Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Well, kids, what do you think?" Joyce Byers neé Maldonado asks, holding tightly onto a moving box.

Her youngest son, William Jacob Byers, climbs down from the moving truck that his older brother Jonathan Byers was driving slowly, as if he had a heavy weight on his shoulders. To be fair, Will Byers did have a heavy weight on his shoulders - one that grew to be heavier and heavier with each traumatic event, of which there were plenty in the young man's life. Ever since he was a young child, fortune had not smiled on the boy, instead giving him a life full of hardships and sorrows. He always kept a brave face and pretended that he was fine, but, to Will’s shame, that mask had slipped as the Byers were leaving the only home that they had ever known and the place that held all of the people Will loved within its borders, leaving him silently crying in the passenger’s seat as they drove across the country. His tears had dried around Colorado, and he had reinstated the mask that kept everyone from worrying about him.

“It looks really nice, Mom.” Will responds with a smile, going over to help his new sister out of the car. However, Eleven, AKA El, AKA Jane Hopper, superhero (though she doesn't like to be called that), teenage girl, and former lab experiment had already opened the door and grabbed the box that had been riding with her in the backseat of the car, walking over to stand next to Joyce silently. Though Will had been through his own share of hardships (more than anyone should have to endure), he felt that El had gone through more and was determined to help his new sister adjust to normal life. She had never had time to get used to people, going straight from a lab to living in a cabin in the woods with her adopted father Jim Hopper, and then only leaving said cabin to be with the Party, whom she feels sorrowful about leaving behind, as does Will. "Do you need any help, El?"

"No, I am good." El says disjointedly. Will winces to himself; the Byers family will have to teach El how to make her words flow more easily. That's going to get her teased. He may not know much, but he knows that kids are mean and are going to be looking for anything - any flaw, any oddity, anything - to use against the Byers siblings, and God knows there are plenty.

To be perfectly honest, Will was scared - he was starting a new school without his friends for the first time. Ever since kindergarten, he had always had Mike right by his side on the first day, and as they got older, they gained more Party members, meaning that if Will needed someone, all he had to do was look around, as his friends were always there if he needed them (even if he never took that offer up - his issues weren’t - no, he wasn’t - important enough to bother his friends with). But now? He had moved across the country with only his mom, Jonathan, and El. No Mike. No Dustin. No Lucas. No Max. Nobody who had the capacity to help him if he asked. His mom was starting a new job, and was too busy juggling work and three kids to be with him all the time. Jonathan was working through his own stuff, which meant that he was lost in his own head more than he was with Will, and El needed someone more than he did, meaning that he needed to be the supporter, not be supported. He was separated from most of the people he loved, having to step up and be a big brother to a girl that he honestly didn’t know how to help care for, and being thrown into a school with what felt like a target on his back.

Of course he would be picked on at this new school, he had no doubt. They were moving in the middle of the fall semester. He’s gay (he thinks - he’s only ever been attracted to, AKA deeply in love with, one person, who happened to be a boy, and he doesn’t know what that makes him. Is he gay? Or does he like girls too and just happens to have fallen for a boy and that makes him think that he only likes boys? Will has no idea) and it feels like it’s pretty obvious that he’s queer, even though he tries to hide it. Not to mention, he’s a quiet artsy nerd who is associating with someone who is very… Developmentally behind? Will questions the terminology. He doesn’t know what to call her mental state and lack of knowledge about the world. All he knows is that it’s hard on her (even if it’s not her fault that she was treated more as a lab rat than a human child, including the lack of social interaction and education, she still beats herself up over missing social rules and not having the right words to express herself. Will knows how hard it is to be so angry at yourself, and he’s decided that he’s going to make her life good for her no matter what it takes, including destroying his own chances of having friends), and that it’s going to get even harder when the kids in this town, who are surely horrible, see that El is vulnerable and swoop in like a pack of vultures. Will shudders at the thought of what could happen.

Will doesn’t have many strengths, but he sure is good at imagining the worst things that can happen. Forget about being an artist - what job requires you to think of every single negative outcome and have a panic attack over it? Because that would be a job that Will would excel at.

He snorts at the mental imagery of an office that is entirely made of people hyperventilating into paper bags in their cubicles, which earns him a strange look from his mother. “Will, honey, are you okay?”

Will can feel his cheeks flush. He didn’t mean to laugh out loud at something so stupid. Besides, his mom probably thinks that he’s insane now for laughing at things in his own head. “Yeah! Yeah, just thought of something funny.”

She smiles at him and nods towards the moving truck. “Alright. Do you want to help unload the boxes from the truck or unpack them inside?”

Will thinks for a moment. He doesn’t really want to leave Jonathan out here to take out the boxes himself, but if he were to work on the inside, he could familiarize himself with the house, and if he could convince El to stay inside with him, he could teach her some English while they organized. Besides, organizing sounds kind of fun. He knows that he’s weird for him to like to clean, but he finds the repetition calming.

But, deep down, Will knows the real reason that he wants to clean and organize this new house. It’s so stupid, but the reason that he wants to look in every corner is to make sure that there aren’t any monsters. At 14, he should have outgrown his fears of monsters and the dark ages ago, but he knows that monsters are real, whether malignant beings from another dimension that are trying to kidnap, possess, and/or hurt and kill him, or mean, drunken fathers that shake the house with their rage. And when you know that such horrible, evil things like the Upside Down exist, it’s hard not to be afraid.

“I’ll clean and unpack inside of the house. El, do you want to work with me or help unload the boxes?”

“You.” El says quietly, still gripping the box tightly. Will knows that she’s sticking to him because he’s the one that she knows the best out of the Byers. They have a bond that nobody else could ever understand. She saved him from the Upside Down - not once, but three times - and he’s been trying to save her right back, both from the Upside Down (during the Starcourt fight with the Mind Flayer) and from other people. He knows he can never truly repay her, but he can damn well try.

“Alright, cool. Are you both going to be okay?” Will says, turning from El to shout over at the truck, where his mom and Jonathan have started unloading the truck. His mom flashes a thumbs-up at them, and he thumbs-ups back before turning back to El. "Ready to go inside?"

El nods, and he nabs the box from her and they go towards the steps up to the house. He counts one, two, three as he goes up the steps, memorizing the number of steps up the path, amount of steps there are up to the door, loose bricks and how many there are, and how big each step is. If he needs to escape in the middle of the night from a threat inside the house, he won't have time to waste on tripping.

And for his family to escape from a threat, too, Will adds as an afterthought. He's embarrassed about how easy it is for him to only think about saving himself when he has his family to protect. Honestly, he knows that if it came down to it he would die to protect them, but in the scenarios that he creates, he usually is alone (just like he was when the Demogorgons - and later the Mind Flayer(s) - were hunting him), so he only has to worry about himself. But, like he said, if it came down to it, his priorities are his family first, him second.

Will remembers years ago, when he was his own top priority. He was… four? He thinks? But even if he was young, he's still so ashamed of that. He knows that other people are far more important than him; it's been drilled into him over the years, and he didn't used to believe it, but now he knows it for sure. It's a fact of life. The sky is blue, grass is green, and Will Byers is worth nothing unless he is serving other people in some way. Water is wet, and he is everyone's last priority, including his own. Sometimes it makes him sad, but everyone gets sad about things they can't change, like the death of a loved one. it's your fault Bob died. he's dead because of you. your fault your fault YOUR FAULT-

Will shakes his head as they go through the front doorway, as if to get rid of the thoughts. They’re always there, in the back of his mind, but sometimes they get so much louder. Will knows they're just thoughts, but he also knows that they're true, which makes it sting.

"Are you okay?" El asks earnestly, looking at him in concern. Great, Will thinks, another person worried about me because they see how crazy I am, reacting to things in my head.

"Of course, El. I'm fine." Will says quietly, smiling softly at her. "Are you?"

She looks down to fiddle with the bottom of her flannel. "I miss Hopper and Mike."

Will's heart twinges at the mention of the boy he's been in love with for years - his best friend. And his sister's boyfriend.

Another way he feels ashamed. It's not bad enough that he's gay (probably), he has to be in love with a boy who is not only straight but dating his sister? God, if Mike knew how Will feels about him - if anybody knew how Will feels about Mike - he would hate Will even more than he probably already does. If anyone knew the secrets Will kept, they would see how disgusting and wrong he is. Will used to think that maybe his friends would accept him. Hell, Will's even fantasized about how his confession would go before - Will tells Mike that he's gay and in love with him, Mike says he feels the same way, and they kiss and live happily ever after.

But after last summer?

'It's not my fault you don't like girls!' Mike spits. Will stares at him in wide-eyed shock. Wasn't Mike supposed to be the one person that would never hate him, even if he was gay? Mike sighs and starts talking again, and Will expects an apology, even if Mike isn't wrong, but he instead says 'Look, I'm not trying to be a jerk. But what did you think, really? That we were never going to get girlfriends? That we were going to sit in my basement and play games forever?'

Will feels the sadness, disgust, and self-loathing curl inside him, rearing its ugly head, but above all there's anger and pain. ‘Yeah. I guess I did. I guess I really did.’

The part of him that he’s buried down deep - the part of him that’s angry and vengeful and hurt, the part that he’s scared will turn him into someone like Lonnie - feels a grim, sick sense of satisfaction at the hurt written across Mike’s face. Good. Let Mike hurt for what he’s done, for ignoring, belittling, insulting him.

But more than anything, he’s just so, so hurt. He knows that this will be one of the emotional scars that runs deep, right next to those that Lonnie left years ago. His emotions are in such a scramble that he doesn’t know how to put them into words or even feel and process them, but he's realized that if he told Mike that he was right, that Will really was a queer, he couldn’t be sure that Mike’s reaction would be positive anymore.

That Mike was safe anymore.

Never. He can never tell Mike unless he’s ready to lose him forever.

“Alright, let’s take a look around. Want to call bedrooms?” he asks El, going over to the kitchen area and setting the box down on the counter.

“Okay." El agrees.

"I can have the smallest one, I don’t mind less space. Do you want to go find the bedrooms and assign them?"

"Assign?" El says quizzically.

"Um, assign means to pass something out and decide who gets what." Will tries to explain. He’s not great at teaching El things, but he’s trying his best to help his sister.

While he isn’t too pleased at the circumstances, Will is thrilled to have a little sister to take care of. (Well, not so little. They think that she’s only a few months younger than him). When he was little, he had always wanted another sibling to be an older brother to. He had always loved little kids. He had started begging for a little brother or sister when he was little, but he stopped after he realized that a new Byers would be subjected to a life of not-enough (another reason that a third sibling wouldn’t have been plausible - they just plain couldn’t afford it) and Lonnie. It wouldn’t be fair to have another little kid put through that. Jonathan and Will having Lonnie as a father was bad enough.

But now, when El being taken in by the Byers was feasible and she wouldn’t be in any danger from Lonnie? He bets that younger Will would be overjoyed at having El in his life, even if they were too old for Will to share toys and play games with her like he had imagined when he was a little kid. But instead of sharing toys, he can share knowledge about the world and look out for her, so that’s what he’s going to do.

“Okay. I will… assign… bedrooms.” El says slowly, rolling the new word around in her mouth like she was memorizing everything about it. She probably is, Will thinks to himself.

“Can you remember what I’m going to tell you?” Will asks carefully.

El nods earnestly, a serious expression on her face.

“I would like the smallest bedroom. You can choose which bedroom you would like, and Jonathan can get the last one.” Will says slowly, watching El to make sure that she soaks up the information.. She does, spinning away to go up the stairs. He watches her cautiously; he can be a little paranoid about stairs. Ever since he fell down a set when he was six and ended up in the hospital, he's been worried about people falling and getting hurt. Well, he’s always worried about everyone else getting hurt, but especially in certain scenarios. Like stairs.

After El is safely upstairs, he turns back to the kitchen. He did not think this through. There literally aren't any boxes to unpack yet.

He decides to go through and familiarize himself with the kitchen in the meantime. He counts ten double-door bottom cabinets (eight empty, two with shelves), sixteen drawers, and ten double-door upper cabinets. Will does a quick runthrough, looking carefully in each one for issues. He finds none, but he does find a lot of storage space. He's already mentally placing where each cooking tool will go when he's startled by a loud 'thunk'.

He jumps, whipping around only to see Jonathan dropping a box on the floor. He relaxes, but the adrenaline rush that comes with loud, unexpected noises doesn't fade, leaving him short of breath and with a racing heartbeat. "Jonathan! You scared me!

"Sorry!" Jonathan throws over his shoulder as he goes back out to bring more boxes in from the driveway.

Will exhales heavily as he tries to catch his breath from the jumpscare-that-shouldn't-have-been-a-jumpscare before going out and helping his family bring in some of the boxes. After his heart stops pounding quite as hard, he jogs out, only slowing to go the one, two, three down the steps before picking back up again. He grabs the box closest to him, and sees that it's labeled as 'Jonathan's Bedroom'. He goes back into the house and slowly goes up the stairs, balancing the box on his hip as one hand grips the railing. Once he's up, he braces himself before loudly saying "El! Where are you?"

She emerges from the second bedroom to the right. "This is my bedroom." she says confidently.

"Alright, awesome! Which ones are Jonathan's and mine?" he asks.

"Yours-" she points to the bedroom farthest from the stairs. "Joyce-" she points to the bedroom closest to the stairs. "Jonathan." she gestures downstairs. Will internally groans at the fact that he went upstairs for nothing, but he smiles at El instead.

"Thank you, El. I'm going to put this in Jonathan's room and then I'll come upstairs and you can show me around?"

"Yes." she says, disappearing back into her room. Will shrugs to himself. Sisters are weird, he supposes.

He goes back down the stairs (ugh) and looks around through the different doors. It takes a minute, because he accidentally opens the door to the basement instead of the door to the bedroom. Finally, he finds what he thinks is Jonathan's room, and places the box on the floor before looking around it. It's nice, he thinks to himself. Not Jonathan's style, but they can change that. Maybe Jon and Will can hang out and redo their bedrooms to their tastes? He hasn't been hanging out with Jonathan as much, and he misses his big brother, so he'll take any chance to be around Jonathan one-on-one again like they used to.

He makes a mental note to ask later. In the meantime, he can just bring in more boxes. Well, after El shows him around.

He goes back upstairs to find El, and she's sitting at the top of the stairs waiting for him. "Sorry for keeping you waiting, El. I got lost." he says.

She nods. Will offers his hand to help her up, and she looks at it confusedly. "So, when you're sitting down and someone offers their hand, it means they want you to take it so that they can help you up." he explains. A look of understanding dawns on her features, and she reaches out and grasps his hand, which he uses to pull her up. "See?"

Eleven nods sagely, as though the secrets of the universe have been revealed to her. "It also means that they like you. If you don’t like someone, you don’t offer them a hand, and if you offer one and the person doesn't take it, it means they don't like you."

"Why wouldn’t someone like me? Why wouldn’t I like someone?" she asks puzzledly.

"Well…" Will tries to think of how to explain that people suck. "Sometimes that's just how it is."

"But why?" El asks as they get off of the staircase and stand in the hallway instead.

Damn, why does she have to ask the hard questions?

"Because some people are bad people. And even if you try to be nice to them they can still be mean."

"Like the Bad Men?" she asks, looking very concerned.

"No! No, no, no!" Will hurriedly says. He doesn't think that it would be good for El to think that there are a bunch of people out there that are just like her… abusers? Captors? He'll just use the name Bad Men. "Like…" He tries to think of terminology that she might know. "Like mouthbreathers!" He says, remembering that Mike told him that he had told El that before Will and El had ever met in-person. "They aren't really dangerous, they're just mean and annoying."

"Oh, okay." she says. El pauses. "Are there a lot of mouthbreathers?"

"Well…" Will stalls. "I don't know. There were a lot in Hawkins, and a lot of the people that weren't plain mean weren't nice, either. But it might be different here. We'll figure that out soon, okay?" he says.

She nods and starts walking. El turns to the door closest to the stairs and opens it, walking inside as Will follows. It's a good-sized room, with light brown walls and beige carpet, an ensuite bathroom and closet, and a large window. "So this one's Mom's room?" Will asks. El nods. He'll have to teach her some other forms of non-verbal communication. "I think she'll like it. Can I see your room?"

El leaves and goes into the next room over, and Will follows. It's smaller than his mom's, but still a good size, and with the same brown walls and beige carpet. "Do you want me to paint your room later, El? We can make it more like you want it." Will offers. She lights up and nods. Will may not know much, but he knows that making or customizing something for someone is a surefire way to say 'I love and care about you, and I'm here for you', which is the message that he wants to send his new sister. Plus, it's a good way to help her with her… autonomy? He can't quite place the word he's looking for. A good way to help her learn what she likes and show her that she can make decisions for herself. There we go.

She opens the closet, and Will can see that it's pretty large, almost a walk-in but not quite. "Nice! Is that why you picked this one?" He asks.

"Yes. But I like this too." She says, pointing to the slight alcove under the window. Will blinks; he didn't notice that when he walked in. His observation skills must be dropping. He needs to refine that.

"That little space would be perfect for a desk or a dresser." Will muses, trying not to show his dismay at his lack of awareness. "You and I can make this perfect for you, El, I promise."

She smiles, seemingly put into a good mood for the first time since leaving Hawkins by Will's offer. "Let's go to your room." El says, grabbing his hand and going to pull him out the door.

He wasn’t expecting her to touch him, let alone move quickly and grab his hand, and much to Will's chagrin, he flinches. His first instinct is to yank his hand away and step away from her, be ready to run if need be, but he reminds himself that it's just El and she's not going to hurt him.

As she pulls him out into the hallway and to the room that's going to be his, he chastises himself. Get a freaking grip, Byers. Not everyone is going to hurt you. You're being stupid. Besides, you could have hurt her feelings by doing that, you idiot. Calm down and be a good brother, for once in your life.

"This one is your room." El says. He opens the door to the smallest one. It's a bit larger than his room in the Byers old house, and Will finds himself missing the smallness. It has a window on the exterior wall, and a double-door closet. It's the first bedroom color variation that he’s seen so far, with yellow walls and the beige carpet. It has plenty of room for a bed, desk, and dresser (to be honest, that's all of the bedroom furniture that he can think of), and he can decorate it later.

"I love it, El," he says half-truthfully. He's sure that he will after he fixes it up a bit, but right now, it just feels so foreign. He feels bad about lying for a moment (friends don’t lie, after all), but the look of pride and joy on her face is worth it.

"I picked it because of the yellow. You like yellow." El says seriously.

Will nods. "I do. Good choice! Plus, it's a great size and right next door to your room."

She beams at him, proud of making a good choice, before leaving and going back to her room. He looks around 'his' room again and feels his emotions turn into a knot in his stomach. He can't really tell what a lot of them are, but he knows that they aren't good, even if judging by nothing else but the fact that he wants to throw up. This place isn't home.

He's sure it'll be fine once he changes some things around. Brings in his stuff, redecorates, just makes it his room instead of a blank, yellow canvas.

Yeah, he likes yellow, but not this much. There’s a lot of it on the walls. It looks like the inside of a mustard bottle, and so much bright color is almost distressing.

As he leaves to go downstairs to help unload the boxes, he questions what to do. If he paints it, he might hurt El's feelings, but if he doesn't, he might lose his mind.

Maybe he can paint part of it (like, one wall) a very light yellow? It shouldn't hurt El's feelings as long as it's still yellow, and it wouldn't be quite as bright and stressful.

He'll ask Jonathan and El if they can all redo their rooms together - as the Byers siblings - this weekend. He'll ask tomorrow before school, maybe at breakfast.

Ugh. The thought of food makes the knot in his stomach tighten. He grabs a few boxes, this time from a pile that says 'Will's Room', and takes them up to the yellow bedroom. He makes several more trips alongside his mom and Jonathan (the original Byers gang) until the driveway is empty, the boxes and furniture are in the house, and he's soaked in sweat (eugh). El's still in her room, and has been occasionally creeping out to take some boxes in from the stair landing. She's acting odd, but it’s probably because she misses her dad and their friends as well as the anxiety about starting school. Will's been going to school since he was five, and he’s still terrified of tomorrow, so he can't imagine how going to school for the first time ever must feel.

He decides to check in on her after his mom decides that they’re having pizza for dinner. She’s quietly sitting on the floor, back to the door, rereading Hopper’s letter for the millionth time. “Hey, are you okay?” he asks quietly. He doesn’t like to change the volume of a room (if it’s loud, he’ll be louder than normal, and if it’s quiet, he’ll be quieter), so he’s going to speak quietly unless she starts being loud.

“I miss Hop.” she says, turning around to reveal tear-stained cheeks and a watery voice.

“Oh, El, I know. I get it.” he says, walking over and sitting on the ground to hug her. “I lost someone who was basically my dad, too.”

She wipes her eyes and looks up at him from his embrace. “Who?” she asks softly.

His throat tightens. “His name was Bob. He died because of the Upside Down, when I was possessed."

“Do you miss him?” El asks.

“Yeah. Every day.” Will says. He goes to tell El about Bob, but before he can open his mouth, there’s a call of ‘PIZZA! COME ON, KIDS!’ from his mom in the kitchen. He gets up and offers El his hand, and she takes it quickly. At least he’s taught her something today.

They both go down the stairs (Will first, so that he can catch El if she falls) and into the kitchen, where his family is sitting at a folding table with four chairs, a box of pepperoni pizza open on the table. Jonathan has three pieces on his paper plate that he’s staring down at, and his mom has two on hers. El takes another two, and Will hesitantly takes the last piece. “Honey, do you want one of mine? You’re a growing kid, you need more food.” his mom says, worriedly looking at his single piece.

“No, I’m okay. I’m not very hungry.” Will says. It’s true; just looking at his plate makes him feel sick.

It’s always hard for Will to eat. Sometimes, he puts some pasta or something slightly slippery into his mouth and all of a sudden all he can think of is a slimy tentacle forcing itself down his throat as he gags and struggles to breathe, and he has to spit it out and can’t eat for a while. But this is different. When he looks at the piece of pizza, all he can think of is how disgusting it would feel on his tongue and sliding down his esophagus to sit in his stomach. If he tried to eat it, he’s sure that he would start gagging, and that would be gross and embarrassing and overall unpleasant.

“Actually, I think that I’m going to go upstairs and unpack my room. I like cold pizza better anyways. Could we leave it out until I’m done and get hungry?” Will asks. He feels bad about lying about liking cold pizza, but he just doesn’t want to eat it, and he just wants to get out of it.

His mom stares at him, and he worries that she saw through the lie, but she nods. “Okay. Make sure that you eat it later, though, okay?” she says, taking a bite of one of her own slices.

“Okay. I’ll be back down in a bit.” Will says, pushing back his folding chair and leaving his family to eat in silence. He goes up the stairs slowly, and goes into the yellow room before sitting down on a box and putting his head in his hands. He's so tired, and he just wants to go home, but he guesses that he doesn't really have one to go back to anymore.

He wishes Mike were here. He'd make Will smile - he almost always does.

Will picks himself up and dusts himself off, wiping his cheeks in case any tears fell. He unpacks some art supplies and sets them up in a corner of the yellow room as well as putting the mattress and bedding on his bed. He sees that it's 10:18 on his watch, and decides that he's done enough unpacking for a night and to just go to bed.

He brushes his teeth harshly and quickly before changing into a pair of pajamas. He frowns at his reflection. He can't quite place it, but there’s something wrong with his appearance.

Will shrugs it off and goes to bed. He lies in the dark, underneath six blankets (he likes it cold, after all, and Will wants him to be as miserable as possible in Will's body - maybe that way he'll be safe) and wishing that he had unpacked his nightlight. Will knows he's too old to have something as babyish as a nightlight, but he's still scared of the dark after the Upside Down, and sleeping in new surroundings isn't exactly helping him feel comfortable.

After a few minutes of lying curled on his side, he slips into the depths of sleep, and after a few peaceful minutes of rest, he’s pulled into a dreaming state.

He’s watching Bob die over and over again in different, horrible ways. The first way is that he’s ripped apart by the Demodogs, just like he was in real life, but this time the dog has a grisly mixture of the dog's and Will’s own features. The next way he dies is being hit by a moving truck. He watches it happen six more times before it's the other people he loves being killed. His mom, Jonathan, El, Dustin, Max, Lucas, but worst of all, Mike. He watches Mike die four times before he runs out of oxygen. The Upside Down-poisoned air has filled his lungs and he's not able to breathe anymore.

He sits up with a panicked gasp. He can't breathe. Oh God, why can't he breathe, what's wrong with the air, is it poisoned, why is he shaking, help help help!

He slides off the bed and leans against its side, forehead against his knees that are drawn close to his chest, arms wrapped around them. He takes as deep of breaths as he can until he stops feeling like he's dying, with only the shaking in his hands, tear tracks on his face, and tremor in his voice to prove that there was anything wrong. He rubs his hands down his face, trying to finish calming down, but when he pulls them away, they're damp and sticky.

He looks at the blood on his fingers and almost breaks down again. He realizes that it's from his face. Will rushes to the bathroom, at which point he turns on the light and sees tracks of red coming from his right nostril and dripping down his face, all the way down onto the neckline of his shirt. He hastily grabs some toilet paper and wads it up before using it to wipe up the blood and press on his nose until the bleeding stops.

Once it does, he looks at the watch that matches Mike’s. It's 3:06 AM on the dot. He sighs and decides that he'll just draw until it's time to get up in the morning.

He turns on the light, sits on his bed, and starts sketching, trying to take his mind off of the nightmare and panic attack. He'll be fine. He just has to make it to the morning and then he'll be fine.

Right?

---

Meanwhile, in Hawkins

Mike puts down the pen after writing several letters. He rubs his eyes, wiping the tears. He had watched his best friend, his girlfriend, and his best friend's family drive away a few hours earlier, and after he had looked back at their house, gone home, and hugged his mother as tightly as he could, he had holed himself up in the basement. Mike pushes his chair back from the table where he and his friends had played D&D for years (he should've played with Will last summer. Why was he such a dick? Why did he say what he said?) and stretches before getting up and going over to the phone. He immediately puts in the number that the Byers' left and lets it rings through.

Nobody picks up.

He frowns, rings it again, and it does the same thing.

He does it again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

On the sixth try, he slams the phone back into its hook with a strangled shout. Is it too much to ask that he gets to talk to Will? Even if it's only been eight hours, he still misses Will. The sound of his voice, the gentleness of his personality, the way that he would hug Mike, the way that he would be so focused on his drawing that he wouldn't be monitoring his facial expressions and would have more genuine emotion on it than faux cheerfulness, which was rare in Will. He needs his best friend.

That's it!

It's only been eight hours. They probably only got there a few hours ago, if they're there at all. Besides, he didn't account for the time difference. It's probably later, and it's better if they're asleep. He knows that Will doesn't sleep well, and he doubts that El does either. He hopes that they're okay.

He should probably get some sleep himself. Mike goes over to the couch where he and Will would sleep over all the time and lays out all of the blankets, putting together a sleep-nest of blankets and pillows.

He goes to get in it before he realizes that he's still wearing his polo and shorts and isn't ready for bed.

Mike runs upstairs, puts on pajamas, brushes his teeth, and goes back down, grabbing Will's stuffed bear (Will started keeping it at Mike's when they were six and he kept sleeping over - and when Lonnie tried to get rid of it along with the rest of Will's stuffed animals, saying that it was making him weak) and the binder of Will's art before climbing into the blanket-nest on the couch, tucking the bear under his chin and burying his nose in it, inhaling what's left of Will's smell from it as he cracks open the binder and gazes with reverence at all of the drawings that he's both been given and stolen when Will went to throw them away. As he drifts off to sleep, he wonders if Will's asleep too, and he hopes that if he is, he's having good dreams.

Chapter Text

He draws for three hours and fills up almost eight pages in his sketchbook before he decides that it's an acceptable time to 'get up'. Even though it’s 6:15 in the morning, everyone is still asleep, which Will is especially grateful for when he sees the pizza still on the table. He hurriedly grabs it and shoves it into one of the trash bags lying around that are mostly being used for bubble wrap. Will's so glad that his mom didn't see that he didn't eat - she would get upset, and he hates when he makes his mom upset.

He remembers that his mom makes everyone breakfast on the first day of school, so he goes back upstairs to get dressed.

Will debates on what to wear for his first day at school anxiously. If he wears something too colorful, they might think he's gay and make fun of him. If he wears something too dark, he could be seen as goth and a freak. No matter what he chooses, it could be a trap.

In the end, he rifles through the boxes and decides on a green hoodie over a plain blue T-shirt, jeans, and black Converse. (Well, they're technically brandless high-top canvas sneakers, they can't afford to get him Converse that he'll grow out of). He folds them neatly and brings them to the bathroom, where he sets them on the top of the toilet before running the water for a shower. He turns it to the hottest it can go before grabbing his supplies and shedding his clothes. He pauses when he takes off his shirt, looking at the dried blood on the collar before dropping it on the floor.

Will looks in the mirror and touches his stomach, tracing the scar on his hip from the Mindflayer with his fingertips. He looks at his reflection and sees all of his flaws. He sees his scars and blemishes, but more than anything, all he can see is the way that his stomach looks. He’s never been fit, exactly, but he looks pretty pudgy. His stomach is protruding.

What happened to him? He used to have a flat stomach. He's never been attractive, but… he's definitely looking a lot worse than he used to. A lot thicker than he used to.

Will tries (and fails) to brush it off, getting into the hot shower instead. He hisses as the boiling water hits his skin, flinching away before forcing himself to stand in the water.

Ever since his possession, he can't stand cold and lukewarm water. So, he takes as hot of showers as possible. Sure, it hurts, but it’s fine, just like how he scrubs until his skin is raw and hot to the touch, trying to destroy the layers of grime under his skin and purge his connection to the Upside Down, which is what he does again today.

After about fifteen minutes, he gets out, drying off and brushing his hair before putting on his outfit. He looks in the mirror again, and sees that he doesn’t look too bad. He'll look even better when the bright red color fades from his skin.

He leaves the steam-filled bathroom and goes back downstairs, where the rest of his family has apparently gotten up. “Good morning, Will!” his mom says from where she’s making something in the kitchen. He greets her back. “I figured that we could all have Eggos for breakfast. They are Jane’s favorite.”

“Eggos!” El beams. Will can’t help but smile at this. No matter how down she is, Eggos always bring out the joy in her.

“Cool, cool.” Will says, sliding into the seat he was in last night. Jonathan is staring at the table ahead of him, and El is practically vibrating with excitement over their breakfast. “Oh, I was meaning to ask you. Jon, did you want to decorate our rooms together?”

Jon looks up, his bloodshot brown eyes looking into Will’s hazel. “No, I’m okay with my room as it is, and I’m too busy right now finding a job to help with yours. Maybe in a few weeks?”

“Oh. Yeah, sounds great!” Will says, feigning cheerfulness. He gets it, but the rejection still stings. It kind of feels like Jonathan isn’t just rejecting Will’s offer, but choosing to avoid him.

“Here you go!” his mom says, placing down a plate of waffles in front of each of them before sitting down too. "What are you kids talking about?"

"Painting rooms." Will says. "Do you want to paint yours, Mom?"

"That would be great, Will, thank you. But you take care of yours first." she says. His mom nods towards his plate. "Eat up. You have school."

Each plate has three waffles on it, and while his siblings dig in, Will looks down at his with a strange feeling in his gut. He really doesn’t want to eat it. Like, if he eats it, he might throw up.

But he sees the mask that his mom’s wearing: faux cheerfulness hiding how worried she is about her kids.

So, he responds in turn by doubling up his own mask, slapping on a smile and putting some syrup-soaked dough into his mouth.

He chews it slowly, but it’s less savoring-it slow and more he-doesn’t-want-it-to-go-down-his-throat slow. He tries not to think about the Upside Down’s vines, or coughing up slugs, or the calories and extra fat around his stomach as he finally coaxes himself into letting himself swallow.

He feels equal measures sick and accomplished, until he realizes that he’s only taken one bite and that there are at least twenty left to take, at which point the sickness beats out the pride. Luckily, though, his mom and Jonathan already finished and are both leaving the table, leaving just Will and El.

“Hey, El.” he whispers over to her once Mom and Jonathan are out of sight. She looks up, mouth smeared with syrup and chipmunk cheeks from waffles. “Do you want some more?” he asks.

She nods delightedly, and he looks around to make sure that the coast is clear before sliding his waffles onto El’s cleaned plate. She immediately digs in, and he smiles before grabbing his own dish and going to the sink to wash it up. It takes two tries to find the dishwasher in the new kitchen, but he eventually gets it, and puts his plate and fork in. When El finishes, he goes over and retrieves her dish to wash, too, and he gives it the same treatment.

“Alright. Let’s brush our teeth, and then you can get dressed and take a shower if you want and we can go to school.” Will says, thinking out loud about what he and El need to do to get ready and directing at her.

He goes up the stairs, slow as ever, and El follows. They both go into the bathroom and grab their toothbrushes, and they both use the same tube of toothpaste as they stand side-by-side in front of the sink.

Will starts brushing his teeth gently, but as he gets lost in his thoughts that are a mix of how bad today is going to be and the past, he starts brushing harder and harder until his gums sting. He hears El make a noise, which pulls him out of his thoughts. Will looks over and sees her brushing her own teeth way too hard, and it must be hurting her, because she’s wincing.

“Hey, hey, hey! You’re doing it too hard!” Will says hurriedly, putting down his own toothbrush and pulling El’s away from her mouth.

She looks at him in confusion. “But that is how you were doing it.”

“No, I know, I just-” he rubs his forehead, trying to think of what to say. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you do that.”

“But that is how you were doing it.” El repeats.

“Yeah. But you deserve better than I do, El, and that means that you don’t deserve to get hurt.”

“You do not either.” El says, staring at him.

He resists the urge to explain to her how he does deserve it, how it’s a good thing if he hurts, but he doesn’t, because she might tell someone what he said (and then that person will get upset or worry about him) or model that behavior, and he doesn’t want either of those things to happen. Instead, he grabs his own toothbrush again. “Okay, sure. Here, let me show you.” He raises it to his mouth again, watching her to make sure that she’s copying him, and models the way that the dentist shows him how to brush as closely as he can remember. She does the same, and once they’re done, he smiles at her. “Better?”

She nods and smiles back before leaving the bathroom. Will spends a second looking in the mirror (which he’s seemingly done a lot of lately) picking out everything wrong with him before following after his sister. She’s in her room, presumably getting dressed, and Will goes into his own. He grimaces at the yellow, but still grabs his backpack. He looks at the green, and is reminded of when he bought it when he and Mike went back-to-school shopping with Mrs. Wheeler when they were ten.

He misses those days.

He misses Mike.

More than anything.

Not for the first time, he wishes that he were back with the Party. He doesn’t care if they don’t like D&D anymore, or if they’d rather hang out with their girlfriends than with the rest of the party. He just wants to be around them, even if they ignore him.

And he’s probably so stupid for this, but he would sacrifice anything - his favorite sketchbook, his tiger stuffed animal that he just hasn’t been able to let go of, hell, even whatever semblance of normalcy that he has left - for just a hug from Mike. Just for Mike to hold him like he used to and tell Will that it’s going to be okay. Doesn’t even have to be romantic - he just misses Mike so much. He wishes that he had known better than to take Mike’s affection and attention for granted before this summer.

He wipes the tears that gathered in the bottom of his eyes with the back of his hand and, after checking that he has his trapper-keeper, sketchbook, pencils, and other supplies, slips his backpack on.

He leaves the yellow room, and sees El in the hallway. She’s wearing a pair of black-and-white striped shorts, a red checkered flannel over an oversized T-shirt, neon green knee socks, and white sneakers.

“Um, El?” Will asks. She turns to him. “Can- Can I offer some advice?” She nods.

“There are a lot of patterns in your outfit. Which is good, just… it could look nicer. Can I help?”

She looks crestfallen as she nods, and Will is so angry with himself for saying anything, but it needed to be done. If it wasn’t him, it would have been a bully pointing it out, and they would be really mean about it. He needs to protect his sister, and she’s going to be teased if she wears such an odd outfit. They can’t make themselves stand out any more than they already do unless they want to become specific targets.

“Alright. Come on.” he says, gently tugging her by the sleeve back into her room. Once inside, he starts rifling through some of the boxes, deciding on a black short-sleeve… blouse? Is it a blouse? - with triangles on it, black denim overalls from one of the outfits she bought with Max, and the white sneakers that she’s wearing. “This should be perfect.” he says, handing over the stack to El. She nods, and looks a bit glum. “Hey, I know. You want to do what you want - dress how you want - but… El, mouthbreathers are going to pick on you for everything that they can find that’s different. I know that I’m being a jerk, but I’m really trying to protect you, I promise. It’s what a good brother would do.”

“But Mike says that we cannot let the mouthbreathers get to us.” El says. Will tries to ignore the pang in his heart at Mike’s name and the fact that he said to El what he used to say to Will.

“You’re right. We can’t. But it’s harder to block out the mouthbreathers when there are a lot of them. Besides…” Will thinks of Troy and his gang in Hawkins. When he helped a boy down the bus steps because he was struggling to carry his stuff in fourth grade and Troy and his friends beat Will up and spit on him, saying how much of a filthy fairy he was. He knows that they would have hurt him worse if Mike and Lucas hadn’t found him. “Well, some mouthbreathers are a lot meaner than others. Some want to hurt you. By keeping the ones that notice you as small a number as possible, you stay safer. Okay? I’m sorry about the outfit.”

She looks at him with fear in her eyes. God, why did he say that? He’s trying to shelter her, not instill a fear of bullies. “Those bad ones are few and far between, though. Most are just annoying. Look, I’m sorry about picking this. Do you want to pick one together this time?”

She nods and, though she still looks a bit sad and afraid (and Will hates himself for making her feel that way. God, he’s the worst), she looks a lot less upset. They dig through the boxes together, and they find a pair of black jeans, gray T-shirt, and the flannel that El is wearing to pair with her white sneakers for the day. She wears her green knee socks hidden underneath her jeans, too. He waits outside while she changes.

“Better?” Will asks when she comes out. She nods, grabbing her blue backpack and carefully putting it onto her back.

“I am ready to go.” she says, gripping the backpack straps.

“You might want to brush your hair first.” Will says, pointing to the (slightly messy) shoulder-length bob.

“Okay.” she says, ducking into the bathroom (Will waits outside again) and brushing her hair before going downstairs, Will following close behind.

Jonathan’s waiting near the front door, ready for school in a white T-shirt and jeans. “Ready to go, guys?” he asks. El nods, and so does Will, though both seem miserable. They leave the house and get into the backseat of his 1976 Ford Pinto. Will and El both stare out of their respective windows in silence, almost ignoring the other’s existence, though when El’s hand finds Will’s on the backseat, he intertwines their fingers and squeezes lightly, which she reciprocates.

