out from underneath his dad's shadow falling over the table.
"Oh, what?" he challenges, staring down Jonathan. "You wanna pick a fight with me right now?"
Jonathan’s back to staring at his placemat. His knuckles clench near his jeans, nails digging into the denim. "No."
Dad's brows shoot up. "What's that, tough guy?"
"Goddammit, Lonnie," Mom hisses, low.
"That’s what I thought," Dad grumbles in response to Jonathan's silence. "If I ever talked to my old man the way you do, it'd be a different story, I'll tell you that much."
He turns, brushing past Mom as he tears through the kitchen. "And he hardly even gave the game a shot before you let him quit, Joyce," he adds. "You let him quit, jus' like that. He didn't even try. Too busy picking flowers in the outfield like some sorta faggot."
Will's spine goes rigid.
He's too young, still, to fully understand the weight of that word. But old enough for it to grate on his ears, for it to echo like a gunshot. Everything around him dies, just like that. Something inside Will dies and decays, too.
Mom's voice teeters on finding a harsher edge and becoming water entirely. "Lonnie."
"What?" It's just as grating.
Jonathan's chair screeches back against the tile. His unblinking stare cuts daggers across the kitchen.
This is going downhill, fast. And it's entirely Will's fault.
"What? He hasn't even thanked me for—"
"Thank you," Will blurts, coming back to himself. Desperate to fix. "It's really, really great, Dad. Love you."
"See? Little shit likes t-ball." Mom must've looked at him a certain way, because he goes on, "I mean—what? I don’t get him a gift, and you're pissed at me. Then, I get the kid a gift, and you're still pissed to hell at me. It's like I can't ever win with you." A drawer is pulled open. "Why is there never any food in this house?"
Mom's tone is dead. "If you want to eat, breakfast is almost ready."
She carts over a tall plate of pancakes, crispy and black on the bottoms. She plasters a weary smile on, facing her sons. "Eat fast, okay, then I'll get you both to school—"
Without another word, Dad slams the fridge shut. He passes through the kitchen like a hurricane, not a care in the world for what's left in his wake.
"Don't listen to him, Will," Jonathan mumbles once the bedroom door slams shut once more. He slips pancakes onto their plates. "Such an asshole."
"Language," Mom sighs, exasperated. "Trust me, I know. But seriously, Jonathan."
His gaze softens in her direction. "Sorry."
Sometimes, Will feels like there's a secret language between Jonathan and Mom. Looks only they can comprehend. Things they keep out of Will's reach. A specific set of responsibilities on his shoulders is the only thing Jonathan doesn't have to share with his kid brother.
Mom's eyes are wet, pointed at Will over a chipped mug of coffee. She blinks the shine away. "Um—did you like your presents, baby?"
"Yeah," Will says. Their cramped kitchen breathes a bit easier in the absence of Lonnie Byers. "Maybe, um, maybe we could watch a movie tonight?"
"You got it," Mom promises. "Might have to pick from what we got this time, though, okay?"
"I can rent something after school," Jonathan offers. "Mrs. Murphy paid me yesterday. We can go pick something out together, yeah?"
"Yeah, cool."
Will's trying his best to make his smile believable while he pokes at his pancakes. Jonathan smiles back, but his doesn't meet his eyes, either.
When a candle is stuck into his pancake and lit, Will's wish is for his dad to be nicer.
But the truth of the matter is: sometimes, people are just mean. Mean for no good reason, doesn't matter the age. The purple welt beneath Jonathan's eye last week could've been from a schoolyard bully just as easily as it was from their father.
But Will's grown accustomed to bullies at school by now, just as Jonathan had at his age—but the stark difference between a loudmouthed boy in his class and the portentous figure of his father is that one knows how to cut Will much deeper than the other.
One was escapable when the bell rang. One haunted Will's house.
"Byers!" An immediate clamp over his shoulders greets Will before he makes it to homeroom. "Happy birthday!"
Lucas Sinclair still feels brand new to Will.
He's zealous in a way Will hadn't been familiar with, brave, eager to make friends, quick to share. He'd met Mike last summer, since he lives just up the street, and they became a trio.
Will had been—embarrassingly, and in a way that made him feel almost mean—shy to make a new friend. What if Lucas makes fun of him? What if Lucas is too cool for him? What if, because Will lives farther away, Mike spends all his time with Lucas instead, and Will is forgotten?
But anyone who meets Lucas learns within five seconds that he's the sweetest kid alive. Even his lighthearted jabs raise a giggle out of Will. He's funny that way. Will laughs to himself sometimes, remembering a joke Lucas had made weeks ago. They like the same comics, obsess over the same sci-fi movies.
Lucas has a baby sister toddling around his big blue house. His parents smile fondly at their newfound group's games of make-believe in the front lawn. Over lunches in Lucas' kitchen, he always overhears the Sinclair parents call each other names like sweetpea and my love, which is entirely foreign to Will, and always makes Lucas stick his tongue out at them in disgust.
And friendship with Lucas, Will learns, is entirely different from friendship with Mike.
He and Lucas walk side by side, and Will dutifully listens to his embellished retelling of the latest Karate Kid issue.
"Oh, and guess what?" Lucas stalls his pace in the middle of the hallway, looking at Will like he's about to deliver gravely important news. "My dad put two Star Crunches in my lunch today." Eyebrow lift. "So."
"Lucky duck," Will says.
Lucas bumps his arm, laughing. "It's for you!"
"Wait, really?" Will remembers devouring that cellophane-wrapped dessert last time he'd played at the Sinclairs'. It sort of stuns him for a moment, the idea that a friend would remember such a small detail about him.
"Yeah! Doy!"
"Well, you could've just not told me," Will teases, nudging his arm back. "And then you could've eaten two."
"Shoot." Lucas pretends to think it over. "Nah, I won't erase your memory. You can still have it."
Will smiles, wide and sincere. "Thanks, Lucas."
By the time Will places his backpack on the hook and sits at his desk, Mike's already been waiting. His elbow's bent, shielding a sheet of looseleaf his pencil scritches across.
"Hey!" Mike perks up in his seat. He's missing a tooth on his right side. "Happy birthday."
"Thanks, Mike."
"You get anything cool?"
"Oh, yeah. Drawing stuff. New X-Men from Mom."
"Awesome." Mike's pencil goes back to work.
Lucas leans over in his seat. "And a Star Crunch from me."
"Aw, what?"
"Don't make that face. Not your birthday, man."
Will peers around his shoulder, and Mike immediately shifts his arm over the page.
His grin is knowing. "Whatcha making?"
"Don't look," Mike complains. "Not done yet."
When the bell rings, Will goes through the motions of standing for the Pledge of Allegiance and morning announcements, then he's staring out the window with his chin in his palm for the duration of homeroom.
Sometimes, people are just mean. It loops through Will's head well into the afternoon.
He busies himself in art class, which is one of the only places Will feels completely calm in, outside of his own bedroom and Mike's house.
Self-portraits are the assignment today. Will's washing an image of his own face in colored pencil, shading the collar of his shirt goldenrod.
Don't listen to him, Will.
He's trying not to. He's been trying not to all day.
But what did Will do so wrong, though? He doesn't even talk back to his dad. He's quiet at home. Doesn't take up space, doesn't ask for stuff. Makes himself scarce when he can tell he's not wanted around.
Dad's called them all a grocery-list of names so colorful Will won't repeat them here. It's not only Will. He's probably the meanest to Mom and Jonathan, so Will shouldn't be complaining about it. But Dad said Jonathan was a pussy when they got back from that hunting trip he'd dragged him along on, didn't say he was a faggot. He calls Jonathan ungrateful, asshole, creep—but he's never called him queer, and Jon didn't even like sports, either.
Why is that only reserved for Will?
What did he do that was so bad? So wrong? That was so disgusting?
The art project blurs. Will blinks it clear.
He sniffles in a way that he hopes isn't obvious to the rest of the class, or to Mike, who's putting together a rather… abstract drawing to his right.
Will examines the shapes and lines of his own portrait.
Is it evident, somewhere on this face, that something's wrong with Will? That something's different? Bad and wrong and gross?
That, maybe, there's something in Will's eyes, his nose, his hair—that Dad doesn't like?
Neighbors and extended family always said Will was the spitting image of his mother, though, so maybe that's not it.
Is it his voice? Is it the colorful, baggy hand-me-downs Mom dresses him in? Is it that he can't hit the ball, and can't find it in himself to care enough to run the bases? Is it that he'd rather sit in the quiet of his room and draw than go to practice, where it's hot out and the uniform's uncomfortable and all his teammates are mean?
But Will's gotten so much better at drawing, though. Mike says so. Jonathan, Lucas, and Mom say so, too. Maybe, if Dad saw how good Will's art is getting, he'd like him more.
Or, maybe—should he just go back to t-ball? Try harder? Try to like it?
"Will? What's the matter?"
He glances up, snapped from his thoughts. "What?"
"What's wrong?" Mike repeats in a whisper. His eyebrows skew into these dark squiggles on his forehead.
"Nothing. I'm good."
"No, you're not." Mike sets his marker down, pausing his stick-figure rendition of himself. He reaches out, and delicately grasps Will's arm. "You're sad today. Why are you so sad?"
There must be an ever-present loop of text splayed across Will's forehead, displaying all of his thoughts in a code only Mike can decipher.
"Just my dad," Will mumbles. His colored pencil keeps etching across the paper. "Not a big deal."
Mike's expression shifts to something very serious for a kid. "What'd he do."
"He just doesn't like me," Will admits, but that's not new information by any means. "This morning just wasn't—good."
"What happened this morning?"
"He was kinda—" Will makes an attempt at keeping his voice even. "Mean to me."
Perplexion overtakes Mike's features. "How? What'd he say? Dads aren't supposed to be mean, Will."