They pull up to a huge brown building, and Will and El exchange nervous looks. Jonathan drops them off on the curb, telling them that he’s going to find parking before going in, and they are left to fend for themselves. Will walks in through the front door first, El close behind, and as they walk into the crowded front hallway, Will chooses to stare at his shoes and not look up, using the positioning of people's feet to avoid bumping into them.

He's probably imagining things, but it feels like all eyes are on him. He keeps his head down, using his Upside Down- and trauma-induced Spidey-Sense to tell that El is still behind him as they go to their homeroom (he memorized the schedule on the drive to California). They go in before the bell rings, and the only two seats that haven't been claimed by a backpack are one towards the front and one towards the back. He watches El to see what she does, and she takes the one in the back. This leaves him to sit in the front one, which he does, putting his backpack on the back of the chair.

Both Will and El sit facing the front in silence, waiting for the bell to ring and the teacher to arrive. After a minute, the students pour in, taking seats around the Byers-Hopper 'twins'.

About a minute after the crowd of laughing, chattering students comes in, the teacher comes in hurriedly. She’s a short, brunette woman, looking like she’s in her early thirties, wearing a black blouse and pencil skirt. “Good morning, class.” she says. The teenagers all chorus it back, including El. Will stays silent.

“So, we have some new students today. Say hi to Will Byers and Jane Ives-Hopper-Byers - whew, that’s a long one.” The class says hi.
El smiles and waves. Will stays still. “Will, Jane, would you like to introduce yourselves?”

El raises her hand. “What should I say?”

The teacher pauses. “Well, you can tell us things like your name, how old you are, where you moved from, things you like, that kind of thing.”

El and Will look at each other, and El stands up first. “My name is Jane Hopper-Byers. I am fourteen years old and my family moved to California yesterday. I like Eggos, my friends, and TV.” She nods to herself before sitting back down.

The teacher smiles at her. “Welcome to Lenora, Jane, and thank you. How about you, Will?”

He grimaces a little bit before standing up. “Um… hi. My name is Will Byers. I’m fourteen - Jane’s my twin sister - and we moved here yesterday, like she said. Um…” he pauses as he tries to think of what to say that he likes. Comic books will make them see him as babyish. D&D will make them see him as a satanist. Art- Art! He can say he likes art! “I like art and music.” he says, sitting down quickly.

The teacher looks a little bit confused at how miserable he looked to be on the spot. “Alright. Nice to meet you, Will. Welcome to my class. I’m Mrs. Lewis.”

“Nice to meet you too.” he mumbles, looking at the scratched-up wood on the desktop.

“Well, this is homeroom, so if you want to read or something to pass the time, feel free.” she says, sitting down. Will continues staring at the desktop as his new classmates talk or work on homework until the announcer buzzes. “Mrs. Lewis, could you please send Will and Jane Byers to the front office?”

“Yes, they’ll be down in a minute!” Mrs. Lewis shouts to the speaker. Much to Will’s embarrassment, he’s been flinching the entire time that the loud exchange has been going on. He hates loud noise. Mrs. Lewis turns to the class. “Will, Jane, why don’t you grab your stuff and head down?”

Will nods, grabs his bag, and waits for El at the door. When they meet up, they walk down the hallway together side-by-side until they go into the front office. A friendly-looking blonde woman with an extremely large silver cross around her neck looks up from her computer and smiles at the duo. “Hi there. How can I help you?”

“I’m Will Byers, and this is Jane. You called us down?” Will says. She nods and smiles.

“Welcome to Lenora High School, you two! The school therapist wanted to have a quick chat with each of you real quick before we send you back off to class.”

“Okay.” El says.

“I’ll go let her know that you’re here. Do you want to take a seat?” she asks, pointing with an open hand over to the uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs padded with navy fabric.

“Sure. Come on, El- Jane.” Will says, correcting himself quickly as he grabs her sleeve and gently tugs her over to the chairs. They sit facing each other as the receptionist lady goes down a hallway to the left of the desk-thing.

“Look, El, you have to promise me that you won’t tell anything to this person.” Will says as soon as the receptionist is out of sight.

“Why?” she asks, looking puzzled.

“We can’t trust this person. She’s going to try and learn about all of our secrets, and we can't tell her about the lab. Or the Upside Down. Remember the backstory that Mom and I made you?" El nods. "That's what happened if anyone asks. We went to school together our whole lives. We're twins. We're just like everyone else." El nods, maintaining eye contact. He hates to make her a liar, but it’s better than the both of them being shipped off to an asylum.

"Alright, we're all set." the receptionist says with a smile. "Jane, she wants to talk to you first."

She looks at him and nods solemnly before following the receptionist back. Will waits for about twenty minutes before El comes out with tear tracks on her face. He feels anger pool in his gut at the thought of whoever this therapist is making El cry, which he quickly suppresses. He can’t be like Lonnie. He can’t get angry. Ever. El grabs her backpack silently and leaves the office without so much as a word to Will, most likely to go back to class.

The receptionist smiles at Will and waves him over. “Ready to talk to Dr. Brown?”

He gives a noncommittal shrug, gets up, and follows her down the hallway to a door with ‘Ava Brown, PhD, School Counselor’ on the plate next to the door. As the receptionist walks away, he takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

“Come in!” a voice calls.

He does, and when he enters the room, he sees a blonde woman in a white blouse and black cigarette pants sitting at a desk. “You must be Will Byers. I’m Ava Brown. It’s nice to meet you. Please, take a seat.” He sits in the seat across the desk silently, feeling like he’s on trial.

Will knows that he can’t trust therapists. He’s been to two (Dr. Garcia when he was nine and Dr. Owens when he was twelve), and neither believed him when he tried to tell them that something was wrong with him. Both times, he got hurt because of them. They are not to be trusted.

“So how are you liking Lenora?” she asks with a smile.

“Fine.” he says quietly. For some reason, he’s always had a hard time talking around people he doesn’t know. It’s like there’s a safety lock on his vocal cords that only comes off once he hangs out with someone more.

“It must have been hard to move across the country mid-school year. How are you doing with that?”

“Fine.” he says again, just as quietly. Dr. Brown gives him a pitying smile.

“Will, it’s perfectly normal to have a lot of feelings about moving. It can be devastating to someone your age to uproot their entire life and move to a new place.”

“Yeah, but I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” he says.

She smiles again. (She sure smiles a lot. She’s probably trying to put him at ease. It’s not going to work.) “I called Hawkins Middle School and had them transfer over your records. I saw that you were diagnosed with severe complex post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and anxiety. Is there any way that I can help you manage these issues? Mental illness can be hard to manage, especially with the added pressures of school and moving.”

“No. Those are old diagnosis… diagnoses. I’m fine now.” he lies.

She looks at him skeptically, and he shrinks back into his chair a little bit. Can she tell that he isn’t telling the truth?

After a second, she nods. “Okay, I understand that this is our first time meeting and that you don’t want to share right now. That’s okay. But I would like to ask you why you told your sister to not talk to me.”

Will gulps. Why did El tell this therapist that he told her not to talk? Dammit!

“Um…” he stammers. What does he do? What does he say to get out of this? “I don’t know.”

She sighs. “Look, Will, I’m sure you have your reasons, but I don’t think it’s fair of you to deny Jane help as well as denying it for yourself.”

“We don’t need help. We’re okay.” he says quickly.

“You both have disorders that are indicative of severe childhood trauma and need treatment. That doesn’t seem like ‘okay’ to me. I want to help both of you, Will, but I can’t help you without you opening up to me. You’re a smart kid, and I think that you know that you need support. I just don’t understand why you aren’t letting yourself receive it.”

“I don’t need it.” he repeats. He probably does, but he’s not going to receive it from this person.

“After reading your file, I would disagree. So, even if you don’t feel like you need, want, or deserve it, please just try to stick with therapy, even if just to say you tried.”

Will gulps. He would rather be literally anywhere else right now. “Okay, sure.” he says after a minute.

She smiles at him, and he gives a (fake) half-smile back. “Well, we’re almost out of time before the class period ends, so I wanted to give you some things.” she says, grabbing a notebook and handing it to him.

He looks at it carefully. It’s a thick, blank lined notebook with a plain black cover and a pencil in a slot on the spine. “This is a journal. I give one to all of my patients. It has 365 pages, so you can write one a day - or more, if you feel like it. If you don’t want to or feel like you can’t talk about something that’s weighing on you, you can write it in here. It’s yours now, and you can do what you like with it. And if you finish all of the pages, I can give you another one. Just let me know.”

Will holds it in his hands for a second before putting it into his lap. “I also wanted to give you this.” Dr. Brown says, handing him a piece of paper. He takes it just like he took the book, and he looks closer at it. It’s a laminated yellow piece of cardstock, about the size of a notecard. “It’s a yellow card. If your PTSD or anxiety is giving you a hard time, you can show this to a teacher and they’ll let you leave class, no questions asked or repercussions. You can use it and come talk to me about what’s bothering you, or take a short walk, get a snack, or even just go to the bathroom and wash your face. It’s part of your accommodations as a student with a disability.”

He drops it in his lap on top of the notebook like it’s burned him, and as he stares down at it, he can feel bile rise in the back of his throat. Will knows he’s being ridiculous, but he feels like it’s taunting him. Like the card is saying ‘Look at me! I’m proof that you’ll never be normal! That you’re a retarded freak! That something’s wrong with you!’

The color doesn’t help, either. He used to like yellow, but as he’s looking at this cursed piece of paper, all he can see in the color is ‘coward’. Like he’s worthless and weak if he uses it. Like he’s a coward by using it and taking the easy way out.

Plus, he’s sure that people would start talking if they saw him leaving class with this card. They’d know that he’s messed up in the head. That he’s not normal.

In that moment, Will swears to himself that he will never use it, no matter how bad of a day he’s having.

“Will? Are you okay?” Dr. Brown asks. His head shoots up as he remembers that he’s not alone, and he stares at her and nods. She gives him a frown. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” he says. “Thank you.”

She smiles again and nods, standing up from her chair and walking over to the door. “Of course. Unfortunately, our time is almost up, but you’re welcome to come down and talk to me anytime. You’ll be called down again every Tuesday and Thursday during homeroom, so I’ll see you tomorrow. Next time, I’ll probably have you do some paperwork and evaluations to help me see how you’re doing and how I can help.”

He puts the notebook and card into his backpack before standing up and going out the door. “See you tomorrow.” he says so quietly that he can barely hear himself as he walks away.

He comes out of the hallway, and the receptionist smiles at him. “How’d it go?”

Will shrugs and leaves the office, somehow finding his way back to class. He goes into the room and tries to make eye contact with El, but she keeps her eyes trained on the desk in front of her.

Well, therapy sucks for everyone, and this was probably her first experience with it, so she’s probably just having a hard time afterwards. Will just takes his seat and looks at the desk, unconsciously mirroring his sister, and waits for the bell to ring. It does, and he and his sister both get up and walk together in silence to their next period.

This time, there are two seats next to each other, which is nice, because he and El get to sit together. Will takes the left and El takes the right, and they continue not speaking to each other as the next bell rings and the students pour in. Will hopes that El isn’t mad at him - he doesn’t know why she would be upset with him, but he’s still worried that she is. To be fair, he’s always worried that people are upset with him, but still. Maybe it’s because he told her not to talk to the therapist? Maybe it’s because she’s wearing different clothes than what she wanted to because he wouldn’t let her? Man, even if he is trying to keep her safe, he’s being a piece of shit by not letting her express herself. He really is the worst.

The teacher comes in and sits down at the desk at the front of the room for a few minutes before standing up. She’s a soft-looking woman with glasses on a chain, puffy black hair, and a floral dress. “Good morning! Today, before we start talking about the Civil War, we have some announcements to make.”

Will braces himself. If he has to introduce himself every single class, he swears to God-

“First of all, we have two new students, Jane and Will Byers. Would you like to introduce yourselves?”

Will shakes his head no, while El stands up. She repeats the same thing that she said last class as Will stares at her in shock. Why would anyone voluntarily introduce themselves?

“Alright, thank you, Jane. Will?” He shakes his head again, and she smiles half-heartedly. “Alright, that’s okay. We also have a birthday in the class. Henry!”

As the class starts talking about the birthday kid, Henry, Will leans over to El. “Why did you introduce yourself? You didn’t have to.” he whispers.

She turns her head to face him and whispers back, “I want to make friends. I need to… introduce… myself to make friends.”

He frowns as he tries to process his mixed feelings. He’s proud of her for deciding to branch out - that she’s even making decisions for herself in the first place - and hopes that she succeeds, but he’s also upset that it feels like she’s abandoning the Party in favor of new people (who have no idea of what happened with the Upside Down and could never understand her - or them - like the Party does).

In the end, he decides to be happy for her. Just because she’s branching out doesn’t mean that he has to, and even if they are close, they’re allowed to be different people.

“I’m happy for you, El. Good job.” he says quietly.

She smiles before turning her attention to the board, where the teacher (oh crap, he doesn’t know her name) is starting to discuss the Civil War. He zones out as he takes notes, thinking about how he’d rather be in his Hawkins history class. At least he had Dustin with him during that period.

Honestly, though, Dustin’s probably having a great time in Hawkins right now. Will bets they all are. They don’t have to deal with him and his annoying issues and personality anymore - they’re probably all so much happier.

Wait, no, they wouldn’t be. El isn’t there. They wouldn’t be happy without their Mage.

Or without their cleric, a hopeful little voice in the back of his mind suggests. He tells it to shut up. They can’t miss him; even he can see how annoying he is just by how many D&D references he makes. They’re probably glad he’s gone; now there’s nobody to bug them about playing a game that they don’t even like anymore.

The bell rings after God knows how long, startling him out of his thoughts. He grabs his backpack and quickly puts it on, looking over to check that El’s with him before going to their next class. They do the same thing in English and Math: sit in whatever desks are open (across the room from each other in English, and separated by one in Math), teachers (Ms. Johnson in English and Mr. Walker in Math) offer to have them introduce themselves, which El does and Will doesn’t, and Will takes notes as the teacher lectures until the bell rings.

After Math, taught by Mr. Walker, who is super boring, it’s lunchtime, and Will and El start going downstairs to head to lunch. The halls get more crowded (and more stressful) the closer they get, and Will’s stomach starts churning again. As they go into the cafeteria, he’s greeted by too many things to count. There’s a line for lunch stretching across the room, and so many people talking and laughing that it sounds like a beehive with all of the overlapping voices becoming like a buzzing.

Will’s breath stops coming quite so easy as everything seems to get louder and more overwhelming. Much to his embarrassment, he starts gasping for air, and his thoughts start going in circles.

He panics, and all he can do is run.

He turns from the cafeteria, where El has gone deep into the belly of the beast, and starts walking as fast as his legs can take him. Once he’s out of the crowd and can move even faster without worrying about running into people, he breaks out into a sprint, and runs out of the building into the concrete yard. Will collapses, panting for air and curled on his side on the concrete.

It’s about ten minutes until he’s stable enough to sit up and not break down, so that’s what he does, choosing to just sit and draw instead of go in and brave the crowd to get food that he doesn’t want.

El!

He gasps and drops his pen onto his sketchbook as he realizes that his sister is alone in the cafeteria. He puts it with still-shaky hands (he shakes for about an hour after each episode, which is annoying) into his backpack before going inside, resisting the urge to cover his ears as he goes back through the crowd. He looks around desperately, trying to find his sister and protect her if she needs, but his fears are unfounded, as she’s sitting calmly with her school lunch at an empty table, which she waves him over to. He quickly walks over and sits down next to her.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

He realizes that she must see how panicky he looks, and he smiles at her, trying to hide his anxiety being in the cafeteria. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m good! Do you want to eat outside?”

She looks at him in confusion. “No. I need to make friends. To make friends, I need to eat with them.”

He nods quickly. “Yep, yep, that makes sense. Do you want me to stay here?”

She thinks for a moment. “I do not know.”

“Okay. I’m just going to stay here with you to make sure that you stay safe, okay?” Will says, deciding to ignore how bad he feels in this cafeteria.

He takes the seat next to her, looking around anxiously at all of the people. It's too loud. He wants to leave. He can't leave his sister alone in unfamiliar territory. He has to stay.

Will stares at the tabletop in front of him trying not to freak out while El eats her lunch. After a few minutes, a blond girl comes up to the table, a gang of teenage boys and girls grouped behind her, giggling. She has a high ponytail, jeans, and a pink T-shirt, and an expression that can be read as friendly if you were naive.

“Hi, Jane and Will.”

“Hello!” El says cheerfully, clearly thrilled that someone appears to be trying to be her friend. Will winces internally. This girl may appear nice, but Will can see the cruelness poorly concealed behind a sugary smile.

“I’m Angela. These are Jake, Stacy, Chad, Kathleen, Lucy, Cindy, Spencer, and Eric.” she says, pointing out each person.

Will doesn’t mean to be rude, but they all look the same: white and mean-looking with either blonde (some bleached-looking) or brunette hair and rich prep vibes. It honestly looks like they went to the mall and each bought a popular kid starter kit.

“It is nice to meet you.” El says, clearly trying to remember each person’s name.

“Jake - my boyfriend - and I sit with you in Ms. Gracey’s history.” At least now Will knows the teacher’s name. “I loved how many questions you asked. You made me feel so smart.”

Will clenches his jaw as the bully welcome wagon laughs among themselves. El looks like she’s feeling puzzled at why they’re laughing for a second before giving a genuine smile. “Thank you.”

“I love your outfit, too. I don’t think anyone could pull that off. Except for you, of course.” she says. The gang laughs behind her again and Will decides that’s enough backhanded compliments.

“Hey, E- Jane! We have to get going so that we have some time to… stop by the library on the way to class. Are you done?”

She looks at the empty lunch tray and back up at him. “Yes, I am done. Do we have to leave now?”

“Yeah, we really do.” he says, picking up her backpack from where she had apparently taken it off and placed it on the floor and handing it to her. She puts it on and stands up, starting to walk away from her tray. Will quickly grabs it and starts following her, almost running into her when she stops and turns back to the table.

“Bye, Angela!”

Angela gives a mocking wave (well, it sure seems mocking to Will) back and El turns back towards the doors and keeps walking.

Once out of the lunchroom, she turns to him. “Why do we have to go to the li-bra-ry? Where is it?” she says, butchering the word slightly.
“Library.” he says quietly.

“Library.” she repeats back, this time correct.

“We don’t have to go to the library. I was just getting you out of there.” Will says.

“Why do you need to get me out?” she says, clearly confused.

“Because they were being mean.” he says. He hates to tell El the truth about this, but she needs to know to not try to befriend them like she was trying to do.

“No, they were not. Angela said she liked my questions and outfit.” she says.

“El, they were backhanded compliments. That means that they’re insulting you and pretending that they’re being nice.”

“But why?” she asks, starting to look upset.

“Because they’re mouthbreathers.” Will says.

“You are lying!” she accuses, anger scrunching her features. “You say they are all mouthbreathers! You are trying to keep me from making friends! You are like papa!”

“El- El, I’m not!” he stammers. He has no idea what to do. He- He was trying to protect her! He’s trying to be a good brother! Why can’t she see that? “I want you to make friends! I just want them to be good friends and not ones that aren’t nice!”

“Stop lying!” she says in the same angry tone. “You want us to be with Mike and Dustin and Lucas! You think that if we do not make friends that we will get them back!”

“I don’t think that.” he says, trying not to cry, throw up, have the third panic attack of the day, or all three. He really hates when people yell at him. “Of course I want us to be with them, but I know that that’s not going to happen, and I really do want you to make friends. I- El, I need to be a good brother, and that means I need to keep you safe. And to keep you safe, I need to keep you away from people that are going to hurt you or make you sad. Those people were going to make you hurt.”

“What is our next class?” El says, still mad.

“Um… you have science in Room 204, I have art in Room 133.” he says, confused on why she’s asking.

“Good. I will go to class. I do not want to be around you.” she says, spinning on her heel and marching away.

Will stands there in shock, trying to process what just happened, before going to Room 133 for art class. As he sits at a desk, of which there are about 50 arranged into a circle, he puts his head down in his arms and thinks about his fight with El.

He concludes that she’s right.

Will shouldn’t be interfering in her social life. He really is a bad person and bad brother. El knows it, and Jonathan knows it, and now Will knows it. He doesn’t blame her for not wanting to be around him - he wouldn’t be if he had the choice, either. He’s the worst. He should have given her a choice. That’s what he’s been trying to do all along, and he’s been failing. William Byers is useless, unappreciative, and a hypocrite.

He’s startled out of his spiral by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shoots up, whipping around to face a woman with long, curly dark hair in a ponytail, medium-brown skin, brown eyes, and a kindly, concerned expression. “Whoa! Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” he says quietly.

“I’m Gabriela Martinez. I’m the art teacher here. You’re in my class, right?”

“Yes, I am. Intro to Art.” he says just as quietly.

“Mmm. What’s your name?” she asks, matching his volume. He appreciates her quietness.

“Will Byers.” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Will. The office actually talked to me about you.”

He blinks twice at her, as if asking what she’s heard. She understands somehow. “They said that you were moving a few weeks late and had some accommodations that needed to be met.”

“Oh. Yeah.” he says, looking down at his feet.

“Do you like art, Will?” she asks suddenly.

He looks back up to her. “I love art.”

“What’s your medium?” she asks.

“I draw, mostly.” he says with a bit more confidence. Other kids might tease him for drawing, but he’s with an art teacher. She likes art. She’s not going to make fun of him for it.

“Do you have any on you that you’d be comfortable sharing?”

“I have my sketchbook.” he says, pulling his backpack so that he can access its contents. Will pulls out his sketchbook and, after a moment’s hesitation, hands it to Ms. Martinez.

She opens it up and flips through, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Will, you have a gift.”

“Thank you.” he says, smiling to himself. People complimenting his art is the one surefire way that they can get him to smile, no matter how much he hates himself that day.

“I hope we can refine it in this class.” she says, smiling at him before turning away to sit at her desk as other kids start coming in. He sits back down quickly, keeping his eyes trained on the desk until class officially starts. He pays close attention, listening as Ms. Martinez talks about how to properly shade in a drawing, and practices on some of his older drawings in his book. After that class, he goes to Spanish (he just has to remember what his grandma, his mom's mom, taught him and he’s okay), PE (he keeps his head down during the class and changes in the bathroom so that nobody can accuse him of looking at the other boys), and biology, in which the teacher talks about dissection procedure while Will nods along.

After school, he goes to find El. She’s waiting in the car with Jonathan. He climbs in, and when he looks over at her and tries to take her hand, she pulls away.

After they get home, she immediately goes upstairs to her room. Jonathan leaves the house to go God- knows-where, and his mom’s on the phone with her new job, so he goes upstairs. As soon as he walks in, he sees the yellow paint and thinks of the card weighing heavy in his backpack. It feels like the walls are calling him a coward and loser as much as the card. He ignores the knot in his stomach at the thought and works on homework instead. He gets it done in two hours, trying to do it despite the fogginess in his head from how tired he is. Afterwards, he just draws some more, putting the new shading techniques into practice.

“Dinner!” his mom calls around seven, three and three-quarter hours after they got home. He goes downstairs and sits at the folding table next to his brother and sister and across from his mother. His mom places four plates of spaghetti on the table in front of them, and while the rest of them dig in, he just stares at it.

He’s hungry - of course he is, the last time he ate was… breakfast (eggs and toast) yesterday, so almost 36 hours without food - but he still doesn’t want to eat it. The hunger feels better than having a rock in his stomach. At least then he doesn’t feel so sick and self-disgusted.

“I’m actually not very hungry. I… had a big lunch and snack. I’ll eat something later, okay? Thank you, though.” he lies, getting up from his chair, kissing his mother on her furrowed forehead, and moving to go upstairs. He can see that El knows that he’s lying, but she’s still pissed at him, so she’s not going to say a word about or to him.

“Will, honey, make sure you do. It’s important that you get enough to eat.” she says, concern in her voice.

“I know. I will.” he lies again. God, he’s the worst, lying to his mother.

“Okay. Are you done with your homework?”

“Yeah, I am.” he says. At least that’s true.

“Want to come back downstairs and watch TV later?” she asks.

“Sure. Sounds great.” he says (probably) flatly, going upstairs. Once he is safely away from his family in his room, he falls onto the mattress and curls on his side. He wants to cry, but he’s just too tired to force anything out of his eyes, so he just closes them and listens to his breathing. Instead, he just lets his self-hating thoughts run wild. El hates him for trying to protect her.

He grabs a T-shirt and pajama pants and starts changing, avoiding looking down at his body and instead staring at the light fixture as he changes as quickly as possible. Once he does, he goes back downstairs, where his family’s watching TV. He questions when they unpacked the couch and television before he sits down on the end next to Jonathan. His mom’s snuggled up to El, and Jonathan is leaning on her shoulder. Will just leans on the back of the couch instead.

He watches an episode of Cheers with the rest of the Byers before his mom turns off the TV. "You have school in the morning, and I have work. We should all get to bed."

The kids all mumble their agreement, and Will's mom hugs Jonathan and El before smiling at them. "Goodnight. I love you."

"Love you too." they all say. It’s only after Will's brushed his teeth and laid in bed that he realizes that he didn't get a goodnight hug from his mom.

That's okay, he reasons to himself. El needs hugs more than he does. El needs his mom more than he does.

---

Mike throws his math book across the room. It hits the wall, and it might've left a dent, but Mike honestly doesn't give a shit. It was his first day of school with Will across the country, and he hated it. He hates school without Will there to brighten it.

At lunch, Mike, Lucas, and Dustin sat together in silence, and Mike could tell that they were all missing the presence of their Cleric. Class was miserable, and he didn't understand most of it, and they assigned a shit ton of homework, so now he's been reading the same sentence over and over in the math book.

He needs to be doing homework, but he's done. He'll do it in homeroom tomorrow.

Mike goes over to the phone and calls the Byers again. Once again, nobody picks up.

He calls nine more times before giving up. He wants to cry. He wants to get on a bus and go to the Byers'. He wants to talk to Will.

Mike knows that if he could just get through, he could vent to Will, who would laugh and tell him about his own day. As shitty as it is of him, Mike hopes Will's day was as bad as his was. If the Byers kids are miserable, then maybe Mrs. Byers will move them back.

He decides that he's too tired to be productive. After all, he's written more letters and tried to do homework for the past few hours, so he can just go to bed.

He curls up on the couch (he's not going to sleep in his room. It's too empty - and too blue. He's so sick of blue. Maybe he'll paint it another color later. Maybe yellow.) and watches old movies with Will’s bear and drawings while crying (he'll deny it if anyone asks, though) before finally drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, the world isn’t kind to Will Byers, and that means that he gets into a bad pattern.

Go to sleep around 11:30. Wake up screaming at 3, and have a panic attack and nosebleed immediately after. Take a boiling shower. Draw for the next three hours. Get ready for school. Skip breakfast. Go to school. If there’s therapy that day, sit silently and give 1-word answers when they’re expected and pretend that he doesn’t notice the therapist’s frustration. He's managed to get out of every conversation and evaluation so far. Go to all the classes, taking notes and only speaking when spoken to, which is pretty rare. Spend lunch outside drawing and skipping lunch, since El still doesn’t want to talk to him. Go to art, the one class that he actually enjoys, along with more classes where he just goes through the motions. Go home. Do homework. Draw. Try to skip dinner, and only succeed around half of the time - and when he is forced to eat, he eats less than half of the food on his plate before excusing himself and laying on his bed hating himself for failing. Take another boiling shower. Watch TV. Draw some more. Go to bed at nine-thirty to ten, and stare at the ceiling for about two hours before drifting off, at which point he has nightmares and starts the whole long process again.

This is the pattern that he follows for his first week, but it’s thrown off around four in the morning on the seventh day - a Monday in the third week of October.

He’s drawing in his room as usual, hair still dripping hot water from his shower, when a knock comes on the door.

Will practically leaps out of his skin, his mind running through all of the bad things that could be awaiting him outside, but he gets up and opens the door. On the other side is El, cheeks tear-stained and chin wobbling.

“El! What’s wrong?” he asks worriedly, ushering her into the yellow room. They’ve unpacked almost fully, and he’s covered the walls with posters to hide the yellow as best he can.

Holding her left hand with his right and the other around her shoulders, he brings her over to sit on the bed. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? How do I help?”

She closes her eyes, hunches down, and emits a sob as her chin touches her chest.

“Oh, El.” he whispers, wrapping his arms around her hunched form and pulling her closer, rocking them slightly. They stay like that for a few minutes until her crying has ceased, at which point he pulls back and looks her in the eyes despite how hard it is for him at the moment. (Sometimes he can’t look people in the eyes at all without discomfort, sometimes he can’t look away without the same bad feeling. Lately, the no eye-contact days are more than ever, even in the middle of the night, like right now.) “El? Are you ready to talk about what’s wrong, or do you want me to just hold you for a bit more?”

“I am ready.” she says, wiping her tears clumsily with the palm of her hand. “I am very sorry, Will.”

“No, no, it’s okay. You don’t have to-”

“I was being mean by…” she looks at him with a look in her eyes that’s requesting help.

“Ignoring?” he supplies.

“Ignoring you. You were trying to keep me safe. I was wrong. I am sorry.”

“It’s okay. I understand where you were coming from. Is that why you were upset?"

"I had a bad dream."

“Oh.” he says, pausing while he thinks of what to do. “I get it. I have them a lot too. Do you want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head no, but looks up to meet his eyes. “Can you hug me?”

“Of course.” he says, pulling her close as she rests her head on his chest and wraps her arms around his waist. He cringes to himself. Can she feel how his stomach sticks out? Can she feel how his proportions are wrong?

She sniffles into his shirt and tightens her grip, and he realizes that there are bigger issues than his stupid body thing.

“Want me to hold you until you’re ready to talk about it?” he asks.

She nods.

“Okay.” he says, resuming the rocking. They stay in that position for about ten minutes before she breaks the silence.

“I have bad dreams about Papa and the Bad Men.” she whispers.

He goes to say something comforting, but he realizes that he has zero idea what to say here.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks instead. He realizes he already asked that. He’s such a dumbass.

She pauses before nodding. “I am back with Papa. I am Eleven, not El. The Bad Men hurt me again.”

Will tightens his grip. “El, I promise that you’re safe and will stay safe. They won’t get you again.”

“What if they do?” she asks quietly.

“Then…” he thinks. “Then we’ll get you back. I’ll find you and save you from the Bad Men. I’m your brother, and I swear that I’m gonna keep you safe no matter what.”

She tightens her grip even more. “Thank you for being my big brother. I love you.”

He squeezes back. “I love you too, El.”

They sit in silence for a second, before El squeezes again and extracts herself from the embrace. “What are your bad dreams?”

Will feels stuck, the warped versions of his traumatic memories that he’s forced to see every night flitting through his mind. “Um…” he tries to think. “Just some of my worse memories. It’s not a big deal.”

“Okay. Did you have one now?”

He deciphers it in his mind. “Do you mean did I have one earlier?”

She nods. “You were awake when I came.”

“Um… yeah. It’s not a big deal, though.” he says.

“You do not want to talk about it?” she asks.

“I don’t really need to. I’m used to it.” he quietly says.

“Why?”

“Why am I used to it?” he asks. Maybe he’s tired, but he’s having some trouble understanding her as quickly as normal. She nods.

“I’ve been having them for years, El. They aren’t gonna stop whether I talk about them or not, so why bother?”

“But… Joyce says we should talk about our problems.”

“Don’t tell Mom I said this, but her advice doesn’t always apply to everyone. In this specific case, she’s wrong. Some problems don’t need to be talked about, because they aren’t really problems.”

“Like your food?” she asks. His heart stops for a second. She knows?

“Um…” he stalls. “I eat plenty, El. More than enough for my size. I just… don’t like to eat around other people, you know?”

She nods, seemingly believing him. “Okay.”

He sighs in relief. “But El, you need and deserve help with your problems, and I’ll help you however I can, I promise. Nightmares or other problems.”

She nods.

“Have… have you been getting them a lot?” he asks.

“Twice. I do not dream much.” she says. “You?”

“Same. Just twice since we moved.” he lies.

Her eyebrows furrow. “But you said you get them a lot.”

Damn. He forgot he said that. “Being away from Hawkins helps. They’re… they’re less common.”

She nods and they sit in silence again, which allows him time to have his thoughts run.

He’s told several lies to El in just the few minutes they’ve been talking, and he feels bad about it. It’s quite ironic, actually: Will hates lying, but has been lying his whole life.

Of course, it’s not like he’s ever really had a choice. What would he do, tell everyone the truth about where the bruises on his little-kid body came from in elementary school? Say ‘Oh, yeah, I was abducted by a monster with a flower for a head and taken into an alternate dimension for a week’ when asked where he went while he was ‘dead’? No. He’s always had to lie. Sure, he doesn’t have to lie in theory to his family because they think they know all his secrets, but he still has to. If he did tell his family the truth, they would never look at him the same after they knew everything that he doesn’t tell them. And now, apparently, his eating habits are one of those things under that umbrella.

“Hey, El. Do you want me to make you hot chocolate?” he asks quietly.

“Hot chocolate. Hop made hot chocolate for me.”

“Mm. Well, I’m not Hop, and it’s not winter, but I can make you some hot cocoa. It’s what Mom used to do when I would have a nightmare.” he says.

It’s not entirely a lie; his mom did make him cocoa after nightmares, but only the ones she knew about. With Lonnie in bed next to her, the usual main feature of the nightmares and someone who would kick Will’s ass if he either knew that his mom was giving Will special treatment or if he knew that Will told anyone, it wasn’t really an option. But when it was, Lonnie gone off to a bar or strip club and the nightmares unrelated to his father, he would come get his mom for comfort. Most of the time, he was able to handle it by himself, but when he couldn’t, he would curl up in Jonathan’s bed. Jonathan, the person who had always been there for him. Will asks himself a question: If he came and got Jonathan now, would he still be afforded the same comfort? Probably not. He’s too big to need comfort and hugs. It’s his own fault if he can’t handle the pressures and stresses of his life, and they’re his own issues to handle, anyway.

He gets up and helps El up as well, and he walks quietly down the stairs with his sister creeping down behind him. She sits at the dining table, and he silently heats up some milk, walking on the outer sides of his feet to stay quiet (a habit picked up after years of the unfair choice of being quiet or being targeted, whether walking or just existing) and moving things as softly as possible. After the milk is heated, Will pours it into a mug and puts chocolate syrup in, mixing it before putting four marshmallows in from the pantry.

She takes it and holds the mug carefully, wrapping her fingers around the warmth. He sits at the table across from her, watching as she raises it to her lips.

She puts it down on the tabletop, looks at it, before nodding. "It is good. I like it."

He smiles. "I'm glad."

"You have none?" she asks, cocking her head.

"No, I'm okay. I'll wait for breakfast. Glad you like it, though."

She squints at him. "You are sure you are okay?"

"Of course. How are you doing? Doing better after the nightmare?"

She continues looking at him scrutinizingly for a moment before nodding and looking back to her mug. "Yes, I am better."

"Good." he says before they sit in silence again. She finishes her mug, and he places his hand over hers when she puts it on the table.

They sit like that for a while, just taking comfort in the other, until their mom comes downstairs. “You two are up early. What are you doing?”

“Just hanging out after a bad dream.” Will says, wincing at the crackling sound his voice gets after a while not speaking.

“Oh! Jane, you could’ve come and gotten me.” she says. Will notices that she knows that it was El who had the nightmare that instigated the conversation. Does she know about his? Is he really that good at hiding it? Whenever he looks in the mirror, it feels like his misery is obvious, no matter how hard he tries to mask it. Has he been doing better at it than he thought?

“I wanted Will.” she says, voice just as off as Will’s is. “My brother.”

He smiles at her in relief. Even if she’s been mad at him and they’re still trying to get used to living together, at least she sees him as her brother.

“I’m glad you’re getting so close.” his mom says. “I know it’s been hard for both of you. Losing Hopper, moving… I’m happy that you’re bouncing back and settling in.”

Will puts on his usual fake smile and nods as his mom starts on a breakfast he’ll excuse himself from before he has to eat. For a fleeting second, he gets the urge to tell her that he doesn’t like it in California. That he can’t eat or sleep without feeling hollow or having that heaviness settle on his chest as his self-loathing intensifies. That he just wants to go home. It may not be perfect, and he still may be known as the queer zombie boy and picked on for it, but at least he’d be around his friends. But that urge drops as soon as he realizes that his mom would get upset and make him eat and sleep again. He just can’t.

As his mom starts getting out plates to put the sausage and eggs on, he removes his hand from over El’s and scoots his chair back, clearing his throat as he gets up. “Actually, you’ll only need four. I’m not really hungry.”

His mom turns around and frowns at him with concern. “Will, you need to eat breakfast.”

“I’ll just grab something from one of the vending machines at school when I get an appetite.” he says before starting up the stairs.

Will’s lying again. When did he become a boy for whom the truth refused to come out his lips? He’s hungry. He’s absolutely starving. Over the last three days, he’s had a third of a chicken breast, four pieces of broccoli, and half a sandwich, which still feels like too much. He may not have as much of an urge to eat as some people, but his wretched body still has the innate desire to survive, and that means he still gets the effects of his body constantly begging more, more, please just give me something to fill this void you’ve created. In the end, though, he would rather have the lightheaded dizziness that threatened to make him collapse, the painful hunger pangs feeling like a knife in his gut, the tiredness and cold sunk deep into his bones than having the hole ripping through his heart, that feeling of failure and self-hatred that’s becoming synonymous with food.

Will goes into his room and grabs a gray T-shirt, black-and-white flannel shirt, black jeans, and Converse before heading into the bathroom to get dressed. Once he walks in, turns on the light, and closes the door, though, he’s stuck frozen as he looks into the mirror.

He hardly recognizes himself. His cheeks are becoming thinner, and though it’s barely noticeable, it pairs with the sleepless purple circles under his eyes that make his hazel eyes seem larger, causing him to look exhausted. His eyes have a look in them that Will can’t place, nor place why it creeps him out.

He takes off his sleep shirt and tosses it on the floor, making a mental note to wash it again to get the marks out. His pajama shirts are all starting to get blood stains on the collar from his nightly nosebleeds, and this one is no exception. Will looks back in the mirror, analyzing every inch of skin critically. He traces the scars with his fingertips again. However, looking at his torso gives him a grim satisfaction as he sees how his stomach has grown flatter and how some of the small rolls of fat that he’s carried since he was a little kid have become minimized. His body may hate starving, but Will? Will doesn’t mind.