Will hesitates.
Would Mike get it? Does Mike even know what that word means? Certainly he's heard it before. It's one of many that's been hurled their way by fifth graders with much more vibrant vocabularies than them at recess. Doesn't mean he would understand, though.
Mr. Wheeler definitely doesn't call Mike that. At least, not from what Will's seen. He's actually only heard about a dozen words out of Mr. Wheeler in total, usually drowned out by the news looping on their big television set. Mike thinks his dad is annoying, sure. Always on him to straighten up his room and put his action figures away.
But, yell? No, Mike's father doesn't yell.
He surely doesn't yell at or hit Mrs. Wheeler—they barely seem to talk. They're not like Lucas' parents, who are smitten with each other in a way that makes Will a bit sick with envy, but Mike's parents don't seem to fight like that.
It's not like that. He wouldn't understand.
"Don't really wanna talk about it," Will eventually says.
Mike's frown deepens. "Well, how can I make it better?"
"Do my math homework." Will means it as a joke, but Mike's face doesn't falter for a second. "It's really okay, Mike," he adds quietly. "Said it wasn't a big deal."
Mike gives his arm another gentle squeeze. "Then, do you wanna come over today?"
Wouldn't be the first time Will needed to escape home and burrow away somewhere in Mike's basement. It kind of makes him feel guilty, eating the Wheelers' food and taking up their space, but Mike's family never really seems to care.
"My mom's making that really good casserole for dinner again," he adds. "But, but, she can totally cook whatever sounds good, if you wanna stay over. We could finish making that campaign, or see if Lucas wants to play outside. You could just—get away from him, you know?"
"Can't," Will says. "I'm picking out a movie after school with Jonathan."
"Okay. But you're still gonna come over on Saturday, right?"
Will cracks a smile. "'Course."
There's a brief flash of triumph in Mike's eyes, as if making Will happy is a personal objective of his. "You want your card now? Would that make it better?"
The smile widens. "Yeah."
After some rummaging through his bookbag, and some silly instructions for Will to close his eyes, Mike drops a folded piece of looseleaf into his hands.
Dear Will,
Happy birthday!!
I hope you get everything you want for your birthday and have the most epic day ever! Thank you for being my friend and for always drawing me cool stuff. I love you so much, and I hope we are best friends forever and ever.
Love,
Mike
And just like that, things are okay.
Ten
By the time Will turns ten, he has a full-fledged friend group. Not just a trio, not just hanging with Mike, but a party.
He'd sat next to a new boy on the first day of fourth grade. In a town as small as Hawkins, it's hard to miss when a new family moves in, but especially hard to miss a boy who looks different, the way Dustin Henderson does.
Will didn't stare. He didn't ask questions. Mom and Jonathan would be so disappointed in him if he did—they taught him better than that.
"It's cleidocranial dysplasia," was the first thing Dustin ever said to Will.
Will had turned, blinking at him. "Sorry, what?"
He fanned a hand around his face. "No teeth. No collarbones. That's what it is."
Will's face had run warm. "Oh, I swear, I wasn't trying to—"
"It's cool." He shrugged. "I'm Dustin. Dustin Henderson. Just moved from Minnesota with my mom, if you wanna be friends. But even if you don't wanna hangout with me, you got a pencil I can borrow? 'Cause I'm totally…"
And that's how they became friends.
Dustin snaps every puzzle piece of Will's school life into place. Their lunch table, which used to look a little sad with just Lucas, Mike and Will crowding the bench, feels full now. It's bizarre when they talk about memories from early grade school and Dustin asks questions, because it feels like he's always been around; he fits in that well.
Will's always stunned at his courageous use of swear words, and Dustin's a surefire genius, obsessed with science, acing their math classes. He's an only child, living in a ranch house not too far from Will's. Just him, his mom, and a tiny orange kitten Mrs. Henderson obsesses over.
No dad. That makes Will feel close to Dustin immediately.
On Will's birthday, it's warm enough to sit outside for lunch. He sits on a bench, quietly unwrapping a sandwich and waiting for his friends. Honestly, Will was already shocked when Mike asked to be his friend over four years ago, so having three best friends of his own feels ridiculously lucky.
"Yo!" Lucas drops his metal lunchbox onto the wood with a clang, and Will scoots over to make room. He places a plastic wrapped Hostess cupcake in front of Will—it's like a tradition. "Happy birthday, man!"
"Thanks, Lucas," Will says through a bite of his sandwich.
"You didn't do that for my birthday," Dustin tuts from the other side of the table, angling his chocolate milk carton accusingly at him. They bicker like this. All the time. "Didn't put anything in your lunch for me."
Lucas sputters. "It was summer! You were literally at camp!"
"Yeah, whatever." Dustin scoffs lightheartedly. His eyes shift over the table, gleaming. "Sooo. Will. Y'think I can—"
"Do not share with his greedy ass."
"I wasn't even gonna ask that!"
"Yes, you were! You're totally asking just 'cause Will literally shares everything!"
Will laughs at Dustin's irritated scowl. "You can have a little bit, Dustin. It's okay."
"Sweet." Dustin loudly slurps his chocolate milk, and Lucas rolls his eyes. "Where's Mike?"
"He's coming," Will replies. "Bought his lunch today."
Dustin sighs. "That lucky asshole."
"So, you doing anything cool tonight?" Lucas asks as he pieces through his lunchbox. "You get any presents?"
This morning ran along the same routine Will's birthdays always do: pancakes in the morning, art supplies from Mom and Jonathan. They had to be quiet—again—because Dad was still sleeping. Mom offered to wake him up, and Will said it was fine. Sometimes, he feels like having Dad around is worse than when he's gone. It's too much of a gamble, never knowing if Will's going to be left alone this time or not.
When he blew out the candle on his pancake, Will wished, not for the first or last time, for Mom, Jonathan, and all his friends to be happy.
Mom doesn't work at that restaurant anymore; she's been picking up shifts at Melvald's downtown. So they can't really go out to dinner anymore, but she'd brought home these round little frozen pizzas, saying they could pick their toppings and have a pizza night.
"We had pancakes this morning," Will says, thinking. "I got some new colored pencils and a notebook. Oh, and we're gonna make pizzas tonight, I think."
Lucas whistles. "Jealous. That sounds fun."
"Hey, guys." Mike sets his tray next to Dustin. He already wished Will a happy birthday in homeroom first thing, but he hadn't gotten a card yet.
He wasn't sure if he'd get one. Maybe Mike forgot. Maybe they're too old for that.
Either way, Will isn't gonna ask.
"Sup, man."
"Why'd you get two Cokes?"
"'Cause." Mike pops the tab open on the second soda with a hiss and sets it in front of Will.
Will smiles. "Really?"
Mike sits down, shrugging. "Yeah, course."
Lucas shakes his head as he unwraps the foil on his sandwich. "Just out here stealing my thunder. I did that first, so."
"Well, I was gonna share my fries with everyone, but now I guess I won't," Mike says flatly, squeezing a ketchup packet over a box of chicken rings. He pauses and looks up, clearly still annoyed. "Also, a soda's, like, way better than a cupcake, so don't even. Right, Will?"
"Yeah, yeah," Lucas chuckles. "Whatever. We all know you're still Will's favorite. No need to panic."
"Oh, come on," Will argues. "I don't have a favorite friend. That's dumb."
Mike makes an attempt at looking offended. "Wow. Wow. Okay, so no french fries for you, Will the Wicked."
"Sweet, more for me." Dustin immediately wrenches his hand across Mike's tray, snatching up loose fries like a seagull. Mouth full, he adds, "Can we still come over Saturday?"
It's just perfect. Will has plans for the weekend, and friends. Friends, plural. He has for a long time, but it still sends a thrill through him.
Mike sighs. The corners of his mouth turn upward. "Yeah, yeah."
In science, they're supposed to be identifying plants. Their class is milling around the other yards, and Will's by himself, plucking up a dandelion to put in a plastic bag for whatever this assignment is supposed to be.
"Hey." Mike catches up to him, and there's dirt smeared across his collared shirt, staining his fingertips.
"Find anything good?"
"Nope," Mike says, squinting at his own bag stuffed with handfuls of grass and tangled up roots. Will's not sure how he's going to identify that mess back in the classroom. "Pretty sure they're just trying to get us to pull all the school's weeds."
Will laughs and tucks the dandelion away. "That's probably it."
"I wanted to give you your card," Mike adds. "Was gonna do it earlier, but it wasn't done yet. So, you want it now or later?"
Will smiles. Of course Mike didn't forget. He would never.
"Now."
"'Kay." Mike climbs up the hillside Will's been kneeling on, and plops down criss-cross on the grass. Everyone else is scattered around the bleachers and the playground, so it's just the two of them up against the gym wall. Afternoon sun blares through Mike's hair, brightening the side of his face up as he roots through his bookbag. "I swear it's in here."
A warm, sincere laugh rises out of Will, "I believe you."
Will scoots to sit next to him, dirt clinging to his knees and overgrown weeds tickling his ankles. He watches Mike rifle through his trapper-keeper, and smiles.
Mike's just nice to look at. His features make him so interesting, Will's always thought. It's like Mike could be a movie star, with his curly hair and freckles. Mike's smile is so handsome, but maybe that's just because Will always feels calmer when it's directed at him.
"Okay, found it." Mike turns, holding a piece of looseleaf to his chest. "You're supposed to—"
"Do I really have to close my eyes?" Will asks, arching an eyebrow. "I can literally see it."
Mike huffs. "Yes. Duh."
Fine. Will shuts his eyes and holds his hand out, opening them once he feels the weight of the paper. "Thank you."
"Uh-huh." Mike peers over his shoulder as he reads it, always crowded in on his space, but in a way Will's never once minded.
Dear Will,
Happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy birthday! (I wrote that 10 times and now my wrist really hurts, so you have to be so impresed impressed or at least pretend to be.)
Double digits! Every year I can't believe how old we are getting. In three years, you'll get to go to PG 13 movies! (Please either wait two weeks until I can go or at least sneak me in with you when that happens.) And then in six years, you'll be able to drive a car! It'll be so exciting, getting to spend all those birthdays together. And we'll have so many years of playing D&D and Nintendo everyday, I can't wait.
Thank you for being my best friend. I hope this is the best birthday yet.
Love,
Mike
Will reads the card three times until it gets blurry.
He's just sentimental. Sensitive. Things like this always make Will so embarrassingly emotional.
"Is it bad?" Mike asks, apprehensive. "I'm sorry. Is it bad?"
"No, no way," Will says quickly, turning to look at him. "It's super good, Mike. Probably my favorite one."
Mike's smile is so wide it makes crinkles form near his eyes. "Really?"
"Totally."
Mike tugs his bookbag over his shoulders. "Should we go back? I probably didn't pick enough weeds for Mr. Weird-ner."
"Yeah, okay," Will sighs. He slides the card into the back pocket of his shorts, plants his hands in the dirt, about to get to his feet when—
"Lost the rest of your freakshow?"
Ah. The wonders of elementary school.
"Ignore them," Mike mumbles immediately. A half-annoyed, half-intimidated huff escapes through his nose. "Let's go, Will."
See, kids like Troy Walsh and James Dante—they've got something messed up with them. Something messed up at home. That's what Will's mom said. That they've never known a kind person in their life, that they don't have a Jonathan of their own to look up to, so all they know is being mean. And even if they do have a Jonathan or a nice mom like Will does, sometimes people are just mean. No good reason for it, it's just all they know.
Then again, Will would argue he also has something messed up at home, and yet he falls into passiveness and kindness everyday until it completely exhausts him.
"Where are you going?" Troy asks as they're getting to their feet. He tilts his head innocently. "Can't we all just hang out? Looks like you two are in need of some new friends anyway, without toothless and midnight around."
"Nah, nah." James shakes his head, scanning Will in a way that makes his skin crawl. "This is just where frogface and the fairy sneak off to suck face. Haven't you heard?"
"Oh, shut up, James," Mike scoffs, shifting to stand in front of Will. "Gross."
It's like ice has been injected into each and every one of Will's veins, the way he goes frigid.
Not even from Troy. Not even from James.
From Mike, of all people.
And it's so ridiculous of Will, because Mike's right. Of course it's gross, the mental image of two boys—of him and Mike—kissing each other. He knows what Mike meant.
But it doesn't stop that small, needling voice in Will's brain, the one that sounds just like his dad, from supplying that it's Will himself who Mike finds gross. Who he finds disgusting and wrong and broken.
No, of course he doesn't think that about Will. It's Mike. Mike, who doesn't make Will feel bad for the things he likes, or the traits and qualities he possesses that make him seem different. Ever.
But maybe it is all gross. That Mike signs his birthday cards with 'love,' and it makes Will all weepy like a girl. That they sneak off so they can hang out, just them. That Mike's card, years ago, of their stick figures surrounded by rainbow hearts was so unnatural that Will's dad had torn it from the fridge and thrown it in the trash. Maybe it is gross of them.
Maybe if Mike feels gross, Will feels gross, too.
It's so clear that Mike's trying to sound tough, but Will knows him well enough to have clocked the slight waver in his high-pitched voice. Troy and James know him well enough, too. Well enough to know they're getting somewhere, and to push harder on the bruise.
Troy howls a laugh. "Not gonna find anybody else to ever kiss that face. Careful, Byers, my dad says he's got leprosy or some shit."
"Dude, I think it grew overnight."
Will glances at Mike, who's absently running his wrist against the discoloration on his temple like he's trying to wipe it off. His hand fidgets, like he's just realized he's doing it, and he palms a piece of his hair back instead.
He should say something.
He should do something, he should tell Mike he looks just fine the way he is, but there's eyes pointed at him and Will's tongue feels too big for his mouth and Mike's card is burning in his pocket.
"But we all know if anybody's catching anything," James continues, leering toward Will, "fairy here probably infected Wheeler years ago. S'why the rest of their crew split. Caught wind of the queer, didn't wanna catch it from him."
Will swallows harshly. The back of his throat grows wet, and his eyes return to the grass instead.
"I said shut up," Mike says, firmer this time. "Our friends didn't split, and Will isn't a—"
"Hey, Byers, remember when—"
"Leave Will alone."
"—when Miss Polanski made us pair up for field day—"
Yeah, Will remembers.
Remembers being in first grade and partnered with Troy for the three-legged race on field day. Remembers being too young to know how mean other kids get.
Remembers touching his ankle to Troy's, because that's the whole game, and Will didn't even want to play, and they weren't even the only boys that were paired up together. Remembers how Troy had jerked his leg backward and hissed, "what are you doing?" and asked Miss Polanski to pair him up with Rebecca Devitt instead. Said Will made him… uncomfortable.
Shame curls in Will's gut. Starts to crawl up his trachea like acid.
Mike's stammering now. "Oh—shut up. Shut up. Stop talking to Will."
"—swear to god, I think the little queer was trying to put the moves on me—"
Mike's hands form tiny fists at his sides. He's never been in a fist-fight before. Will would know if he was. But there are times like these when Mike looks like he really, really wants to get into one.
"I said," Mike repeats, "Stop talking to him."
"Careful, Troy. Think you're making Wheeler jealous."
"Why? 'Cause I offended his girlfriend?" He jerks his chin toward Will. "Oh, my god, dude. Look. He's crying like a little girl."
Will bats his eyes and frustratedly scrubs at his cheek. Mike glances back at him, which makes it all so much worse.
"Shut up!" Mike shouts. "Just shut—"
"Everything okay over here, boys? What's with all the yelling?" Mr. Weidner peeks around the corner, casting a shadow across the brick. He drums his fingers across the clipboard in his hands, likely very bored. "We'll be heading back in for the written part of the project in a minute."
"All good, coach," Troy says breezily. "Just wishing our buddy Will here a happy birthday."
Mr. Weidner just hums, surveying the scene through his beady, tired eyes. "Alright. Dante and Walsh, head back. And I'll see you at practice, yes?"
"You got it." James extends a two-fingered salute, smug as he and Troy disappear around the corner.
A sigh, then Mr. Weidner redirects his attention to Mike and Will. It's infuriating. It's unfair. It's the way it always goes. Will's entire face is aflame. He wants to bury himself alive here, right in the yard, and never climb back up.
"You two," Mr. Weidner drones on, "this is a class assignment, not social hour. If you want to chitchat all day, do it outside of my class. And quit picking fights with your classmates. Wheeler—if I see you shouting at another student again, it's a detention."
"Sorry," Mike mumbles, dragging his sneaker against the dirt.
Will croaks out a "sorry" of his own, then Mr. Weidner is walking away, through with the conversation.
"Are you okay?" Mike asks softly, reaching to pat his hand between Will's shoulder blades. "Don't—don't even listen to them, Will. They're just—"
"Just jerks, I know," Will says wetly. He swipes his wrist across his cheeks again, drawing in a breath with a hiccup. "Are you okay? I'm sorry you got in trouble."
Mike shrugs. "What? No, it's totally fine. Not like they're very original with me. I don't really care."
"Running out of material," Will agrees, but there's still something in him that still feels dead. Defeated.
"And you know all that's—" Mike starts, then pauses. If possible, his voice finds an even more gentle tone. "You know none of that's true, right? What they were saying about you. I don't think you're—what they said. I don't."
Will just nods, drawing in a breath that refuses to fill his lungs. "Thanks."
Their walk back to the school is quiet, and Will's head spins. He reads each one of Mike's movements, trying to figure out what exactly is happening inside his head.
Does Mike feel gross?
He continues studying the side of Mike's face. Traces the outline of his birthmark. He can read him like a well-loved comic book, and knows him like the back of his hand. He's just as upset as Will is.
"And I don't think you're ugly, Mike," Will offers quietly, because he's never once seen him that way.
"You don't have to say that," Mike replies. "I mean, thanks, but I'm not worried about it. They're just messed up."
"Yeah," Will says unevenly. "Just messed up."
Eleven
Will spends his eleventh birthday in a castle in the woods.
Stomach full from breakfast, and mouth still tasting like maple syrup, Will lays on his back, counting the beams of light shining through the wooden slats that make up the fort's ceiling.
Castle Byers has been a fixed point for Will for a few years now. Coincidentally, Dad moved out around the same time.
There was an explosive fight right around Thanksgiving, and the front door slammed so hard when Lonnie left that it must've sealed shut entirely, considering that he never came back.
Jonathan tried to turn the day around for them, and they'd stayed in the woods building the castle until the rain fell and they were both laid up with subsequent headcolds for days.
It ended up being a mostly good memory though, the day Dad moved out for good. Jonathan is an expert at that: transforming sad days into the best ones for Will.
Castle Byers looks small on the outside, but the interior really opens up. Pictures of his friends and drawings are stuck to the walls with copious amounts of duct tape to make them stay. His most treasured action figures and comics are back home and out of reach of the weather, but he has a tiny library here.
Will's probably getting mulch and dirt all over the back of his t-shirt. But the edge of the woods has better reception than his house, at least a little bit. Makes Will's latest birthday gift sound less staticky.
This morning, he got a walkie-talkie radio.
All his friends have them, which made Will feel a kind of left out, but he knew better than to ask Mom for one. Things have been especially hard since Dad left, and he's not gonna ask for something expensive when there's an avalanche of overdue white bills swimming across the kitchen table. Besides, Mike always calls their landline, which is good enough.
But he'd unwrapped a bulky, gray walkie this morning, and relief sang through Will's veins.