After his critical self-evaluation, Will dresses quickly and brushes his hair just as fast. A quick brush of his teeth later, and he’s good to go. He rushes down the stairs (and by rushing, Will means taking the steps with one foot per step instead of the usual two) and sits down on the couch, waiting for Jonathan to shout into the house that it’s time to go.

He checks his friendship watch and sees that it’s time to go, so he leaves the house and hops into the backseat of the car, pulling his sketchbook out of his backpack. It only has a few pages left. He’s going to need a new one if he keeps up his art habit. On the plus side, his skills have been improving.

Right as he’s finished up a landscape with mountains and trees and is about to do a drawing of a bell pepper that he saw the other day, El and Jonathan get into the car. Jonathan starts it up, but unlike how it’s been for the last week, El sits in the middle seat and rests her head on his shoulder. He presses his cheek against her scalp and closes his eyes as he rests his hands on the book, letting himself get lost in thought as he sits still and rests.

His thoughts drift along from his art to his relationship with El and its improvements to food. He hates how much he thinks about food. Sometimes he thinks about how much he wants a specific food, like soup or ice cream, before he realizes that he’s betraying himself by listening to the aching chasm in his stomach and wanting to eat, causing him to feel guilty for being so weak-willed. Other times, he thinks of food and feels nauseous, has eating remind him of things being forced down his throat in the past, making him want to be sick. But most of the time, he just looks at food and feels the ache of both hunger and disgust. Either way, food occupies at least part of his brain at all times, and he hates it. Normal boys don’t think about food all the time. Normal boys can eat whatever and be happy and never get fat or gag because the texture is just too close to a tentacle.

Will wishes he could be a normal boy. One who gets crushes on girls and only girls, one who eats whatever he wants without disgust or fear, one who can sleep through the night and be happy and not have panic attacks, one who isn’t constantly living in fear of the past and its dangers. But he knows he’ll never get to be.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the Pinto coming to a screeching halt in front of the school. “Alright, guys. See you after school.” Jonathan says, looking back at them. Will nods jerkily as El says goodbye, still half-stuck in his train of thought. They get out and walk into the school, going into homeroom. Will and El sit down as the bell rings, and Will grimaces when the teacher motions for them to go to therapy.

He draws as El does her time, doing the drawing of the pepper he was thinking about earlier, and when she passes by him and gives him a solemn nod as she starts off to class, he sighs as he puts the sketchbook away. The days here in Lenora are monotonous and long and numb, with no strong emotions at any point, really, but he can honestly say that therapy is the worst part of any given day.

Will goes into the office and sits down in the chair across from Dr. Brown, who smiles at him. “Hi, Will! Today, we’re going to be doing something different.” she says in that faux-cheerfulness that he hates.

“Okay.” he says as she pulls out a stack of papers. Uh-oh. Whenever doctors have a ton of papers, it means nothing good is happening. She flips through and takes out 3 or 4, clipping it to a clipboard and grabbing a pencil.

“So today we have a mental health evaluation. Just to see how you’re doing, you know? I’ll read you the questions and you’ll answer on a scale of ‘Never’, which is 0, ‘Rarely’, or 1, ‘Sometimes’, or 2, ‘Often’, or 3, and ‘Always’, 4. Okay?”

“Okay.” he repeats.

“Okay. Let’s start off, here. ‘I have little interest or pleasure in doing things, even if they’re things I used to enjoy.’”

3, he thinks.

“0.” he says.

“Great!” she says, scribbling something on the top sheet. “I feel down, depressed or hopeless.”

4. “0.”

“I have trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, or sleeping too much.”

Ha. She doesn’t even know. 4. “1.”

“I feel tired and have little energy.”

4. Of course he’s tired, he sleeps less than three hours a night. “1.”

“I have a poor appetite or I overeat.”

Both. 4. “0.”

“I feel bad about myself - like I am a failure or have let myself or my family down.”

4. Doesn’t everyone? “0.”

“I have trouble concentrating on things such as reading the newspaper or watching television.”

He can’t watch TV, draw, read… do much of anything without his mind wandering, so 3. “0.”

“I move or speak so slowly that other people could have noticed, or the opposite, being so fidgety or restless that I have been moving around a lot more than usual.”

“0.” At least that one isn’t a lie.

“I have thoughts that I would be better off dead or hurting myself in some way.”

He thinks of the times when he wished that he wouldn’t wake up in the morning, the times that he tried to sacrifice himself to save his friends even when it wasn’t really necessary. He thinks of how he doesn’t mind when he’s hurt because he deserves to feel the pain, deserves to bleed. Maybe 2 or 3? Will has no idea. “0.” he says.

“Fantastic!” she says with the shiny fake smile, flipping the page to another one. “You only got a 3 on the depression one, which means you’re doing really well with managing it. Anxiety next.”

“I have excessive worry about a variety of activities and events.”

Not excessive, considering everything, but still a 4. “1.”

“I find it difficult to control worrying.”

Everybody does. 4. “0.”

“I feel restless, on-edge or keyed up.”

“Um… 2?” he says. He feels on-edge all the time, but not restless or keyed-up, so maybe a 2 is accurate.

“I am easily fatigued.”

3. He’s always tired, but maybe it’s just his poor sleep. “1.”

“I have difficulty concentrating or having my mind going blank.”

Well, he can focus and do a task, but his mind still wanders. Maybe a 2? “2.”

“I am irritable.”

No. He’s never angry because he can’t be. He can’t be like Lonnie. Even when he is angry, it’s always with himself, not with others. “Um, 0.” he says. Will’s not sure if the number’s right, but who cares.

“I have muscle tension.”

Yeah. 4. He’s pretty sure his muscles are going to snap one day with how tight they are. When he presses down on a muscle in his shoulder or back, it hurts because it’s so tense. “2.”

“I have disturbed sleep such as difficulty falling asleep, difficulty staying asleep, or restless, unsatisfying sleep.”

4. “1.”

“I feel distressed because of these problems.”

What even counts as distress? He’s used to it by now. “0.”

“You got a bit higher on the anxiety one with a 9. That means your anxiety is solidly in the moderate zone.” she says. He cringes. Jeez, even with him underselling and lying it’s still moderate? That’s not great. “Okay, we just have the one for PTSD left and then we can discuss your scores. Sounds good?”

No, he thinks, but he nods anyway. She smiles again. He idly thinks that her mouth must hurt from smiling so widely all the time. He doesn’t understand how she can act so happy all the time.

“I have repeated, disturbing, and unwanted memories of the traumatic experiences.” she says.

4. “0.”

“I have repeated, disturbing dreams of the traumatic experiences.”

Heh. What’s the maximum? “1.”

“I suddenly feel or act like the traumatic experiences were actually happening again, as if you were actually back there reliving it.”

4. He hates when those episodes happen, but they’re pretty frequent, despite his best efforts. “0.”

“I feel very upset when something reminds me of the traumatic experiences.”

4. He thinks everyone would be. “0.”

“I have a strong physical reaction when something reminds me of the traumatic experiences, for example, heart pounding, trouble breathing, shaking, or sweating.”

4. Daily. Every single day, usually more than once. “0.”

“I avoid memories, thoughts, and feelings related to the traumatic experiences.”

What counts? His possession and how he tried to ignore it and write it off as trauma? How he pretends he’s fine so he doesn’t have to deal with it? Will doesn’t know what the question is asking, so he’ll just roll with it. “0.”

“I avoid external reminders of the traumatic experiences, like people, places, conversations, activities, objects, or situations.”

He can’t stand spaghetti, if that counts. He avoids anything to do with his dad. He avoids talking about the secrets he keeps. Does that mean anything? Some of these questions are stupid. He hates it. “0.”

“I have trouble remembering important parts of the traumatic experiences.”

“0.” he says honestly. He remembers all of it. Everything. Will wishes he didn’t.

“I have strong negative beliefs about myself, other people, or the world. For example, having thoughts such as ‘I am bad’, ‘there is something seriously wrong with me’, ‘no one can be trusted’, and ‘the world is completely dangerous’.”

Does it count if they’re true? If so, 4. “0.”

“I blame myself or someone else for the traumatic experiences or what happened after it.”

Of course he does. Most of the things that happened to him could have been prevented if he tried harder, and even more were his fault. But that’s not blame, that’s honesty. 4. “0.”

“I have strong negative feelings such as fear, horror, anger, guilt, or shame.”

Duh. 4. “0.”

“I have lost interest in activities that I used to enjoy.”

Didn’t she already ask this one? “0.”

“I feel distant or cut off from other people.”

4. “0.”

“I have trouble experiencing positive feelings. For example, I am unable to feel happiness or have loving feelings for people close to me.”

He still feels love. He loves his family and his friends, even if he loves Mike in the wrong way. But he doesn’t feel happy. What's the right number for that? 3? "0."

“I feel angry and have irritable behavior, angry outbursts, or act aggressively.”

Once again, already asked. 0. "0."

“I take too many risks or do things that could cause me harm.”

He can hear the tapping of Morse code. It’s all he can focus on as he taps it out. ‘C-L-O-S-E-G-A-T-E’. He knows he’ll die. He’s part of the Hive Mind. Part of the Mindflayer. If they die, so does he. But it’s all worth it if his friends and family end up okay.

“Will?” she asks. He blinks twice as he tries to regain awareness of his surroundings. He's not possessed. He's safe. He's fine.

"Will, are you alright?" she asks.

"Yes, I am. 0." he says.

She puts down her clipboard, sighs, and leans back in her chair. "What was that?"

"What was what?" he responds, choosing to play dumb.

"You had a severe reaction to that question. Why? What happened just now?”

“Nothing. Just… zoned out.” he lies.

She huffs, and he blinks again in surprise. She doesn't normally show honest feelings like frustration, just that fake happiness that he hates.

"Will, I've tried to be patient with you, but this is ridiculous. You're lying to me every session, clearly not adjusting or managing your mental health well, and you just had what looked like a flashback in my office. You need to stop lying, whether that's to me or yourself, and get the help you clearly need."

Will doesn’t know what to do. He’s freaked out that she’s known he’s been lying the whole time, and he’s freaked out that she’s called him out.

So he does what he always does: he runs.

Will grabs his bag and hightails it out, running as fast as his shaking legs can carry him on adrenaline alone, ignoring the receptionist and therapist shouting after him and other kids turning and looking at him as he goes faster, faster, faster, trying to outrun both the fear of the therapist and of the past. He keeps going even once he’s away from the school and knows that nobody’s coming for him. He runs until his shaky legs give out, leaving him gasping for breath on the sidewalk in an area that he doesn’t know. After a while sitting curled as small as he can make himself, arms wrapped around his knees and forehead pressed to his legs as he rocks, catching his breath from the dual forces of what felt like a panic attack and running on an empty stomach and a soft, non-muscular body, Will comes out of his safe, dark little world to see a street lined with houses. It’s all shades of orange and red, with palm trees adding the occasional touch of color to the mostly monotonous street.

“Shit.” he mutters as he looks around for a recognizable landmark. He finds none. How far did he go? What time is it? Is Will missing class?

He checks his watch. It should be mid-first period. Goddammit. They’re going to call his mom, and she’s going to get upset and become overprotective again, and he’s going to have to face the music of running away from and lying to Dr. Brown, and- oh. He’s still lost. Will wishes that he had done more exploring of Lenora so that he would at least have a general idea of where he is. In Hawkins, he knew every crack in the sidewalk and every car on the street. He misses home.

Will starts walking in what he thinks is the way he came. After about five minutes, things start to look familiar, and he eventually makes his way back to the school. At this point, it's almost second period, so he just goes and waits outside of the classroom before taking his seat the second that the kids from first period have left.

He goes in and sits down at his desk, but the teacher looks up from her own. “Oh! Will! The front office called down and said if you came in to send you to them.”

Will nods, ignoring the way his heart feels like it’s pounding out of his chest and how he can feel his pulse everywhere, from his throat and chest to his finger- and toe-tips. He walks on shaking legs to the office, where the receptionist looks up and nods over her shoulder. “Dr. Brown’s waiting.”

He wants to throw up. He’s terrified of the hell that’s about to be rained down upon him.

Will walks into the office and sits down, heart hammering and head pounding. She keeps working on whatever she’s writing for a moment as he sits frozen in fear before looking up. She sighs. “Will, are you okay?”

“Y-yeah?” he stammers. Will doesn’t know what she’s asking.

“I am so sorry for earlier. I shouldn’t have gotten upset with you, and I shouldn’t have treated you like that. I’ve been dealing with some issues at home, and it shortened my patience, so I snapped at you because you were the easiest target due to our communication issues. It was unfair of me to do. Is it possible for you to forgive me?” she says.

He’s not sure what to do, so he just nods.

“Okay. I realize that me getting upset at you after a flashback may have triggered you, so I’ve gone ahead and excused your first period. Our next session is on Wednesday, so I’ll see you then. Okay?”

“Okay.” he says, standing up. She gives him a guilty smile, and he returns an empty one that drops as soon as he walks out of the office. He goes back to second period, where El taps him on the shoulder.

He turns to look over at her. “You are okay? You were gone.” she says.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Therapy ran long.” he says.

“Okay.” she says before turning her attention back to the front. He takes notes as always, not speaking or doing anything but writing and keeping his head down in this class and the next two.

Before Will knows it, it’s lunchtime, and El grabs his hand. “Eat with me today?” she asks. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he just nods, even if he doesn’t like the cafeteria. They walk over and find two seats together, and as El starts eating, Will pulls out his sketchbook and starts drawing. He’s finished with three-quarters of a drawing of El and El is almost finished with her lunch when the same group from last week comes over. Will notes that, unlike last week, her face is drawn tightly and she seems tense. The same girl, Angela, goes up. “Hey, girlfriend! How you been? Still can’t talk? Still dumb as shit?”

Will whips around. “El- Jane isn’t dumb, and her English is fine, for your information.”

She blinks before smiling at him. “Alright, sure. Well, see you later.”

She leads the gang away, and he sighs in relief. “El, are you okay?”

El grabs her tray and gets up, sniffling as she puts it with the other dirty ones. “El?” he asks weakly.

“I am going to go to class.” she says, eyes starting to brim with tears.

“Do you need me to come with you, or do you want to be alone?” he asks.

“Alone.” she says, shaking her head and leaving quickly.

“Okay.” he says as she leaves. He goes to put away his sketchbook, but he’s stopped by a light tap on his shoulder.

“Can I sit here?” asks a girl. She has dark hair and skin and a nice smile.

“Um… sure.” Will says, awkwardly gesturing to El’s empty seat.

She sits down, smoothing out her pink skirt as she gets settled. “Hi, I’m Lucie. You’re Will, right?”

“Yeah, I am. It’s nice to meet you, Lucie.” he says.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too. I’m sorry about Angela. She can be a real bitch.”

“I guess. How do you know her?”

“We run in the same circles. Still doesn’t mean I like her.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Will says.

“I wanted to say that I really like your art, too.”

He looks at her in surprise. “Wait, how do you know my art?”

“Ms. Martinez hung some drawings on the wall. A few of them looked really good, so I went up and looked at them, and they all had ‘Will Byers’ as the signature. We share a lot of classes, so it wasn’t too hard to make the connection between the shy guy in my History class and the art. They’re really cool.”

“Thank you.” he says with a slight smile.

“You know, your girlfriend’s a lucky girl.” she says, and- is she batting her eyelashes?

“Girlfriend?” he chokes out. What- what?

“Well, yeah. You’re cute, artsy, sweet, smart… all the qualities a girl looks for in a guy. Plus, you’re mysterious. You’re the talk of the school, and a bit of mystery is hot.” she says. Will’s too distracted both by the fact she called him cute (and hot) and that she thinks he’s straight.

“Um… no, I don’t have a girlfriend.” Will says awkwardly.

“That’s a shame.” Lucie says, and- she’s doing it again! She’s definitely batting her eyelashes! “So anyway, Halloween’s coming up. A friend of mine’s having a massive party at her house that night. It would be so cool if you could come.”

“Maybe. Could E- my sister come?” he asks.

“Sure! It’ll be fun. Do you have a marker?”

He pulls one out of his bag, and she quickly uncaps it and scribbles a phone number on his forearm. “Here’s my number. Call me if you decide to come - my friend Cole can give you and your sister a ride.” Will nods and gives a smile, and she smiles back before getting up and walking away, smoothing her skirt again.

He turns back to the table for a second, staring at it before getting up and slinging his backpack on. That was… weird. As Will goes to class, he thinks through the entire interaction again.

Will goes into the next period and crouches next to El’s desk, where she’s sitting with her head in her arms. “Hey, El. Do you need anything?” he asks quietly. She shakes her head. “Okay. Let me know if you do. I’m right next to you.”

As class starts, she lifts her head and pays attention, though Will can see her puffy, red-rimmed eyes. He keeps an eye on her all throughout the rest of the day (on Tuesdays and Thursdays they have all their classes together), but still takes notes and such. Over time, she looks less upset, but she still doesn’t look happy. It worries Will. He knows what it’s like to be bullied, and he knows how hard it is. Will tries to think of what to do to fix it.

At the end of school, he bumps her shoulder with his several times to check that she’s okay, and she doesn’t respond. As they get into Jonathan’s car, Will worries about how she’s doing, discreetly looking over at her every few minutes.

When they get back home, El quietly goes and sits on the couch, and Will sits next to her, still concerned. Right then, his mom walks in, arms full. He springs up and helps her with the papers in her arms.

“Alright, we got mail!” she says. “Will, want to help me organize?”

“Sure.” he says, quickly sitting back down and starting to pile the mail. After a few minutes, there are four piles, with his mom’s the largest at a few packages and at least a dozen letters, Jonathan’s the second-largest with six or seven letters, and El’s the smallest pile with two letters. As for Will, he gets a single letter from Hawkins, which he tucks under his arm. “Hey, I’m gonna go do homework. Be back in a few.” he says. Nobody responds, too busy reading their mail, so he goes upstairs.

As soon as he’s in his room, he quickly opens up the envelope and is greeted with Lucas’s handwriting over several pages of paper, which he begins reading.

'Dear Will,
How are you? Is California as sunny as it is on TV? It’s going to snow soon here, probably in the next week. Gotta love a cold Halloween. Speaking of, I’m going as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, the basketball champion. Who are you going as?

I miss you, man. We all do. You’ve always been the glue of the party, Will, and now we’re dissolving.

Dustin's too busy hanging out with Steve and Robin to hang out with the rest of us. It's kind of weird how attached he gets to every older teenager we meet, right? Well, he has Steve pick him up after school most of the time and immediately goes over to Family Video, where he stays all afternoon. I'm happy he has them, but would it be so hard to just take, like, one or two nights a week to hang out? I miss him.

And he’s the better one of the Party. Mike’s gotten really depressed since you and El left - how is she, by the way? He spends all his time in the basement. He plays video games all day every day after school. His grades are slipping, too. I mean, Mike’s not even trying to get his homework done anymore. He looks tired, man. I know he's sleeping in his basement every night, and it's not good for him. He keeps cracking his neck and wincing, and he has dark circles under his eyes. They aren't too bad, but still. I'm worried.

Max is definitely the worst. She broke up with me again, which isn't out of the ordinary and is fine. I'm okay with just being friends, but she doesn't even want to be that. She sits away from us at lunch, and in some of our classes. She doesn't wave back or say hi in the halls. It’s like she's trying to shut the world out, including us. I've been trying to help, but she’s ignoring me and won't talk about it or accept help from anyone. I wish you were here. I just know you'd find a way to help her.

I started playing for the basketball team, which is pretty cool. Most of the other guys are cool. I'm mostly a bench warmer, but I think I'll be able to play in a real game soon. It's another reason the Party's falling apart, though. They all think I'm being stupid for doing new things and branching out. You remember how we promised to be different this year? Well, apparently I'm the only one who's following through. And even if the Party's mad and all going through something, it's really awesome.

What I'm trying to say is to do new things. I know you, and I know you haven't done new things in California. You deserve to be happy, Will, even without us. So please do something different. Make new friends, join a new club, just… try new things. You might find something you love, like how I love basketball. We have fresh starts, and we should do something with them.

I miss you like crazy. Please write back and call when you can. Promise you'll visit soon?

With love,
Your friend Lucas.'

He puts down the letter with tears in his eyes. They do miss him, and they're having a hard time too. Will goes downstairs and goes straight to the phone, left alone for the few minutes that his mom’s too busy with other things to be on it. He looks at the number on his hand and dials, with someone picking up after one ring. "Hello?" asks a voice he recognizes from school.

"Um… hi, Lucie. It's Will. I wanted to let you know that I'd love to go to the party." he says.

"Awesome! I'll tell you some details as soon as I see you tomorrow."

He smiles as he puts down the phone, happy that he’s making Lucas proud. That smile stays on as he writes a return letter to Lucas as well as letters to Mike, Max, and Dustin, as he eats a full portion of food for the first time in a week, as he convinces El to go to this Halloween party with him, and as he goes to sleep two hours earlier than normal. He may be alone, but with his friends just a letter away, maybe he doesn't have to be lonely.

-

Mike doodles a picture of Michael the Paladin, smiling as he thinks of the day's events. He, Dustin, and Lucas had been approached by a cool outcast named Eddie, who asked them to join his D&D club, Hellfire. Mike's excited to play D&D again, and excited to hang out with Eddie. His good mood extends outside of his doodling, as he smiles to himself as he does homework for the first time in a week, calls the Byers once instead of the usual number of times, and goes to sleep in his actual bed. Mike wonders when the first meeting of Hellfire will be. He bets Will would like it, but Will's having a great time off in California, so he’s allowed to do fun things with a cool guy.

And for the first time in a week, Mike drifts off thinking of something other than Will.

Chapter Text

Will’s gone through the rest of the week in a better mood since he got Lucas’s letter. He still doesn’t sleep or eat very much, but he’s trying his best, sitting down to dinner and eating at least half a portion a few nights a week and sleeping from 10 to 3 every night. His showers aren’t as hot, his sketchbooks aren’t as full, his body isn’t as thin.

Naturally, that doesn’t last for too long.

On Halloween, he stands in front of his closet, picking both today’s and tonight’s outfits. He’s both terrified and excited for the party, and even if terror’s starting to win out, he’s gonna try his absolute best to make Lucas proud and have fun in a new way with new people.

In the end, he chooses to wear his blue flannel, green hoodie, dark-wash jeans, and Converse to school, and change into a plain black short-sleeve button-up shirt and keep his jeans and Converse for the party. He isn’t sure if it’s a costume party or not, but better to be the only one dressed like normal than to be the only one in a costume. Will grabs the school clothes and heads to the shower, which is still hot, but doesn’t leave his skin with the red, blistering patches that he’s been trying to prevent lately. After he’s dressed and his hair’s been brushed, he goes down into the kitchen. As he’s making coffee, pouring some into a to-go cup and putting in a little bit of sugar and milk, his mom silently comes in.

“Good morning, hon.” she says quietly.

He jumps, but swiftly collects himself, turns around, and smiles. “Good morning, Mom.”

“You’re going to that party tonight, right?” she asks.

“Yeah. It sounds really fun.” he says.

“I’m glad. I was worried about you. It’s good that you’re making new friends, Will. Keep it up.” she says.

She pours herself a cup of coffee as he smiles to himself. Even his mom noticed he’s doing better. Maybe he really can adapt to living here. Make new friendships, maintain the old ones, and survive and thrive until he can go back to Indiana when he’s 18 and be with the Party again. 

Will keeps smiling as he finishes getting ready, but as he starts to go out of the front door to get into the Pinto, Jonathan stops him. “Hey, my friend Argyle is gonna drive us to school today.”

“Wait- wait, who’s Argyle?” Will asks.

“My friend.” Jon says. Will hears a little bit of irritation in his brother’s voice, and immediately starts thinking about it as his smile drops. Is Jon mad at him? Did he screw up? If he did screw up and Jonathan is mad, how does he fix it and get Jonathan to forgive him for whatever he said wrong?

Will’s panicky thought train is derailed by the honking of a big yellow pizza van driving up. A guy with dark hair down to his waist, a sun visor, loud shirt, and rainbow socks hops out. “Hey, dude! Hey, little dude! What’s popping?”

It takes Will a second to realize that this guy - Argyle - is talking to him. “Oh, um… nothing much.” he says, trying to come across as casual (and failing).

“Cool! Sweet hair, little dude. Looks super soft.” Argyle says. That wasn’t what he was expecting. Will’s thrown for a loop. What… what? What’s going on in this guy’s head?

“Thank you. Your hair is cool, too." Will says awkwardly.

"Thanks, man! It smells like coconut." Argyle says.

Will isn’t quite sure what to say to that.

"Uh, yeah. This is my brother Will. My sister Jane is going to be out in a minute." Jonathan says.

"I'm Argyle, little dude." Argyle says, walking over and pulling Will into a hug.

Will doesn’t hug back. He awkwardly stands there.

Through years of practice, he’s gotten pretty good at interacting with other people, but Argyle is throwing all of his carefully-memorized social rules and responses out the window. It’s making him uneasy. Between Argyle’s lack of respect for social norms and rules and the general vibe that says ‘I’m intoxicated and super out of it!’, Will feels uncomfortable around him.

Argyle pulls back and looks over to Jonathan. "So we'll be ready to go in a minute?"

"Yep." Jonathan says. "Just have to wait for Jane."

It's just a minute before El comes out of the house, hair in a ponytail and wearing a white printed T-shirt tucked into black jeans and her white sneakers. She gives Will a questioning look, and he looks her up and down, evaluating her outfit, before giving her a subtle nod, which she nods back to. It's become their routine: she chooses an outfit, he tells her whether it's okay to wear to school, and if it isn't, they pick a new one together that is acceptable, with Will explaining the few fashion rules that he knows while they go through.

"Hey! You must be Jane. Cool nose. Wish mine had that good of a shape." Argyle says. El looks puzzledly over to Will, who just shrugs.

"Thank you." El says at last.

"Yeah. El- Jane, this is my friend Argyle. He's going to drive us to school." Jon says.

“Oh. Why are we not driving in the car?” El asks.

“Because I want to hang out with Argyle, and he’s nice enough to take us to school. Speaking of, we’re going to be late, so let’s go.” Jonathan says impatiently.

Will feels slight anger towards Jonathan for his lack of care with their sister before being hit with the guilt.

Jonathan’s always been the caretaker and perfect older brother. He’s sacrificed his happiness, his time, and his social life to take care of Will in the past. On top of dealing with school and a new sister, they’ve also moved - Jon’s just acting off because he’s struggling with all of the new things being thrown at him.

How can Will be so judgemental? His brother has done everything for him, and it’s great that Jon’s making friends and having fun. It’s Will’s job to be El’s perfect brother, not Jonathan’s. He’s being ridiculous. He needs to be better. A better brother, to both Jonathan and El, and a better person.

They get into the van, and unlike the Pinto, there are no seats, so Will and El sit on the floor of the back of the van. Despite his best efforts, his mind spirals to the lack of safety in case of an accident. There are no seat belts, or even seats in the first place. This is dangerous for Will and El, and Will is painfully aware of it.

They drive to school, with Argyle chatting, laughing, and singing along to the reggae music on the radio, Jonathan occasionally chiming in, El finishing her homework, and Will tensing and wincing with each bump in the road. He feels like the van's rickety enough that it'll flip with the next bump hit. 

When they get there, Will gets out, takes a minute to get his land legs, and helps El out. He waits for Jonathan to get out, but he just sticks his head out the window.

“Hey, I’m gonna hang out with Argyle for a few more minutes. You get to class, okay? I’ll see you in a bit.” Jonathan says, giving them a smile that could be interpreted as either serene, tense, or guilty. Will doesn’t have time to analyze, though, before the Byers-Hopper twins are waving off Jonathan and Argyle and heading inside.

The rest of the day passes in a blur, with the only notable thing being that Will manages to get his homework all done in class. His nerves and brain are buzzing as he thinks about the party tonight, all through his classes, all through the lunch where he sits outside in silence idly doodling as El makes another brave attempt to make friends (which she requested to do on her own without his supervision). Is he going to have fun? Is he going to regret it? His thoughts race, but he can’t tell if it’s in fear or excitement. Even as Argyle drops them back off at home, it’s still all he can think about.

Around 6 in the evening, he emerges from his room, where he’s been obsessively drawing Jack-O- Lantern’s (as one does) and goes over to knock on El’s door.

“Hey, El! Are you ready to go to the party?” he asks cheerfully.

He hears a sniffle from inside, followed by a quiet “I’m not going.”

“El- El, are you okay?” he asks, knocking again on the door.

“I am okay. I do not want to go to a party.” she says.

“Why not?” he asks, not unkindly.

“Do not want to be with mouthbreathers.” she says.

“Why are they mouthbreathers?” he asks.

“Angela will be there.” she says.

"Oh. What did she do?" he asks.

"Do not want to talk about it." El says.

“Okay. Do you want me to stay here with you?” he asks.

“No. Go. I will stay.” she says before sniffling again.

“Are you sure? I’ll stay if you want me to, I don’t mind.” he says.

“Will. Go.” she repeats.

“Okay…” he says, still concerned.

He stops by where his mom is still working, though not on the phone. “Hi, Will.” she says, hardly looking up from her log of sales that she’s filling out.

“Hey, El’s upset. I don’t know why, but… I don’t know. I just think someone should keep an eye on her.” he says.

At that, his mom looks up towards the stairs. “Okay. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll go check on her. You have fun, okay?”

“Okay. See you later, Mom. I love you.” he says, giving her a quick kiss on the top of the head before heading out into the driveway.

He’s standing outside for about ten minutes before a large, black, expensive car pulls up, loud metal music blasting from the rolled-down windows.

Will hesitantly walks over, and when he looks inside the window, he sees a strange combination.

There’s Lucie in the backseat, waving at him with a pink-gloved hand - she must be going as a princess - and a bright smile on display. Next to her is a boy with short blonde hair in a buzzcut wearing all black and a girl wearing a blue checkered dress and long brown hair in pigtails - Dorothy, maybe?

“Hey, new guy!” shouts someone from the front seat.

Will quickly looks towards the driver, who’s a muscular guy with long blond hair half-tucked into a baseball cap. “Um… yeah?” Will says.

“You can ride shotgun with me.” the guy says.

“Oh, okay.” Will says, opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat. He sits awkwardly, feeling out-of-place in the car of people he doesn’t know.

Lucie pokes her head up between the seats and starts talking. “Oh! Will, these are my friends. The driver’s Cole-” the driver gives a mock salute. “The girl’s Amanda, and the boy is Jamie.” Amanda nods a hello, and Jamie continues looking out the window. Will nods back.

They sit with the loud music as the only thing filling the silence before Cole starts talking. “Hey, new guy. You want some booze?” he asks, leaning over and pulling a flask off the floor. “Vodka.” he clarifies, holding out the drink.

He’s six. He came into the house late after playing in the woods. His dad was in the living room, and Will just wasn’t quiet enough. When he sees Will, he throws his bottle of vodka across the room, the sound of the crash echoing in Will’s ears as his dad shouts at him, pushing and hitting until Will’s ‘learned his lesson’.

Will ends up having to get rid of his shirt. The blood from shallow glass cuts won’t wash out.

“No, I don’t drink.” he says, turning to look out the window.

“Aw, come on! Don’t be a killjoy.” Cole laughs.

“Leave him alone, Cole. Will doesn’t have to drink if he doesn’t want to.” Lucie says sternly.

“We were just having fun, Luce. Christ, get a sense of humor.” Cole says. 

“Screw you!” Lucie says. “I have a sense of humor! It just doesn’t come out around you because you being a dick isn’t funny!”

“Well, at least I have a car and don’t have to mooch to get rides.” Cole mutters.

“I’m literally fourteen. Why would I need a car?!” Lucie asks.

They continue to bicker as Will looks out the window, looking at the Halloween decorations on this street. They’re well-done, though some are a little bit overboard. He wonders what his friends are doing in Hawkins. Are they going trick-or-treating, or was Lucas’s letter right and they’re splitting up? Have they thought about Will at all?

“So Will.” Lucie starts, snapping him back to reality. “How’s Lenora been? Like, I know you showed up mid-semester. So, like, how have you been doing?”

“I’ve been doing alright with it.” he lies. “School’s fine, but does anyone really like it?”

That gets some chuckles and an ‘Amen’ from the backseat, and he half-smiles. “How’s school for you?”

“Fine. But let me tell you, there’s this one teacher, Mr. Oren, and his grading is stupid-” Lucie starts. He nods along, humming in agreement at the right moments and saying ‘That sucks’ when she pauses to wait for a reaction. Before her story is even over, they’re at a huge house that has drunk teenagers milling all over the lawn, neon lights and decorations, and loud music. To Will, it honestly looks like a nightmare, but he needs to try new things and branch out - and this is definitely new for him.

Apparently, it’s not new for Lucie, as she immediately opens the door and runs over to a girl who looks to be super intoxicated, speaking excitedly before hugging. The other kids in the car get out a few seconds afterwards, and Will sits in the car for a moment, taking a deep breath before getting out of the car.

He looks at his feet as he walks into the house, cautiously looking up through his bangs occasionally to make sure he doesn’t run into anyone or anything.

He still does.

Unexpectedly, a large guy gets in front of him, and Will bumps into him before jumping back. “Oh- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” he says.

The guy laughs, a deep, echoing sound. “Nah, you’re good. Want a drink?”

“Is there any alcohol in it?” Will asks cautiously.

“Nah, just lemonade.” the guy says.

Will thinks for a second, before nodding. If it does have alcohol, he’ll taste it, and he can spit it out and stop drinking. “Sure, I’ll have some.”

“Cool, cool.” the guy says, producing a red plastic cup from God-knows-where. “Here.”

Will takes it, and the second the guy is off across the room, he lifts it to his nose, cautiously inhaling. He can’t smell the stinging scent that he knows is vodka, nor any other liquor, so he thinks it’s okay. Still, he carefully takes a small sip from the Solo cup before anything else, and when he can’t taste anything, he decides it’s clean and takes a larger swig. 

“Hey, Will!” calls a voice that he recognizes as Lucie’s. “Come on! We’re playing truth or dare!”

He takes another long drink from his cup, taking it down to the bottom, before going over to where a circle is starting to form, with teenagers both sitting down and standing up and most with the same red cups that Will’s drinking out of. His cup is taken from him by someone else and a new one pressed into his hand, which he does the same test on before drinking from it.

The kids all start taking their turns, with invasive questions and stupid dares being thrown around and responded to. Will keeps drinking his cup (which gets replaced several more times, all clean) and watching the chaos unfold. Eventually, it becomes Lucie’s turn, and after she has to kiss a random boy in the circle, she turns giggling to Will. “Will! Truth or dare?”

“Mm… dare.” he says. Normally, he would pick truth, but for some reason, he feels brave. He feels like the edge of the anxiety that’s normally digging into his brain has been dulled. Maybe the party really is good for him.

“Ooh, brave. Hm…” Lucie says, teasingly tapping her chin. “Alright, tell us about yourself.”

“W… what kinda a dare’s that?” he asks. His words aren’t coming out quite right, but he doesn’t care. He’s having fun. Who cares ‘bout a little grammar when he can have fun?

“A good one! You don’t talk about yourself. You’re the mysterious loner, and it’s a good way to get some info out of you.”

“Fairrr…” he drawls.

“Alright, so talk! Who are you?”

“‘M Will Byers. ‘M fourteennn… like art ‘n painting ‘n music ‘n stuff… ffffavorie color’s green…” he slurs. What’s wrong with him? Why can’t he talk right? Why does he feel weird?

“Shit, dude, you’re messed up. Thought you didn’t drink.” Cole says, coming out of nowhere.

“...don’t. Can’t be drunk… don’t drink.” he says, going to take a sip of his lemonade that’s been refilled indefinitely.

“You… do realize that’s spiked, right?” Lucie’s friend Amanda asks from his… right? Left? The room’s spinning… wait, what did she say?

“I… what? Can’t… can’t taste any… alcohol.” Will says.

“It’s Everclear, buddy. Can’t taste it, can’t smell it. A hundred percent alcohol. It’ll get you absolutely smashed. How much have you had?” Cole asks.

He tries to think through the fuzz in his brain. One that the guy gave him, then a refill… or was it two? Three? Four? Eight? He doesn’t know. He knows it was a lot more than three.

“I dunno. Sssix?” he says with alarm, words still slurred.

“Dude, that’s like half a bottle. You’re drunk as a skunk.” someone says.

No.

No.

No no no no no.

Apparently someone can see how much he’s freaking out, because they change the subject. “Alright, then. We’ll go back to Will later. Bobby, truth or dare?”

He’s eight. His dad thinks he’s weak, that he needs to man up. Will would do anything if it meant that his dad loved him again. So that’s why he’s drinking the beer that his dad gave him, grimacing at the horrible taste but downing it anyway. “Good boy, Billy. Gonna put some hair on your chest, huh?” his dad laughs, ruffling Will’s hair. Will feels bad. The beer tastes bad, feels bad. He wants to throw up. He can’t throw up. His dad would be upset. He needs to keep it down.

He can’t. It makes him sick. He’s gagging over and over, the liquid going down the drain in the bathroom sink. His dad’s disappointed. His dad stops talking to him for days except to shout. 

Will wishes he could have kept it down.

Cole puts a hand on his shoulder, probably meant to help, but Will flinches, covering his head with his arms. “Whoa. Sorry, dude, didn’t mean to freak you out. I don't know why you're losing it. It's just a little liquor. Getting drunk one time isn't that big a deal. Chill out."

"How'd I sober up?" Will asks in that same, odd way.

"Um… you can throw up, drink coffee and water, sleep it off, take a cold shower…" he says, starting to tick them off on his fingers as he talks. "Be a shame to sober up, though. Getting buzzed is pretty awesome once you get used to it, and Everclear’s pretty expensive.”

For once in his life, Will doesn’t care about the price of something - or other people’s opinions. He gets up off of the floor, swaying once he’s standing, and stumbles from room to room to find a bathroom. Once he does, he quickly locks the door and gets on his knees in front of the toilet, forcing fingers down his throat until he starts to retch. After he’s left with a scorched throat and blurry vision, he gets back up and washes his hands and face, feeling a bit less out of it but still pretty bad.

What else did Cole say? Drink coffee and water? He can do that.

Will leaves the bathroom and goes down to the lower floor, trying to find the kitchen without running into anything (he runs into a wall and two people). After a minute, he does, and immediately goes to the coffeepot and starts brewing some. He hears the cheering of the truth or dare game in the other room, but he doesn’t care. He needs to get it out of his system, or next thing he knows, he’s gonna end up like Lonnie, constantly with a drink in his hand and constantly picking a fight with the people he’s supposed to love. He can’t do that. He can’t be like Lonnie. He needs to sober up.