Will presses the button Jonathan told him to use, and cranes the speaker near his mouth. "Hello? Um, come in, party. It's Will." He releases the button, then remembers how his friends always conversate on their radios, "Oh, over."
Static sounds from the walkie. He messes with the antenna a bit, then:
"Will! Yeah, we hear you! Over!"
"Finally! Hey, Will, did you—"
"Happy birthday! Oh, my god, dude, I can't believe you got a walkie, that's so—"
He laughs at the muffled sounds of his friends' voices overlapping. "Hi, guys. Can you hear me okay?"
"Yeah, totally!"
"This is perfect! Now we can talk all the time, with the whole party—"
"What are you doing today, Will?"
"Yeah, anything fun?"
"Why is no one saying over? You're supposed to say over, like soldiers and spies and stuff. Over."
"Shut up, Lucas."
"You still didn't say over. Over."
"Okay, shut up, Lucas. Over."
Will giggles. They go back and forth for nearly a half an hour, chattering away on the walkie. Eventually, Dustin mournfully departs for church with his mom, and Lucas has to help his parents with the Sunday chores.
Mike's voice crackles through the speaker. "Are you busy today?"
"Not until noon," Will says. Dad's supposed to take him to the batting cages then.
His mom had proposed it a bit skeptically, and the way Will agreed just had Jonathan looking confused and Mom nodding quietly.
It's not—it's not all bad, the rare days Will spends with his dad. Is it his favorite thing in the world? No.
But if Dad's asking, and he's wanting to spend time with Will, who is he to say no? This could be the time things turn around, and maybe Will could inch onto his good side, if such a side exists.
"I'm at Castle Byers if you want to hang out," he adds. "Over."
"Sweet, I'll be right there. Over and out!"
There's bike tires thumping over roots on the forest floor moments later. Will's occupied himself with a drawing, scribbling his magenta crayon across the scene of a ferocious dragon.
The beach towel shielding the entrance rustles in the wind. "Ratagast?"
Will snorts. "Enter."
Mike ducks into the fort. His hair's a mess, pushed back from the bike ride and his cheeks are rosy. Familiar sweater with a navy collar poking out. Card in hand.
Will still finds him handsome. Finds him handsome in a way that makes him feel a little bit sick and gross inside.
Like he knows not to say it out loud, because that would be weird, and that would be gross. But he still thinks it, still sees him that way, because Will's just so baffled by what kids like James and Troy say.
It's like Mike's been pulled directly from the pages of D&D books where the knights are always drawn so brave and heartfelt and handsome, and Will's brain can't help but make the comparison sometimes, when he looks at his best friend.
So, he looks.
Mike's smiling, breathing heavily like he's winded from hurrying here. "Happy birthday!"
"You know you don't have to use the password, right?" Everyone else does, but never Mike.
Mike shrugs his backpack off. "Yeah, I know. Makes it more fun, though. How's the walkie?"
"Super cool." Will returns to his drawing, feeling content as Mike plops on the ground beside him. "So glad I finally got one."
"Same." Mike's still catching his breath. "So, want a birthday gift?"
Will's crayon slows. He shuts his eyes and holds his hand out on instinct.
"Bam." Mike drops the card. "It's a good one, too. If I say so myself."
As Will's eyes pry back open, he lifts his head a bit to read.
Dear Will,
Happy birthday!
How's it feel to turn 11? Actually, wait. Don't spoil it for me. Haha.
You're so old now! Soon you're gonna be super old with white hair, and we'll be yelling at no-good medaling meddling kids to get off our lawn.
Do you feel old yet? I already feel super old, but that's probably because we're in fifth grade, which I still can't believe. When I was talking to my mom about your birthday, she said that now we have officially have been friends longer than we haven't been friends, and I can't believe that either. Isn't that crazy?
I can't believe there was ever a time we weren't friends. I don't even remember that time but that's probably because it must have been super lame. I literally never want to imagine a world where you and me aren't friends. That would suck and be shitty and bad. (I'm sorry I cussed in here so if your mom is going to see this and get mad let me know and I can cross it out.)
Thank you for still being my friend after all of this time. You make me so happy. The whole party does, especially when we're playing a campaign together or watching a movie or just hanging out, but you always make me the happiest, and I think that's why we are best friends. I hope I make you happy too.
Happy birthday!
From,
Mike
Will's smiling. He rereads the card over and over.
"Really good one."
Mike's expression melts into beaming. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Will says, carefully creasing the card shut. "Definitely my favorite so far."
"Are you gonna keep this one?"
"I keep all of them. I still have the one from when I turned six."
"You're gonna run outta room. You're gonna be, like, a hundred years old and have a gigantic mountain of cards from me."
"You mean like, when we're old and yelling at the no-good, meddling kids to get off our lawn?"
Mike doesn't miss a beat. "It's those no-good, meddling kids' fault they're on our lawn in the first place, Will."
"Well, we should get a fence," Will suggests.
"We'll totally have a fence." Mike rustles through his bookbag and tosses a comic Will's way: a new X-Men he hadn't gotten to read yet. He usually borrows Mike's, because Mike is so particular about his books, and he trusts Will to never dog-ear or rip the pages or mess them up. "I just got done with it. Was super good. Magneto does this totally badass—"
"Don't ruin it," Will chides as he peels the comic open, the letter still open on his stomach. "Let me at least start it first."
"I won't, but tell me when you finish it? You can walkie me and we can talk about it."
"'Kay." Will props himself up on an elbow and starts to read. Mike's sitting against the wall, paging through a paperback of his own.
About twenty minutes of quietly reading pass before Mike appears to get restless. He bookmarks his novel and starts snooping—it's what he does. Will doesn't mind. Mike's flipping through old drawings and action figures when he presses a button on one of Will's dinosaurs and makes it howl a robotic roar.
Will laughs, lowering the comic book. "You need something?"
"Nope." Mike drags his sneakers around the dirt, scanning the walls. "Just being nosy. You know me."
Will raises the comic again, about fifteen pages in. While Mike gets so obsessed with the storylines (and granted, Will loves those too) Will studies the colors, the way the artist draws the characters and their dialogue bubbles. He notes how they use the darker colors for shadows, the white shiny dots reflecting off the heroes' masks, and subconsciously stores the skills away to practice in his own drawings.
"Aw, what happened here?"
"What?"
"My name's all faded."
Will glances over, finding Mike squinting at a splintery plank of wood. The day Will and Jonathan built the place, they'd taken markers and scrawled their names across it, and Mom and Will's friends had followed shortly after. Will's own personal guestbook, because while all friends were welcome here, he liked the reminder of just how many had visited him.
Months of rain and sunshine had worn the signatures down to shards of marker, illegible, but Will can still tell by the scraps of handwriting whose names once laid where.
He suppresses a fond eyeroll. Of course Mike's worried about his own name.
"Yeah, the weather does that."
"Can I write it again? Look, yours is all screwed up, too."
Will shrugs. "Sure. I mean, mine's already on the front, though."
There's some rustling near the old dresser in the corner. "Can I use this?"
Mike's holding a dull X-Acto knife Jonathan snatched from Mom's scrapbooking kit. Will uses it to make clean cuts on pictures of his friends, then collaging them together with rubber cement.
Will looks at him questioningly, and Mike adds, "Makes it more permanent."
"Okay. Just be careful with it." Will returns to reading, and listens to the dull knife scrape away at the wood. Mike periodically pauses to blow air at the wood grain.
"Hey, Will?"
"Yeah?"
The carving of the knife halts. Mike's about halfway through with an M the size of a trading card.
"Um, can I ask where your dad went?"
Will holds his place in the comic with his thumb. It's been a few months since he'd last seen his father's car or heard his voice.
"He doesn't live with us anymore," he answers, which is the exact way Mom had explained it.
She and Dad broke up officially, a while after he moved out, which Will didn't think was something parents could do. The only other person he knows whose parents broke up is Dustin, but Dustin doesn't remember ever even meeting his dad.
"Yeah, I already knew that, but." Mike hesitates, like he's searching for the words. "I just haven't heard you talk about him in a long time, I feel like."
"He just doesn't really come around a lot."
"Oh. Well, that's good, right? 'Cause he was a jerk."
"He's not a jerk, Mike," Will mumbles.
Sheer bewilderment. Mike glances at him. "But he's mean to you."
"He's still my dad."
"Yeah, but—I guess I don't really follow."
Yeah, he doesn't. Mike's dad thinks he's odd sometimes, and says his imagination's running off the rails, but Mike doesn't have to work for his affection. He says he doesn't want it. Mike doesn't care what his own dad thinks, while Will does. Will craves his father's approval and affection so badly that it has grown into a physical ache, no matter how many times Dad shows him just how cruel he can be.
Will just shrugs, feeling the bizarre, irrational need to defend Lonnie when he knows Jonathan and their mom would never. "I mean, I'm seeing him today. We're going to the baseball field after lunch."
"Oh." Mike goes back to carving. "Is that even how you wanna spend your birthday, though? With him?"
Will sighs. "Sometimes it's fun."
"Oh," Mike repeats. "Well, that's good, then. Here, look at this."
Will tucks the comic and letter away. When he peers over Mike's shoulder, there's an M scratched deep into the wood.
"Think you're missing some letters."
"Well, it takes forever, and my hand hurts." Mike rolls the base of the knife between his thumb and forefinger. "So just don't make another friend whose name starts with M, then no one will get confused."
Will laughs. "I won't."
"Want to do yours?"
"Sure." Will plucks up the blade and starts digging a W right next to the M.
When he's done, he steps back to admire and critique his own handiwork. Mike takes the knife and carves a plus sign right between their initials: M + W.
"See? Now it's way more permanent. Gonna be here forever."
Will takes a great deal of comfort in that. He doesn't feel gross. Just feels permanent and solid. Better, knowing that there's something here, just for him and Mike, that can never be destroyed or taken away.