As soon as the coffee’s done, he grabs a Solo cup (empty, of course) and pours it in, starting to chug it. His hands aren’t working right - the coffee’s half down the sides of the cup. He can’t control how he’s moving. He doesn’t like this.

He grimaces at the bitter taste at first, but keeps going, and he gets used to it after a few seconds. After he’s done with that pot, feeling the warm liquid in his stomach start to cancel out the fuzzy feeling in his brain, he puts on another one, filling his cup with water in the meantime.

Despite the sloshing feeling of his stomach, he drinks the water and then another pot of coffee. He feels nauseous, but that’s fine if he can just get the alcohol out of his system.

As he’s thinking about Lonnie, the fact that he just drank and had no idea, and bad memories involving alcohol, the music feels like it’s growing louder, pounding in his eardrums and brain. His breath is starting to come short, and his heart is racing.

Nonono. He can’t have a panic attack at this party. This is bad, this is bad, this is bad.

As it gets worse, and his thoughts start spiraling as his body starts its fight-or-flight response, he sits down on the kitchen floor, putting his head in his hands. He swore when he was younger that he wouldn’t drink, that he wouldn’t be his father, but here he is, drunk and a failure. Will’s worthless. He’s a failure, a mess, a nothing. This is all his fault - he should’ve known better than to think that there wouldn’t be alcohol at a high school party, should’ve known better than to trust the people around him.

He’s not sure why, but he starts full-out sobbing. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s because he’s genuinely upset, but he’s crying hard, with his shoulders shaking and tears and snot running down his face. Will curls into a ball, with his forehead pressed to his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs, pressing himself into the cabinets as he gets as small as possible. He’s glad that all of the other kids at this party are drunk, because nobody can hear (or care about) his muffled cries.

Combine the crying with what feels like a panic attack, he can’t breathe. Soon enough, the cries give way to wheezing as he struggles to get enough air.

After a few minutes of hyperventilating, he staggers to his feet and stumbles outside, hoping that air untainted by cigarette smoke and dozens of teenagers will help.

He stumbles outside, and flops down on the lawn, staring at the stars as his train of thought switches from ‘gotta sober up, can’t be like Lonnie’ to a spiral of contemplation of his life.

Why is he alive? With everything he’s been through, he should’ve died by now. He’s always been living on borrowed time. His father should’ve killed him during one of his fits of rage, beating him until there was just an empty shell left. He should’ve died when he was kidnapped by a monster, eaten and forever lost to the Upside Down. He should’ve died when he was possessed, had the gate close and snap his mind like a twig. Why hasn’t he died? He should be dead. Maybe it would’ve been better that way. He wouldn’t be hurting right now. He’d get to rest. He should be allowed to die. There should be an option where you can just press a button and go to sleep and not wake up. He’s so tired.

His breathing is slowing down, but it speeds back up when he starts trying to think of other things. He feels horrible. It’s like he’s both speeding and moving through Jell-O, with the lag of his vision and lack of control over how he moves contrasting with his racing heart and shortness of breath.

Will looks over at his watch, almost puking with how his vision spins at the rapid movement. It reads 10… something. Maybe 11 something? He just sees that the hands are to the… left. It’s left. It’s up and to the left. And it’s dark out. So… it’s night. It was evening when he got here. How long has he been here? He should go home.

He gets to his feet, but as he’s walking towards the sidewalk, he stops dead in his tracks. The last time he ate anything was… hang on… no food today… no food yesterday… dinner two days ago? An empty stomach probably amplified the effects of the alcohol. If he ate something, it might make him feel better, and make him more able to walk home.

Will grimaces and goes towards the loud music, stepping back into the crowded house. He goes back to the kitchen, where he tries to remember how to use his arms without flailing to open the refrigerator. Once he does (after a few embarrassing tries), he gets out a loaf of bread. He starts looking for things to put on his sandwich, but as the only sandwich meat they have is ham and he doesn’t eat pig, he goes for peanut butter and jelly.

He drops the knife. And the jelly jar. And the bread.

Will really hates being drunk. On top of the obvious reasons, he can’t hold anything.

He makes two sandwiches, which he starts devouring. He gets through one and a half before-

Will’s twelve. He’s hiding in the library, desperate to escape the monster hunting him. He presses his back against the bookshelf, making himself smaller so that he can’t be found. For a second, he thinks he’s safe, before vines wrap themselves around him. Despite his struggling, they don’t budge, squeezing him so tightly he can’t breathe. One slips up his neck, and even though he squeezes his mouth and eyes shut, it forces its way into his mouth, then down his throat, the disgusting, slimy thing keeping his vomit in his stomach as he chokes and gags and retches, his body not capable of handling something down his esophagus into his stomach.

It uses him as an incubator, planting larvae in his stomach. He coughs them up from time to time for six months after, crying or having the air feel too thin every time he sees another disgusting little monster squirming and crawling in the sink.

He sputters and starts gagging on the sandwich, his brain tricking him into thinking it’s another part of the Upside Down. He knows it’s not, but his instinct is working with his bad memories to cause him to feel so sick and violated that he can’t force anything down his throat. 

He drops the half-sandwich that’s left onto the counter as he rides out his choking fit, trying to keep what he’s already eaten down while getting enough air. It passes after a minute, and he’s left wheezing (yet again) and holding onto the counter, fingers turning white from the force of his grip.

As he catches his breath, he realizes that the sandwich, coffee, and throwing up seem to be helping, as his head is almost (not quite) clear. It’s still fuzzy, and the corners of his vision are still blurry and he still wouldn’t be able to write for shit if someone handed him a pen, but he can think and walk and talk and exist half-decently.

Will thinks for a moment, and concludes that he’ll be okay once he takes a cold shower and has some ibuprofen. First, though, he has to get home.

He walks into the main area of the party, and sees the truth or dare game is still in full swing, now half spin-the-bottle as well. He goes over to Amanda, Lucie’s friend, and taps her on the shoulder.

“Hey! What’s up?” she asks.

“I’m gonna go home. Just in case someone asks.” he says, noting with relief that his words are only slurred a little bit.

“‘Kay. You need Cole to drive you?” she asks.

“No, I’ll walk. Bye, Amanda.” he says, turning and starting to walk away.

“Bye.” she says, turning back to the game.

He quietly leaves the house and crosses the front lawn, having his feet hit the sidewalk. Will looks up and notices that it’s starting to storm. He shrugs it off, starting to walk the way that he’s pretty sure that they came earlier that evening.

After about twenty minutes, it starts raining. The cold water helps to sober Will up even further, which he appreciates, though he’s not as big a fan of the way that his hair and clothes are sticking to him. It’s fine, until the thunder starts.

There’s a loud crack, and Will immediately ducks on instinct. After a second, lightning fills the sky, and the shape of the clouds reminds him of-

“MIKE!” Will screams. “MIKE!”

He runs down the street, desperately trying to escape the clutches of the huge monster looming overhead, only visible when the cracks of red lightning provide contrast to its massive, dark body.

It comes closer. He hides to the best of his ability, but it’s not good enough. The monster is in his head, feeding off him, feeling what he feels and thinking what he thinks, constantly encroaching in a bid for control. He can hear it, its booming voice that’s silent but so loud in his head, talking to him, telling Will about how they’re connected, how running and hiding is futile.

It doesn’t matter if he fights, if he runs, if he hides. It will always get him. It will always catch up to him. There is no escape. It’s a war between Will and the monster, and it’s a losing battle.

There is no hope.

Will is connected to the monster. It will never leave him alone. It will always be right there, waiting for a moment when it can get him.

He will never be free. One way or another, it’s going to get him, and he’ll have a fate worse than death.

There is no escape.

It’s just a matter of time.

Will shouts, bending over and covering his ears. The monster’s catching up. It’s coming. They may have burned it out, but it will never leave entirely. It will always be there.

He looks around frantically. Will’s in the Upside Down, but is it real? He doesn’t know. All he knows is the shaking - in his hands, in his lungs, shaking his entire body like he’s a leaf stuck in a hurricane - and the screaming in his head telling him to run! Run! It’s coming! Run!

Will does.

He does what he does best.

He runs.

—

He runs until his legs give out, sending him sprawling onto the street wet with rain. He’s crying, pleading out loud for the monster not to take him. He needs to keep going - he’s only a mile or two away from his house - but his legs are burning and trembling, begging him to rest. He can’t. If he rests, then it’ll catch up. He’ll be possessed again - and this time, he won’t be able to be saved. That can’t happen. He needs to run.

He stumbles to his feet again, tears mixing with rainwater as he tries to keep moving. He has to get home. He has to get to safety. He has to-

Will starts running again before he falls, scraping his hands and knees on the concrete of the road. It hurts like hell as the skinned areas start bleeding, but it's enough to snap him out of it.

He blinks a few times before getting up and moving to sit down on the sidewalk, staring at the road blankly.

That was… that was a bad one. Worse than normal. He wasn't even able to tell what was real. Normally, he's back reliving something for one or two minutes before being shot back to real life - ten minutes, maximum - but that was long and really bad.

He gets to his feet slowly, walking on still-shaky legs back to his house, where he quietly goes inside and locks the door.

Will isn’t sure what his action plan is, but after careful consideration, he decides on a drink of water and some ibuprofen, a shower, then lay in bed. It's around… he looks at his watch and reads that it’s about 2:15. With his sleep schedule, he'd hardly get any rest, so he might as well just lay there and relax. Besides, he wouldn't be able to handle the nightmares tonight. It's not worth the effort to sleep. 

He goes into the kitchen to get a glass of water to take the ibuprofen with, but they’re all out of clean cups in the Byers household. Looking at the cluttered sink, he sees that there are a lot of dishes that need to be washed. He decides to clean the kitchen up; after all, he's not going to sleep anyway and is still a little bit intoxicated, so he might as well.

He washes most of the cutlery and a few plates, pans, and cups with shaking hands before starting to wash a chef's knife lying in the sink.

!TRIGGER WARNING - SELF HARM AHEAD! IF UNCOMFORTABLE, SKIP TO NEXT SET OF DASHES!

He scrubs and rinses it, about to place it on the drying rack, before he gets a horrible idea.

Will thinks of people on TV, talking about how they cut their wrists for relief, how it made them feel better. Will thinks of the seminar at school where they talked about a 'cutting epidemic'. Will thinks of the peace he feels when he punches himself or the wall, hitting until the pain cancels out his emotions. Will thinks of Lucas telling him that he deserves to be happy - maybe his happiness just comes in a different, gorier form than other people's?

With a shaking hand, Will raises the steel blade to the inside of his wrist, hand clenched as he lightly presses, watches blood start to bead around the blade as he starts pressing harder.

The little voice of reason in his head is screaming at him. 'Stop!' it says. 'Stop! You’re making a mistake! Stop!'

After ignoring that train of rationale and watching the red grow, it shifts. 'Okay, you're bleeding, but it's not too late. If you lift the knife now, it'll just be a nick. A nick isn't too bad. That you can explain away. Just lift the knife. It’s going to be fine. Just lift the knife.'

Will doesn’t.

He presses even harder, enjoying the sharp sting before quickly moving it, dragging it outwards. His nerves start to scream as the cut goes white, then dark red as blood starts to pool, then drip.

Will lifts it just above that cut and does another, faster one, feeling the pain flow out of him with the blood. His nerves are burning, but his mind is blissfully peaceful for the first time in years.

He does another.

And another.

And another.

He does it nineteen times before he realizes that the amount of crimson running and staining both the floor and his skin is probably a bit too much. Will starts to walk to the bathroom, cradling his sliced arm. He feels like he isn't real - like he’s floating rather than walking. The weight always resting on his shoulders and in his chest and head, weighing down his movements and every thought, is gone. He feels a happy sort of numb, and he loves it.

Will stops the rivulets of blood running with gauze and dabbed rubbing alcohol, and those that he went a little too deep on he applies butterfly bandages to.

As he sits on the linoleum bathroom floor and looks at the sliced skin, still stained a darker shade than its normal and paths drawn across the surface, that little voice tells him that this needs to be a one-time thing. Normal, happy people don’t hurt themselves. This has to be the first and last time.

But as he thinks about the calm that he’s feeling, the fog in his head taking all of his pain, he decides that no, it’s not a one-time thing. Sure, normal, happy people don’t slice their skin open with knives, but when has he ever gotten to be normal and happy? Other people haven't been through what he's been through, felt what he’s felt, and that means that they don’t have to do this just for relief from the pain and exhaustion of every day. If he gets a chance for a reprieve from the hell he’s living in, he needs to take it, even if it's wrong.

For just a second, he thinks of what the people he loves would say. Would his mom cry if she saw him right now? Would Jonathan be disappointed, have to avert his gaze? Would Mike retch with disgust? Would Lucas look at him in pity? Would Max stare in shock? Would El be confused at how her brother could do this? Would Dustin's ever-present smile drop as he looked on in horror?

No.

Will Byers is a burden. He is nothing. A freak, a zombie, a fairy, worthless, useless, fag. This is not horrific. This is simply penance. This is what he deserves. And he’s fine with that.

Wait. Wait, how will he hide it? All of the cuts, they're obvious. The peace almost begins to fade as he looks at the lines that are jagged from shaking hands while he created them. They’re going to scab and scar, and he doesn’t know how to hide it.

He thinks about it. It's November now. He can wear sweaters and long sleeves and jackets without suspicion. He can also blend together some of his paints to match his skin color and use it as a concealer. And, in the future, he can do it in less obvious places.

As Will looks at the cuts that he’s inflicted on himself one last time before finishing the dishes and taking a shower, he has one thought and one thought alone.

'This is just the beginning.'

-

Mike’s tired, both physically and emotionally.

He misses Will. He misses El. He wants Will to come back.

Today was the first Halloween they spent separated since they were four, and Mike’s been miserable. Lucas and Dustin are great, as are his new Hellfire friends, but he wants Will, now more than ever.

Suddenly, he gets an idea.

Mike races up the stairs two at a time, running to talk to his parents. Once he's in the kitchen, where his mom is making something, he starts talking.

"So, Mom. I really miss Will and the Byers, and was wondering if I could go visit soon?" Mike asks quickly.

His mom pauses. "Mike, plane tickets are expensive."

"I'll- I'll work it off! I can do chores and keep my grades up and stuff! I can even babysit Holly!" Mike says, a hint of desperation bleeding into his voice.

His mom thinks, before nodding. "I'll talk with your father about it later, but I think that we could have you visit soon, maybe around Christmas or Spring Break."

"Yes! Thank you, Mom!" Mike says, giving her a quick squeeze before running back down to the basement.

They may be separated for now, but Mike and Will are going to be together again soon enough. 

Mike can’t wait.

Chapter Text

After the Halloween party, Will gave up.

He stopped trying to be better. If anything, he’s gotten much worse. He eats even less than before, now only eating a small portion every two or three days, the only thing keeping him going being coffee and water. He’s returned to boiling-hot showers that leave his skin raw and blistering. He’s given up on other people, no longer making an effort to branch out and make new friends at school and mostly giving up on reaching the Party - Mike doesn’t answer his letters or call, and Dustin and Max have only sent one letter each so far in response to his weekly writings. Lucas is the best out of them, but Will’s unintentionally leaving his friend hanging by not reaching out as much as he should. He’s too tired to talk to people anymore, with a heaviness that feels like lead encasing his entire body. It probably isn’t helped by the lack of sleep, which has gotten even worse, with two hours a night if he’s lucky.

But worst of all, he’s hurting himself.

Every sharp tool that Will can get his hands on, he’s used, with some of the more common ones being kitchen knives, scissors, nail clippers, and razors. It’s become the best part of his day, having the crimson seep out of his veins and paying for his sins while gaining peace and calm on the way.

It’s November now, a few days before Thanksgiving, and keeping these habits up for over a month have taken a physical toll on Will. He’s always cold and tired, and when he’s not numb, he’s sad and hurt and scared. His body’s become littered with cuts, some small and already healing, others deep enough that he’s had to do stitches. He’s thin, dropping weight like it’s nothing.

Will’s been meaning to get a scale. He wonders how much, exactly, he’s lost. It’s enough that he can fit a single hand around his forearm, feel his ribs, feel the ridges on his collarbones and hip-bones, and only have an extra inch or two between his thumbs when he wraps his hands around his thighs.

And, with all of this, you would think somebody would notice, that they would care.

Nobody has.

And, as much as it hurts that he’s paid so little attention to that he can get away with ripping himself apart for the momentary relief of the blood that drips down his arms and legs, the gap that’s starting to appear between his thighs, the pain of both hunger and row upon row of cuts as he goes about his day, he’s also a bit relieved, as the lack of concern means that he can keep going - because at this point, he doesn’t know what he would do if he had to stop.

Well, he thought it went unnoticed.

The day before Thanksgiving, he’s drawing on the couch, halfheartedly listening to an old black-and- white movie that El’s watching in the background, before his mom comes into the living room, rifling through her purse. “Will, do you want to come to the grocery store with me to get the supplies for tomorrow?” she asks.

“Um… sure!” Will says. 

He closes the cover of his sketchbook and sets it down on the table before getting up. Unfortunately, he gets up a little too quickly, as his vision becomes staticky and the room tilts dangerously until he grabs the corner of the table and puts his weight on it until he’s okay. 

“Sorry. Yeah, I’m ready to go.” he says, walking over to his mom.

“Alright. You go hop in the car, and I’ll be right out.” she says.

“Okay.” he says. He waits in the car for a few minutes before she comes out and gets in, and as they’re driving to the grocery store, they start talking.

“So how’s school?” she asks.

“It’s alright. I’m doing pretty well. All my grades are good.” he says cautiously, wondering about why she’s asking.

“Good, good. Do you have any friends?” she asks.

“Um…” he thinks. He has El, and he has his friends in Hawkins. “Yeah, I do.”

“I’m glad.” she says. They sit in silence for a minute, before he starts talking.

“So… why isn’t El coming with us?” he asks.

“Her name is Jane, Will. I know it’s hard, but we all need to get used to calling her Jane.” she says.

Shame curls around his stomach. “Yeah, you’re… you’re right.” he says. He feels bad for having a hard time with the name, but it’s habit, and he’s trying his hardest.

She sighs. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Oh no. Did she figure it out? Does she think he’s crazy? Is she going to make him stop?

“So the therapist from the school called.”

Oh god. What did she say? Did he give anything away?

“She was reviewing your file and found some of your old prescriptions from Doctor Owens. She thinks it would be a good idea to put you back onto some of them.” his mom says.

“W-what medications?” he asks nervously.

“Um…” she thinks for a second, pursing her lips as she tries to remember. “Sertraline, alprazolam, and risperidone, I think.”

“Oh.” he says, focusing on a spot on the windshield instead of looking at his mom.

“She renewed the prescription already and changed the dose. I wanted to make sure that you would be okay with taking them.” she says carefully. Will realizes that she’s worried he’s going to break - his mom has the same tone that everyone gets when they’re worried he’s going to shatter like glass with one wrong word. It frustrates him, but he won’t let it show.

Will thinks. The pills didn’t help last time, but maybe that was because it was more of his true sight than PTSD? He’s older now, and he knows (hopes) that he doesn’t have the true sight anymore. Maybe this time they can make him feel better.

But even if they did, maybe he doesn’t deserve to feel better. He feels so guilty and sad all the time because he’s done and seen horrible things. It’s the price he pays, and it’s still not enough. Besides, he can self-medicate with cutting and starving. He doesn’t need the pills.

He goes to tell her that he doesn’t want to, but one look at her face, worry and sadness written across it, he changes his mind. If taking the pills would lift some of the burden from her shoulders, he’ll do it a million times. Even if Will hates himself, he loves his mother, and would do anything for her, including this.

“Okay, I’ll take them.” he says.

“Okay. There’s a pharmacy inside of the store. We can pick it up tonight.” she says, the concern on her face replaced with relief.

His heart is a dull pounding in his ears as they stop by the pharmacy and get a large brown bag with the medications in it after picking up the supplies for Thanksgiving dinner. He knows that it’s a good thing that he’s going on them, but it doesn’t feel like it.

As they drive home, the weight of the bag in his lap feels much heavier than the three pill bottles in it should be.

Once they’re there, he and his sister and mom unpack the groceries into the fridge and pantry before Will takes the medications out of the bag and throws it away. He tucks the bottles into his pockets and goes upstairs as casually as he can, shutting and locking the door to his room from the inside.

He takes the bottles out of his pockets and sets them on his bed, reading the labels.

The first bottle is a white bottle with a white label on it and a hard-to-open cap. It’s pure white. He doesn’t like the look of it. Looks like a Tylenol bottle, honestly, and he’s always hated Tylenol.

Zoloft (Sertraline) HCL Tablets, USP

50 mg tablets

Take two tablets by mouth twice a day

Quantity - 90

May refill 8 times by 06/01/86

Zoloft. He knows Zoloft. It wasn’t his favorite, but it’s alright. It takes a second for him to remember the dose, but he realizes that this dosage is over eight times what it used to be. That’s a big difference… but then again, last time it didn’t work, and Dr. Brown is the expert, not Will. He’ll follow the directions. Maybe 200 milligrams a day is the only way that it’ll actually work. He sets it aside.

The second bottle is in another white bottle, but the label has orange and blue on it along with the black print. It’s a bit less sterile and a bit more cheerful, which Will has mixed feelings about. It’s nice that they’re trying to add a bit of color to it, but at the same time, it’s a medication for people like him that are slowly but surely losing their mind, so it seems kind of insensitive to the situation.

Xanax (Alprazolam) Tablets, USP

1 mg tablets

Take two tablet by mouth three times a day

Quantity - 100

May refill 6 times by 03/01/86

Xanax is one of the most popular drugs, he knows that. He hears girls in the hallway laughing about how they need some because they’re stressed, knows that people take it with alcohol at parties to get high. But he also knows that it can help people. Maybe it’ll help him. He sets it next to the Zoloft.

The last pills are in a dark yellow plastic bottle with a similar white label and cap. It looks like a stereotypical pill bottle. He quickly reads the label.

Risperdal (Risperidone) Tablets

1 mg tablets

Take one tablet by mouth two times a day

Quantity - 60

May refill 4 times by 3/01/86

He remembers that one. It wasn’t his favorite to take. It made him feel tired and weighed-down. But then again, maybe it just wasn’t necessary and it was actually his true sight that was causing it, so the meds didn’t help. Maybe it’ll work this time.

Will looks at the pill bottles sitting side-by-side, the neatness contrasting with the messiness in his head that they’re supposed to fix. For a moment, he feels scared and angry that he has to take these now - that he can’t be normal now - but Will compartmentalizes the emotions that aren’t helping and instead turns and goes downstairs.

He starts searching through the drawers in the kitchen downstairs, and when he can’t find what he’s looking for, he turns to the office. “Hey, Mom! Do we have a pill organizer?”

“One under the sink!” she calls back.

He digs through the things under the sink and looks closely and, lo and behold, there’s a pill organizer with three slots per day throughout the week.

Will takes it and gives it a once-over, making sure it’s acceptable to use, before taking it back upstairs. Once in his room, he sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor and starts to count out the pills into the sections. The sertraline is the one that takes up the most space in the little plastic cubes, with the other pills being so small that if he dropped one he might never find it again. But then again, the sertraline dose is over fifty times the dose of the other ones, so of course they’re going to be dwarfed in comparison.

Once he’s done with this week’s pills, he puts a night’s dose into his hands, feeling the five tablets sit in his palm as he squeezes both his hand around them and his eyes shut. Once he’s mustered the courage, he gets up, grabs the glass of water by his bed, and pops the pills into his mouth, quickly washing them down with a few swigs of water. He grimaces at the feeling of the meds going down his throat, but it’s gone soon enough.

He picks up all of his new health regalia and puts the organizer and bottles onto his dresser. He’ll find a home for them later. The idea of going on the medications has made Will feel tired and sad, so he’s going to finish his nightly routine and go to bed early. He’ll wake up in a few hours screaming, but that’s going to happen no matter what time he goes to bed, so who cares?

Will gets up with a groan from the floor, stumbling once he’s up as his vision tunnels. This keeps happening the longer he starves, and one of these days, he’s going to pass out, but he doesn’t really care as long as he doesn’t have to eat. 

After he regains his balance, he grabs some pajamas (plaid pants with the black long-sleeve shirts that he’s been using - they don’t show blood and they keep him warm, so it’s a win-win) and goes into the bathroom. He turns the shower to the hottest setting and, as he waits for it to heat up, he grabs a razor from under the sink, takes off his shirt, and lifts the blade to his shoulder.

He gets through thirty-three lines that overlap and drip the crimson that he loves before the shower’s hot enough, at which point he finishes undressing and gets in, watching his stinging shoulder color the water going down the drain an orange-red as the blood dilutes. Once he’s clean and the cuts have stopped bleeding, he gets back out and gets dressed, looking at himself in the mirror as he does.

Even though he’s losing the weight he wants to, the longer he carries on as he has been, the more he hates himself. The dark circles and gauntness of his cheeks pair with the hollowness in his eyes, and his body is a whole different mess, with hundreds of scabs and newly-formed scars from his activities with the blades scattered across his skin. Meanwhile, though he’s losing weight, he still doesn’t look right. He can feel his ribs, hips, and vertebrae, but he still has a little bit of fat on his lower stomach, and his biceps and legs look like they belong to a whale. Even if he’s starting to have a little space between his thighs, it’s still not enough, and they’re still far too thick. The longer he looks in the mirror, the more he despises what he sees, and after a while, he has to turn away from his analysis and go back to his bedroom.

He lies down on the bed and, after a while of staring at the ceiling, he drifts off. Tonight, he doesn’t even get the few minutes of rest that he normally does, going straight to the nightmares.

He’s twelve. He’s possessed. He’s part of the Hive Mind. Will is not a person. He is a cog in a machine, nothing more. He is a tool. He is not Will Byers. He is a part of the Mindflayer.

He’s screaming inside his head. Outside, nothing shows. The scientists and military sent to deal with the Upside Down are being torn apart by the Demodogs that are part of the same set of chains trapping him. Will can feel the blood on his teeth as they rip out throats and intestines, the starvation all they know, along with the desire to state it.

When it was really happening, he couldn't remember feeling hungry. The only thing he can remember feeling is the cold, then heat, then burning burning BURNING STOP HE LIKES IT COLD-

But now, in this dream he feels the hunger, and when the Demodogs rip the soldiers and men who tried to help him limb from limb, he feels as though he is one of the monsters, running along with the pack through the tunnels and killing alongside. He relishes the taste of raw meat on his tongue.

He wakes with a scream ripped from his throat, trying to sit up but failing as he falls onto the floor due to the sheets twisted so tightly around him that they’re practically restraints. As he struggles, still trapped in his blankets, his breathing is short, with Will audibly gasping every few seconds as he tries to get enough air.

After he finally frees himself, Will lies on the ground, still trying to breathe. He wipes his mouth with his left hand, still able to feel human blood coating his mouth and tongue as he devoured flesh, and when it comes away wet and sticky with blood, Will almost starts screaming again before he remembers that his nose bleeds nightly.

Will’s breathing slows as he comes to his senses and truly realizes that it was just a memory dream. He isn’t possessed, and he isn’t a cannibalistic monster. Everything’s okay.

He gets up and goes into the bathroom, at which point he pours water from the faucet into his cupped hands and splashes it on his face.

Will looks up into the mirror. He looks so small and scared, and his eyes somehow manage to look dead and vulnerable at the same time.

He looks into the mirror for longer than he probably should, at some point zoning out and thinking about the people in his dream. Even if it was just a recollection plucked from his subconscious, the people ripped apart actually died that day. And they’re dead because of Will.

He may not be a Demodog or part of the Upside Down’s hivemind, but he’s still a monster.

-

He woke up with the dream around one in the morning, and after curling up in his bed for a while before carving things into his skin to make him feel better and taking another shower, he comes downstairs and draws as old movies play on TV.

About three hours after he came down and turned on the TV and six hours after waking up, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade comes on. When he sees the time, he flips the channel over to NBC, where they’re finishing setting up the parade. With a smile (one of the first genuine ones in a while), he goes up the stairs and into El’s room, where he gently shakes her awake.

She sits upright with a start before looking over at him, blinking as though she’s tired but fighting to wake up.

“Hey, El. You want to come watch TV?” he asks. “It’s the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I would watch it every year when I was younger.”

El nods with wide, curious eyes and gets out of bed, walking softly on fuzzy-socked feet. As they start to go downstairs, she slips her hand into his, and he squeezes lightly. He leads her over to the couch, and while he sits down on the furniture, she sits cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, gazing at the floats as they’re about to go.

He watches his sister more than the TV itself, enjoying the wonder in her eyes at the crowds and the balloons and floats. Around 10, in the middle of the parade, he gets onto the floor with her and starts pointing out specific floats and explaining the parade.

“See! That one’s Snoopy!” Will says more energetically than he’s said anything in a while. He’s sitting on his knees in front of the TV, pointing out each float on the screen to his amazed sister.

“Who is Snoopy?” she asks.

“He’s from a cartoon called the Peanuts. We should watch it together soon. He’s Charlie Brown’s dog and the Flying Ace. He lives in a red doghouse and pretends to be a pilot in World War One.”

“Funny dog.” she says. “What is that one?”

“Tom Turkey! He’s, like, the oldest float in the parade.”

“Turkey.” she says, rolling the word around on her tongue.

“Yep! That’s what we’re gonna have for dinner tonight.” he says.

They watch the parade for a minute before she turns to him with wide, vulnerable eyes. “Can we go to the parade soon?”

“It’s really far away, Jane. All the way in New York City.” he says.

“When we are grown-ups?” she asks.

“...Sure! When we’re eighteen, if you want to go to the parade, we can go in-person.” Will says.

“I want to see Tom Turkey for real.” she says, turning back to the TV.

“I know.” he says, putting his arm around her shoulders and resting his cheek on her scalp when she puts her head on his shoulder. They sit like that for a bit, until their mom comes downstairs.

“Oh, parade’s on?” she asks from behind them.

“Yes! Will tells me about Tom Turkey and a funny dog Snoopy.” El says, smiling widely. Will smiles too, happy both at how happy she is and at how much her English has been improving.

“Santa hasn’t come by yet?” his mom asks, sitting down on the couch.

“Santa?” El asks.

“Yeah! Santa rides by on a float with the elves and reindeer and Mrs. Claus every year. It’s the start of the holiday season every year.” Will says.

“Who is Santa?” El asks.

Will dramatically gasps. “You don’t know Santa?!”

She’s smiling. “No. Who is Santa?”

When he pretends to be too flabbergasted to answer, she gives him a playful shove and laughs. “Will! Tell me!”

“Gather round, I shall tell the tale.” he says just as dramatically as he gasped. He feels a bit silly being so over-the-top, but the light in El’s smile and eyes is worth him feeling ridiculous any day. Plus, he’s having fun being so goofy. She shifts to sit looking more at him than at the TV, and a glance over at his mom tells him that she’s happy that her kids are having fun, with a content smile resting on her face as she watches them.

“Santa Claus is a magical man who travels around the world in one night and gives good kids presents.” Will says. “He rides in a sleigh with eight reindeer pulling it. Their names are Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen… um…”

“Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. And Rudolph.” his mom finishes.

“Rudolph’s nose glows.” Will adds helpfully. “It’s how Santa sees on foggy Christmas nights. He goes down the chimney on Christmas Eve and leaves gifts under a tree and fills stockings with candy.”

He’s sure there’s more lore he’s forgetting, but El’s still hanging on every word. “He lives at the North Pole with his workshop and elves who make the gifts and his wife, Mrs. Claus.”

“What are reindeer?” El asks.

“Um…” he stumbles. “Well, they’re like normal deer, but they have antlers.”

“In biology, teacher said all deer have antlers if they are male.” El says.

“Um…” he looks over at his mom.

“They do! However…” his mom starts.

After El asks all her questions about Santa, his mom gets up and goes to the kitchen to get started on making dinner. He sits with El for a while longer, watching the end of the parade before getting up, flipping through the channels, and, much to his delight, finding ‘A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving’ on one. He’s only half paying attention, drawing and answering questions about the cartoon, holidays, and American history whenever El comes up with them (and when he actually knows the answer). Once the Peanuts go offscreen and a Christmas cartoon comes on, he goes into the kitchen, where his mom’s starting dinner.

“Hey, do you need any help?”

“Oh! Um… if you want to, I would love some, but it’s fine if you want to do something else.”

“I want to help.” Will says. He goes over to where his mom’s starting to prepare the food. “So what’s the plan for dinner?”

“Well… we have turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, cornbread, and pumpkin pie.”

“That’s… a lot.” he says, immediately trying to figure out how many calories are in a serving of each.

“Well, we have an extra person to account for this year. Besides, we have the money with my job.”

“I guess you’re right.” he says. “What do I need to do?”

“The cranberry sauce, pie, and cornbread are already made. The turkey needs to be popped into the oven, and we can use the premade mixes for the stuffing and gravy. The mashed potatoes and green bean casserole need to be made from scratch-”

“I can start on the potatoes and make the mixes.” Will says.

She looks discerningly at him for a second before smiling. “Thank you, honey. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Just being a good son.” Will responds.

“You already are, Will. I’m so proud of you and happy that I have you in my life. I love you, honey.”

“Thank you. I’m proud and happy of you and I love you, too.” Will says. They lapse into comfortable silence as they work side-by-side, mother and son just like it used to be without the complications of growing up and everything that came with it.

He peels potatoes as his mom prepares the turkey to go into the oven, and once Will’s done, he puts them into a pot to boil. “Mash them once they’re soft, right?”

“Yep.” she says, putting the turkey in the oven.

“Cool. How do I make the casserole?”

“Honey, there’s no need for you to-”

“I want to.” Will says, getting out the green beans.

They work together for a few more hours until Thanksgiving dinner’s been made, and once the turkey’s done and coming out of the oven, as they’re serving it up, Will’s mom nudges him. “Hey, why don’t you go get your siblings for dinner?”

“Do you want me to serve it? I can-”

“I’ve got it from here, honey. Thank you for helping me with dinner, by the way.”

“...Of course, Mom.” he says, choosing to go off to find his siblings instead of disagreeing.

He finds El sitting on the floor in front of the TV, watching ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’. 

“Hey, El. You enjoying yourself?” he asks. 

She looks over and nods. “I am learning a lot about Christmas.”

“Good! You should learn about Hanukkah next. Dinner’s ready, by the way.”

She stands up and brushes herself off, a habit picked up from spending time around other people at school. “I will go to dinner.”

“Yep! I’ll be right there.” he says. She nods and goes to the dining room as Will goes to Jonathan’s room to fetch his brother.

He knocks twice on the closed door. “Hey, Jon. Dinner’s ready.”

Will hears muffled cursing and giggling on the other side of the door before a ragged-looking Jonathan answers the door, Argyle sitting on his bed in the smoky room holding a joint. Will sighs at the sight of his brother and his brother’s friend, both high as shit on the weed that it’s hard to see them without at any point these days.

“Hm?” Jonathan asks, clearly out of it.

“Dinner’s ready.” Will says before turning back to the dining room. He loves his brother, but he hates how high Jon is all the time. He misses the old Jonathan, the one that wasn’t so obsessed with weed that everything else, including their family, wasn’t important anymore.

“Oh, okay. We’ll be there in a minute.”

Will doesn’t respond to this, instead going into the dining room and sitting down at the table, where his mom has brought all of the food and arranged it. El is seated to his left, and despite the trepidation about the fact that there’s no way out of eating, he gives her a smile. A minute after he’s seated, Jonathan and Argyle come in and sit down across the table from Will and El, and his mom’s just behind them.

“Alright, you can get started.” his mom says, cutting herself a piece of turkey and taking a few spoonfuls of everything.

El, Argyle, and Jonathan follow suit, and as Will looks at the food, he feels terrified. He feels silly to be so afraid of food, but he is. He’s afraid of how much he’s going to have to eat to avoid suspicion.

Well, he reasons, I can just take small portions of everything and leave some on the plate. If I scatter what I leave around, it’ll look like I eat more than what I’m going to. It’ll be fine.

It was not fine.

Once he’d taken his small portions and consciously ignored the concerned looks from his mom, it’s like he can’t control himself. He doesn’t leave anything on the plate like he’d planned to - he eats all of it. And he still feels hungry.

Despite the fact that he’s trying to fight the urge to keep eating, he still does, and gets large helpings of seconds and thirds. He’s inhaling it and hating himself for it, but it’s like he’s not in control, like his body has a mind of its own and wants to eat everything.

After his fourth - fourth! - plate, three with large servings, he finally forces himself to lean back, even if he wants to keep going. 

His mom chuckles. “Good job on the food, guys. Guess we won’t need too much fridge space. Who’s ready for pie?”

NO!, he thinks.

“Yes, please.” he says.

With the chorus of agreement around the table, his mom brings out the pie and cuts it, placing a sizable piece in front of each person.

Will devours that too. What’s wrong with him? He wants to stop eating. Why can’t he stop?

After dinner, Jonathan volunteers him and Argyle to clean up, and Will, El, and his mom all agree. While El and their mom go and start on the next Christmas movie on TV, Will rushes to the bathroom. The food is sitting like a rock in his stomach and he hates it. He wants to get rid of it.

He does.

Will shoves two fingers into his mouth until they’re touching the back of his throat and he’s gagging and sending his astronomically large dinner down the drain. It hurts like hell, but once the vomit becomes more acid than food, he wipes his mouth and gets back up.

Will quickly brushes his teeth, grimacing to himself as he thinks about the food, both going down and coming back up. Once he’s done, he moves to go back downstairs but stops.

Even though throwing it up helped him feel a little better, he still feels bad. And by bad, he means he hates himself for it. On top of being a fat pig with eating too much and losing control, he just wasted all of what he ate by throwing it up. It’s not just that he’s a waste of space, he’s quite literally now a waste of resources that other people could have and should have used.

He decides to self-medicate. Will takes off his pants, gets out the razor, and starts carving stripes up the side of his thigh. He does it for fifteen or twenty minutes, only stopping once blood starts dripping onto the floor. He quickly wipes it up and presses toilet paper against the wounds, his blood soaking through and making his hands red and sticky. It’s stopped bleeding, so he removes his hand from the paper, throws it in the toilet, wets some more squares, and gently wipes down his thigh so that it’s not bloody anymore. Once he’s sure that it’s not going to bleed through fabric, he puts his pants back on, washes his hands, and goes downstairs.

His mom smiles at him from the living room, and he smiles back, feeling better from dinner. He’s going to be fine, and even if he's not, that’s what he’s going to show to everyone around him. “So what are we watching?"

Chapter Text

After Thanksgiving, Will went back to school and resumed his normal routine. 

However, things had changed. A few days after starting the medication, he started feeling weird, before he stopped feeling at all. Will feels like he isn’t even real anymore. Like he’s just a numb, emotionless ghost, floating in the same path every single day and constantly waiting for something that’s never going to happen.

Will supposes that the pills are doing their function - he doesn’t feel sad anymore, but he doesn’t feel anything else either. Sometimes, on nights when he just stares at the ceiling in the yellow room that’s not his but not someone else’s either, he wonders if feeling pain is better than feeling absolutely nothing at all. Though even though the meds have robbed him of his emotions, they still haven’t fixed him, as he still starves and cuts and destroys himself in every way that he can. Even if he’s miserable, he can still survive like this - or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

But he is wrong.

About a week after starting the medication, he started losing control of his body. His eyes started twitching. He started to blink rapidly at random. His arms and hands and legs began to spasm and shake uncontrollably. His head tilts over and over until he gets dizzy, and he doesn’t have any say in whether it happens. His lips purse and twitch, and his nose wrinkles at random as well as odd facial expressions coming on and dropping rapidly.

And it all happens over and over again, movements combined at random and happening all the time. It honestly scares him, and after two weeks with no sign of slowing down or stopping, he’s decided that something has to change. And that’s why he brought it up in therapy today.

“So, um… I keep moving and I can’t stop. Like, I keep twitching and shaking and stuff. And it started after I started taking the medications, so I thought maybe they were related? And I thought that if they were related, there was something you could do.” Will tells Dr. Brown.

She looks at him scrutinizingly from across the desk. Right on cue, his head tilts four times in rapid succession. He curses internally.

She sighs. “I think I know what’s wrong, but I may not be correct. Based on the timeline and symptoms, I believe that you are experiencing something called tardive dyskinesia.”

“Tardive dyskinesia. Okay, what’s that?” Will asks.

“It’s a condition that affects the nervous system that’s linked to long-term and repeated use of psychiatric drugs or high doses. In you, it might be contributed to by your age, both when you started them when you were younger and now. It causes repetitive and involuntary movements like blinking, grimacing, or twitching.”

“Great. How do I make it stop?” Will asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice.

“I’m afraid you can’t. Stopping or tapering the medications might lessen the symptoms, though there hasn’t been any proof that it would help, as would going on sedatives, but both would only minimize the symptoms - if that - and not stop them.”

“So I’m stuck like this.” he says disbelievingly.

“We could try a sedative. It might make the movements and tics less severe or less frequent.”

“But there’s no concrete solution?” he asks incredulously.

She sighs. “Not really.”

He leaves the office with a prescription for benzodiazepines and a jumble of bad feelings in his head. Not only has the medicine screwed up his brain and emotions, it’s screwed up his body, too. As much as he hates it, he’s angry. Will doesn’t get angry often, and when he does, it’s usually turned inwards onto himself, afraid that if he takes it outwards, he’ll become as abusive and horrible as his father - the rage and capability for violence is in his genes, after all. But right now?

He walks calmly through the school through empty hallways until he gets outside, at which point he goes out into the outdoor cafeteria where it’s away from the building so that it isn’t too loud, which serves his purposes right now.

He goes to a vending machine and starts screaming and beating it, denting the metal with the force of his punches and kicks. It’s not bad enough he’s fucked in the head, that he has to force pills that just make him feel worse down his throat every fucking day, but now he has to be sedated so that way he has a chance of controlling his own body. Hasn’t he gone through enough? What did he ever do to make God hate him so much that he has to go through horrible things over and over and over, the only relief being when he literally cuts himself open with razor blades?

Will’s always found a kind of peace in religion, but right now, he resents the idea of a higher power. The idea of some being who forces him to go through his life in fear and pain because of his experiences just for amusement makes him hate God. 

It’s not fair. He knows life is unfair, but this, this is abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous. He’s fourteen and, on top of being traumatized and having severe mental illness (hooray! Woob-ba-fucking-do!), now he has this tardive dyskinesia bullshit to deal with.

He’s been hitting and kicking the vending machine the whole time, denting the metal with some of the harder strikes, but with an unwelcome thought of ‘If you were dead, you wouldn’t have to deal with this. Wouldn’t that be better?’, Will strikes exceptionally hard, earning a crunch from his knuckles.

The sharp pain of something breaking in his hand pulls him out of his fit of rage, and he takes a few teetering steps back, breathing raggedly and heavily and cradling his hand. With a glance down at them, he can see that the skin across his knuckles is broken, leaving rivulets of blood down the back of his hand and raw, dark red marks on the places where his bones protrude.

As he collects himself, he walks back inside, where he goes to the front office. “Hurt myself.” he says.

The nurse asks him many questions as she bandages his hands and tells him that he broke some of the knuckles in his left hand, he’s going to have to wear a compression bandage, how did this happen, but he doesn’t react or care.

Upon his silence, the school calls his mom, and she picks him up with worry across her face and a hand on his forehead. It causes the anger that he finally released to begin to bubble and build in his stomach again. Is he so weak and quiet and sweet that a single lapse of judgment, during which nobody even got hurt, is enough to make people think that he’s actually ill?

On the ride home, after he gives one-word answers to all of his mom’s concerned questions, there’s silence, which permeates the house as Will goes to his room and lies in bed with the lights off, sinking into grief over his new diagnosis, anger with himself for losing control, and self-loathing.

He drifts off sometime between hateful, cruel, berating rants from his brain, and for the first time in months, he doesn’t dream.

Will isn’t dead. But as he wakes hours later, going from peace to picking up the turmoil that he left off on, he wonders: would that be so bad?

Chapter Text

Since the ‘incident’, as the school has called it, Will’s been miserable. He snapped and released all of the anger and pain that he’s only been letting out little by little with red slits over his skin. On top of the already-existing pain from the past, the medication that’s supposed to be saving but is instead destroying him, the lack of contact with his friends and new lack of care and attention from his family, and the new issue of tardive dyskinesia, there’s the self-loathing that’s been worsened by his lack of control.

Luckily, people have mostly been leaving him alone at school, but Lucie and her friends still make an effort to include him. Theoretically, he appreciates it, but they’re better off without him in their group.

However, one day Lucie calls.

“No, I’m serious, Will. It’s gonna be so much fun. We’re all gonna hang out at Aurora’s house. It’s gonna be the best thing ever.”

“I don’t know if I can, Lucie. I have homework, and I’m tired, and-” Will says, attempting to get out of it.

“Bullshit!” she says over the phone. “That’s been your excuse for, like, the past month. It’s December 7, and you haven’t hung out since Halloween.”

“I’ve been busy-” he says feebly.

“We have the same classes. You can hang out, you just don’t want to. Please? For me?” she says, cutting him off.

“Okay, fine.” Will relents. “Where?”

“So you walk down Sullivan Street, and you take two lefts…” she starts.

Twenty minutes later, he’s walking up to Lucie’s friend Aurora’s house, tugging self-consciously at the bottom of his flannel shirt. He’s wearing a black-and-white flannel and black jeans with his Converse - he doesn’t have the energy to dress in colors anymore.

“Will! Hey!” Lucie says from the porch, jumping up and tackling him in a hug. He blinks in surprise before hugging her back briefly.

“Hey, Lucie. Who else is here?” he says.

“Um, there’s Jamie, Cole, Amanda, Aurora, me, a few other kids - like, 15 - and now you! It’s smaller than the Halloween party, promise. I know you had to leave that one early.”

“Yeah, I did. Thanks for inviting me.” Will says.

She laughs and elbows him in the side. “You aren’t glad. I had to guilt-trip you into it. Still, you’re here, and that’s what’s important.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry I haven’t been hanging out.” he says, opening the door and holding it for her.

She smiles. “It’s okay. And thank you. Who said chivalry is dead?”

He laughs awkwardly, and to his ears, it sounds hollow. “Heh. Yeah. Just the way I was raised.”

“Well, whatever and whoever got you the way you are, thank them.” she says.

It’s meant to be nice, he’s sure, but all he can think about is Lonnie, teasing, hitting, insulting, beating…

“Yeah! So you know everyone here.” Lucie says, walking over to a circle of people on the floor. There are about twenty people in it, and Will recognizes a few familiar faces, including Cole, who he ends up sitting next to.

“So what are we doing?” he whispers to Cole.

“We’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven.” he whispers back.

“Okay.” he says.

He watches a bunch of teenagers look at the people they hope it lands on as they spin, and watches couple after couple go off into closets and bathrooms and cone out disheveled.

At some point, it becomes Lucie's turn.

Lucie spins the bottle, and he watches it spin until-

Oh no.

The other kids are cheering, and Cole’s patting Will on the back. Lucie blushes and smiles at him. 

Apparently, nobody else can see the panic on his face.

“I- I don’t know…” he says, trying to get out of it without outing himself or being mean.

"Come on, man! Lucie’s cute! Go get 'er, tiger!" the boy to his left says. He realizes that there's no way to get out of this without someone getting hurt, whether him or someone else, and he grits his teeth and gets ready to grin and bear it.

“Alright, Will, come on.” Lucie says, walking over and offering her hand. His heart’s pounding as he takes it and gets up, following her to a nearby closet on shaking legs.

She holds the door open for him, and he goes inside, much to the cheering of his peers. Once Lucie comes inside and shuts the door, they stand about six inches apart in the dark space, the only sound their breathing, Will's racing heart, and the party in the other room.

"Hi." Will says awkwardly.

"Hi." she laughs back.

Before he can say anything else, she steps closer, flattens her hands against his chest, and presses their lips together. He stands frozen as she kisses him, and after a moment, he takes hold of her shoulders and gently pulls her away.

"What’s wrong?" she asks, looking upset, her brown eyes wide and vulnerable.

"Lucie, I'm so sorry. I don't like you like that. I can't like you like that." he says.

"Oh. I'm sorry." she says, turning away from him as best she can in the small space. "I didn't even ask. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have kissed you and I shouldn't have thought you'd like me back. I'm so sorry, Will."

Upon hearing her sniff, clearly trying not to cry, Will panics. "Hey. No, no, no, it's not your fault. I-" he hesitates, debating on whether to say it. "Lucie, I don't like girls." he says. His kiss with Lucie confirmed what he already knew: he's definitely not attracted to girls. It feels concrete now. He’s gay. "It's nothing to do with you."

"What?" she says, obviously surprised. "You’re- you're gay? It really isn't because of me?"

"Really! You're funny and smart and sarcastic and pretty, and if I were straight, I'm sure I'd like you, but I'm not!"

"Thank you." she says. She wipes her eyes and clears her throat. "You being gay… makes a lot of sense, actually. Are we still friends?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we are." Will says, his own eyes misting up. This is the first time he's ever said it out loud.

"Can I offer some advice? As a friend?" she says after a few moments of silence.

"Sure." he says, managing to get the word out around the lump in his throat.

"Don't tell anyone. I know they say California is the best place for gays, but that’s San Fran or Fresno, not Lenora. If you told anyone… God, I don’t even want to think about it. You would be in danger."

"I know. I'm not going to." Will says. "You’re the first person I've ever told."

"I'm honored." she says. "And, like, for the record, I'm okay with it. With you."

"Thank you." he says. If you asked him, he would deny it, but he’s about to cry of happiness.

She looks at her watch. "Okay, it's been almost seven minutes. Want to say we made out? Keep your cover?"

"You would do that?" he asks.

"Duh. We're friends." she says, rolling her eyes and smiling like it’s obvious.

He nods. "Okay. Thank you."

She winks at him and opens the closet door.

Which reveals two teenagers crouched by the keyhole.

Oh, fuck.

They both stand up from their position and walk backwards, one with malice in his eyes as he looks at Will, the other with fear. Will realizes that they both know.

Lucie walks over to the game and starts talking about what they supposedly did in the closet and Will tries not to run. The kids who were listening, who know his secret, stop looking at him and go back over to the game. Once he’s sitting on the floor near Cole again, he watches them take their spots, and his heart stops when they start whispering to the people around them, who immediately look at Will with surprise, fear, and most prevalently, disgust.

Everybody’s going to know.

He had finally shaken the rumors, been known as just another straight boy, not had to worry about ending up dead in a ditch because he was a fag, but now they aren’t even going to be rumors. He actually confirmed it. They heard him confirm it.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.” Will says, getting up abruptly. He doesn’t want to be here when everyone in the room knows. He’s genuinely, actually afraid.

He leaves, and once he’s outside, he runs the whole way home.

El and his mom are in the living room, and he hears his mom ask what he’s doing home, but he doesn’t answer, running up the stairs and locking himself in the yellow room. He can’t breathe. Everyone’s going to know, he’s going to be a target, he’s going to get killed, he’s going to be hated, he’s going to he’s going to he’s going to-

Will looks around for something sharp to dull the panic, but he can’t find anything. After a minute of searching, he digs through his backpack and pulls out a pencil sharpener, which he quickly pulls the plastic off of until the blade that shaves the wood off of the pencil tip is the only thing left in his hand.

He drives it into his wrist until there’s only a little sliver of metal to pull it out with, which he does over and over until his wrist has dozens of deep cuts that are deep enough that the skin isn’t stitching itself back together.

Will watches himself bleed, and it’s helped a little bit, but not enough, never enough. That’s when he gets an idea.

He pulls down his pants until the middle of his thigh is exposed, at which point he starts carefully carving with the sharpener. Once he’s done, he pulls back and admires his work, blood and tears mixing on his skin and on his clothes.

He sobs once, twice, three times, his shoulders shaking as he looks at the word that’s carved deep enough into his skin that it feels like it’s almost as deep as the shame from it.

'Faggot.'

-

After Will’s cried for a while and patched himself up, he takes a shower and goes to bed. He gets even less sleep than usual, an hour and a half haunted by dreams of bullies and fathers, all doing what they did to him because of his perceived sexuality. 

He lies in bed for hours upon waking, unable to force himself to get up and face a school that’s going to be full of whispered rumors about him.

A few minutes before it’s time to go, El comes and knocks on the door, telling him to get up, and after a minute, he does. On top of being thought of as dumb by the other kids at school, now she’s going to be the fag’s sister, and he can’t let her face the repercussions of his actions. He has to man up and face the music. He was stupid to tell Lucie, and he was stupid to tell her in such a public place. It was his mistake. Nobody but him should have to pay for it.

He feels dazed as he gets ready, and he doesn’t even flinch like usual as they turn corners in Argyle’s van on the way to school. What does it matter if they crash? As long as his siblings and Argyle ended up okay, he’d be fine with it. He’s going to end up dead anyway. People like him don’t live long between AIDS and hate.

They get to school, and as he walks through the halls, he can feel eyes on him and hear whispers. He can only pick out parts of conversations, but what he’s hearing isn’t good. People are moving out of his way in the hallways, clearly going out of their way to not touch him. He keeps his head down. Maybe if he keeps himself out of the way enough, they’ll forget about him.

In first period, despite assigned seating, most of the desks around him are empty, the people in his immediate proximity gone to sit with friends across the room. He keeps his head down.

Before second period, he goes to the bathroom and stands in front of the sink, bowing his head in front of the mirror. Will remembers that he hasn’t taken his four medications yet today, so he takes off his backpack and digs through it until he finds the backup supply he keeps with him.

As he pops the pills into his mouth and washes it down with water from his cupped hand from the faucet, someone speaks.

“Let me guess. Medication for your disease?” a male voice asks from behind him.

Will whips around to find the source, and sees a tall blond boy leaning against the wall and watching him.

“W- what disease?” Will stammers.

“Seriously? You’re gonna pretend that you don’t know?” the boy sneers.

Will just looks at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“You’re taking medication for your AIDS.” the boy says with a mean, mocking smile.

“I- I don’t have- I don’t have AIDS.” Will gets out.

“You’re a queer, aren’t you? All queers have AIDS. It’s the disease of the fags.”

Will tries not to cry, and blinks tears back into his eyes.

“I don’t have AIDS, okay?” he manages.

"Come on. Look in the mirror. It makes sense. You’re a faggot, and you have the symptoms. Just admit it."

"What- what symptoms?" Will asks.

"You keep twitching. Anyone looks at you long enough, they can see it."

"I'm not a fag. I don't have AIDS." he says, his voice coming in a hoarse whisper as he struggles to contain himself and his emotions.

The boy moves forward quickly, grabbing Will by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the grimy bathroom wall. "Your kind aren't welcome here in Lenora. But I'm going to cut you a deal: admit to it, and I won't rough you up too bad."

"Admit to what?" he asks. He isn't sure whether it's in defiance or fear.

The boy leans in, their faces only inches apart, one with an expression of malice, the other with one of pure terror. "Say it. Say you're a dirty little faggot, that you're a sick, disgusting son of a bitch that deserves whatever he gets. Say it."

Will shakes his head, tears welling in his eyes.

The boy pulls him forward and slams him back against the wall, causing the back of Will's head to hit the wall hard, producing a sickening thud. “Say it and I'll let you go. Come on."

Will takes the opportunity to lift up his foot and kick the boy in the stomach. When he lets go and staggers back from the pain, Will grabs his bag and runs as fast as he can.

He runs to the front office and catches his breath in a place where there are adults - other kids don't attack when there are adults that can see and/or protect him. 

Will calls his mom and begs her to pick him up. He says he has a headache - it's not a lie; where he hit his head stings pretty bad.

She comes and picks him up, and on the way home, with his forehead pressed against the window in the backseat, he cries.

Chapter Text

A week after everyone at school found out about the secret Will’s kept carefully concealed for years and his life became a living hell, it lets out for a two-and-a-half week holiday break. As Argyle drives Jonathan, El, and Will away from the school, Will feels the tension leave his body. For him, the break isn’t just a break for his brain from schoolwork, it’s a break from the stares and whispers, the snickering as notes are slipped into his locker with death threats, a chance for his body to heal from both the bruises from being hit and the extra cuts to make up for the hellish wreck of emotions he goes through every day.

Plus, it’s El’s first holiday season with the Byers, and he’s excited to share it with her.

When he was younger and Lonnie was still around, they only celebrated Christmas. Despite the fact that his mom (and thus Jonathan and Will by birthright) were Jewish, Lonnie was Catholic, and what he said went. They would go to Mass and do all the stereotypical Christmas activities that Lonnie approved of, and it was fine, but the atmosphere of fear would kind of ruin it. However, after Lonnie left when Will was ten, the holidays changed. The Byers started to celebrate Chanukah and some of the other Jewish holidays as well as Christmas, and Jonathan and Will were given the option of whether they wanted to go to church, synagogue, or neither (Will prefers synagogue and the Jewish holidays, Jonathan doesn’t like either). The holiday season went from a time of stress about being perfect enough to stay safe from Lonnie to a time for fun and spending time with family.

And now, while it was just his mom, Jonathan, and Will, there’s El, and he’s so excited to bring her in on their traditions and make her feel like a real part of their family. He’s decided that he’s going to bring Jon along to find her a present tomorrow morning, then he’ll decorate the house after they get home, and then he’ll hang out with El for the rest of the day.

As Argyle pulls up to the house and lets the Byers kids out, Will lets El out of the back of the van first, then gets out himself. However, as he’s getting out, his vision swims and his legs spasm, causing him to fall hard onto the concrete.

“Will!” he hears from a couple directions. He realizes it’s from Jon and El, Jon from next to the passenger door and El from the walkway of the house.

“I’m okay.” he says, carefully picking himself up. When he looks up, he sees Jonathan looking at him with concern in his eyes and El looking at him in panic. “I’m okay. Seriously.”

He goes into the house and ignores the way that his siblings are following him and watching him like a hawk, probably trying to make sure he doesn’t fall again.

Will feels so ashamed. After months of this, he should be better at keeping his issues quiet - keeping the people around him from knowing anything’s wrong. But, just like he does at everything else, he failed.

He tries to brush it off, though, and pretend that everything’s fine. For the next few hours at home, Will just hangs out and draws while El watches TV, and after he gets bored, he goes upstairs and starts on his homework for the break. He manages to get the math done before he goes to bed and starts the cycle of sleep, nightmares, screaming, blood, short on breath, drawing some more, and then ‘getting up’ for what feels like the millionth time.

In the morning, he goes downstairs and decides to make himself some coffee before making Jon drive him to the store for present-shopping. Will drinks two cups of black before rinsing his cup. While he dislikes the taste, the bitterness and warmth are enough to temporarily drive away the cold and tiredness set so deep into his bones that he will never be able to shake it entirely - and when it’s black, it doesn’t have any calories, meaning that he won’t get fat(ter). In the end, drinking it is a win-win.

After his cup is clean, he gets some water, goes and retrieves the pills from upstairs, and takes them after a moment of hesitation. He hates them. But, in the end, taking them is the only good option. At least the numbness distracts, and taking them makes his mom and therapist happy.

After he’s done with his ‘breakfast’, he goes and wakes up his brother. “Hey, Jon. Jon. Wake up. Can we go to the store?”

“Whht’re you doing in my room?” Jonathan slurs, half-asleep.

“Getting you up. We should go shopping for gifts before the lines get too long.”

“‘Kay, just lemme wake up…” Jonathan says sleepily.

Will goes into the living room, leans his head back, and closes his eyes as he waits for Jonathan. After about fifteen minutes, during which Will’s been slipping in and out, Jonathan comes out of his room, dressed and ready to go but still bleary-eyed.

“I’m gonna have a piece of toast before we go. Have you already eaten?” Jonathan asks.

“Yeah, I did.” Will lies. He’s always been a good liar (to everyone except Mike), but God, he’s gotten damn near flawless with it with hiding this stuff.

“What did you eat?” Jonathan asks, and it could pass for casual interest or curiosity, but with a look at his brother’s face, Will realizes that he’s under scrutiny.

“I had an egg and a piece of toast.” Will says.

“Hm.” Jonathan says. He sniffs at the air. “I don’t smell any food. And I don’t see any dishes.”

“I ate a while ago, and I cleaned up after.” Will says as smoothly as he can with his heart pounding like it is. If this kind of questioning becomes common as he loses more weight, he’ll need to think of different meals to claim that he’s eaten and make falsely-dirty dishes. He can’t get caught. Not only would they make him stop, but it would make him more of a burden - plus they would think he was weak and a failure and too messed up to bother with. He can’t get caught.

“...Okay.” Jonathan says after a moment, apparently accepting Will’s statement. He starts on his own breakfast as Will breathes a sigh of relief.

Before Will’s able to half-drift off again, Jonathan’s done, and they’re on the way to the store in the Pinto. Jonathan half-heartedly hums along to the music on the radio as Will looks out the window quietly.

After three songs, they’re at the store, and Will looks around, almost overwhelmed at what to get his family members. He decides to paint something for his mom and get Jonathan a book of photography he saw the other day at a combined book- and art-store, which means that today’s trip to the store is just to get El’s gift. Will thinks for a moment before getting an idea.

“Come on, Jon. I have an idea.” Will says.

He drags his brother over to the makeup part of the store. He’s seen El admiring the way that some of the girls around Lenora do their makeup, and he thinks that some starter makeup would be a gift that she would like.

He starts looking around in the aisle, trying to find some that would work for El. Unfortunately, he’s so invested in his quest that he doesn’t hear someone else walk into the aisle.

“Hey, Will!” he hears. He shoots up and looks nervously at Angela and her boyfriend, Jake, who just walked over, before looking at the ground.

“Um… hi.” he says. He knows that something bad’s about to happen, and he’s afraid, but he doesn’t know what exactly the bad thing is.

“Buying makeup for yourself? I mean, I knew it was a favorite of your people, but I guess I didn’t think you’d be so obvious about how much of a freak you are.” Jake laughs.

“Oh, Jake, don’t be mean! Here, I’ll help you. You’re gonna want the boldest colors that you can, so that way it’ll be obvious that you’re a faggot. Now-” she says, pulling random products off the shelf and shoving them at Will, who hasn’t said a word.

“Hey, what the hell?” Jonathan says from behind him. Will had almost forgotten he was there. One glance at him shows how pissed off he is, and Will braces himself for hell to rain down upon them.

“Oh, I was just offering my friend here some help. Don’t worry about it, mister.” Angela says with a fake smile.

“He’s my brother, and I doubt you’re his friend. What is wrong with you?”

“Jon, let it go.” Will mutters.

“No! You’re a little-”

“Jon!” Will barks. 

Jonathan turns to look at Will in shock at his tone before turning back to Angela and Jake. “I think you should leave now.”

Angela turns giggling to Jake, who takes her hand as they walk away across and out the store.

The second they’re out of sight, Jonathan turns back to Will. “Who the hell were they?”

“Just some kids from school.” he mumbles, putting back the makeup that Angela had shoved at him, grabbing the four products that he had been eyeing before Angela showed up, and starting to walk away.

“Will- hey, no, stop.” Jon says, jogging to match Will’s pace and stopping him with a hand to his shoulder. Will turns to look at his brother. “Have- have kids been like that all year?” he asks.

“It’s not a big deal, okay? Everything’s fine. Just forget it.” Will says.

“No, it’s not okay. If kids are being mean to you-”

“Stop!” Will says, much louder than he intended before going back to a quieter tone. “Just… just stop. Everything is fine, and I have it under control. Let it go.” Will says, trying to hide the lump in his throat and the tears in his eyes by looking at his shoes.

“Will…” Jonathan starts.

“Please just forget it.” Will says, and it obviously sounds more desperate than he intended, as Jonathan looks at him scrutinizingly for a moment before nodding.

“Okay. I’m gonna drop it for now, but I’m not gonna forget it.” Jonathan says.

“Fine.” Will says. The second his back is to his brother as they walk to the checkout, he subtly wipes his eyes and sniffs once to make sure that it’s not obvious how much it really hurts him.

They check out without a word, and the silence continues as Jon drives them home.

The brothers pull up to the house and Jonathan stops the car, but before Will is able to get out, Jonathan stops him. “I’m sorry, we need to talk about this.”

“Why?” Will asks. He knows he sounds like a brat, but he really doesn’t want to talk about this.

“Because I’m worried about you! You’ve been acting weird for months! I hear you screaming in the middle of the night! You’re losing so much weight, you’re practically skin and bones! You aren’t eating or sleeping or smiling, and now I find out that kids are treating you like shit! I’m your brother and I love you, and it’s my job to look out for you!” Jonathan says loudly.

“Really?” Will spits, turning to him with anger bubbling in his stomach and in his words. "You’re so worried, but this is the first time you’ve brought it up? You hear me screaming every night, but you haven’t come and checked on me once? You’re so worried about how I’m not eating and sleeping and smiling, but you’ve never asked me how I’m doing once since we moved? Sorry I haven’t been ‘normal’ and ‘perfect’, Jonathan! Sorry I haven’t been smiling and eating and sleeping and making friends! I forgot that I had to perform happiness like a goddamn court jester for someone that would rather be off getting high than even bother to look at me unless I’m telling you that dinner’s ready!”

As soon as the ugly mess of words leaves his lips, Will regrets it. He sits in silence for a moment, thinking about what he just said. “Jonathan, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” Jon says. He looks straight ahead before shaking his head and sighing. “Truth is, Will, I’ve been having a hard time since we moved, and I’ve been trying to drown my problems in weed. I know I’ve been a crappy brother lately. I know I haven’t been there for you as much as I should. But I’ve been trying to work through my own stuff. And while that’s not a good excuse, I’m trying. I love you, man, and no matter what I’m working through, that doesn’t change. If you need me, I’m here for you, whether that means someone who listens or someone who beats the shit out of those little assholes. I always will be.”

“I’m always here for you, too, Jonathan.” Will says, trying to think of what else to say. “And it’s okay. I get that we both have stuff to deal with, and we work through it in different ways. Do whatever you have to. I love you too, and while I appreciate that you’re there for me, I don’t need anything.”

Will sees Jonathan open his mouth to question, but he cuts him off. “I’m serious. You work through your problems in your way, I work through mine in my way. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I really am fine. Everything’s okay. I don’t need to be looked out for, and if I do, I’ll tell you. I’m trusting your judgment on your life, and I need you to do the same for me. Okay?”

Jonathan nods after a pause. “...Okay. Promise you’ll tell me if you need help?”

“I promise.” Will lies. He starts to feel guilty about lying before he remembers how much of a burden he is, about how much more of one he would be if he confessed everything to Jonathan right here, right now. This is better for both of them.

“Alright, let’s get Jane’s gift all wrapped and ready.” Will says, changing the subject.

As Will places the makeup into a box and wraps it, he questions whether or not Jonathan’s actually forgiven him. Maybe he’s still mad. Maybe he sees the filth under Will’s skin, the anger that he’s buried as far down as it’ll go - but also the anger that seems to be showing more and more as time goes on. Maybe he sees that deep down, Will’s just like Lonnie, and maybe he hates Will for it.

God, he hopes not.

To alleviate the guilt, he goes upstairs and does a few cuts over his ribs and stomach. After they’re done bleeding, he goes back downstairs and sits on the couch.

Soon enough, El comes in and sits down next to him. “What will we watch?” she asks.

Will smiles at how much better she is at English than a few months ago. “I don’t really mind. You go ahead and choose.”

She flips through the channels for a minute before putting it on M*A*S*H.

Will’s head shoots up, and he looks in panic at the TV, where the theme song has started playing. His heart’s stopped, and as he stares at the screen, his breathing starts coming in short bursts and his hands start to shake.

“I- I’m sorry, I have- have to go.” Will stammers, getting up as fast as his shaking legs will let him and walking as fast as he can to the stairs. He probably looks stupid, but he- he just can’t. He can’t stand it. The theme song, the voices of the characters… he just can’t.

Once he’s upstairs and in his room, he quickly shuts and locks the door before pressing his back to it and sliding down, putting his face in his hands as he tries to keep his breathing regular.

He sits there for a while in a crouched position, with his shoulders shaking as he tries to keep from crying for the second time today. It’s just a TV show. He shouldn’t have this much of a reaction. What’s even wrong with him? It’s just a show. Just a bunch of actors reading off a script. It’s not a big deal. He shouldn’t be acting like this. He shouldn’t be afraid. He should be able to breathe and be okay. He should be normal.

But then again, as the kids in school make clear daily and Angela and Jake pointed out today, he’s not normal. He’s never going to get to be normal. Maybe his dumb reaction is just his brain demonstrating that they’re right.

Everybody in his life has always been right about him. Lonnie, Troy and James and the other kids in Hawkins, the kids here… everyone’s always been right.

He thinks about it, and after a minute, he comes to a sickening realization: they were right when they said that he shouldn’t have ever come back, that he should’ve stayed dead when the Upside Down got him. If they’re right about how much of a freak and a fag he is, they’re right about that, too. Besides, even Will knows it, deep down.

Will thinks about the future. He’s never going to get a happy ending. People like him don’t. And besides, with how much he hates himself, with how much he’s miserable, with how he feels and thinks, with how messed up he is, he’s never going to be happy.

He should’ve stayed dead. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a time machine, so there’s only one other logical option: course-correct.

Will gets up from the door with a blank face and rigid body language, walks over to his desk, sits down, gets out a piece of paper, and starts writing in his neatest handwriting.

To my family and friends -

If you’re reading this, I’m dead.

After the holidays are over, after he’s waited a few months to make sure that things really aren’t going to get better and after he’s made a foolproof plan and said goodbye, he’ll carry out what should’ve happened years ago. He doesn’t know how or when, but he’s going to end his misery and kill himself.

As Will keeps writing the first draft of his suicide note, his expression goes from pained and sad to determined. He’s going to do this. He’s going to make everyone’s lives better and give himself the peace that he probably doesn’t deserve but hopes to get anyway. He’s going to die.

In the background, he can hear his sister laughing, his mom working, and the TV playing that cursed program. For a moment, he worries that someone’s going to walk in, realize what he’s doing and get worried, but then he remembers that apparently, his family can hear him screaming in the night and don’t care. Nobody’s going to come in. And, even if they do, he can just say he’s doing homework. Nobody’s going to read into it. Jon doesn’t care, El doesn’t understand, and his mom doesn’t have time.

He’s alone. Nobody cares. And while that hurts, at least nobody can stop him.

One way or another, William Jacob Byers is going to end up six feet under.

Chapter Text

“Okay, one more time. We can do this.” Will says. He and El sit across from each other on the kitchen floor, both cross-legged and watching the dreidel that won’t cooperate no matter how much they try.

El takes a deep breath before picking it up and spinning it again… and it lands on gimmel. Which means that Will’s lost all of his coins.

“Noooooo!” he cries dramatically, making a show of flopping over and pretending to cry.

El laughs. “I get your choc-o-late coins?”

“Yep. Stealing all my money, I see how it is.” Will complains jokingly. El smiles as she grabs the coins and brings them over to her pile.

“So this is drei-del?” she asks, sounding out the word.

“Yep!” Will says. “Back when studying the Torah was illegal - like, way back - they would have parts of it painted onto dreidels so that the soldiers would think that they were gambling instead of being Jewish.”

“We are Jewish?” she asks.

Will pauses. “Well, that’s… that’s complicated.”

“Explain?” she requests.

“Okay. Um, with our family, because Lonnie and his side of the family was Christian and Mom’s Jewish, it’s more up to personal preference, because we have a right to both because of our parents. I’m Jewish, just like Mom, and Jonathan doesn’t do either Christianity or Judaism.”

“What am I?” she asks.

Will tries to think. “Well… I don’t know what religion your birth parents were, and I don’t know what religion Hopper was, so I don’t know your birthright. But you’re part of our family and one of us, and I think that means you can be either Christian or Jewish. But you can be whatever you want to be, El. If you wanted to be… I don’t know, Buddhist? If you wanted to be a religion, we’d support you. It’s all your choice. It’s your relationship with God, not ours.”

El looks deep in thought for a moment. “I want to be like you. I want to be Jewish.” El says. “Can we play again?”

“Um… well, being Jewish is more than just being like me and playing dreidel. I think you should go to synagogue with me before you make any decisions. But I really love it, and maybe you will too.” Will says.

“When do you go to sy-na-gogue?” El asks.

“I go on shabbat- Saturday, I mean. Usually afternoon services. I don’t go as often as I should. Only every one or two months. But I do love being Jewish. The community, the beliefs, the connections, the traditions… it’s so awesome. It feels like home.” Will says.

“It feels like home?” El repeats, looking at him curiously.

“Yeah. It feels… I don’t know how to put it. It feels safe and warm and familiar. You know?” he says.

“Like Hop. And you. And Joyce and Jonathan.” El says.

“Exactly. Honestly, people always feel more like home than places. To me, anyway.”

“Mike feels like home.” she says. “And so do our friends.”

Will’s heart breaks, just a little. Not just that he misses his friends, but that Mike is hers, not his, no matter how much he wishes.

She must see how his expression goes from content to a little bit sad, as she begins to get upset. “Did I not say it right? How did I say it wrong?” she says, going from smiling and a little wistful to her eyes misting and chin wobbling.

“No, no, it’s okay. Just missing our friends.” Will says, immediately trying to fix it. “Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry, El, I’m gonna start crying, please don’t-” he says. In a panic, he pushes aside the game of dreidel so that he can lean over and hug her. She hugs him back, and they just sit there for a minute, Will’s arms around his sister and his chin on top of her head, keeping her safe.

“Okay.” he says, withdrawing once he knows she isn’t crying. “You said you wanted to play again?”

“Yes.” she says.

“You're gonna have to give me back some coins. I’m broke. In real life and in the game.” Will says.

“You will give them back later?” she asks.

Will decides to save an explanation of credit, interest, and personal finance for another day.

“Yep! Let's play!” he says.

El takes her turn, but when he grabs the stem, his hand starts shaking and spasming, and he drops it.

“Shit.” he mutters under his breath as he tries to control his right hand. It keeps balling into a fist before relaxing again, all the while shaking.

Will grabs his right hand with his left to stop the shaking and sits back. “Hey, how about you spin for me?” he suggests.

El looks at him with concern. “Will? You are alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. You spin for me, okay?”

“...alright.” El concedes, spinning the dreidel.

“Having fun?” asks a voice behind Will. He turns around and sees his mom leaning against the counter and watching.

“Yes! Will is teaching me dreidel!” says El.

“That’s great, hon. Will, can I talk to you for a second?” she says.

Will’s heart starts hammering. “Sure.” he says. He turns to El. “You okay playing for me for a few turns?”

She nods, and he gets up and goes over to his mom. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s okay. I just wanted to check in with you.” she says.

“About what?” he asks.

She gently grabs his wrist and extracts his still-seizing right hand from his folded arms. “What’s going on with this?” she asks.

“With the shaking?” he asks cautiously. He doesn’t want to reveal his activities with sharps unless he has to, and because he’s painted over the marks today, they aren’t visible, so the shaking is most likely. He still wants to make sure. Can't be too paranoid prepared.

“Yeah. I noticed it’s been happening a lot lately. What’s up with that?” she asks gently.

Will debates before deciding to tell the truth. “The, uh, the medications… they triggered something called tardive dyskinesia, according to the therapist. It means I move and shake and stuff without meaning to and I can’t control it.”

“How long has this been going on?” she asks.

“Since about a week after Thanksgiving.” he says.

“Will- Will, that was a month ago. Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, frustration and concern beginning to leak into her tone. “I’m your mom. If something’s wrong, I’m here to help.”

“You’re busy. I don’t wanna be a bother.” he says.

“You aren’t a bother. You’re never going to be a bother. You’re my kid and I love you, and you can come to me.”

He doesn’t believe her at all. He knows she’s lying. He’s worthless. Just a burden.

“I love you too.” he says instead.

After a minute, she exhales. “Okay. Is there any kind of treatment we can do? Take you off the meds, get you on some different ones… do you know?” she asks.

“I already asked. There’s not any real, solid treatment. Going off the meds won’t help. She gave me a prescription for sedatives that we picked up last pharmacy visit. Said that might reduce the symptoms. But… yeah, they aren’t gonna go away.”

She moves her hand from his arm to his cheek and tears start to form in her eyes. “Honey… I’m so sorry. But why didn’t you tell me? That’s a lot to deal with alone. You’re gonna snap one day.”

“It’s fine. I can handle it. Besides, I already snapped.” he says.

“The-” she pauses. “Was that why you- the vending machine at school?”

“Yeah, it was.” he admits. “I really am sorry about that. It just felt like one thing on top of the other and I just lost it.”

“Will- Will, you never told any of this to me. I could’ve helped.”

“You have enough on your plate. I don’t want to be a burden.” he says quietly.

She leans forward and hugs him. “You can’t keep holding this stuff inside. If something comes up, you tell me, okay?”

No, he won’t. He’d rather die.

“Okay. Love you.” he says, only the latter being true.

“Love you too.” she says, giving him a concerned look. “And actually tell me if something’s wrong. I know you won’t, but you should. I’m here if you need me. Always.”

“Okay, I will.” he lies. “And I’m here for you too.” At least that part’s true.