"Yeah." He nods, smiling. "Here forever."
They eventually bike back home, and Will had waited by his living room window, watching the sun tick across the sky.
His heart sank with every passing hour. It's almost five o'clock, and Lonnie was supposed to get him at noon.
Then Jonathan turned the corner and proposed, "You wanna hear something cool?"
That's how Will ended up here.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, Will's trying his best to imitate his brother's movements—dipping his head back and forth to the beat booming from Jonathan's precious stereo system.
Jonathan listens to music Will doesn't ever hear on the radio. The songs are loud and brash, and it makes him feel so cool, being let in on the tough, underground music Jonathan likes. It makes him feel cool enough for his older brother to still want to hang around.
"You like it?"
"Yeah," Will replies over the thrum of the music. "It's cool!"
"You can keep the mix, if you like it."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really," Jonathan says, a warm glint in his eyes. "All the best stuff's on here. Joy Division, Bowie, The Smiths… it'll totally change your life."
"Yeah, totally." Will bobs his head, feeling impossibly cool. Wanting to be as much like Jonathan as possible.
From the hallway, Joyce's voice echoes."Where the hell are you? It's almost five! I'm so sick of your constant excuses—"
Will's gaze drifts to the door, and Jonathan gets up with a huff to close it.
"He's not coming, is he?" Will asks glumly.
Jonathan fidgets with the volume knobs, and eventually sighs as he sits back down, like there's no use in avoiding the truth. He glances at Will. "Do you even like baseball?"
"No," Will says quietly. He shrugs again, struggling to look Jonathan in the eyes. "But… I don't know. It's fun to go with him sometimes."
"Come on. Has he ever taken you anywhere you actually like? Like, to the arcade or something."
A sigh. "I don't know."
"No, alright, he hasn't. He's trying to force you to like normal things. And you shouldn't like things just because people tell you you're supposed to." Jonathan's voice is firm, steady. "Okay? Especially not him."
Will nods. Internalizes it, returning his eyes to the stereo.
He won't. He won't pretend to like baseball anymore, and now that he's eleven, and he's in middle school, he'll like what he likes.
He has what he needs. He has a mom who loves him more than anything, the greatest brother in the universe, a full party, and a best friend.
And now, Will has music. Real, good music, not the crap on the radio. Only the "best" stuff, the songs it seems only Jonathan knows about.
"You like The Clash?" Jonathan prods hopefully. He tilts his head towards the stereo, his smile spreading. "For real?"
"For real," Will echoes, and he can't help but mirror Jonathan's grin, showing all of his crooked teeth. "Definitely."
Twelve
Less than eight months before Will Byers becomes a zombie, he spends his last few hours of being eleven coloring on his bedroom floor.
They'd spent almost the entire Saturday at the arcade, their friend group's new favorite haunt. The afternoon waned quickly into evening as Will watched Dustin cuss out the Dig Dug machine, and Lucas masterfully attempt the top score at Dragon Slayer. The five quarters Will brought with him seemed to magically never run out, always somehow repopulating in his pocket. He must've played over a dozen rounds of Pac-Man, Mike over his shoulder the entire time.
By the time Dustin and Lucas had to head home for dinner, Mike and Will embarked on the long bike ride back to the Byers' house. Mom ordered pizza for dinner, and now they've spent the last few hours sitting here, Will drawing and Mike watching. The house is quiet with Jonathan at work and Mom already having gone to bed. Candy wrappers and art supplies are scattered across Will's floor. His stuffed tiger sits, watching over them.
And while Will loves their whole party, it's nice to have time with just Mike. There's no pressure to talk all the time, and the pauses when Will doesn't feel like speaking never feel awkward.
"Whosagoodboy!" Mike has his face smushed up next to Chester's, talking to him in a mushy voice. And usually, Chester's a finicky dog. Temperamental with everybody outside of their family. He bit Lonnie at least a dozen times, and routinely growls at the postman. Seems to really like Mike, though. His tail is whacking solidly against the floor. "Sir Chester is a good boy—"
"Mike," Will laughs. "Stop doing that frickin' voice."
"I just want a dog," Mike groans. He scratches between Chester's ears, cooing, "You wanna come live with me instead? Oh, who wants to come home with me?"
Will shakes his head. "Nope, no way. You can't steal my dog."
"Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure he just said, I wanna go live with Mike forever and ever. Isn't that right, boy?" Chester lifts his head and licks slobber across his face, and Mike blanches. "Oh—gross."
Will giggles. "You're gonna get cooties from my dog."
Mike swipes his palm across his cheek, laughing as he rolls onto his stomach. "Whatcha making?"
"Comic."
"Same one?"
"Yeah," Will answers, blowing eraser shavings off the paper. "Still the campaign from last week."
"You want any help?" Mike asks, and Will peers at him, skeptical. "I won't mess it up. I swear."
Will exchanges his eraser for a permanent marker, considering it. "You could sharpen my green colored pencil."
"Done and done." Mike starts carefully turning the pencil in the sharpener, pausing every few rotations to inspect it closely. The sound of shavings curling and Will's marker squeaking fills the room.
"Ta da." He rolls the crookedly sharpened pencil across a panel of Lucas the Ranger Will's trying to finish.
"Professional pencil sharpener," Will says, smiling at his paper.
"Duh. Can I do the rest of them?"
"Sure." Will slides him his unzipped pouch of art supplies, and Mike goes back to work.
After a while, he sets his marker down, halfway finished with the lineart. "Are you bored?"
Mike frowns. "No, why?"
"I dunno," Will says. "You're sharpening pencils."
"I'm not bored," Mike replies, shrugging. "I just really like helping."
"Okay, but—tell me if you get, like, super bored though."
"I'm not gonna get bored, Will." Two more pencils are placed in the sharp pile; Mike's carefully organized them by level of dullness. He shakes his wrist out before reaching for another. "I like just sitting here with you. Even if you don't feel like talking a lot. It's still fun."
"Me, too." Will angles his pencil and shades the ranger's armor emerald green.
Another candy bar crinkles as Mike unwraps a Snickers. He brought over this massive bag of candy, separating all the Reese's into this big orange pile for Will, and demanding that they'll have to eat a ton to stay up 'till midnight, but the sugar high is starting to wear into fatigue.
Hours later, comic almost completed, Will's eyelids are getting heavy. It's 11:40, and Mike had been the first to fail at their mission of making it to midnight. He's asleep with his hands balled around his face, cheek still pressed up to Chester's side, moving with the rise and fall of the dog's ribcage.
At sleepovers with the full party, whoever falls asleep first is typically the victim to some sort of prank—they stacked dominoes on Lucas' forehead once, and used Will's markers to draw a blue mustache on Dustin. Will glances at his art supplies scattered across the floor, but doesn't really feel like pulling a joke.
Mike looks so funny when he sleeps. His eyebrows are pinched into a crease, and he's snoring quietly with his mouth ajar. Will flips to a new page in his sketchbook and starts a caricature of him instead.
He's trying to get better at drawing people, learning how to make faces and hands. Noses are the hardest. Will makes an attempt at the crooked slope of Mike's nose, and erases it a few times before it's perfect. His pencil shades the dark curls of Mike's hair, and draws his eyebrows divoted in dramatically.
Will even details the freckles on Mike's cheeks, and pays extra careful attention to shading in his birthmark. He swaps out his pencil for a blue one to color the faded pajama shirt he's wearing. A curly speech bubble vocalizes Mike's snoring.
He draws Mike a lot, and always puts the most effort into these ones. Will makes art of the whole party, recreating scenes from their campaigns, but Mike's the only person he sketches just for fun. Mike always seems to love the drawings, keeping all of them neatly organized in a binder.
The drawing's nearly finished when a tinny alarm beeps from Mike's wristwatch. His head jerks up to attention, startling Chester awake. Will snorts.
"It's midnight," Mike says accusingly, blinking rapidly and looking dazed. "Will! It's midnight! Why'd you let me fall asleep?"
"I dunno, you were tired," Will, now officially twelve years old, replies. He flips his book around, revealing the sketch. "And snoring. And drooling."
Mike rolls his eyes fondly. "But I wanted to be awake for the exact moment!"
"Sorry."
"Well, happy birthday, still. You feel any different?"
Will's smiling. "Nope."
"Did I really drool like that?" Mike asks, leaning forward to squint at the drawing.
"Oh, yeah."
"Can I have it?" Mike asks. "It's really funny. You always draw me so good."
"'Course." Will starts to tear the drawing along its perforated edge as Mike roots through his backpack.
"We can trade," Mike adds. "'Cause I have something. But you have to close your eyes first."
Will laughs. "Why do I have to close my eyes if I already know it's a card?"
Mike pauses his shuffling through the bookbag. "Because that's what you do. It's—it's still a surprise, Will."
Not really, but Will shuts his eyes anyway, holding his hand out expectantly. He hears the zipper close, then the drawing in his hand is exchanged for another piece of paper.
His eyes peel open. This year's card is encased in an envelope with For Will printed across the front. He immediately tears it open.
"Wait, don't—" Mike cringes, crinkling his nose. "Maybe don't read it in front of me."
"What? Why?"
Mike's voice is small. "I don't know. It's—it feels kind of embarrassing now."
"Only embarrassing if you tried to draw again," Will jokes, the letter still folded in his fingertips. "But I can wait to read it until you leave tomorrow, if you really want."
Mike eventually sighs. "No, no, you can read it. But don't, like, just don't make fun of me, okay?"
Will would never. Not in a way where he means it. "I won't."
Dear Will,
Happy birthday!! I know I'm gonna be with you on your birthday to say that, but I still wanted to write you another card. I know this is way lamer than a present, but I like that we still do these, so you can keep them forever.