She looks sad and rests her hand on his cheek again. “Don’t be. You’re fourteen. I’m the grown-up. Let me handle problems, okay? Have fun being a kid.”

Will half-smiles, and he hopes only he knows it’s a fake. After all he’s been through, he can handle more than what everyone gives him credit for. If he can handle being possessed, he can handle this tardive dyskinesia and mental health crap.

“Okay.” he says.

“Okay. Now go have fun with your sister.” she says with a pat on the cheek and a sad smile.

He goes over and loses all his money to El (again) over the next hour, after which they all eat dinner (Will makes it through with only six bites eaten before excusing himself) and he heads to bed.

In the night, he wakes up twice from nightmares and goes back to sleep each time, which is quite unusual. Around four in the morning, about an hour after one of the dreams ended and he went back to sleep, he’s woken up by El standing over his bed (a welcome difference from the nightmares, but still terrifying) and staring at him.

“Ohmygod!” Will yelps as he shoots up. 

El just continues looking at him, almost reminiscent of a cat the way her wide eyes glint and reflect the light of Will’s nightlight. “It is Christmas Eve.”

Will exhales heavily. “God, don’t scare me like that!”

“It is Christmas eve. I want to decorate and bake and get Santa.”

“Get- get Santa.” he asks, still trying to get over the fact that she’s not a demon come to drag him to hell, just his weird sister.

“Yes. I want to meet him.” she says.

“Why would you want to meet Santa?” he asks.

“I have questions.” she says. 

Will isn’t sure of whether or not she’s aware of how intimidating that sounds.

“Um… alright then.” he says as he swings his legs over the bed and gets up. He quickly pulls on a sweater once he’s up, trying to ignore the miniature anxiety attack as he’s painfully aware of the exposed scabs and fresh scarring coating his arms with no paint or clothing to hide it from his sister. He hopes that she didn’t notice with the darkness of the yellow room. “Okay, cool. You want breakfast?” he asks.

“Eggos.” she says immediately.

“How about I make some waffles that aren’t, you know, toaster waffles?”

“I like Eggos.” she says. “I like toaster waffles.”

“Yeah, but regular waffles are super good too. I’ll even make chocolate-chip ones.” he says.

“Chocolate chip waffles?”

“Yep. Best kind. Come on, I’ll make you some.”

Will makes El the chocolate chip waffles, puts three on her plate, and makes some more that he puts in the fridge for later, when and if his brother and mother want some. As she’s munching, he cleans up before sitting down at the table and smiling as he watches her eat.

She pauses. “You are not having any?”

“Nah, I’m okay. I'm glad you like them.” he says.

She pauses again, before trying to move her plate over to him. “Have a chocolate chip waffle.”

“What- no, El, I'm good. Besides, there are some in the fridge if I want them later. You eat it.”

She takes it back and looks at it forlornly. “You should eat.”

“I'm good, I already said. Don't worry.”

“You should eat.” she repeats. “You are small. I see your bones. You should eat.”

He tries to think through the panic. “You can see my bones?”

“I can see your bones. Your arms are small. You are smaller than me and you are taller. You are too thin.” she says earnestly, looking at him with wide, concerned eyes.

He tries to think of an excuse. “El, everything- everything's fine. I've just, um… lost some weight. Not even that much, really. Just a little bit.”

“How much?” she asks.

“How much- how much weight have I lost?” he repeats.

“Yes.” she says.

He tries to do the math. Last summer when he went to the doctor, he was 5’3” and 124 pounds… last he checked about a week ago he was 5’5” and 102 pounds… 22? 22 pounds gone in three months and 2 inches taller.

“Only a few pounds. Barely past 20. It's not that much. Besides, boys need less body mass than girls. It's healthy, El. Just lost a bit of weight because of stress. I'll gain it back soon enough.” he says, one excuse after another. He hopes she doesn’t see through.

“Okay. Still eat. Waffles are delicious.” she says.

Will grimaces but slaps on a smile. “Okay, I’ll heat some up for myself.”

He takes one from the fridge, then a second upon seeing El’s look. He pops them in the microwave and watches them spin, trying to ignore both the sinking feeling in his gut and the way that his mouth is watering with the promise of food. This isn’t worth the calories, but El can’t get worried.

Will brings his two waffles over on a plate to the table, where El's waiting. He starts to force them down his throat, though after the first few bites, he just devours it, his growling stomach taking control over his brain. 

Once he’s done and he leans back, his stomach still not full enough despite how disgusted his brain is, he looks over at El, who is smiling. “See? Good waffles. You were hungry.”

“Yeah, I guess I was.” Will concedes. “Chocolate chip waffles are pretty darn good.”

“Bitchin.” she says.

“Bitchin.” he agrees.

He rinses both their plates and ignores the guilt in his stomach alongside the food as she continues sitting at the table. “So what’s the plan for today?”

“Food and decorating.” she says.

“So you want to bake things and decorate the house?” he asks.

“Yes.” she says.

“Alright, we can do that.” he says.

Will gets out the tree from the garage as well as the bins of ornaments and other decorations, and he sets them in the living room to set up with his family later.

“Alright. It’s kind of a tradition that we do it together, so we’ll wait for Mom and Jon, but in the meantime we can bake.” he says.

Throughout the next six hours, from 5 to 11 in the morning, they bake and decorate three dozen cookies, two gingerbread houses, and Will starts to prepare Christmas dinner for tomorrow. Eventually, his mom comes downstairs.

“Morning, Jane. Morning, Will.” she says.

“Good morning!” Will says.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“We are making food.” El says.

“Need any help?” his mom asks.

“Could always use another taste-tester.” Will says.

They spend about two hours after that talking as they continue working, everything from school and work to random interests.

“The Beatles are a good band. You should listen to them.” his mom says.

“Yeah, the Beatles are good. Amazing music. When I was younger it used to make me cry.” Will agrees.

“Why?” El asks.

“Um, just some of the lyrics would make me tear up. But they’re fantastic. You really should listen to them.” he says.

“What lyrics?” she asks.

“Hm…” he says, trying to think of some. “Yesterday…” he sings. “All my troubles seemed so far away… now it looks as though they’re here to stay… Oh, I believe in yesterday… Suddenly… I’m not half the man I used to be… there’s a shadow hanging over me… oh, yesterday came suddenly… Why she had to go, I don’t know, she wouldn’t say… I said something wrong, now I long for yesterday… Yesterday… Love was such an easy game to play… Now I need a place to hide away… Oh, I believe in yesterday…”

Will hums the outro before finishing and having the embarrassment hit him like a truck. He just sang in front of other people. It was probably off-key and horrible and he probably messed up the lyrics-

El and his mom start clapping. He feels himself turn red as they smile at him.

“You have a nice voice. You should sing more.” El says.

“I would agree with that.” his mom says.

“I don’t know. It’s kind of weird for a guy to sing. Besides, I think my voice sounds a bit weird.”

“If you enjoy something, you should pursue it. Honestly, I think you should find something you enjoy other than art. As amazing as you are at it by yourself, joining a choir or art club or some kind of activity where you could make friends with similar interests would be good for you. Also, for the record, your voice sounds perfectly good and I love listening to you sing.” his mom says.

“I… I’ll look into it.” he says. “El, what music do you like?”

“Madonna.” she says. “The Police.”

“Cool! Madonna’s pretty fun, and The Police are… surprisingly stalkerish.” Will says.

“What other bands do you like, Will?” his mom asks.

“Well, I like a lot.” Will laughs. “Don’t think you have time for all of them.”

“Hm… Top ten.” his mom says.

“Hm, alright. Well, obviously, The Clash is in first place.”

“Obviously.” his mom agrees.

“Second place goes to The Cure. My favorite song by them is ‘Boys Don’t Cry’, but my second-favorite is ‘Pictures Of You’. Third…” he thinks. “Probably either Queen or Tears for Fears. Fourth, U2 - they’re really good, trust me - and fifth is… probably Led Zeppelin. Then I like some newer bands, too, but I don’t know them as well-”

“Which ones?” his mom asks.

“Well, I like The Smiths and Depeche Mode. I also like New Order and Pet Shop Boys.”

“I think I’ve heard of them, but I don’t know them very much.” she says.

“How about you, Mom?” he asks.

“I like older music like the Beatles and Fleetwood Mac.” she says.

“Oh, I love Fleetwood Mac!” he says. “Do you like Simon and Garfunkel and Pink Floyd?”

“I do!” she says.

“Man, they’re good too. Music is awesome.” he says. “So many good artists out there. I wonder what it’ll be like in fifty years and music’s evolved?”

“Well, you’ll have to visit me in my nursing home or gravestone and tell me.” his mom jokes.

Will wisely chooses not to make a joke about how she’s going to be the one having to talk to his gravestone about music, and sooner rather than later.

“I will.” El says sincerely.

Will laughs at his own joke before he says it. “No, I Will. You Jane.”

That gets several groans as he laughs.

“Alright. I have a few last-minute things to pick up before tomorrow, so I’m gonna go out for a bit. Don’t burn down the house, and don’t get hurt. If you do either, get Jonathan.” she says, standing up from the chair.

“Alright, sounds good. Love you. Have fun.” he says.

“Yes. Bye, Joyce. See you soon.” El says.

“See you soon. Love you two.” she says before walking to the front door and then into the garage.

The second she’s gone, Will turns to El. “No adults home. Guess it’s time to throw a rager of a party.”

“Who would we invite?” she asks. “We have no friends.”

Will chokes on air as he laughs so hard he can’t breathe. “Damn! Don’t call me out like that!”

“Why? It is true.” she defends.

“Mean. I have you.” he says.

“I am your sister, not your friend.” she says. “We do not have friends. Our friends are in Hawkins.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true. But I’m both your brother and your friend. That is a thing.”

“I am your friend and sister, then.” she says after a pause.

“I’m happy to hear it.” he says. “Everything’s out of the oven and finished, so do you want to grab some cookies and watch TV for a bit? When Mom gets home we can hunt Jonathan down and start decorating.”

“Yes.” she says.

They get out plates and place three cookies on each. El sneaks another one, and Will decides to let her (it is Christmas, after all).

They take their plates and go into the living room, where El puts on a show while Will gets a blanket. He chooses the largest one they have, a knit cream-colored one, for them to all cuddle up underneath, and El puts on ‘Mickey’s Christmas Carol’, which has been playing near-constantly since it came out earlier this December.

After they’re under the blanket and nice and warm, El starts eating, and though Will hesitates, he chooses to eat too. He already had waffles today, so the day’s fast is ruined, and he’s gonna eat dinner anyway, so it’ll be fine. He can burn off the calories later.

Will starts eating and immediately smiles. They did good. These are delicious. (Almost) worth the calories.

He watches the TV alongside his sister throughout the entire special before his mom gets home, brandishing several shopping bags and taking off her coat.

“Hey, need some help with that?” Will asks.

“No, just some presents. Gonna go wrap them now.” she says.

“Oh. Need help with wrapping?” he asks.

“No, I’m good.” she says. “Have fun with Jane and I’ll be out so we can decorate in a few, okay?”

“Okay.” he says, settling back into the blanket. “Let me know if you need anything.”

 They watch all the way through ‘White Christmas’ before Jonathan comes out and sits with them, about five minutes before his mom appears. “Okay, who’s ready to decorate?”

“Me!” El says.

“Alright, let’s do this.” he says.

They prop up the plastic tree (that they got when Will was nine because Jonathan had allergies - they would’ve gotten one sooner but Lonnie said the only good Christmas tree was a freshly-cut pine tree), string up lights, and start putting on ornaments.

Will picks up one about halfway through decorating the tree, but with a double tic attack of his face and arm, it’s broken on the floor.

“Sorry.” he mutters, crouching and trying to pick up the shards with still-convulsing hands.

“Will?” his mom asks, crouching next to him. He looks over at her, but once he realizes that he’s still grimacing and pursing his lips repeatedly, he looks back down to the floor.

“Shit.” he curses, flinching back when he cuts his hand on an especially sharp piece.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ll clean it up. Go to the bathroom and bring the first aid kit to the kitchen, okay? I’ll be there in a sec.”

“Okay.” he says, getting back to his feet and going to the bathroom. He grabs the kit and goes back to the kitchen, his cheeks burning. Why does this keep happening at the worst time? It’s so embarrassing.

His mom comes in with a dustpan of shards, which she dumps into the trash before coming over to him. “Are you okay?” she asks gently.

“I’m fine.” he says. “Stupid hands.”

“Was that- is what’s happening right now-” she tries to ask.

“It’s the tardive dyskinesia. This is just what it is. I- I’m sorry, I’m ruining it.” he says.

“Ruining what?” she asks as she bandages his hands.

“The whole day. I thought I could make it a good holiday for Jane, but I keep messing things up, and I dropped the ornament and I ruined that too-”

She stops and looks into his eyes with a determination that’s exclusive to Joyce Byers. “William Byers. You are not ruining everything. Today has been great, and your sister’s been having a lot of fun, in no small part because of you. Even if you broke an ornament - which was because of a medical problem, not your fault - everything’s still going just fine. You didn’t ruin everything. You made it better, just like you make everything else better, too. Once you’re able to, if you want, you can finish decorating with us. Okay?”

“Okay.” he says. He’s too tired and embarrassed to disagree with her other points. “The attack’ll end soon. I’ll be good to go in a minute.”

“Take your time. No rush.” she says. His mom packs up the kit, smiles, and pats his knee. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” he says.

She smiles and leaves to go back out to the living room. He sits there, staring at his stupid shaking hands. He wishes that he was normal. He wishes that he could just deal with his stupid issues without his stupid medication. But he can’t, so he ruins things.

He puts his face in his hands for a few seconds, finding the cold of his skin calming against his warm face, before practice-smiling and going back out into the living room.

“So we have some ornaments to hang?” he asks.

His mom and Jonathan give him concerned looks that say ‘I don’t think you should’, but El smiles and hands him an ornament. “Here. To the left of the tree.” she says.

They finish decorating the tree, and while his family watches another Christmas movie, he places his family’s gifts underneath it before saying goodnight and heading to bed.

He drifts off relatively quickly, which is pretty unusual, with no bad dream setting in as the night starts.

-

The next morning, Will wakes up to El standing over his bed in the middle of the night again. “Ohmygod!” he shouts.

“It is Christmas. There are presents. I want to open them. Come on.” she says.

“I- hnngh. Yeah, okay. One second.” he says, swinging his legs over the bed and immediately seeking out his slippers. He’s glad he wore a long-sleeved shirt to bed. Will figured that El would wake him up early, so he picked clothes that would hide everything but his hands and face.

“Alright. I will get Joyce.” she says, leaving the room, presumably to wake up the rest of the family.

He checks his watch. It apparently isn’t the middle of the night, but 6:15 in the morning, which is still early, but a bit more reasonable than what he thought. He’s honestly a little surprised he didn’t wake up with the nightmares last night, but he’s not gonna complain.

Will leaves the room and goes downstairs, where the tree’s crowded underneath. He looks at it with a swirl of emotions. When he was younger, they were way poorer, and they were lucky to get one or two presents each. He’s glad that they have more money, but he wishes that he could’ve had this when he was younger and would’ve appreciated it more, too. 

“Yes! Come, come, come.” El says, dragging his mom into the living room.

“Morning, Will.” she says, sitting next to him. “You excited?”

He shrugs. “Sure, but I don’t think anyone could beat E- Jane right now.”

She laughs. “Yeah, that seems pretty accurate.”

His mom gets up to make everyone coffee as El drags a half-asleep Jonathan out.

After everyone’s settled, Will, Jon, and their mom with cups of hot coffee, they all go through their stockings. El is more than excited at her candy, makeup, and toys, while his mom and Jonathan go through with much smaller smiles, though still enjoying it. When Will sees all of the candy in his, though, he frowns before fake-smiling again. His has nineteen pieces of candy and some new pencils, some regular writing ones and some drawing. He does like the pencils, so there’s that. He’ll give his candy away to Jon and El in little bits over the next few weeks. He won’t ruin his weight loss.

After that’s done and El has already eaten two pieces of candy (she’s gonna have a hell of a sugar high if she keeps it up), she goes and starts passing out presents.

“Oh! Jane! Give each person a present with each round. That way we can all take turns.” his mom says.

She nods before handing a box to each of them. Will peeks at the tag on his and sees that it’s from Jon and El.

“3… 2… 1… go!” Jonathan counts before ripping into his.

Will takes his apart more gingerly, carefully unsticking each piece of tape and flattening the paper when he’s done before taking the lid off of the box.

“Guys!” he says with delight when he sees a plethora of art supplies. He immediately starts digging through. He now has a sketchbook, watercolor paper, two canvases, a watercolor tablet, new paints, and oil pastels. “This is insane! I love it!”

El smiles a wide, toothy grin at him as Jon leans over and pats him on the shoulder. “Between the two of us, we actually had quite a lot for the art store. I expect a drawing as reimbursement.” Jon says.

“You got it.” Will laughs. “Man, this is awesome.”

“I got posters from Max!” El says with pure joy in her voice.

“Awesome!” his mom says. “I got a lovely picture collection from Jonathan. Thank you, honey.”

“And I got a book of photographs from influential photographers and the stories behind each. Thank you, Will. This is pretty awesome.” Jonathan says.

Will gives a smile to his brother and goes to say something before El interrupts. “Next round!” she cheers.

“Alright!” Will says amongst his family’s chorus of agreement.

They all have envelopes handed to them, and Will smiles to himself. His abuela, his mom’s mom, always gives them a fifty-dollar bill, on birthdays and for the holidays. Some things never change. It’s kind of a relief. She actually used to send it for Hanukkah, but when Lonnie wouldn’t let any mail get to his wife or kids unless it was on Christmas, she started sending it to arrive on the 24th.

He opens it and laughs. “Fifty dollars!”

“Fifty dollars!” Jonathan parrots.

“Fifty dollars!” his mom laughs.

“Fifty dollars.” El says, clearly confused as to why they’re all saying fifty dollars. She holds up her envelope.

Will smiles. He’s so glad that everyone, including his grandmother, has accepted El as a part of their family, even sending gifts despite never meeting her. They should travel to Miami at some point and have the two meet. That would be nice.

“Alright, Round 3.” his mom says.

El goes to hand him a box, but his mom stops her. “Jane, hon, I think Will should open that one last. Why don’t you give him another one?”

She pauses and frowns, setting down the box and grabbing another one. He looks at the tag and smiles. It’s from Max. He misses Max. They weren’t the closest while they were in close proximity, but she’s awesome, and Will genuinely loves being around her. He’s glad she thinks that they’re enough of friends to send him a gift, and he’s glad that he sent her one too.

On the count of 3, they all open theirs, and Will finds a succulent plant in a small handmade pot with a note.

Will-

Hey. Tried to make a pot in art class and it sucks majorly, but I thought you might like it. I also get the vibe that you would like plants, so here’s a succulent in the pot. I named him Bobert. You’re welcome.

Call me soon. I have a letter arriving in the mail in a few days for you, too. Say hi to El.

- MadMax

Will smiles and picks up the plant, bringing it closer to his face so that he can examine it. The pot is blue and glazed, and while a bit misshapen and cracked, he loves it. He loves any kind of flaw in art, but especially these flaws, because they were all made by Max.

He touches the leaf of the succulent and smiles again. It’s fuzzy, elongated, and soft, and the plant clearly had been watered before being sent to him.

“Thanks, Max.” he whispers, and he hopes that she can sense his gratefulness over the miles.

He’s drawn out of his fascination with the cute little plant and its pot by El giggling and spinning. He looks up at her, and he sees her spinning in circles with a black skirt hitting her knees on over her pajama pants.

“Who’s that from?” he asks.

“Lucas. He sent me three.” she gets out between laughs. “Fun to spin in.”

“Nice!” he says.

“Will, honey, thank you so much.” his mom says, smiling wistfully at the canvas sitting in her lap. “I love it.”

He smiles. For his mom, he painted an 11”x11” portrait of her based on one of his favorite pictures of her, where she was sitting with Will in her lap and smiling but too busy to look at the camera.

Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees Jonathan slip a bag of weed into his pocket. He realizes that it’s probably Argyle’s gift. Will shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but does so with a smile.

“Alright. Round 4?” Jon says.

They go through several more rounds. 

His mom gets the painting that Will did, a book of Jon’s photography, a homemade necklace from El, and the fifty-dollar bill.

Jonathan gets the photography book, several reels of new camera film, two button-up shirts, developing fluid for pictures, the weed from Argyle, and fifty dollars.

El’s received makeup, nice stationary, nail polish, new Adidas sneakers, earrings, three skirts, a Rubik’s cube, posters, magazines, and a new blouse from Max, and fifty dollars.

Will’s gotten the most, and he doesn’t feel right about it, even if he loves all of it. He’s gotten the art supplies from Jon and El, comic books from Mike, a recipe book from Lucas along with a note about how he knows that Will likes to cook and should explore that more, colored pencils from Dustin, the succulent and adorable pot from Max, and the fifty-dollar bill from his grandmother.

“Alright, there should be one more, and it should be for Will.” his mom says. He feels a pang of guilt in his stomach at the amount he’s getting.

“There is more than one.” El says.

“What?” his mom asks.

“There are three boxes from-” she checks the tags. “Dad and Lonnie.”

His mom’s expression has gone from peaceful and a bit confused to angry. “How did those even get into the house?”

“I’m sorry, I think it was me.” Jonathan says. “Mail guy dropped a box of presents off, I figured they were fine. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose before scrubbing her hands down her face. “El, could you throw those away, please?”

“They are presents.” she says puzzledly.

“Not good ones. Trust me, we don’t want them. Please just throw them away.” his mom says.

“Okay.” El says, standing up and throwing them away after some hesitation.

“Okay, now there should only be one left.” his mom says.

El brings over a large box to Will, which he opens with the same care as the others. Inside, he finds a Walkman and a ton of cassettes.

“Oh my God!” Will says, immediately pulling out the Walkman and looking through the cassettes. They’re all bands he likes, like the Clash, the Cure, and Fleetwood Mac.

“You’ve been such a good kid this year. I figured since you love music but always just rely on the radio and we have the money…” his mom explains.

“This is amazing!” he says. “Mom! Oh my God, thank you!”

She smiles and finishes her second cup of coffee. “You want another, guys?”

He and Jon both nod. “Alright, be back in a few.” she says.

As she’s gone, he goes through the cassettes one-by-one. There’s the Clash… the Cure… Queen… Tears for Fears… U2… Led Zeppelin… The Smiths… Depeche Mode… New Order… Pet Shop Boys… the Beatles… Fleetwood Mac… Simon & Garfunkel… Pink Floyd… David Bowie… R.E.M…. Echo and the Bunnymen… Talking Heads… Violent Femmes… Duran Duran… and Bauhaus.

Will feels overwhelmed. He’s been given too much. He doesn’t need this. He doesn’t deserve this.

He tries to take deep breaths to keep from crying. What the hell is wrong with him? He just got a ton of stuff that’s awesome and he loves. He shouldn’t be this upset. He’s being stupid.

But he really doesn’t deserve this. Everybody’s being too nice for him. He’s a freak and a fairy and a loser and a person that people end up hurt or dead because. The only thing he deserves is… well, nothing. He doesn’t deserve anything and he’s being given everything. This isn’t right. Someone else should have had all this.

Jon leans over and squeezes his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Will says.

Jonathan sighs. “I’m sorry. I really am. I had no idea that the gifts were from Lonnie. If I knew I would’ve gotten rid of them.”

Will realizes that Jon thinks he’s upset because of Lonnie, not anything else.

“It’s okay.” Will says honestly. “Besides, we shouldn’t let him ruin the day. Otherwise, it’s been pretty good, right?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Jon says. “Anyways, we should clean up some of the paper.”

“Yeah.” Will agrees.

They both get up and start picking up the wrapping, which they put into a garbage bag El brings over at their mom’s instruction.

Once they’re done, Jon takes it out to the garage, and they all take their respective things to their rooms.

Will sets each carefully on his bed before deciding where each goes.

Art supplies and colored pencils go in his art corner.

The comic books and recipe book go on his bookshelf.

The fifty-dollar bill goes into his savings jar on his dresser.

The plant goes on his windowsill, where it can get a lot of light.

And the cassettes… hm.

Will opens one of his nightstand drawers, mostly empty, and takes out its contents (some leftover school supplies). He quickly starts stacking the tapes in groups of five, and when they’re all in, he leans the Walkman against the drawer side.

He moves the school supplies over to his dresser and decides to find a place for them later.

As Will walks back over to his bed, he sees a piece of wrapping paper crumpled on the bedspread. He goes to throw it away in his own trash can, but he decides that he doesn’t want a single scrap of paper to be alone in the basket.

He decides to take it downstairs to throw it away, as it would make him feel better. He goes down, through the living room to the kitchen, but when he goes to throw it away, he stops with a glance in the trash.

Will sees his gift from Lonnie on top of the trash, and it’s just too hard to not take it. Maybe Lonnie’s changed. Maybe he stopped drinking, stopped hanging out with hookers and underage girlfriends and wants to be part of his life again. Maybe he wants to be Will’s dad. And everyone deserves another chance, right? If he really has changed and is trying to reach out, Will can’t just leave it.

With a quick glance around, Will grabs the box and stuffs it under his shirt before hurrying upstairs.

Once he’s safely locked in his room, he unwraps and opens it, at which point he looks at the contents before sighing, closing his eyes, and shaking his head.

Three tubes of opened lipstick, a bottle of lube, a pack of condoms, and a note that reads ‘Bill- For getting fucked by the next faggot who can stand your pussy ass.’

Will slams the lid back on the box and crushes the cardboard with the force with which he shoves it into the trash basket. How could he be dumb enough to think that Lonnie changed? How could he ever believe that there was a bit of good in that man? And above all, after all these years, why does the fact that Lonnie doesn’t love him still hurt so much?

He takes a deep breath and tries to forget about it. His mom was right. Lonnie didn’t mean anything good, and the gifts should have stayed unopened. But he’s not going to let his piece of shit of a father ruin an otherwise-great holiday, so instead of dwelling, he’s going to enjoy his other gifts.

Will puts the Fleetwood Mac cassette into his new Walkman and turns it up as he gets out his new watercolor supplies and starts on a painting.

He paints random streaks onto the paper. He has no idea what this is going to be, but he needs to do something with his hands.

As he works, he nods along to the music, hardly listening until there are some lyrics that resonate with him more than they used to.

‘Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise…’

‘Run in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies…’ That makes Will pause. Isn’t that how he’s felt for years? He’s been stuck in the dark for years, and after so long of having people treat him like shit and putting up with everything just so that he gets their affection, he’s honestly sick and tired of it. He wishes that he could say that to everyone.

‘And if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again…’ Wasn’t that the essence of his and Mike’s fight last summer? Mike wasn’t giving him what he needed, so Will left and stopped asking for Mike’s attention and affection. He really does wish that it had gone differently. He has so many regrets. He misses Mike.

‘I can still hear you saying we would never break the chain…’ He still thinks of ‘Crazy Together’ every day. Wasn’t that their version of never breaking the chain? But in the end, he’s going crazy alone, and Mike’s happy away from him.

‘And if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again…’ Hell, that applies to now, too. He’s hurtling towards his demise, and if the people he loves don’t show him they care now, they’ll never get the chance to.

‘I can still hear you saying we would never break the chain…’ His whole life, Will’s had people tell him that they’re going to keep him safe, not let anything get him. They were all liars. He’s tired of the lies.

‘Listen to the wind blow, down comes the night…’ The night he was taken, the wind was blowing away. It marked the beginning of a new, horrible era for Will. Maybe it was his ‘down comes the night’.

‘Running in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies…’ As angry as he is at people like Lonnie who have hurt him, he still buys their lies and bullshit and craves their affection. As much as he wishes he could say ‘damn your love, damn your lies’ and mean it, he can’t. He always comes crawling back.

‘Break the silence, damn the dark, damn the light…' He’s been on both the side of the Upside Down and against it, and both broke him beyond repair. He can’t even talk about it, either. Stevie Nicks is right, screw both the good and bad guys.

'And if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again…’

‘I can still hear you saying we would never break the chain…’

The rest of the lyrics are repeats of the chorus and singing that the chain should keep them together as they run in the shadows. Even if the lyrics are the same, it still sparks thought.

Once the song’s over, he presses ‘rewind’ and listens to it again.

And again.

And again.

After a little bit of trial and error, he figures out how to loop a song, and he does. He listens to those lyrics over and over and over as he paints, getting lost in the music.

And after sixteen repeats of ‘The Chain’, he sets down his paintbrush and looks at his work. He was so zoned out and focused on the song, he wasn’t even paying attention to what he was painting.

The painting is a road at night, leafless shapes of trees surrounding the watercolor pavement. The moon looms overhead along with dark clouds.

Will thinks that it looks familiar, and after a second, he recognizes it.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. The watercolor is of Mirkwood on the night he was taken. He would recognize it anywhere.

After a second, he picks up the brush and gets some more paint on the bristles. Might as well make it accurate.

He paints three dark shapes onto the paper. The first is a creature, twisted and humanoid, though its features are hidden by the gray and black paint it’s made of. The second is a boy, wearing red and yellow and standing in the road looking back at the creature. Once again, his features are disguised by the color palette. The third is a bike, as warped in the painting as it was when it went off the road in real life and as shadowed as the other figures.

Will gives a broken, bitter laugh. Guess that he can’t even zone out without his trauma being a part of his life somehow.

He looks at the painting. At least the work isn’t too bad. He’s always done well with watercolors.

Will leans the painting against the wall on the back of his desk to dry. He leans back and looks at it with a knot of emotions in his stomach. He feels angry and sad that any of what happened to him happened, and guilty for not being a normal, happy, appreciative kid, and so tired of putting up with trauma after trauma and not even feeling better when it’s over.

He closes his blinds, replaces the Fleetwood Mac cassette in the Walkman with Pet Shop Boys, and lays in his bed staring at the ceiling as ‘West End Girls’, then ‘Suburbia’, then ‘Always On My Mind’ plays. He sighs and closes his eyes before drifting off.

Soon enough. He’ll get what he deserves and get to rest soon enough. Just have to hold on a little longer.

Chapter Text

Since Christmas, Will’s just been floating through his life like he’s an outsider in it. It’s easier that way. If it’s happening to someone else, it doesn’t hurt him as much.

Every single day, he gets called names in the halls, has threats slipped into his backpack and locker, and has his stuff graffitied with slurs and insults. He gets shoved around and ignored, and the kids at school play ‘AIDS’, where if someone touches Will they’ll get AIDS unless they wash their hands within a minute. He’s been beaten up twice and has had his stuff stolen several times. He hates it. He hates himself.

Every single day, he waits for his friends to return his calls and letters. Other than the monthly letter from Lucas and the occasional one from Max or Dustin, none have been. Will is alone and away from all of his friends. Are they even his friends anymore? Now that he’s away from them, have they seen how much happier they are without him, and this is their way of trying to drop him? Will doesn’t know. He wouldn’t blame them if it was true. If he had the choice, he would leave him too.

Every single day, he has to starve himself to keep from getting fat and to stay sane, and he hates that it’s his only option. He carves lines and words into his skin just to feel better and know that he’s getting what he deserves. But no matter what he does to himself, it’s never enough. He could weigh forty pounds, just be skin and bones, have all his blood spilled onto the floor and all the fat on him destroyed, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Every single day, he has to take sixteen pills - four Zoloft, six Xanax, two Risperdal, two Valium, two Zalasta (he had more prescriptions added) - in the hopes of making him better. They don’t. All they do is make him tired and numb.

Every single day, he can’t rest. He lies in bed, and if he’s lucky, he gets three hours of sleep, and even that is plagued with nightmares. The circles under his eyes that are so dark that they make him look younger and more emaciated than he is are proof of how bad it is.

And every single day, he has to pretend that none of this is happening and that everything is fine. He can’t let his smile falter, can’t let his voice crack on the pain, can’t cry or scream or do anything that would suggest that he’s doing anything less than perfectly.

It’s so hard to keep a brave face and not give anything away, so as bad as he feels about it, he’s been trying to avoid everyone. He doesn’t talk to the kids at school or his friends back home. When he’s back at the house with his family, he stays in his room painting or doing homework, avoiding spending time with his family members. That way, he doesn’t have to worry about keeping up the mask 24/7 or letting anything slip.

He’s found an escape in music. The Walkman’s kept him sane in his self-imposed isolation. More often than not, the headphones are over his ears or around his neck, ready to shut out the world if necessary.

Like today. It’s a week after school got back, and while Will’s miserable, he’s found that if he blasts the music loud enough, he can drown out both everyone else and his own thoughts.

He goes through his classes and forces himself to be an outsider as a note with a death threat is dropped onto his desk, forces himself to be an outsider when he’s shoved to the ground as he’s leaving second period, forces himself to be an outsider as rumors are whispered as he passes by.

Will makes it through the first half of the day and lunch before he goes to biology in 6th period. They’re preparing for a dissection next week, so they’re doing packets on proper procedure and lab safety.

He sits at his table, where his deskmate sits as far away from him as possible, ending with the boy squished up against the table leg. It can’t be comfortable, but apparently Will’s scary enough that discomfort is worth it to escape from the scary gay boy.

Will tries to ignore it. He can’t let this affect him. He’s an outsider. This isn’t his life. It can’t hurt if it isn’t his life.

He listens to the teacher as he lectures and works on the packet that was handed out, and even if he can’t listen to his Walkman, he pretends that he’s listening to it, imagining Led Zeppelin playing in his head.

“Alright. Please come turn in your packets and get your new ones.” Dr. Dominick, the biology teacher, says. Will nods to himself and closes his before scooting his chair back.

He stands up and the room spins and he’s f a l l i n g f a l l i n g f a l l i n g-

The world goes dark as he hits the floor.

-

“Will! Will, are you okay?” Dr. Dominick asks, a hand on his shoulder.

Will groans as he sits up, propping himself against a table leg. “Yeah, I’m… I’m pretty good.”

“You passed out. Did you hit your head or anything? Are you hurt at all?” he asks.

“I don’t think so.” Will says.

“Okay. Do you have a low blood pressure condition or a reason for passing out?” Dr. Dominick asks.

“Um… not that I know of.” Will says.

“Okay. When was the last time you ate something? It might be low blood sugar.” he asks.

Will does the math. It was… nine bites of dinner on Sunday. It’s Thursday afternoon now, so… that’s… three and a half days.

“A while.” Will says after a pause that lasted a bit too long.

“Okay. Go to the cafeteria and get some food. It should be the senior’s lunch right now. Be back in-” Dr. Dominick checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes. 1:40. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.” Will says.

Dr. Dominick lowers his voice. “If you can’t afford any, the school has reduced lunch prices if you just ask.”

“Thank you, sir, but I’m okay.” Will says, trying not to let his embarrassment show.

“Alright. Go. Be back at 1:40.” he says, getting off of the floor.

Will stands on shaky legs and walks out of the classroom away from the stares and giggles. Instead of going to the cafeteria, though, he goes and sits on the floor in the boys’ bathroom.

His body is stupid and lacking in self-awareness, he thinks, resting his head on the tile. It keeps acting like something’s wrong with him. The only thing wrong with him is in his head.

The dizziness, the headaches, the cold in his bones, the tiredness like a heavy blanket over him, and now fainting… his body keeps acting like he’s starving. Will isn’t starving. He knows when he looks in the mirror and sees how fat he is, when he steps on the scale that he bought and it still doesn’t read low enough. He has plenty of extra fat on him. Why is his body lying and pretending that he’s starving?

Will takes a deep breath before (slowly) getting up and fighting off the dizziness again. He’s decided to go another day and a half, then eat normally for a day. If he can just make a five-day fast, which should have him lose three or four pounds, he can eat. He can’t be weak and give in, even if he is fainting.

He leaves the bathroom and goes back to class, where he shrinks down in his seat as he tries to avoid the whispers and stares.

The rest of the day, Will gets more looks as usual as the news about him passing out spreads. He wants to cry. He wants to run away from this god-awful place. Above all, he wants to cut. He doesn’t carry around a razor, though, so he has to wait until he gets home.

Unfortunately, for his last class of the day, he has PE, which is with all of the other boys in the grade and the class where he’s messed with the most.

Will gets his gym clothes from his locker and changes in the bathroom (last time he went into the locker room, he left with a black eye and cut on his nose) before going into the gym.

The teacher takes attendance and tells them to go for a run on the track, which surrounds the football field that’s to the left of the school.

Will goes with the rest of his classmates out, but as they all start to run laps, Jake, Angela’s boyfriend and a recurring tormentor, grabs his bicep and drags him behind the bleachers. Will tries to snatch his arm back, but Jake has six inches and seventy pounds on him, easily, and his grip is strong.

“Let go of me!” Will snarls, not even sure if he’s angry or afraid. Jake does, laughing as he drops his hand off of Will’s arm.

“Heard you fainted today, freak. What’s up with that? Side effect of the AIDS?” Jake says with mock pity.

“I. Don’t. Have. AIDS.” Will spits.

He laughs. “Sure you don’t. Everybody knows it. You should stop lying.”

Jake grabs the back of his neck, right over where his connection to the Upside Down is, eliciting a yelp from Will, before pulling him closer so that he can whisper in Will’s ear.

“Speaking of lies, I know the truth about you. Last week when you rolled up your sleeves, those cuts that you do were on full display.” he whispers. Will’s blood runs cold.

“Instead of bothering everyone else, why don’t you chop yourself up some more without doing it for attention for once? Maybe you’ll do everyone a favor and go too deep. Everyone here wishes you were dead. You don’t belong here, and you know it. Just kill yourself. Do everyone a favor. Bet nobody would even show up to your funeral.” he says.

Will tries to hold in the tears welling in his eyes, both at the sensation of the back of his neck being touched so harshly and at the words that hit a bit too close to home.

“Aw, you going to cry? Typical. Queers are always oversensitive, after all.” Jake jeers.

As Jake lets go, walks away, and starts running with their classmates, Will lets the tears fall.

He doesn’t let himself make any noise, though.

No need to be weaker than he already is.

Chapter Text

Will smiles and struggles to contain himself and his excitement as he steps off the scale. It’s been about three weeks since he passed out in biology and two weeks since he joined the school’s track and cross-country teams (the coach saw him run when he was late to class and insisted that Will try out, and he actually made it onto both), and ever since, he’s been stuck, not going below 100 pounds once. But he’s finally broken that threshold, and the scale proclaims ‘98.9 lbs’. He checks twice to make sure he’s not misreading, and checks one more time to make sure that it’s pounds and not kilograms. When he’s sure, he gives a little spin and hop of glee before getting dressed again.

He wonders what to do with the rest of the day. Will had planned to spend it walking around and trying to burn calories through steps, but since he’s broken through the obstacle that’s kept him from being perfect and is back on track, he can take a day of rest for the first time in a while. Maybe he can hang out with one of his family members? His mom’s been trying to take more weekends off, and Jonathan’s been acting a lot nicer. Even if his brother’s distant a lot of the time, he’s been tending to hug Will or pat his shoulder as he walks by. It’s nice. Maybe it’s Jon’s way of staying connected to him. He sure doesn’t mind.

Will’s also trying to be around them more. Ever since he got the news of Mike coming to visit in March, he’s decided on a date for his death, and wants to spend as much time as he can with the people that will (probably) miss him. Even if he has to be careful to not let anything slip, it’s worth it to leave them with good memories after he dies.

Will has a whole plan for his death, too.

Mike comes for Spring Break on Will’s fifteenth birthday. He’s going to spend about a week, and during that time, Will’s going to tell Mike the truth about how he feels using the painting he started working on - probably at the end of the break so that he doesn’t make it awkward between El and Mike when the love he has for his best friend is revealed. And when Mike inevitably rejects him and thinks he’s a freak, Will kills himself the second he leaves to go back home.

He’s even chosen the method: slit his wrists and veins deep enough that he’ll bleed out relatively quickly with a scalpel he stole from the biology lab, take all of his medications and vitamins at once to overdose, and if that doesn’t work fast enough, he’ll hang himself for good measure. Will’s decided that after he’s done all of that and is too close to dying to be saved, he’s going to call 911 on himself, so that trained professionals will be the ones to find his body and try to save him, not his family. He’s enough of a problem. He doesn’t want to traumatize them any worse than they already are.

But he still has about two months before he does that, so in the meantime, he’s going to spend time with his family and give everyone good memories to carry on with.

Will decides to go downstairs and find someone to be around. He walks down the stairs calmly, with the giddy smile that’s been on his face ever since he weighed in the double- instead of triple-digits still on.

As he’s passing the office alcove, he hears his mother and Jonathan’s voices in hushed, urgent whispers, and upon hearing his name, he stays hidden behind the doorframe and eavesdrops instead of alerting them to his presence.

“I’m serious. He needs to go to a doctor, Mom. Something’s wrong.” Jonathan says.

“I know he’s shaking a lot, but he explained that to me-” his mom starts.

“That’s not what I’m talking about, though that freaks me out too. Will’s too thin. Have you touched him recently? Hug him, you can feel his ribs and spine. Squeeze his shoulder, you can feel the bones. He doesn’t have a bit of fat on him, and he’s always been skinny, but this is insane. I’m weak and I could throw him like a sack of flour.”

“He’s grown a few inches. It might be a growth spurt-”

“He’s lost weight. You can see it in his face. His cheeks are so thin. It’s not just weight redistribution. I don’t know what it is, but something’s up. People don’t lose weight for no reason without trying to without there being something seriously wrong.”

“Jonathan, what are you saying?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t know what it is, but something’s not right. I don’t know if it’s a disease or cancer or an eating disorder or what, but something’s wrong, and we need to do something about it.”

Will hears his mom sigh. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. He’s been looking and acting off, and I thought it was just the move, but it’s not getting better. I’m thinking we ask him about why he’s acting odd and why he’s losing weight, and if he doesn’t know and isn’t trying to, we’ll take him to a doctor. Sound good?”

“Anything’s better than doing nothing.” Jon says.

Will turns and runs upstairs as fast as he can to avoid detection. 

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. If he goes to a doctor, everything’s going to come out into the open, and then he’s going to be a burden and a disappointment and everybody’s going to know how much of a messed-up, worthless freak he is- he won’t be able to starve or cut or die-

Okay. Okay, he has to come up with a plan. Obviously, he can’t be like ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m trying to lose the weight, so it’s not coming off for no reason. I’m just starving myself because it makes me feel better. Everything’s fine.’ But if he says he doesn’t know, they’ll take him to a doctor, and they’ll find out.

Will tries to think. Okay. He can tell Jon and his mom that he’s losing weight because he’s stressed from school and because he’s exercising with the track team. And because he’s growing.

Alright, that should cover the first step. What if he still gets taken to a doctor?

Will quickly goes into the bathroom, locks the door, takes off his shirt, and carefully examines himself. His collarbones stick out a lot, as do his ribs, vertebrae, and pretty much every other bone. He’s much paler than his former olive skin - is he too pale? Will that raise eyebrows? - and his hair is thinning and falling out as he loses weight. He’s covered near head-to-toe in scabs, cuts, scars, and carved words as well as bruises that keep appearing out of nowhere, and his finger and toenails are brittle and slowly becoming blue. All the things he’s proud of because it means he’s on the right track are now incriminating evidence that he has to hide, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Will thinks. He can keep his shirt on and wear long sleeves. Actually, he could wear a long-sleeve shirt under a zip-up hoodie under a pullover hoodie as well as his heaviest jeans and shoes. It’ll make him seem thicker and alter the weighing results.

Actually, to truly alter the results, he could fill his pants and hoodie pockets with heavy things. No, that would make the clothing sag… unless he taped it. That could work. Fill his pockets with… rocks or something, get some duct tape, wrap it around his midsection around the pocket of the under-hoodie, and when he gets on the scale, weigh a lot more.

And then, even if he has to take off his shirt, he can take off the hoodies and shirt in one fell swoop, so that it seems like it’s plain clothing. He can paint his skin with his homemade concealer all over to hide all the marks, even paint his protruding bones a little bit darker so that it looks like they stick out less.

His nails… his nails are another problem, but if he has El practice nail polish in a natural shade like light pink or brown on him, it could hide the blue of the nails. He might get roped into having makeup on his face, but he can live with that. Wiping makeup off isn’t too hard.

Alright. That covers all but his hair, but he doesn’t know how to hide that (and if it gets fixed, he sure as hell isn’t going to object, as he doesn’t want to have it all fall out). He’s good for now.

Will slips his shirt back on and leaves the bathroom, after which he goes back downstairs into the living room.

“Hi, Will.” his mom says from the couch, where she has a book open on her blanketed lap.

He jumps. He didn’t realize that’s where she was. “Oh! Hey, Mom.” Will says, trying and failing to seem casual.

“Here, come sit.” she says.

He does so awkwardly, though once he grabs a blanket, he’s far less awkward as he snuggles up to it, though his heart’s still pounding.

“I wanted to ask you about something, and I want you to tell me the truth. I won’t be mad, I promise.” she says.

“Okay…” he says.

“I noticed that you’ve been getting pretty thin lately. I wouldn’t be concerned - you’ve always been pretty thin - but it’s been a lot of weight in a short amount of time, and you’re very pale and boney. Are you trying to lose weight? I won’t be mad if you are. I’m just worried.” she says gently.

He shakes his head. “I’m definitely not trying to.” he lies. “I think it’s just stress from school and the exercise from running.”

“Mm. Okay.” she says. He can’t tell if it’s worry or disbelief in her voice. Please let her believe him. Please don’t let her find out. “Will, people don’t lose a lot of weight quickly for no reason.” she says after a minute. “What would you think about maybe going to a doctor to figure out why?”

Will tries not to let his terror show. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me.” he says. “Like I said, I think it’s just stress and exercise, but if you think that going to a doctor would be best, we can.” he says, trying to sound like he’s ambivalent and not raise any suspicion.

Please let her say that he won’t have to go to a doctor, he thinks.

“Okay.” she says. “Well, I think it would be smart to go to a doctor. If there is something wrong, it’s better to catch it early. I’ll call the insurance company and see which doctors are covered around here.”

Damn it!

She gets up from the couch, setting the blanket and book aside to go to the office, presumably to call the insurance company.

He grimaces the second she’s out of sight. Why didn’t he say that he was afraid of doctors after his possession at Hawkins Lab or something?

Will gets up to go get El to paint his nails to hide the blue when he realizes that his mom didn’t bookmark her page.

He looks at the book and realizes that it’s a dictionary. Will realizes that his mom did the thing she does when she’s worried but tries to hide it, where she grabs the first book she sees and has it open and pretends to read it despite not processing any of the words on the page.

He looks over to the front office where his mom is now on the phone with the insurance company. With a deep breath, he goes upstairs. Going to the doctor, even if it’s high risk for him and scares him, will help ease his mom’s worry. He can do this, even if for no other reason than for his mom.

-

He lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling and dreading having to get up. Yesterday, his mom called the insurance company, and she found that a Dr. Davidson, about five miles away, accepts their insurance, and she made an appointment with him at 10.

Will checks his watch. It’s 8:45. One hour. One hour and then he’s going to have to go to a doctor who could figure him out. Is it too late to chicken out? Tell his mom that he’s afraid of doctors or something?

Will sighs and sits up. No, it’s too late. He has to do this.

He gets up and immediately fetches the mixture of paints matching his skin tone from where they’re hidden under his bed. He also grabs a paintbrush from his art corner and goes into the bathroom, where he quickly strips and begins to paint.

He covers himself head-to-toe in a thin layer of pigment, enough to cover the colors and marks on his skin, but not enough to make it hard to move or make it too visible. When he’s done, he steps back and turns side to side, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that his skin looks natural and unblemished. He still might get found out, but now you can’t see the bruises and cuts and scars. If he needs to roll up his sleeves or take off any clothing, he should be safe.

Will waits about five minutes for the paint to dry before he puts his pajamas back on and goes back to his room, where he starts rifling through his closet and dresser for his heaviest clothes.

It takes about fifteen minutes to institute his weighted-clothing plan. He ends up wearing his heaviest, thickest jeans with pebbles in the front pockets, a tank top, two T-shirts (one long-sleeve and one short-sleeve), a sweatshirt (with rocks in the pocket and duct-taped so that it doesn’t sag with the weight), another hoodie over the sweatshirt, a jacket, and his heaviest boots. It’s hard to stand up straight and walk around, so he hopes that it’ll be enough to keep from suspicion.

He presses down on his shoulder, and with just the sweatshirt and hoodie, it doesn’t feel like he’s wearing too much. Will sighs with relief. If someone (his mom, cough cough) touches him in a hug or to grab his shoulder, it won’t be too obvious that he’s trying to wear bulky clothing.

Will looks at his nails, a double-check that the skin-colored nail polish that El did is still intact. It is.

He tries to think of what else he needs to do, but he can’t come up with anything. What if he’s forgetting something? What if the doctor figures out what he’s doing and tells his mom or has him committed to an asylum or something? What if he causes his family more stress? What if he can’t starve or cut after this? What if-

Will’s snapped out of his thoughts when he jumps due to a knock at the door. “Will! Are you awake? We need to leave in a minute.”

“Um… yeah! I’ll be ready in a second.” Will says, trying not to stutter.

He leaves his room and goes downstairs, where his mom’s sitting in the office. “I’ll be ready to go in a minute. I just have a call or two to make.” she says.

“Okay.” he responds. He goes to the kitchen. ‘One or two calls’ mean that he has a while to do whatever he wants, and that means that he’s going to drink a ton of water so that he weighs heavier.

As his mom makes a call, he drinks four glasses of water and a cup of coffee. His stomach is sloshing, but at least he’ll weigh in heavier.

“Alright, ready to go.” his mom says, coming into the kitchen as she puts her purse on her shoulder.

“Alright.” he says.

They go out to the car, and while his mom drives them to the doctor, Will sits and quietly looks out the window. The radio’s playing, but Will doesn’t register any of the music. His heart’s beating too loudly in his ears to hear much. Is he going to be caught? What’s going to happen?

“Will? Will, you okay?” his mom asks.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” he says absentmindedly.

“Are you sure? You haven’t been to a doctor - well, to an actual doctor, not a paramedic - since…”

“Since Hawkins Lab?” he supplies quietly.

“Yeah.” she says. “It must be hard.”

This could be his chance. He could say that he’s super duper traumatized and can never go to a doctor again and can they go back to the house now?

“Yeah.” he says. “I guess.”

She leans over and pats his knee. “It’ll be just fine. No Upside Down here. Just a normal doctor.”

“Yeah, I know.” he says, looking back out the window.

It’s only another minute or so before they’re at the office, a yellow building that looks like every other building in this town.

His mom parks the car and gets out, but Will just sits frozen in the passenger seat. He doesn’t want to go in. He doesn’t want to see the doctor. He wants to go home. At this point, he isn’t sure if home is Hawkins or here in Lenora, or even if he has one anymore, but he honestly doesn’t care right now. He wants to be anywhere else.

He’s pulled out of his thought process by his mom knocking on the window. “Are you ready to go?” she asks, her voice muffled from the inside of the car.

Better now than never, he thinks.

“Yeah.” he says. “Alright, yeah.”

He gets out of the car and walks behind his mom as they go into the building. Through the doors is a sterile but decorated lobby, with wood-look tile floors, white furniture, and white walls, and with a nice-looking woman in scrubs sitting behind a built-in desk.

She looks up as they walk in. “Hello, how can I help you today?”

“We’re here to see Dr. Davidson.” his mom says.

“What’s the name for the appointment?” the woman asks.

“William Byers.” she says.

“Date of birth?” she asks.

“March 22, 1971.” his mom says.

The woman types something on her computer. “Alright, if you can take a seat and fill out this paperwork-” she hands his mom a clipboard “You can go on back in a few.”

“Thank you very much.” his mom says, going over to some of the white furniture and taking a seat on a plastic-looking couch. He sits down next to her, albeit more stiffly.

“Do you want to fill out the paperwork?” she asks.

“Sure.” Will says. He takes the clipboard and pen from his mom and starts filling out the paperwork. It asks for the date, his name and birthday, reason for visit, current medications, etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah…

Will finishes the paperwork just a minute before a woman in scrubs comes through a wooden door. “William?” she calls. Will stands up and walks over, trying not to give away how much his knees are shaking. His mom is close behind.

“I’ll take your vitals in here, okay?” the woman says, gesturing to a curtained area.

“Okay.” he says, walking in and staring at his shoes. He makes himself breathe deeply. He can’t be afraid. It’s fine. He just has to get through this and it’ll be fine.

“Alright, William, I’m gonna have you step on the scale real quick and then get a height reading.” she says.

“Okay.” he repeats.

“Wait, does he need to take off his jacket and shoes?” his mom asks.

The lady looks at his shoes. “Maybe the shoes. They seem pretty heavy. The jacket can stay on, though.”

He kicks off his shoes with both disappointment and relief. While he’ll weigh in lighter now, at least he can keep on the jacket. It should add a bit.

The numbers jump up once he steps on, and his heart’s in his throat as it settles on a series of digits. 117.6 lbs.

Will sighs with relief. He’s honestly a bit shocked that he’s managed to trick the scale that he’s twenty pounds heavier than he actually is, but above all, he’s just so glad that it’s reading higher than his weight actually is.

“Alright, I’ll have you stand over here against the wall.” she says. He gets off the scale and goes over to the wall chart, which she measures him against.

“Five-foot six-point-five inches.” she says. “If you want to take a seat while I grab your blood pressure, that would be super helpful.”

He goes over and sits down on one of the chairs in the curtained room next to his mother, next to a stand with blood pressure monitors on it. She smiles at him before taking his hand and squeezing it. “You’re doing great, honey.” she whispers.

Will gives a shaky smile and squeezes back. After the nurse is done writing down his height and weight on the clipboard, she turns back to him. “Roll up your sleeve, please.” she says.

He does, struggling to make the sleeve cuff roll over three layers but somehow getting it up his arm without showing how much he’s wearing. She fastens the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and it tightens almost painfully before relaxing again.

“Huh. Are your legs crossed?” she asks distractedly, looking at the screen.

“No.” Will answers honestly.

“Your blood pressure is pretty low. If nothing is tampering with the result, that might be a problem…” she says, trailing off. “Sorry, got lost in my head for a second. If you’ll follow me to Room Eight, Dr. Davidson can be with you in a minute.”

Will mumbles something that sounds like ‘okay’ before getting up and following her out of the room, with his mom close behind him and looking worried.

Room Eight is a small beige room with a desk, a computer, two plastic chairs, and the patient bench. Will elects to sit in the plastic chair next to his mother instead of on the bench. He doesn’t feel like he’s sick that way.

While his mom writes on a notepad from her purse (all he knows is that it’s something about work, from when he glanced over at it), he stares at the wall, trying to stay calm and seem normal. After a while he zones out, thinking about school, his blood pressure, and his worry about this appointment. It’s too easy to let his thoughts get carried away, and he just zones out and lets them run wild with worry.

He’s snapped back to reality when a knock comes at the door before it opens. In walks an older man with gray hair on top of his head and in a beard, wearing a white coat, button-up shirt and necktie, and a stethoscope around his neck.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Davidson.” he says.

“Hi.” Will says quietly. “I’m Will.”

“I’m Joyce, Will’s mom.” his mom says.

“Nice to meet you, Joyce and Will.” Dr. Davidson says. “So before we get started, I have a few questions about Will’s medical history.”

“Okay.” his mom says.

“When was Will’s last medical visit?” he asks.

“November of 1984.” she says. Will realizes that it’s 1986 now. When did that happen?

“Has Will ever had any surgeries?” Dr. Davidson asks after writing something on his clipboard.

“Yes, several. Um…” his mom clearly tries to remember what surgeries he’s had.

“Appendectomy when I was nine, adeno-tonsillectomy when I was six, five tube thoracostomies, two thoracotomies at eight and twelve, and pleurodesis when I was twelve.” Will says quietly. He remembers them all. Sometimes, on bad days, he looks at the scars and gets angry. On bad days, the scars from the nine surgeries he went through before he was even a teenager make him hate everything and everyone, especially himself. He wishes he could forget all of the times he’s gone under the knife, what it felt like to go in so small and alone and scared for surgery after surgery, but he can’t no matter how hard he tries. So he chooses to remember the names along with the pain that they brought. Least he can do.

The doctor looks at Will for the second time since entering the room. “That’s quite a few serious operations, young man.” he says.

“Um… yeah.” Will says, looking back at his shoes. “I guess.”

The doctor looks at him for a long moment before nodding to himself and blinking. “Hm. Alright. What medications are you currently on?” he asks.

“Zoloft, Xanax, Risperdal, Valium, and Zalasta.” Will says monotonously.

The doctor sits in silence for a minute. “Well, I… hm. What conditions did you have? Which do you currently have?” he asks.

“Anxiety, depression, C-PTSD, and tardive dyskinesia.” Will says. “And in the past I had viruses, colds, stuff like that…” he tries to think of any relevant past illnesses.

“Appendicitis, bronchitis, tonsillitis, pneumonia, the flu, colds… he also had esophageal injury and some other little injuries. When Will was younger, he wasn’t exactly a healthy kid, but he’s gotten a lot healthier.” his mom interjects.

“I… okay.” the doctor says, sitting in silence before writing on the clipboard. “Noted. What’s the purpose of your visit today?”

“Well, I’m worried about his weight.” Will’s mom says. “He’s always been thin, but it just seems so more pronounced than it used to be. He looks so emaciated, and his bones are so visible. It’s probably nothing, but I just want to be sure.” she says.

“Well, it probably is nothing, as his weight seems to be fine according to the previous measurement. However, I do make it a practice to have a one-on-one private talk with my new patients, so unless you’d rather stay in the room, Ms. Byers-”

“No, I’ll go. Get me if you need anything, hon.” she says, first to the doctor, then to Will.

She leaves, and as the door closes softly behind her, Will becomes hyper-aware of the doctor’s breathing and presence, and his self-consciousness triples.

“So-” Dr. Davidson gives a half-hearted cough. “As you’re a new patient, I did want to ask a few questions, just to help me understand how to provide better care.” he says.

“Okay.” Will says.

“Are there any preferences for appointments? To have a family member present, modesty, any of that?”

“Um, I’d like to stay dressed.” Will says.

“Alright, we can work with that.” the doctor says, making a note on the clipboard.

Dr. Davidson puts it down and leans forwards in his chair. “I was thinking we could have a quick talk about your life. No pressure, just a general talk.”

“Okay.” Will says.

“So how’s school?” he asks.

“It’s okay. I get good grades and get my homework done.” Will says quietly.

“Any extracurriculars? Friends?”

“I run track and cross-country.”

“How much do you do that every day?” he asks.

“An hour or two.” he answers.

“Very active. That’s good. How much do you eat? You should be counterbalancing the exercise.”

“I eat three or four meals a day.” Will lies, studying his shoes. The tips are scuffed and the side of the left one is ripping. When did that happen?

“How many calories, if you had to guess?” the doctor asks.

“I don’t know. Uh…” Will says, trying to think. How much is normal again? He should use a bigger number than normal so that the doctor thinks that he’s eating a lot. “2400?”

“Good, good. Good number. How much do you sleep every night?” he asks. “A teenage boy your age needs about nine or ten.”

“Uh… eight?” Will lies.

“That’s alright. I understand that school is stressful. Speaking of, how do you cope? I understand that smoking, drugs, and drinking are common ways to cope, even if they’re unhealthy. Do you regularly use any kind of intoxication?” he asks.

Will thinks about Halloween and how he got drunk. Does that count? “No, I don’t believe in using or drinking or smoking.”

“Mm.” he says, before sitting quietly for a moment.

After a few moments, Dr. Davidson breaks the silence. “Are you sexually active?” he asks, not unkindly.

Will’s cheeks color as he looks around, anywhere but the doctor’s eyes. What does that even mean? What’s the correct answer? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what Dr. Davidson is even asking or expecting him to answer. What does being sexually active even cover?

The doctor sighs. “Alright. I understand that question can be confusing or upsetting. Are you at risk for any sexually transmitted diseases?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Will answers honestly, still bright red.

“Good. Good.” The doctor lapses into silence again. 

“Just looking at you, I can see that you’re quite thin, but I think it’s healthy. However, I can also see that you’re pretty pale, especially compared to your mother, and your hair is very thin. I’m guessing that you probably have a vitamin deficiency, and that’s why you’re having effects that are concerning. I’ll have a blood panel run just to make sure that everything’s good, and then I think we can have you back home.” Dr. Davidson says.

“Okay. Thank you.” Will says.

Dr. Davidson smiles before leaving, shutting the door behind him, leaving Will in the room alone.

Will waits after the doctor leaves for about five minutes until a nurse comes in with a smile and a needle. “Alright, hon, can you roll up your sleeve for me?”

Will does, and she taps the vein in the crook of his elbow before opening an alcohol wipe.

She taps the vein again before rubbing the wipe.

His heart stops as flecks of paint come off of his inner elbow where she’s rubbing the alcohol wipe. Is he going to get caught? What’s she going to do?

She brushes off the flecks and gives him a smile. “Don’t worry, I get dry skin too. Not a big deal.”

He exhales in relief, and scrunches up his face as he feels the needle go into his arm. It’s quite funny: he hurts himself regularly, but still finds the needle unpleasant and awful.

After a vial gets taken, she puts gauze on the site and wraps gaffer tape around his elbow. “Done! You did great, hon. Good job.” she says. “I’ll get this run and let you know the results, okay?" she says. 

“Thanks.” Will says, giving a shaky smile.

She smiles before leaving.

He leaves just a minute after her, going out into the part of the office where his mom is sitting, if nothing else to let her know that he’s okay. After he tells his mom that the results will be ready soon, they go back into Room Eight to wait.

While Will’s blood is run, he and his mom sit in the plastic chairs, Will’s leg bouncing anxiously. He knows that it takes time for test results to come back, but it feels like it’s taking a million years.

After about half an hour (Will’s been checking his watch regularly), the doctor comes back, and Will can feel heat in his arms and legs as adrenaline floods his veins and his heart pounds. What’s he going to say? What’s going to happen?

The doctor sighs and smiles at them as he closes the papers on the clipboard. “Will’s an active boy, burning a lot of calories with track and cross-country, and that means he’s going to be naturally lighter and thinner. His weight and BMI are a bit low, as he’s in the 27th percentile for his age, but it’s healthy. No need to act on that. If he eats more complex carbs and calories, he could even get up into the 50th or 60th percentile if he tries.”

His mom smiles from next to him and breathes a sigh of relief, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. 

“I do have a few concerns, though.” the doctor says. Will’s heart stops. “First of all, he has several vitamin and nutritional deficiencies, most notably zinc, vitamin D, copper, selenium, biotin, and vitamins B1, B9, and B12. I can give you some oral vitamins and supplements. He might not be able to process nutrients easily from food, which could contribute to the lower weight. 

Will also has low blood pressure and low white and red blood cell counts, also known as anemia, and an electrolyte imbalance, which suggests the same problem with nutrients absorption. He’ll be fine as soon as he’s on some medication. I’ll write you the prescription now.”

“That seems like a lot of problems...” his mom says worriedly.

“It’s just a vitamin and electrolyte deficiency and anemia. Your son is perfectly fine, Mrs. Byers. He’ll be healthy as a horse in no time.” Dr. Davidson says.

After his mom gets the prescriptions for the vitamins, they drive home, with his mom talking more than they did on the way over. It seems like the doctor clearing her concerns must have erased her worries.

Once they get home, his mom goes to talk to Jonathan (probably to tell him that Will’s fine and their fears are, according to the doctor, unfounded), and Will goes upstairs to his room.

Will goes to his desk and does the math that he finds in one of his math textbooks for his BMI on a piece of paper. He actually weighs 98.9 pounds… convert five feet and six-and-a-half inches into meters… square his height… divide…

He smiles as he sits back. 15.7 BMI, not 18.3, and it feels amazing. He may not be thin enough, may still have more to lose, but he’s well on the way, and now his family can’t even worry anymore because the doctor said that he’s fine.

With a smile on his face, Will goes over to his bed, lies down, and puts on The Smiths.

He hums along as he drifts in and out, enjoying the sounds of ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ as he relaxes.

When he falls fully asleep, for the first time in a while, he doesn’t have to assure himself that he just has to hold out a little longer.

Chapter Text

It’s been a month gone and eight more pounds lost since he went to the doctor, and Will’s just trying to get by. He’s somehow managed to keep his grades up, be a strong runner on the cross-country and track teams, paint and draw a ton, and work on his suicide note and letters (now totaling over forty pages) and the painting for Mike. He’s been spending as much time with his family as possible, too - and if they give him concerned looks or ask if he's alright one too many times to pass as normal, Will pretends not to notice.

Now, on top of the sixteen mental health pills a day, he now has eleven vitamins. It’s annoying to have so many, but he does feel better. He’s not passing out as much, he isn’t as dizzy and tired, and his hair isn’t falling out anymore. At least he’ll look good in his coffin, right?

He’s almost done with his suicide note, and there’s a month left until Mike comes. It gives him plenty of time to finish the painting. He’s gone through about a dozen ideas and created five or six failed attempts. 

Will finishes the letter to his grandma, folds it neatly, and sets it on the stack on his windowsill, next to Bobert the Plant. Once he’s done with the letters for the day, he hides them in a box under his bed, but it’s too much effort to get up every time he finishes one. So he puts them in a stack and hides them once his hand gets too tired to write.

As he starts on another letter, the door swings open, causing him to jump and spin to look at the door. El awkwardly walks in, her arms full of random things. Will realizes that the door opened so forcefully because she kicked the door so that it would open enough to let her in.

She empties her arms onto Will’s neatly-made bedspread before turning to look at him with a serious expression.

“Oh! Hey, Jane, what’s up?” Will asks, pausing the New Order tape and pulling the headphones off of his ears while trying vainly to hide the letters. El has zero concept of privacy, and Will knows that she’d definitely open them without hesitation if she decided that’s what she wanted, so it’s better to just hide them.

El looks at him solemnly. “We are going to fix your brain.” she says.

“I- I’m sorry, what? ” Will asks, trying to process what that’s supposed to mean.

El nods. “Yes. I asked Joyce why you act strangely and she said that your brain is wrong.”

“My- my brain is wrong?” he asks.

“Joyce says that your brain has hormones that are not balanced. She says that it is called depression and anxiety and post- post-” El clearly tries to remember.

“Post-traumatic stress disorder?” Will supplies.

“Yes. She says that your brain hormones make you sad and scared and tired even when there is nothing to be sad or scared or tired for. So we are going to do things that make me happy and calm so that you can feel better and your brain gets balanced.”

Will blinks as he processes and translates El’s words. Once it clicks, he gives a light laugh and a smile to his sister. “Aw, that’s sweet. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, though. I’m okay. My brain’s okay.”

El shakes her head. “I want to. And if your brain was okay, then you would not be acting odd.” she says.

“Alright, then, what are we doing?” he asks.

She gestures him over to his bed where she’s now sitting, and when he goes over and sits next to the pile, she passes him a string and a bag of beads. “Let’s make bracelets.” she says.

“Okay, sounds good.” Will says. 

As they work in silence, Will tying knots in the stretchy string and sliding beads on as El sits beside him across the pile, he works up the courage to speak.

“You said that I’ve been acting weird. I- how have I been acting weird?” Will asks.

El pauses bracelet-making to stare over at one of Will’s posters, clearly deep in thought. “You seemed sad.” she says at last. “And now you act happy but you stop acting happy when we don’t look. You stay in your room or work or run all the time. You went from always alone to being around us a lot. You do not eat or sleep very much. You shake and twitch. You give away your things. You stay by yourself at school. You just act odd. You are different now.”

Will pauses for a second before resuming. “Oh.” he says, not sure of what to say. “I- I’m sorry. I- El- Jane - I’m so, so, so sorry. I didn’t know that you- that I was affecting you. I’m so sorry.”

He focuses harder on making his bracelet until El’s hand covers his. “It is not your fault. It is your brain being unbalanced. I do not mind. I just want you to be balanced and happy.” she says.

Will sniffs as he tries to keep the tears in his eyes. “I- thank you, El. I love you.”

She gets up, walks the two steps over to where Will’s sitting, and wraps her arms around Will in a hug. He leans into the touch, even if it’s slightly awkward due to their height difference when Will sits, and wraps his arms around El’s waist. If he cries a little bit and leans on her, neither is going to mention it.

“Okay.” he says, pulling away and wiping his eyes with his fingertips. “Okay. Right. Bracelets, and then what?”

“Bracelets and then knitting.” she says, sitting back down.

They continue working quietly. Will makes a purple-and-blue bracelet, which he gives to El, and she makes him a rainbow bracelet. As she teaches him how to knit (which he ends up actually enjoying), he admires the way that the bracelet looks on his wrist. It may not be acceptable for him to wear at school because of the colorfulness (and he sure doesn’t need to fuel the gay rumors that are making his life hell), but it reminds him that his sister loves him, and that makes Will love it.

“Thank you, El.” Will murmurs as they finish a row of knitted stitches.

She smiles and admires her own bracelet. “Twins.” she says.

“El, we’re supposed to be twins.” Will laughs. “According to school records, we are.”

“We are really twins now.” she says decisively. “We have bracelets to prove it.”

Will laughs. “Guess so.” he says.

She smiles. “I am happy that you are my brother.” she says.

“And I’m glad you’re my sister, too.” he says.

As they do another row, guilt hits Will like a brick to the back of the head. He loves his sister, but how can he when he’s in love with her boyfriend? He’s a horrible brother. Not only has he impacted her with his own problems, but he’s betrayed her by loving Mike. He’s betraying her by confessing to Mike. Will isn’t worthy of her love or time or gifts. He isn’t worthy of anything. He’s a liar and a cheater and a traitor and worthless and stupid and ugly and-

“Will?” El asks. Apparently, his hands stopped moving with the yarn as he got lost in his head.

“Right. Right, sorry. Sorry, got lost for a second.” he says.

She squeezes his hands over the needles. “It is alright.”

Will shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts of the guilt and self-hatred as they keep knitting.

As Will and El work together to create something, Will vows that he’s going to do a better job of hiding how he feels. He can’t hurt his family. They don’t deserve pain. All they deserve is the best. So he has to do better so that he becomes the best son and brother that he can be for the next month. That way, he can give everyone what they deserve. He can give his family love and happiness. And he can give himself rest and peace.

Just have to hold on. One more month. One more month of being ‘happy’. One more month of being miserable and hiding it. One more month until rest.

Just one more month.

Chapter Text

About a week after he and El made bracelets and Will realized that he was betraying his sister because of his love for her boyfriend, Will finishes.

He leans back from his desk with a shaky breath. It’s done. Seventy-four pages of apologies and goodbyes and little sketches here and there. It’s all done - and three weeks ahead of schedule.

Will skims over them in a quick review. They look good. No grammar mistakes, no spelling mistakes, consistent and even in tone… a good way to say his final thoughts.

As he looks at the pages scattered over his desk, Will has too many thoughts and feelings to even understand or name them. He- he’s really going to do this. These are his last words in front of him. In precisely twenty-seven days, he’s going to commit suicide.

Will exhales a shaky breath as he blinks the tears from his eyes and starts to put the letters into labeled envelopes. Mom, Jonathan, El, Lucas, Mike, Dustin, Max, his grandma, Lonnie (it’s more of a forgiving rant than a goodbye on that one, but he still said what he needed to)... all that.

After fourteen letters, Will has to stop. His hands are shaking, even though he’s willing them not to, and his eyes are tearing up so much that he’s worried that the papers are going to stain if they fall.

He sets them aside and puts his face in his hands. This is his last month alive. Is- is he really ready to die? Is this really what he wants to do? He’s fourteen years old. Is this really his best option?

With an angry huff, he pulls away from the darkness of his hands and wipes his cheeks. He can’t be having second thoughts. He can’t be weak. He has to do this.

Will looks at his wrists. In the safety of the yellow room, he lets himself wear his sleeves rolled up with no concealer. Over the past few months of being out at school, he’s done hundreds and hundreds of new cuts, and while he tries to save his wrists for bad nights, those have been getting more and more common as the kids at school get meaner and meaner.

He lightly runs his fingers over some of them. Some of the older, shallower ones have already healed into thin, distinct white lines, while some of the deeper older ones have turned into raised red scars. Ones he did over a week ago are scabbed into pale red marks that are slowly knitting together, while the ones he did most recently are still open and dark. He’s been going deeper every time he does it, and they’ve gone from skin cut open to white-and-yellow fat revealed to the red fibers of muscle.

Will soothes himself by saying that what he’s going to do is the same as what he’s already doing. He’ll cut just like any other day, just a bit deeper. He’ll take his pills just like normal, just a few more than usual. He just has to do what he always does, just a bit more, and then he dies like he should have years ago. He’ll finish the job for all the people and things that have hurt him and then he’ll sleep forever.

That’s what death is, right? Just an eternal sleep? 

Will doesn’t mind that. He’s so, so tired. He could use a good sleep, and it would be nice to not have to ever wake up. He could just be an entity. No body to be imperfect or hate. Nobody to hurt him. No thoughts to rip his heart to shreds. Just that feeling of drifting off into a better world.

With a clearing of his throat and a rub of his nose, he starts to put his letters into envelopes again. This isn’t a bad thing. It’s just what he always does and then he sleeps.

Besides, he’s living on borrowed time anyway, right?

To be honest, Will had never expected to live this long. When he was younger, he had figured that his father would kill him in a drunken rage. Then Lonnie left, and that couldn’t happen anymore, so he figured that one day a bully like Troy would try to kill him and succeed. 

And then the Upside Down happened. Will figured that would be his end. He was stuck in an alternate dimension with a monster for a week while injured with no food, water, or weapons, and when that vine forced itself down his throat and he couldn’t breathe, he figured that was what would finally take him out. But it didn’t. And then he was possessed, and he almost did die. He even asked for it when he told them to close the gate. But he still somehow survived.

Will’s lived through his father, bullying, the Demogorgon, the Mind Flayer, the monster at Starcourt, and his own brain. There have been so many threats to Will’s life. 

This is a good thing. He’s paying his debt, getting what he deserves, and getting to rest all in one fell swoop. This is a good thing.

But if it’s such a good thing, why is he crying?

He mutters a curse as some of his tears get on the paper.

Will thinks to himself that he needs to stop crying. This is what he wants. He’s being a baby. This is what he wants. What’s even his problem?

With a sob and another muffled curse, he gets up and goes over to his bed, where he lies on his side as he tries to stop crying, just stop crying, what’s wrong with you?

Will reaches over to his bedside drawer and pulls out his Walkman, which he puts over his ears and turns up all the way. Pink Floyd. Nice.

You’re going to miss music. Are you really so sure that you want to kill yourself? Won’t there be things that you’ll miss? the rational little voice in the back of his brain says.

Will ignores it and instead cries as ‘Comfortably Numb’ echoes so loudly in his brain that he almost can’t hear his thoughts, which are simultaneously both egging his suicidal ideation on and begging him to stop. They don’t matter. No matter what, he’s doing this, and as soon as his tears stop, he’ll finish up his letters, gather the pills he’s going to overdose with, and work on the only other loose end: Mike’s painting.

If he can just pull himself together, he can carry on until it’s time.

Just gotta keep it together.

Chapter Text

It's been a week since Will's suicide note and letters were finished, and ever since, he’s spent all his time on school, running, quietly drawing, or painting Mike’s painting. He’s actually making two: one of the Party fighting a dragon, another (more personal) one of the day Mike and Will met. 

He isn't sure why he's painting the second. Maybe it's for the nostalgia, maybe it’s just a way for him to get the homesick feeling and ache out of his heart, but either way, he's painting it.

Today, he’s drawing on the couch as El watches TV. He’s absentmindedly doodling a drawing of Chester, his old dog. They buried him in the backyard of their home in Hawkins. The walls that held so many horrible memories held so many good ones, too. Will wonders - if there's actually an afterlife, will he see those he lost? Will he see Chester? Will he see Bob again? Will the people dead because of him be there? Will he be able to make amends and apologize? He isn't sure whether he wants there to be an afterlife or not. He isn't sure whether he wants happiness or rest. It’s a weird question to have to ponder.

His questioning is interrupted by the phone ringing from the other room. He doesn’t think too much of it, as it's probably another work call for his mom, but it apparently is not.

“Will! Phone’s for you!” his mom calls.

Will gets up from the couch, mind speeding as he attempts to puzzle out who could be calling for him.

“Hello?” Will asks into the receiver.

“Hello, sir, can I speak to Will Byers?” a male voice asks.

“I’m Will Byers. Who is this?” Will says. He knows this voice. It’s so familiar. Who is it?

“Will?” comes after a minute. “I- It’s Mike.”

“Oh my God, Mike?” Will asks disbelievingly. Mike’s voice got so much deeper. When did that happen?

“Will! Oh my God, I’m so glad that you picked up! How are you?” Mike asks.

“I’m doing alright. How are you? How’s Hawkins?” Will asks.

“It’s just fine here. Tell me about California! El says that you both have a ton of friends. Is it as sunny as everyone says? Tell me everything!” Mike says.

Will blinks as he tries to come up with a response. He and El… do not have a ton of friends, to put it mildly. What other lies has she told Mike?