I hope you have an awesome birthday and get everything you want. I can't wait to finish the comic and show it to Dustin and Lucas. Thank you for being my best friend and for always listening to my stories and not calling them stupid. Haha. And for writing them with me. Maybe we can see if Jonathan will let us use his camera and make our last one into a movie!
I can't believe we're about to both be 12, and we'll be in seventh grade next year. I was really scared to go to middle school, but now I know nothing's gonna change. It'll always be us and our party, and I like that.
I feel lucky that we get to get older together.
I feel lucky that we have our party, and really, really lucky that you and me will always be best friends.
Happy birthday!! Will the Wise gets even older and even wiser!
From,
Mike
Will grins as he tucks the card back into the envelope, careful not to make Mike feel embarrassed. He isn't a very feely person, but whatever sentimental side Mike has tends to bleed when he makes Will's birthday cards.
"That was good."
"Yeah?" Mike's eyebrows lift up. "You liked it?"
"Yeah, of course I did." Will gingerly tucks the envelope in his backpack. "Wanna go to sleep now? Kinda tired."
"Yeah." Mike yawns. "If you're tired, we can."
They shut the lights off and climb into Will's bed, warm under the quilt. The nightlight Will still sleeps with—which is frankly humiliating to admit to anyone else except Mike—glows yellow in the corner. Chester hops up and curls by their feet.
"Hey." Mike whispers, sounding suspicious.
Will giggles, half asleep. He snuggles his tiger up to his cheek, nuzzling its cool, worn-in fur against his skin. "Hey what?"
"Is your mom still making pancakes tomorrow?"
"I think so."
Mike whispers a triumphant yes! under his breath. "Oh, and is Jonathan gonna be there?"
"He literally lives here, so, yes?"
A snort. "Yeah, duh. Sorry, I'm just really excited."
"Me, too," Will says, and there's a fight happening in his head: the exhaustion beckoning him to sleep battling the restless excitement for tomorrow. "I kind of love my birthday."
"Same."
That's right, Mike's birthday is next up in the party. Only a few weeks behind Will's. "What are you gonna do for yours?"
Mike looks a bit surprised. "Oh, I don't know. Go to the arcade, probably, but it's a school day, so I haven't really thought about it yet."
"You haven't thought about it?" Will questions. "But you said you love your birthday, too."
"Well, yeah, I do. But I meant, like, I love your birthday."
Will laughs. "Why?"
"'Cause it's fun," Mike says, nuzzling his cheek against the pillow. "I like that I get to write you cards."
"You could write me cards anytime, though."
"Yeah, but then it's not as special."
Will guesses that's true. He stretches his legs out, accidentally bumping Mike's foot.
"You're already kicking me," Mike complains, with no real heat behind it. "You always kick me."
"Sorry, didn't mean to," Will huffs. "'Least I don't snore."
Mike smiles, eyes closed. "Well, just wake me up if I'm snoring loud, then."
Will won't. "Night, Mike. Thanks for the card."
Mike tugs the comforter up to their shoulders, then rolls onto his stomach. "Good night," he hums, happy and sleepy. "Happy birthday, Will."
It's only mere minutes before Mike's snoring starts back up, gentle and even.
In the low light of his room, Will's heavy eyelids stay upright, and he watches Mike sleep. Watches their comforter rise and fall over his shoulders.
Something in Will's chest is aching.
He doesn't know what it is, but it hurts.
In the morning, Will and Mike trail into a bright kitchen, followed dutifully by Chester and his perpetually wagging tail. The pancakes are already finished, filling the room with the warm smell of flour and burnt sugar.
"Hey, sleepyheads!" Joyce calls, rinsing suds off a pan in the sink. "How was last night? Fun?"
"Super fun," Mike answers, groggy. His hair is an ink-black bird's nest. "Um, do you need any help, Mrs. Byers?"
Joyce waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, you gotta stop that. Go sit down. And Will, come over here give me birthday hugs and kisses."
Will groans. Mike just laughs.
Joyce squeezes him too tightly around the arms, pressing kisses to his scalp. "Can't believe you're all grown up. My sweet baby."
"Mom," Will mumbles, face warming.
"Okay, okay, not trying to embarrass you," Joyce says, patting him between the shoulders. "How many pancakes do you want? Two or three?"
Will asks for two, then plops down in his seat at the table. Mike's next to Jonathan, whispering eagerly about a bulky rectangle wrapped in paper on the table.
"Happy birthday, bud." Jonathan passes him the gift. "This is from both me and Mom. Mostly Mom. Be careful when you open it, though, okay?"
"And it's really cool," Mike blurts, teetering so far forward in his chair that it's relying only on its two front legs. "Jonathan already told me what it is. But I'm not gonna give it away. I won't."
"Sounds like you're about to," Jonathan mumbles, eyes rolling.
Will unwraps a Walkman—it's the oldest model, a little out of date, but still must've been expensive. Guilt chips a little bit at his heart.
"Whoa." Will's eyes go wide.
"Isn't it awesome? And Jonathan told me picked out a whole bunch of songs and made a—"
"You're literally giving it away."
"Sorry, sorry."
"So? You like it?" Joyce sets their plates down. "'Cause I think it's pretty freaking cool."
"Way cool," Will agrees. Apprehensively, "But um, can we… afford this?"
Joyce frowns. "Don't worry about that, baby. It's your birthday present. I don't want you to ever worry about that."
Will glances at Jonathan, who nods back in gentle encouragement. "There's a tape in there, too. Some cool stuff I picked out—at least, I think they're cool."
"All the best stuff?" Will prods, smiling knowingly.
"All the best stuff," Jonathan affirms.
Will breathes out a wow, eyes pouring over the Walkman box. "This is—thanks, guys. Seriously. For everything."
They saw into breakfast, the four of them at the table, and Will's heart is so full it could explode. It's just him and his three favorite people, and Will has a Walkman now, and Mike slots in so naturally with their family that he even has Jonathan excitedly rambling as Mike interrogates him about movies, his cameras.
As Mike's drowning his pancakes in syrup, Chester rests his snout on his knee. "Told you. He literally loves me."
Will rolls his eyes. "He literally loves breakfast scraps."
When a candle is lit on top of his pancakes, and everyone's singing, Will wishes for everything.
I wish for Mom and Jonathan all my friends to be happy and safe.
I wish for Mom to stop being so worried all the time.
I wish for Jonathan to make a ton of nice friends.
I wish for Dustin to finally beat the top score on Dig Dug.
I wish for Chester to live forever.
I wish for the kids at school to be kinder to my friends.
Will only wishes for one thing that's somewhat centered around himself: I wish to be best friends with Mike forever.
It's the best birthday Will's had so far.
Twelve will be a good year. He's never been more sure of anything in his life.
Thirteen
Twelve was, by far, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst goddamn year of Will Byers' short life.
And thirteen's an unlucky number, but it literally has to be better than twelve. And March 22nd falls during spring break this year, which should be a fairly good omen, Will's pretty sure.
He sleeps in past nine, and neither Mom nor Jonathan come in to wake him. It's the first time he remembers not leaping out of bed with excitement on his birthday. Will is still half asleep when his sock-clad feet pilot him into the kitchen. Like a zombie.
"Look who's up." Jonathan's smiling, twirling a spatula in his hands. "The teenager."
Will scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes. Croaks out a "Morning," wearing a tired grin of his own. "You want any help?"
"No way." Jonathan scrapes a pancake off the pan and adds it to the pile on the counter. A yellow box of off-brand mix sits beside the dribbling coffee maker. "It's your birthday, dude. Sit down."
Will slinks into his seat. "Where's Mom?"
"Running to the store real quick. Out of syrup." The stove's flame clicks off. "Big plans today?"
"Just sleeping over at Mike's with everybody."
"That'll be fun."
"Yeah." Will thumbs the sticky edge of a placemat. He smiles. "Should I tell Nancy you said hi?"
"Uh." Jonathan pauses. Messes around awkwardly with the knobs on the stove. "If you want, I guess."
"Mike thinks she like-likes you." Disgusting, but worth the frigid reaction he gets out of Jon.
"Well, Mike likes to make things up."
True. But not about the monsters, or the girl with telekinesis that lived in his basement, or the fact that Will had a whole funeral and a fake plastic body, or the inter-dimensional wasteland beneath their feet. They called it the Upside Down. Coined by their science teacher, of all things.
Funny. Will thought he was in hell that entire time.
Plates of pancakes are hitting the table just as Joyce rushes through the front door.
"Hi, hi—sorry that took so—" A breath. Brown grocery bags are crowded in her arms. "Will! Baby, you're up! Happy birthday."
"Thanks, Mom." Will scoots his chair back to help her with the groceries. He still lets her stain lipstick smooches on his cheek and mess with his hair, despite now being an official teenager.
When they sing, Will feels a bit selfish with his wish.
I wish to stop having nightmares.
He blows the candle out.
Will gets a new game for his precious Atari, and Joyce and Jonathan had gone in on a shiny set of acrylic paints together. A couple cardboard canvases and a slim pack of brushes, too.
"If you wanna try it," Joyce says over her plate. "Know you said you liked painting at school."
His smile is more genuine and giddy than it's been in a while. And, really, Will feels good today. "Oh, yeah, totally!" He fights the urge to tear through the plastic wrap on the brushes and get to work immediately. "This is—this is awesome. Thank you, guys. Thanks so much."
"'Course." Jonathan dumps another lake of syrup over his plate. "We love you. Happy birthday, man."
"Are you not hungry?" Joyce asks, angling her fork at Will's mostly untouched breakfast. The syrup is starting to congeal.
"Oh." Will's stomach always feels rotted in the mornings. "Not really. Still—still looks super good, I guess I'm just not hungry yet."
"You still gotta eat something, sweetheart. Can't take those meds on an empty stomach."
Will grimaces. "Can I just skip them today?"
Joyce sighs, sympathetic. "We told that doctor in Chicago we'd try these out for a little bit, remember? We gotta keep up with it."
Will slides his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he picks at his pancakes. Makes a grossed out blegh sound.
"I know the meds suck," she adds, "but I don't want you getting sad on your birthday, baby."
"I feel good today, though," Will insists. "Honestly. I'm super happy."
"Maybe that means your medicine's helping, then," Jonathan suggests through a bite. He playfully nudges Will's arm. "C'mon. At least eat a little bit. Unless you think my pancakes are gross."
Will smiles. "Can already tell they're better than Mom's."
Joyce balks at them, offended. But she's back to grinning, though Will's not sure if that unwavering concern in her eyes will ever go away.
Will manages his first bite of syrup-soaked pancakes, winds up clearing his plate, then swallows a metallic-tasting pill for dessert to scare his blues away.
On their car ride to the Wheelers' that afternoon, it's warm enough to drive with all the windows down. Jonathan's music is up so loud that the old stereo rattles.
"Is this a new one?" Will yells over the thud of the bass, the roar of spring wind whooshing through the windows. He holds a purple, homemade wizard hat with silver stars in his lap.
"Yeah!" Jon shouts back. "This is New Order! It's kind of—it's a little synthy, but it's good!"
"Synthy." Will sounds out the word. "It's really cool!"
"You can have it!"
"What?"
"Said—" Jonathan lowers the volume, chuckling. "Said you can have the tape, Will."
"Actually?"
"Yeah, you can hold onto for bit. Just be careful, alright? And don't lend it out to any of your spazzy friends."
"Sweet," Will says. "Thanks, Jonathan."
"Don't mention it." Jonathan takes a glance at himself in the mirror, pushing his hay-colored bangs back, then smoothing them back into place. Will's literally never once seen his brother care about his hair.
"What are you doing?"
"What?"
Will rolls his eyes. "You wanna run into Nancy."
"What? No." Jonathan frowns, scrunching his brows. Another song rolls in on the tape, and he snaps his fingers, pointing at the stereo. "Now, listen, because this one's different," he begins explaining. "They're going for a more post-punk sound…"
They park around the bend of the Maple Street cul-de-sac, and the perfectly-cut lawn is muddy and squishy under Will's sneakers. Jonathan's still talking about the New Order album, and Will picks up all the terminology he's using: punk, new wave, electronic rock. People who don't know Jonathan describe him as quiet—standoffish and awkward, even—but they don't see how animated he gets about his interests. Will feels lucky that Jonathan shows him how to be cool, even if boring people don't get it.
Jonathan presses the doorbell, then jams his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket. Will's teetering impatiently beside him.
"Mom's gonna get you at, like, eight tomorrow, so don't keep her waiting, alright?"
"I won't." Will rises on his tiptoes, trying to peek through the window as Nancy swings the door open.
Will's always liked Nancy. Definitely not in the way Dustin has this perpetual, annoying crush on her—but he always thought she was nice.
When Nancy used to babysit Mike and Will, she'd sometimes get roped into their campaigns and play along. She always gets so annoyed and rolls her eyes at their friend group, but that irritation never feels directed at Will.
She immediately cranes her neck back, screaming: "Mike! Will's here!"
"Coming!"
When she returns her attention to Jonathan, it's a quieter, "Hey."
Sometimes, Will kinda forgets Nancy and Jonathan are in the same grade. He'd been so confused when Jonathan said they went searching for him together.
Jonathan offers the tiniest head nod of all time in return. "Hey."
"Um, they're all downstairs," Nancy tells Will. "Oh, and happy birthday."
"Thanks," Will says, adjusting his sleepover bag over his shoulder. "See you, Jonathan."
"Bye, bud. Have fun, okay?"
"I will."
His footsteps in the foyer capture Mrs. Wheeler's attention, she approaches from the kitchen, brushing her hands over a floral apron wrapped around her waist. "Hey, Will! Happy birthday!"
"Hi, Mrs. Wheeler," Will replies as Nancy shuts the front door behind them. He puts on his best smile. "Thanks for having me over."
"Of course, honey. How's your mom?"
"She's good."
"Well, tell her I said hi, and—
"Will!" There's an explosion behind the basement door flinging open. Mike's already dressed up like his D&D character, wearing a felt silver knight's helmet Joyce stitched up for him.
The Wheelers don't bat an eye. They already know the party is likely the most uncool group of kids on the block. Will wouldn't have it any other way.
"Was that Jonathan dropping you off?" Karen continues over the ruckus ascending the stairs. "How is he? God, he's just always been the sweetest boy. He should've come in and said hello!"
"Oh, my god, mom," Nancy mutters, shoving past her brother as she starts up the staircase. "Stop."
Mike barrels to put his arm around Will's back, giving him a squeeze around the ribcage. He wishes him a happy birthday, but before Will can reply, Mike raises his voice further, screeching way too close to Will's eardrum, "Guys! Will's here!"
"And you're feeling better, Will?" Karen presses on gently, disregarding her son's noise level. "All good?"
Will nods, planting his feet in attempts to stay and be polite as Mike's dragging him toward the basement. "Yeah, yeah. All good."
"Mom," Mike huffs impatiently. "Stop hogging him. We have a super long campaign."
Karen raises her hands in defeat. "Sorry, sorry! Not hogging him. You boys go have fun. Still want me to order a pizza at six?"
"Can we get pepperoni?"
"Sure, Michael."
"Awesome. We're going to the basement now. Don't come down."
"Thanks, Mrs. Wheeler," Will calls behind him, trailing towards the steps. "And thank you for having me—"
Karen waves her hand, not letting him finish. "No problem, sweetie."
"Dude. That's fucking gross—" Dustin perks to attention from his seat at the D&D table. Pointy elf ears stick out from his curly hair. "Ay! Sir William! Happy birthday, man!"
Will laughs as he drops his bag on the floor. "What's gross?"
"Lucas is doing the eyelid thing again."
Lucas turns in his seat, the pinks of his eyelids flipped up, making a positively horrifying face. "Happy birthday!"
"Nightmare fuel," Mike mutters, grabbing their binders from the shelf.
"I think it's cool," Will says, and Lucas scrubs his eyes back down with a proud grin.
They take their regular seats at the table, and Will plops his wizard hat on. And really, he does feel happy today. Happy here.
He doesn't feel like frustratedly scribbling his nightmares out with black and red colored pencils, or like lying in his bed for hours, or overthinking every pass of nausea that might pang in his stomach. Here, it feels like everything's normal, and nothing bad has ever happened. Like they're still just the kids they are, and monsters are silly things that only exist in the realms of silly games.
While Mike arranges the pieces across the board, Will tells them what he got for his birthday, and a little bit about the new album from Jonathan. But mostly, Will's content to just listen to his friends talk. It makes it all feel real to Will, that his friends are all together, and he's not still alone and cold somewhere.
"I'm so jealous your birthday's on break this year," Lucas complains. "I always have school on mine. So lame."
"Yeah, but Will'd probably get like, a trillion cards if we were at school," Dustin says, and before Will can interject and tell him there's literally no way that'd ever happen, he adds, "Dude, your funeral was packed."
Mike frowns sternly over his binder. "Why are you even bringing that up? Stop. Seriously."
Will doesn't mind. In fact, he kind of likes hearing what happened while he was missing, collecting pieces from a time he lost—maybe it makes him feel like he has more control over it all than he really does.
Dustin winces. "Shit, sorry, Will. That's totally my bad."
"It's okay," Will chuckles. To his side, Mike seems to relax a bit. "It's weird to think about, but still sorta cool."
Lucas wags his eyebrows. "Bet Jennifer Hayes would wish you a happy birthday if we had school today. She was literally crying over you."
Will sighs. "Wish I could've seen it."
"What, Jennifer?"
"No," Will says, because that's absurd. "The funeral. I really wanted to see my fake body."
"What?" Mike glances at him, concerned. "Why? Wouldn't that be scary? Seeing the—the body?"
"I mean, I would've totally kept that thing," Will admits, because it's true.
Lucas blinks. "Dude, what the hell?"
"What do you mean, you would've kept it?"
Will shrugs, smiling. "I dunno. Think about it! We could've had two me's."
"Literally only you would want that," Lucas says, shaking his head as he laughs. "I swear."
"Okay, are we ready?" Mike finishes organizing his papers, splaying his hands out over the board. "I hope everyone already peed, because this is gonna take, like, probably the entire time."
Dustin scowls. "We're not allowed to go to the bathroom?"
Mike rolls his eyes. "I'm just being dramatic, I don't give a shit what you do."
"You're always dramatic," Lucas says, sighing. "Are you gonna do the voices again?"
"Yes, Lucas, I'm doing the voices. It's for the effect. For the stakes."
"Oh, the stakes, he says."
"Shut up." Mike lowers his voice to a grumble, starting their subsequent eight-hour campaign. "It was a dark and stormy night in the tavern…"
"Jesus Christ, Will, you picked this movie?"
"It's not that scary," Will teases Dustin, adjusting his legs underneath the blanket.
Dustin and Lucas are in their sleeping bags, sharing a big bowl of popcorn while Mike and Will split their own on the couch. His back hurts from curling over the D&D table for hours, and he's starting to get tired, but it's been such a good birthday. He brought over The Shining, which, in retrospect, is probably too scary, but Mike insisted that they'd watch whatever Will picked.
"But, if it's totally creeping you out, we can put something else on," he adds, feeling a bit guilty. "I don't mind."
"No, no, it's good, I'm just surprised." Dustin rustles a bowl of popcorn on his lap, the screen washing his face bright as snow dusts the Overlook Hotel. "Is this dude actually about to axe murder his family, or what?"
"Yeah."
"Wha—Lucas! Don't spoil it just 'cause you've seen this before."
"Then don't ask me if you don't want it spoiled."
"It's called being rhetorical, dumbass."
"Yeah, well, your mom's rhetorical."
"The hell does that even mean—"
"Guys." Mike raises the remote and turns up the volume. He'd changed into pajamas, dressed in his A.V. club shirt and blue plaid pants. "Stop talking over Will's movie."
"How'd you even rent this?" Dustin asks, lifting his head from his pillow. "Isn't this rated R?"
Will cringes. "Jonathan had it. Are you guys gonna get in trouble for watching this?"
"In trouble?" Dustin echoes thoughtfully. "Hell, no. Nightmares? Maybe, but leaning towards likely no. Maybe nightmares about how long and confusing this movie is."
"Seconded," Lucas says. "Rambo's better, but this is still good."
A scoff. "Rambo sucks."
"Take that back."
"Oh, my god." Mike's voice strains. "Shut up and watch the movie. You can go on about Rambo all you want on your birthday, Lucas."
The movie plays on, they recoil at the jumpscares, at the blood gushing from the elevator, the creepy twins, all of it. Dustin's the first one to fall asleep, and Lucas snores soon after.
During a particularly tense sequence, Mike's hand snakes across the couch and rests on top of Will's.
Will laughs. "What, you're scared?"
"No," Mike says defensively. He gives Will's hand a squeeze and grins. "Just checking if you are."
"I'm not scared," Will counters. "I literally picked this movie out."
"Okay, just making sure."
Will rests his head against the back of the couch, content. A jumpcut has Mike crushing Will's hand.
"Oh, my god," Will whispers under the score of the movie. "You are scared."
Mike scoffs. "Am not."
"Are too. Your hand is sweaty."
"I—" Mike opens his mouth and shuts it. "Okay, it's a horror movie, I'm a teeny bit scared. Sue me."
"It's okay," Will says. "I'm kinda scared, too."
Mike's smile disappears immediately. "Do you need me to turn it off?"
"No," Will says. "Keep it on."
He just likes horror. Kind of likes the thrill of being scared, but only when it's confined to a television set or a Stephen King book he's definitely way too young to be reading.
Makes Will forget about the very real, very bad things that happened to him.
The horror on the T.V. screen isn't real. Everything else is—the cold, the wet, the dark, all the touching, and the foggy memories that resurface in his nightmares.
Will can compartmentalize that. He has to.
As the credits roll, Mike pulls his hand away.
"That was traumatizing," he says, but doesn't really mean it. Will can tell.
Mike has a lower tolerance for scary movies than Will does, but he thinks Mike also only gets scared of the real stuff. Not afraid of ghosts and axe-killers, but of the real monsters that live under them. The ones that try to steal his friends away. That's what Mike's scared of.
"For my birthday," Mike adds as he retrieves the VHS, "we're definitely watching—"
"The Thing?"
"Duh." He steps over a sleeping Lucas, returning the movie to Will. "Want your card now?"
Will smiles. "Was waiting for it."
"'Kay. Close your eyes while I go look for it."
Will sits in darkness, listening to Mike opening a drawer and shutting it. A paper crinkles. Lands on his lap.
"And don't—"
"I'm not gonna make fun of you," Will promises. He has to squint to read it in the low light of the basement.
It's long. Will's heart soars.
Dear Will,
Happy birthday!!
It feels so crazy getting to say that. Don't worry, I didn't think you were really gone, but I was still worried I would never see you again. I don't mean to bring it up, because I know it was really scary for you, but I just wanted to say that I'm so happy you're back. I was so afraid that we wouldn't be able to find you, but we did, and that makes me so happy.
I was so afraid that we would never get to do birthday cards again, or play D&D, or have sleepovers, or even talk. And the whole week you were gone, I missed talking to you so much. There was so much I wanted to say to you when you were gone, and I was scared I would never get to say them, so I will say them here since I know you won't make fun of me for it.
I think you're so funny. A lot of people probably don't get how funny you are because you're shy, but I like that only me and the party get to understand our inside jokes.
And I think you're so good at drawing, it's crazy. I really like it whenever you make me something, and I keep all of them. It's like my favorite thing ever. You could literally be a famous artist or something. Maybe when you're famous I'll sell your old stuff and make millions, mwah haha (kidding I wouldn't do that. You know that.)
I also think you're the bravest person ever. I know you don't think that's true, but I thought you were brave even before everything happened. Because you're so nice to everyone, even people who are mean, which I think is a super brave thing to do. It makes me want to be nicer, even when it's hard.
And all this stuff makes me feel so lucky and so happy that you are my best friend, and I was worried when you were gone that I didn't tell you that enough. So, yeah, I just wanted to tell you that I really like y that we are best friends, and always will be.
I hope this is your best birthday yet.
From,
Mike
"Thanks, Mike," Will says, eyes still pouring over the handwriting. "Was really great. Long one, too."
"Yeah, I kinda—I guess I made it weird there, looking back on it. But you still liked it?"
Not weird. Will never wants Mike to think anything about them is weird.
"Yeah, liked it a lot. Probably the best one yet."
"And the best birthday yet?"
"I guess so, yeah," Will says. He shrugs, then feels Mike staring at him, and feels the need to explain. "I mean, of course it was fun, I just—"
"You had a bad day?" Mike's frowning now. Dejected.
"No," Will says, because he didn't. Not at all. "Super fun day. I just don't really care about my birthday, that's all."
"What? Yes, you do. You literally love your birthday, Will."
"Um, it's just—" A breath leaks from Will's mouth. How does he explain it?
Explain that he hardly feels anything anymore, unless he's with all his friends? Explain that he can't sleep soundly anymore? Explain that each day, he feels a little bit more dead? That he feels more like zombie than boy? Like there was something in him that was left behind in the Upside Down? Something that made him excited for his birthdays, excited to go to school, excited for all the things that just make him—a little bit tired, now?
But then, even zombies have birthdays.
They must, right?
"It's just hard, sometimes," Will says quietly. "Getting excited for stuff. I get sorta... sad sometimes, which is super annoying."
"I get it," Mike whispers. He fidgets with a hem on his pajama pants. "Um, are you feeling sad right now, though?"
Will answers honestly. "No. I wasn't sad today at all."
"Good," Mike says. "Don't want you to be sad."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Mike presses further. "And you promise you'll tell me when you are sad?"
Will nods. "Yeah. I'll tell you."
"Good," Mike exhales, taking Will's words seriously.
For a beat, the basement breathes in silence.
"Is it okay if I—" Mike's hands pause their fidgeting. He glances over the room, surveying the sleeping Dustin and Lucas, then looks back at Will, like it's something he can only trust him with. "Is it okay if I try and call Eleven? I usually do it around this time."
Will already knows he does this, because Will wants to find her, too. Wants to thank her.
Wants to meet her in real life, but more than anything, just wants Mike to be happy.
"Yeah," Will whispers. "Want me to sit with you?"
"Please."
They crouch in a blanketed-up corner of the basement, and Mike whispers robotically into the walkie.
He looks upset. It's like Will can feel the guilt radiating off of him. Apparently, El had said goodbye, then vanished into thin air. Dustin and Lucas think she died. Mike can't stomach that, just like he couldn't stomach when Will was presumed dead, either.
Mike feels guilty about a lot of things, Will can tell. He thought it was his own fault the Demogorgon got Will, since they'd been at Mike's house that night. And maybe that's why Mike hovers around him so closely, always checking in on him and obsessively worrying. Always needing to be so close to him. Not babying Will, though, never that.
But it's not something—not something romantic and gross, like what might reside in Will's depraved, half-dead brain that he's trying his best to cut out. It's guilt and loyalty. Painful worry, like how he worries so much about El. Because if she's really gone—dead, like Lucas and Dustin think and never say, that means Mike failed at protecting somebody, same as it had been when Will vanished into thin air.
"Try her again," Will suggests after a few attempts. "Maybe El didn't hear you. Or maybe she's just sleeping right now."
Mike shoves the antenna back down. "It's okay."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah." Mike scoots out of the corner, visibly stressed. "Would you, um. Would you sleep on the pull-out bed next to me?"
Will thinks for a second to tease him, and say that Mike's just scared of the horror movie they watched. But in all honesty, Will's a little afraid right now, too.
The T.V. is still on, and the wind batters the windows. Their friends are snoring softly. The shadows on the walls are growing longer, more intimidating.
For Will, this is when things get scary. Not blood on the movie screen, or cheap jumpscares of ghosts or spooks like that, but when things are dark and eerie like this. He's sure it's the same for Mike, the way he's gone so quiet.
Plus, it's nice to know that Mike still wants to be close to his half-dead best friend.
Makes Will feel somewhat normal.
"Yeah, course."
The bedsprings on the old trundle squeal as they worm into their sleeping bags. Will slips his tiger from his bag, because he knows Mike would never tease him for still needing it to sleep.
"And don't you dare kick me."
Will rolls his eyes, but they're both giggling now. Things feel a little bit lighter, when you have someone by your side like this. "Don't you dare snore."
"I totally won't."
"You totally will."
Mike snorts. "No, I totally Mike."
"That's such a bad joke," Will whispers, but finds he's still laughing. He swats Mike's arm. "Good night. Going to bed now, because your joke was so lame it killed me."
Mike tosses onto his side, facing him. He's grinning at Will, like he's impossibly proud of his joke, and impossibly proud that he gave Will a good birthday.
The light radiating off the vacant VCR screen washes his face blue as Will studies his features. The darkest spots of his birthmark are nearly violet in the dim lighting. Will can outline the heart on his cheek, and Mike's eyes are a twin pair of endless black holes for him to drown in.
And Will thinks, for the first time, and certainly not the last, that he likes him.
Like-likes him.
"Night," Mike says, voice soft. "Happy birthday."