“Oh, yeah. It’s pretty sunny all the time. Uh… yeah, El and I are, uh… both pretty popular here! It’s pretty great!” Will says. Shit. Why did he just lie like that?

“Wait, really?” Mike asks. “That’s- that’s crazy! Are you, like, a jock now? Since you’re popular?”

“Uh… well, I guess. I’m on the cross-country and track teams for the school and I have a letterman jacket, so… maybe?” Will says.

“Well, that makes both you and Lucas. Did you know that he joined the basketball team?” Mike asks.

“Yeah, actually! He’s talked about it in some of his letters. It sounds really fun. I’m happy for him.” Will says.

“...I guess. He just seems different ever since he joined, you know?” Mike says.

Will tries to think of what to say to that. “Well… sometimes change is a good thing. And I think that if basketball really makes Lucas happy, then he should keep doing it.”

“...Yeah, I guess. I just miss the old Party the way it used to be, you know? I miss you being here and I miss Max acting like herself and I miss Lucas just having us. It kinda sucks.”

“You’re telling me.” Will laughs. “Being away from you guys in Hawkins sucks. I miss it - and you guys - so much.”

“I- hold on, I thought you were having a good time in California?” Mike asks.

“Uh- uh- yeah! Yeah, El and I are having a great time here, but there’s no place like home, you know?” Will says, only stuttering a little bit on the lies.

“Heh. Yeah.” Mike says before getting really quiet. “I really missed you.” he says.

Will doesn’t mention that a phone works both ways and that Mike could have called months ago. (Will tried a few times a month, usually in the middle of the day on a weekend, but each time, nobody answered. At least Mike’s calling now). 

“I missed you too.” he says instead.

It’s silent for a moment, both ends filled with quiet breathing.

“So, uh, I’m coming to California.” Mike says after a minute or two.

“I know. March 22, over Spring Break. I can’t wait to see you.” Will says.

“I’m excited too. I can’t wait to see you and El.” Mike says.

Another wave of guilt crashes into Will and pulls him under. Of course. Mike isn’t coming to see him, he’s coming to see El. His girlfriend. God, Will’s so stupid, getting his hopes up. He’s ridiculous. Mike doesn’t care about Will anymore. That was made obvious by last summer, and if not then, definitely by the fact that he never answered any of Will’s letters or calls. Mike doesn’t care about Will anymore, and Will can’t blame him. Mike deserves to be happy, even if that means that Will isn’t a part of his life.

Love hurts. Will knows this after years of experience. And his love for Mike cuts deep. It cuts deeper every time he realizes that Mike isn’t ever going to love him back. It cuts deeper every time he hears Mike laugh or speak or sees him smile and knows that he’ll never see that smile and hear that laugh at three in the morning as they’re quietly chatting in the safety of one of their homes. He’s never going to get to love Mike and have it reciprocated or accepted, and it feels like a dagger carving through his chest.

So what’s Will going to do?

He’s going to drive that dagger deeper into his heart by pushing Mike away.

“Why- so, uh, why are you calling?” Will asks, trying to hide the hurt in his voice.

“Oh. Um…” Mike pauses, but after a quiet moment, he speaks again. “I was calling because, uh… uh… I was wanting to ask if you were okay with sharing a bedroom with me when I get there in three weeks? I figured that your mom and Jonathan wouldn’t want me sharing a room with El. But, like, if you don’t want to, I can share with Jonathan or sleep on the couch.”

“It’s fine. You can stay in my room.” Will says flatly. It hurts to be apathetic, but caring hurts even more. “I don’t mind. Anyways, I have some homework to do. It was nice hearing from you, Mike.”

“Oh.” Mike says quietly. “Yeah. Yeah, you should get that done. Call me soon, okay? I’ll see you in three weeks.” Mike pauses, clearly wanting to say something else, but he doesn’t, instead just saying “Okay. Bye, Will. Say hi to your mom and El and Jonathan for me. See you soon.”

“Yep. Sounds good. See you soon, Mike. Bye.” Will says.

It’s another fifteen or twenty seconds of quiet breathing on both ends before Will finally makes himself hang up.

He looks at the phone with an empty expression, feeling that same ache both fill and empty his heart.

Will goes upstairs and finishes the painting of the swingset. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it does ease it a little bit. At least he’ll get to see Mike soon, even if it’s not how Will wants it to be. 

Chapter Text

For the first time in a long time, Will’s having a good morning. Not only does he get to see his best friend and favorite person tomorrow for the first time in months, but tomorrow, he’ll also turn fifteen years old.

On top of the excitement about tomorrow, Will weighed and measured himself this morning, and he’s down to 78.4 pounds and up to 5'8". He figures that if he keeps up his current weight loss, he can get to his goal of 75 pounds before Mike leaves and Will dies, which would be amazing. When Will looks in the mirror and looks at his concave stomach and ribs, when he wraps his fingers around his bicep or thigh and they touch on the other side, he has to smile. He’s so close to finally looking okay - maybe even to looking good. Three and a half more pounds to lose and he’ll finally be good again.

But above all, he can’t wait to see Mike. Even if Mike’s coming to see El, Will will take any chance to be around his best friend, and he honestly just can’t wait.

Will goes downstairs after he paints his arms with concealer and puts on blue jeans, a red-and-yellow striped short-sleeve shirt, and white sneakers. 

He also grabs his presentation board on Alan Turing on the way out of the yellow room, who he chose to do for his project in History. He honestly really admires Alan Turing, for both his work and that he did it all while being gay. Will’s a bit worried that it’ll fuel the gay rumors, but it’ll be fine. People around here don’t care or know about a gay mathematician who lived forty years ago. Besides, he can actually give a presentation on someone he finds really cool.

Will’s put a ton of effort into it, too. He checked out every book he could find at the library, drew not one but four pictures of Alan Turing with charcoal, and even printed out the text with a computer in the computer lab at the library.

Will goes down the stairs with his posterboard, and when he sees his mom in the office, he goes over and gives her a quick kiss on the top of the head.

She squeezes his hand where it’s resting on her shoulder and turns to look at him. “Good morning. Excited for Spring Break?” she asks.

“Yep! I’m really looking forward to it.” Will says with a smile.

“I’m glad. Do you have time to eat breakfast?” she asks.

“Mm…” Will checks his watch, even though he’ll say ‘no’ either way. “No, I have a ton to do today.”

Will can practically hear her frown. “Well, make sure to get something at school.” she says. “Even if it’s something small.”

“Okay, I will.” Will lies. “Love you.”

“Love you too. See you after school.” she says.

Will gives her a smile and another kiss on the top of the head before going over into the kitchen, where he pours a cup of black coffee (he hates the bitterness, but it’s energy with almost no calories, so… worth the unpleasantness) into a red to-go mug.

He leans against the counter and drinks it for a few minutes before going back upstairs and working on Mike’s painting of the Party. It needs to be finished by tomorrow morning, and he’s so close to being done, but it also needs to dry in time, so his deadline is tonight. Won’t hurt to get in a few more brushstrokes before he has to go to school.

Will does a few more strokes to the grass and paints a few clouds before it’s time to leave, at which point he does a quick brush of his teeth and goes downstairs, where El is sitting at the counter examining her diorama.

“Ready to go?” she asks.

“Yep! Are you?” he asks.

“Yes! I am excited to show my project.” she says excitedly.

“Alright then! You get your Eggos?” he asks.

“Yes!” she tells him.

“Brushed your teeth?” he asks.

“Yes!” she repeats.

“Got everything you’ll need?” Will asks, half-joking at this point.

“Yes, yes! Let’s go!” she says, rolling her eyes with a smile.

They go out into the van, with El laughing and chatting as Will quietly sips his coffee and listens as he walks alongside. Their pattern continues on the ride to school, at which point they get out of the van and walk shoulder-to-shoulder down the hall. El waves at a few people. Will keeps his head down and looks at the floor in front of him.

Eventually, they get to History, where they sit next to each other. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees El get hit with a spitball. Upon seeing her expression, a spark of anger flares in his gut, and he gets the urge to punch Jake’s lights out. However, he immediately suppresses the violent impulse, and instead settles for shooting Jake, Angela, and their friends the dirtiest look he can muster. Will can handle them tormenting him, but nobody touches his sister. Ever.

He stops glaring when the teacher comes in and announces that it’s time to start the presentations. Will listens to a few, some interesting, some not, before Angela gets up there.

“I did my presentation on one of my personal heroes: Helen Keller.” she says with that sickly-sweet smile, before starting to talk about Helen Keller’s life.

Will rolls his eyes several times while Angela talks. Oh, please. As if you wouldn’t bully Helen Keller for her disabilities. If you existed in the same time and place, you wouldn’t leave that girl alone.

When Angela finishes hers, Will claps disinterestedly while he rolls his eyes again. Such bullshit.

However, his interest is rekindled when it’s El’s turn next. He gives her a reassuring nod and look upon seeing how nervous she is, and she does manage to get up in front of the class.

“Hi. For my hero…” she says, turning her diorama around to face the class. “I… I chose my dad. And for my visual aid, I made a direyama of our cabin.”

Will winces. He should have taught her not just how to make one, but how to say it.

“More like diarrhea.” someone says to laughter behind Will.

Once again, Will has to quash the homicidal impulses that come when El’s face falls like it is now.

“Quiet, everyone.” Ms. Gracie says. “Let’s be respectful.”

Will laughs internally. Does she actually think that the class is going to listen?

“This is my dad.” El says, lifting up a small figurine. “His name is Hopper. He made the best Eggos, and… we used to watch Miami Vice on Fridays.”

Will’s attention is pulled from El when he feels something against his leg. With a look down, he sees Lucie’s shoe rubbing against his leg. He looks up at her face, and even though she gives him a nervous smile, he pulls his leg away and watches the front of the class again. Will can feel her disappointment.

Ever since he got outed, she’s been trying to make it right. Lucie’s called the house a few times trying to talk to Will, but he hasn’t been interested in her efforts. At school, she usually pretends that he doesn’t exist, as she’s still friends with Angela’s group. It’s better than her being one of his tormentors, he supposes. When her friends are some of the kids who are constantly making his life hell, it’s hard to want to be around her. He does feel bad about it, though - Lucie’s genuinely a good person, and it wasn’t her fault what happened. He also doesn’t blame her for mostly ignoring him - he can’t expect a girl to whom he can’t give much to blow up her whole social life and get in the line of fire by being his friend. But in the end, he just can’t make himself be her friend only part of the time.

“This is Mr. Fibbly.” El says, holding up another figurine. “He is a squirrel.”

Everyone laughs, and Will fills with that anger again. She’s trying her best. She literally only learned how to truly speak, like, two years ago. She literally has a mental disorder slowing her development (it’s called ‘developmental trauma disorder’, and she was diagnosed about three months ago). What’s wrong with them, laughing at her? How dare they?

“What?” she asks worriedly. Will wants to just go up to the front of the class and do this for her, protect her. He can’t.

“And… this is the alarm that my dad made. I… I was never scared because… beca- because…”

Angela raises her hand with that fake-kind smile, and Will really wishes that he had been raised to believe that it was okay to hit a girl.

“Uh, Angela, let’s save questions until the end of Jane’s presentation.” Ms. Gracie says.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m just, like, confused. I thought this was a presentation about a historical hero.” Angela says, lowering her hand.

“My dad was in the newspaper.” El defends.

“Your local paper?” Angela laughs, and the rest of the class laughs along with her. Don’t lose it don’t lose it don’t lose it- “I just don’t think that’s what Ms. Gracie meant by historical. This is supposed to be about famous people.”

“My dad is famous.” El says after a moment. “He… he saved lots of lives. In a mall fire.”

The room is silent, much to Will’s relief.

“He was a hero for people.” El says steadfastly. “And he was my hero too.”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, but it’s okay.” Angela says. God, Will hates her. “I am so sorry, Ms. Gracie. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted clarity on the rules of the assignment.”

“Well, technically, you are correct, but Jane has decided to do her father. So, please continue with your presentation, Jane.”

El finishes with tears in her eyes, and when she sits back down, she completely ignores Will’s attempts to talk to or comfort her.

There’s two more presentations, during which Will continues to attempt to get El’s attention.

“Will!” Ms. Gracie calls.

“Yes?” Will asks, looking forward immediately.

“Your turn.” she says.

With a deep breath, Will stands with shaking legs and gets in front of the class, setting up his posterboard where the class can see his drawings.

“For, uh, for my presentation, I researched Alan Turing. He was a master codebreaker and inventor in World War Two, and his breaking of the Enigma Code ended the war years early, ensuring the Nazi’s loss and saving millions of lives. Alan Turing was a true hero. He-”

A hand raises in the audience, and Will braces himself for more of Angela’s comments, but the questioner isn’t Angela. It’s Jake.

“Wasn’t Turing a faggot?” he asks.

Will tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs just won’t expand. His anxiety in the back of his mind helpfully suggests that maybe the pleurodesis that connected his lungs to his chest wall so that he could breathe is failing and his lungs are collapsing like they did twice before.

“Jake-” Ms. Gracie starts to rebuke.

Will tells his anxiety to shut the hell up.

“Um, Mr.- Mr. Turing was accused of homosexuality and underwent chemical castration in the early fifties, but no matter his sexual orientation, he was a hero and saved millions. He invented the first computer, and his work in philosophy, biology, mathematics, and computer science contributed so much to the world. His, um, his lifestyle shouldn’t undermine his achievements.” Will says.

He can see his classmates exchange looks, whispers, and giggles.

“Alright, then. Carry on.” Jake dismisses.

Will blinks twice and takes a wheezing breath as he tries to remain calm.

He finishes his presentation as he tries to ignore the laughter and looks, and when the bell rings, he’s never been happier to leave.

However, instead of running off and hiding like he wants to, he stays by El’s side as she walks out of the classroom with her head down.

“El, it wasn’t that bad.” he attempts.

“Friends don’t lie.” El snaps.

“I’m not lying. El- El, come on.” Will says.

She ignores him as they go through the rest of the day, despite Will’s best efforts. Will even braves the cafeteria to be near her and try to help. However, it doesn’t work.

Between El ignoring him and the comments about Alan Turing echoing in his head, he’s having a rough day, which is somehow made even worse by Biology.

“Now, today we’re going to be talking about plant biology. Many plants are vines, and they are some of the most interesting simpler organisms..."

Dr. Dominick draws a diagram of a vine in black marker, and the shape and color-

He's twelve. He’s hiding in the library, hoping, praying, begging that the- whatever that creature is- won't find him, that it'll leave him alone.

As it leaves, he leans relieved against the library shelf, but a vine wraps itself around his throat.

He frantically claws at it, desperate for freedom and breath, but it doesn’t work. Another vine forces itself into his mouth and then down his throat, and as his vision fades to black and he goes cold and numb, all he can feel is the vine coiling in his stomach and the one around his throat retreating.

Will can’t breathe. He gasps for air as quietly as he can in class, careful not to alert anyone to his circumstances.

He glances down at his backpack. The yellow card that Will hates, it could get him out of class, he could run, he could get air again, if he just used the yellow card-

Before Will even knows it, the card’s in his hand, and he’s about to raise it.

He immediately shoves it to the bottom of his pocket. Will would rather go to hell in a handbasket than admit that he can’t handle everything by himself, and that means that he sure as hell isn’t going to use that cursed yellow card. He can’t. He has to be strong and tough it out.

Instead of leaving the classroom, Will pulls out his art notebook and starts sketching with trembling hands, which quickly becomes messy as the shaking combines with dyskinesia spasms.

He curses quietly and continues drawing, even though it looks horrible with the stray marks. After three pages of just scribbling, hardly even drawing at that point, he can almost breathe normally again, which comes just as class ends.

Today, Biology is the last class of the day, and so he leaves the classroom with his head down and goes down the stairs and through the halls.

He goes out into the courtyard, immediately looking for El, but as he’s walking about, he’s tripped and goes sprawling.

“Oh, whoops.” Jake laughs. “Here, let me help you up.”

He kicks Will in the back before grabbing away the poster. He looks over it with a sneer.

“You know, I think that I should take this. Maybe you’re being influenced by all these stories of faggots from the past. Who knows, maybe if we take away all these horrible influences, we can fix you! Wouldn’t that be great? Maybe we could even fix you before you get AIDS!” Jake laughs. 

Will can hear the crowd’s reactions, varying from quiet murmurs to outright laughter. It’s taking all his effort to keep the tears in his eyes from falling. 

“Oh, wait. Already too late for that.” Jake sneers. “You know, looking at you, you don’t just seem like a faggot, but you really seem like you’re the type of queer to be a slut, too. I know your kind are liars, but I’m honestly curious. How many other queers have you slept with? Hm? How many? Do you even know which one you got AIDS from?” Jake laughs.

Will stays silent, cursing himself as the tears finally brim over.

He looks up from the ground in front of his face when he hears the sound of cardboard tearing.

“Wait- wait, no-” Will says as Jake rips apart days of hard work.

Will takes as deep of a breath as he can around the pressure in his chest and the lump in his throat as the pieces of his project are thrown onto the ground and Jake strides closer.

Jake grabs his shoulder and yanks him up. “Come on, faggot, answer me.”

Will stays silent. He just has to wait this out. Jake’s going to get bored if Will keeps being unresponsive, and he’ll leave him alone.

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey! What’s going on here?” Will hears Ms. Gracie shout, pushing her way through the crowd. Jake immediately lets go of him and steps away. “What’s going on? Will?” she asks.

Will stays silent.

“Will. Did someone do this?” she asks, gesturing to his ripped project.

“I-” Will tries to think. “I tripped. It was an accident. Everything’s fine.” he says.

She looks at him scrutinizingly, before she turns to Jake and sighs. “Alright, Jake, come with me.”

The crowd ‘ooh’s.

“What?! Why?!” Jake asks as she pulls him away by his sleeve. 

“Let’s go.” she says.

“I didn’t do anything! Will! Tell her, Will, I didn’t do anything! Tell her, Will!”

Will just starts picking up the pieces of his project.

He sees a pair of Converse with designs that he painted on the fabric stop in front of him and crouch, immediately helping to pick up the pieces.

“Will, you are alright?” El asks. Will doesn’t answer, too embarrassed by both what just happened and the tears that are still rolling. “I am sorry, Will, they should not have done that. We can fix it. It is not that bad. We will fix it together.”

Will takes the pieces from her hands and combines them with his before walking away. He doesn’t say a word on the way back to the house in the van, and as soon as they’re back, he goes upstairs and locks himself in his room, turning up the Walkman all the way and drawing at his desk, making darker and darker images the longer he draws. Even when they get disturbing (even by Will’s standards), he keeps drawing, pouring his pain and frustration and humiliation onto the page.

Around the sixth or seventh drawing, he remembers that he has the yellow card in his pocket, and how he hates it.

Will opens his window, takes the lighter he keeps in his desk (and that he burns himself with when he feels like the Upside Down and Mindflayer are too close to being in control), and lights the card on fire, dropping it into his wastebasket, empty but for a few pieces of scrap paper.

As he watches his 'accommodation' go up in smoke and burn to a crisp, he finds solace not only in the fact that the temptation to use it and the shame over his need for it is burning with the paper, but in that he has only one more week before he can finally die.

One more week, during which his best friend will be here. One more week, and it'll be over. One more week.

-

As soon as they’re home, Will stomps up the stairs and shuts himself in his room. Jonathan looks up the stairs after him. What happened? Why is he so upset?

He shrugs it off. Jonathan’ll just ask later.

Both Jonathan and El go to the kitchen, where El sits at the counter with a thoughtful and concerned expression and Jonathan roots through the cabinets for a snack.

“Jonathan?” she asks after a minute.

“Hm?” he answers, still more involved in his quest for food than the conversation.

“What does ‘faggot’ mean?” she asks.

Well, now she has his attention.

Jonathan whips around. “Where did you hear that word?”

She looks so solemn. “They call Will that at school. I thought it was not too bad, like it did not mean anything, but it makes Will really sad. Today a boy hurt Will and called him a faggot, and now he is upset, and I realized that maybe it is bad.”

Jonathan takes a deep breath and pushes his palms against the counter. “That word is a very bad word - that you should never, ever use - for a gay person.”

“What is gay?” El asks.

“Well…” Jonathan says, trying to think of how to explain it in El-friendly terms. “It’s where a boy likes boys or when a girl likes girls. Like a gay boy would want a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend, and a gay girl would want a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend.”

“...So it is love?” El asks after a moment.

“Yeah! Gay people just love people of their same gender.” Jonathan says.

El sits for a minute. “If it is love, why is there a bad word for it?”

Jonathan takes a deep breath. “Because it’s different. People are afraid of what they don’t understand, and most people don’t understand gay love. So most people don’t like gay people because they’re afraid.”

El is silent for a minute, and Jonathan can practically see the gears turning in her head.

“Is Will gay?” El finally asks.

Jonathan gives a shaky laugh. “Well, that I don’t know about. He might be, he might not. If he is, it’s his choice to tell us whenever he wants to, and we aren’t going to push him.”

“But… why do they call Will that?” El asks. “If they do not know if he is gay?”

“Because kids are mean. And the second they find - or even think they find - something different about someone, they’ll use it to be mean. That’s what they’ve done to Will before, and they’ll do it again.”

El nods to herself. “I will not let them do that again. I will go do homework. Talk to you later.” she says, getting up from the counter.

“Wait, El-” Jonathan says. “Look, we can support gay people, and we can support Will, but don’t go around trying to change people’s minds. It’ll just get you in trouble. You aren’t gonna change their minds, so all you can do is be kind and supportive to gay people. Okay? Don’t fight them on being cruel, just don’t be cruel yourself. Okay?”

“Okay.” El says, nodding before going off up the stairs.

Jonathan looks up the stairs after her and sighs. Maybe this is why Will’s been so… different lately. Jonathan’s been so worried. Will’s lost so much weight, and he constantly wears long sleeves, and he’s just so quiet and reserved, even more than he used to be. And Jonathan knows something’s wrong, even if Will’ll deny it if he asks.

He takes a bite of a piece of bread that he put peanut butter on as he thinks about what to do about his brother. As soon as Jonathan’s done with his snack, he’ll go check on Will, try to get him to open up, maybe even convince him to talk about what’s happening at school. Maybe he’ll make Will a snack like he used to when Will would get home from elementary school. Will’s so skinny, it couldn’t hurt to try to get him to eat something.

Jonathan nods to himself. He loves his brother so much, and he’s gonna take care of him in every way he can, just like he promised when Will was little. He’ll go and talk to him in a minute. Just as soon as he finishes his food and makes Will something.

He’ll take care of his brother in a minute. They have plenty of time.

Chapter Text

Despite Will’s crappy day yesterday, he's overjoyed in the morning. He's going to see his best friend in a few hours, and he is now officially fifteen years old.

What Jake said and did yesterday doesn’t matter - it was just a school project Jake destroyed, and as Will won’t ever be going back to school due to the timeline of his suicide, he’ll never have to see his tormentors at school again. It’s just a little blip that he’ll never have to deal with again. It isn’t a big deal.

Will goes down the stairs with a smile and a carefully-rolled painting in his hands. He’s decided to give Mike the one of the Party’s battle with the dragon at the airport (or on the way back to the house from the airport) as a welcome gift, and then use the one of the swings to confess later. The one of the Party could work to confess too, but he’ll use that as a backup - Will hopes the nostalgia in the swingset painting will make Mike hate him less for his feelings once he’s gone.

As Will drinks a cup of black coffee and takes his pills (his go-to breakfast) and tries not to crumple the painting in his excitement, he sees El, coming into the kitchen with a cream-colored dress with rainbow stripes over a checkered flannel shirt and socks up to her mid-calf.

“I wanted to wear color today.” she says, giving a little spin.

Will gives her their typical once-over. The clothes that she picked kinda don’t go together, but they’re passable, and since there’s no school and she isn’t in danger of being bullied over her fashion sense, he doesn’t see why not.

“Lookin’ good, El. Nice twirl.” Will smiles. “I’m so excited to see Mike again.”

“Me too!” she smiles, though it looks slightly odd. She’s probably just nervous to see Mike after so long, so Will doesn’t question it. “I have a whole plan for today.”

“Oh really?” Will asks. “Do tell.”

“It is a surprise.” El says. “You will hear when I tell Mike.”

Will overdramatically sighs. “Fineee. I guess I’ll hear later.”

El smiles weakly again (which Will frowns a little at - normally when he’s overdramatic to be funny, she ends up laughing or at least fighting not to) before smoothing her dress. “You are sure I look good?”

“You look great, El. Promise. Mike loves you, and he’s gonna love your new look.” Will says, trying not to let his ache at the words show.

She gives a nervous smile. “Okay. If you are sure.”

She sits at the counter as Will makes another cup of coffee, watching him.

“Can I have some?” she asks.

Will gives her a look over his shoulder. “I don’t know about that one, El. It’s really bitter and it’s super caffeinated and I don’t think you’d like it.”

“I would like some anyway.” she insists.

Will sighs and shrugs at the coffee machine. “Well, if you want.” he says.

He pours some coffee into another mug, which she takes from the counter as she silently comes up next to him. 

She takes a sip and immediately scrunches her face. El makes some noises that sound a lot like ‘bleck’ as she shakes her head and puts down the mug, which makes Will laugh.

“Well, you didn’t give me a chance to put in sweetener! That’s black coffee, El, it’s a lot more bitter. I’ll put in some sugar and creamer and see how you like it, huh?” he asks.

She makes another face and hands him the mug, which he wastes no time pouring an exorbitant amount of sugar and half-&-half into. When that’s done, he gives it back to her, and she sips before just looking down into the liquid.

“It is better this way.” she nods. “Not good, but better.”

Will laughs as he takes another sip of his own.

“Why do you drink the bitter?” El asks.

“Well, I just like it that way.” he lies.

Will actually really hates black coffee. When he first started drinking it about a month after Starcourt, he would pour in a ton of sugar and milk to cut the flavor while still getting the caffeine. But when he realized around mid-November that he was drinking over eight hundred calories a day in coffee because of the sweetness, he forced himself to start drinking it black. Eight hundred to maybe ten calories - big difference. So even if he hates black coffee, he’ll drink it for the promise of both energy (which he’s always lacking) and getting the perfect body faster.

“Why?” she asks, making a face at him.

Will tries to think of what to tell her. “Well, it just means fewer calories in exchange for more energy. Besides, I’m used to it. I don’t need all that sugar.” he eventually says.

“What are calories?” El asks.

“Don’t worry about that.” Will tells her. He doesn’t need for her to get obsessed with calories and her weight. Will loves her too much to let her suffer like that. She deserves to enjoy food and clothing and be able to look in the mirror and like what she sees. El deserves the world, and that means that Will won’t let her think about food like that. He won’t let her get the idea that she isn’t pretty enough, because she truly is. “Just enjoy the sweeter coffee.”

She drinks the mug, and he finishes his third before it’s time to leave.

On the way to the airport in Argyle’s van, with Jon and Argyle in the front and El and Will in the back, it takes all of Will’s strength to not kick his feet or be loud and to just sit there as they go to pick up Mike.

It’s a couple miles to the airport, during which the van is quiet except for Argyle’s music and chatter, and Will’s smiling so much that his cheeks hurt. As they walk through the airport to the correct gate, Will honestly feels like he’s floating, and when they find a seat to wait for Mike’s arrival, he ends up bouncing in his, so happy and excited that he has to express it somehow.

“Flight 623 just landed from Indianapolis and will be arriving at gate two.” the announcer says after a while. As Mike gets closer to the gate where the Byers are waiting, Will’s practically vibrating in his seat in excitement, beaming so much that his face hurts. He’s missed Mike so, so, so much. He can’t believe that he’s about to see him again, and he’s so excited and terrified and thrilled and a bunch of other emotions in a messy but bright splatter that’s taking over his entire brain.

“Flight 623 at gate two.” the announcer says again.

As Mike gets off of the plane, he scans over the crowd before seeing the Byers, whom he walks over to with a smile after a minute.

Will’s struck by how different and good Mike looks. He’s gotten so much taller, and his dark hair is longer and curlier now. His face is more angular, and he looks so different from the last time Will saw him. He’s always been good-looking, but it’s almost like Mike’s growing into features that were never out-of-place.

Mike’s also wearing the most ridiculous outfit Will’s ever seen, though, which detracts from Mike’s natural attractiveness. The yellow button-up, visor, shorts, sunglasses, and flip-flops… man, Mike’s lucky that Will would love him no matter what he’s wearing, because he looks fucking stupid.

Still, though, it’s Mike, and Will’s so thrilled to see him.

-

Mike gets off the plane, wincing as he stretches his legs. Fun fact: economy is not fun when you’re tall, especially on a six-hour flight.

He looks around for the Byers in the seats. El had said that it was Jonathan, her, and Will coming to pick Mike up, so he’ll have to find them-

He sees them, taking up seats a little ways away from the gate.

El looks nice, with her hair in a long style with bangs just like Joyce’s and wearing a flannel shirt underneath a dress patterned with blocks of color. She’s grown a lot, and she looks more grown-up and feminine than the last time Mike saw her. It’s a different look, but in a good way.

His thoughts go in a panicky spiral of holy shit when he sees Will, though. 

He’s gotten a lot taller, and he looks really handsome, even in the lighting of the airport. Even from about a dozen yards away, Mike can see that Will’s got a sharp jawline, cheekbones, and a more prominent brow ridge now. His olive skin dotted with freckles and moles looks fantastic, made to look darker by the lighting, his blue flannel, and his dark brown hair. He looks amazing.

Above all, what makes him look so good, though, is how damn happy he is. Will’s absolutely beaming, and that smile that’s always been enough to light up a whole room is on full display. 

Will’s gone from a short, squishy-cheeked kid to a genuinely gorgeous teenager over the past six months, and Mike really doesn’t know how to handle this. Not only is his smile infectious, but combined with how good he looks, Mike is trying and failing not to start blushing right now.

Mike tells himself to get a grip and stop looking at his best friend like he’s- like he’s some girl to check out. It’s gross and wrong and predatory to look at Will like that, and he needs to quit it unless he wants to make the next week very hard for himself (and probably Will and El, too).

He smiles and walks over, toasting with the bouquet he brought (what the fuck was that movement? Jesus, he’s a mess) and waving.

“Mike!” El smiles, immediately running over and kissing him. She’s your girlfriend, kiss her back, it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to if she does-

Mike smiles at her the second she pulls away. “Ah! Oh, careful, careful, careful, you’re squishing your present!” he says as she pulls him into a hug.

He hands her the bouquet, and he sees her face fall as she looks at the tag. Mike winces internally. He knew it was a bad idea. “It’s a gift. I, uh, I handpicked those for you in Hawkins. I know you like yellow, but now I’m realizing it’s too much yellow. I know you also like purple, so I got purple as well. So I kinda did, like, a 70/30 split kinda thing.” Mike rambles.

“They’re perfect. Thank you.” El says with a smile, turning away.

“Oh!” Mike says as Will comes at him with his smile and his arms out for a hug, and holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, he’s hot, oh no, what’s he going to do, what is he going to do-

“Hey, how ya doing?” Mike asks, giving Will a side hug with several bro taps and an arm punch.

Well, Mike doesn’t know what he wanted to do, but it sure as hell wasn’t that.

Will looks so dejected, and Mike’s filled with so much guilt and self-hatred over it that he just freezes-

“Hey, Mike.” Jonathan says.

“How you doing?” Mike asks.

“Yeah, good, man.” Jon says.

“Great. Uh, what’s that?” Mike asks, looking pointedly at the painting. Will has been painting a lot, but he won’t show me what he’s working on. Maybe it is for a girl. I think there is someone he likes, because he has been acting… weird.

“Um, it’s nothing. Just this painting I’ve been working on.” Will says with a noncommittal movement.

“Cool.” Mike lies. As embarrassed as he is to admit it, he’s jealous and a little angry. Not only is Will painting for a girl he apparently likes (which makes Mike more upset than he cares to admit), but he brought it to the airport to pick Mike up, which is objectively a shitty thing to do.

“That’s a rad shirt, man. Ocean Pacific?” a guy asks from next to Jonathan. 

“Oh, hey, Mike. This is, uh, my friend Argyle.” Jonathan says.

Mike blinks. He thought that guy was a random weirdo, not a friend of the Byers. “Oh. Hey.”

The guy - Argyle - steps forward and wraps his arms around Mike. He stands there awkwardly and tries to resist the urge to step away.

“Oh, no, no, no. No, it’s a shitty knockoff. Yeah. But don’t sweat it, I’ll get you the good threads out here.” Argyle says. Then, after a minute, he says “I heard a lot about your sister.”

Mike looks at Jonathan, who now looks incredibly uncomfortable. “Uh. O-Okay. Um, should we go?” Jonathan asks.

“Yeah, this is kinda awkward, man.” Argyle says.

“Yeah, so awkward.” Mike agrees.

“I really thought it was Ocean Pacific…” Mike hears Argyle mutter to Jonathan as he puts his arm around El’s shoulders and walks away.

“I have our whole day planned. First, El Rodeo for burritos.” El says.

“What, really? Burritos for breakfast?” Mike laughs.

“Yes. Trust me.” El says.

“Yeah, no, I…” Mike catches Will’s eye and gets distracted from what he was saying before looking back to ahead. There’s a look to Will’s eyes that Mike can’t quite place. “I trust you. It’s just a little weird.”

“Then, after burritos, I want to go to Rink-O-Mania.” El says.

“Rink-O-Mania, okay. What’s Rink-O-Mania?” Mike asks.

“It’s the most fun place in Lenora. They have skating and games.” El tells him.

“Sounds awesome. Are your friends gonna meet us?” Mike asks.

“Friends? What friends?” Will says, looking over to El.

She practically whacks him in the chest with how forcefully El gives Will her bouquet. “You know, Stacy and Angela.”

“Angela?” Will asks with a weird expression.

Oh. Angela must be the girl Will likes. If she’ll be at Rink-O-Mania, it would make sense as to why Will brought the painting. Mike tries to hide his grimace at the way that jealousy rears its ugly head again.

“You’ll meet them, I promise.” El says to Mike. “Just not today. I want today to be about me and you.”

Mike sees Will wilt in the outskirts of his vision as he kisses El’s forehead. Mike tries to think of why, but he can’t think of why Will’s upset. He’s going to be hanging out with El and Mike all day, and he’s going to probably see the girl he likes today. Wait- what if Will figured out that Mike’s a creep? What if he figured out that Mike picked yellow flowers because he was thinking of Will while he was picking them? What if he figured out that Mike’s- Mike’s pervertedness is why he couldn’t give Will a proper hug? What if he figured out that the reason that Mike let the conversation lapse into silence over the phone was because he just wanted to hear Will’s breathing because it made Mike feel safe? What if, what if, what if?

Mike shakes it off as they go and get into a pizza van, which El promises is very safe and that it is just Argyle’s main method of transportation, nothing to do with pizza. He doesn’t see how Will could have figured him out. He’s being careful to be a good boyfriend to El and careful to suppress the disgusting part of him that has his feelings for Will… not… entirely platonic.

As they’re riding in the van to the burrito place, Mike tries to figure out the look in Will’s eyes

After a moment, he realizes it’s the same look that he sees in the soldiers on the news. The guarded expression that both says and hides so much of what Will’s been through - what he’s seen. His eyes look like he’s distant, here but a million miles away at the same time. His gaze looks flat, like he’s looking right through everyone like they’re invisible. Will looks dead inside. Empty. 

It freaks Mike the fuck out. 

They’re kids - they shouldn’t have that look. The weariness and vacancy of his friend’s eyes shouldn’t contrast with the smoothness of his skin, wide eyes, and lack of wrinkles. Will shouldn’t look like a forty-year-old war veteran trapped in the body of a 14-year-old.

It’s another thing that Mike compartmentalizes to think about later as they go in to get burritos while Jonathan and Argyle use the drive-through to get their own meals.

El orders a Burrito Barbacoa (with beef, rice, corn, black beans, and pico de gallo), while Mike gets a Burrito Especial (with beef, cheese, lettuce, sour cream, rice, and beans).

“Will? What are you getting?” Mike asks. The more he looks at Will, the more sure he is that his friend needs to eat. Though Will’s oversized clothing hides it pretty well, Mike can still see how thin he is. It’s even evident on his hands and face (which are the only body parts that aren’t swallowed by Will’s clothes). Will’s bones in the backs of his hands stick out so severely that the skin dips between them even when they’re relaxed as well as having his fingers look like twigs, and Will’s sharp facial bone structure looks less natural and more like the artificial product of being too thin the longer Mike sneaks glances.

“Hm? Oh, I’m not really hungry.” Will says.

“You didn’t eat breakfast yet.” El says. “You should eat.”

“Yeah. You shouldn’t skip meals, Will.” Mike agrees.

“I’m okay-” Will tries again.

“I’ll pay. Just get something to eat.” Mike insists.

Will looks extremely uncomfortable before sighing. “Okay, I’ll have, like, a salad or something.”

“Come on! We’re at a burrito place and you’re getting a salad?!” Mike says. “Get a burrito, dude!”

“It is known for its burritos.” El nods. “You should get a burrito.”

“Alright, fine! I’ll get a burrito!” Will gives, looking a little pissed off before schooling his expression into a blank slate again.

“Great!” Mike says, trying to resist the urge to throw his hands up in frustration.

Will turns to the person behind the counter. “I’ll take a small of whatever he’s having.” he says, nodding over to Mike.

The guy nods before turning away to go make the burritos as Mike gives a look to the back of Will’s head. ‘Small portions’ in food joints means they’re really small, and Will’s too thin to only eat tiny servings. Though Will tries to pay, Mike manages to convince Will to let him get the bill after a minute of disagreeing.

El, Will, and Mike wait over to the left of the counter before their orders are called, and they all grab theirs before finding a booth. Mike sneaks a glance at Will’s meal as they search - it’s about half the size of Mike’s. He hopes that it’ll be enough for Will.

They all find a seat, and as they eat, Mike watches Will. As he eats his, he watches Will cut his up into tiny pieces, spreading it all around his plate and only eating a few tiny bites. With each one, he gives a small wince as he chews, and as they’re eating, Will keeps repeating a pattern over his shirt: he touches his hip, squeezing at the bone, before tucking his fingers under where his ribs are, rubbing over his collarbone and pushing at it, and making an armlet around his lower bicep with two fingers before moving his hands to his lap below the table. He does it not once, not twice, but nine times throughout breakfast.

Will eventually gets up from the table. “I’m going to go to the bathroom.” Will says before walking away and looking at the signs over the doors.

Mike watches him as he leaves before looking back to where Will was sitting. As he looks at Will’s plate, he realizes that he only ate less than a quarter of his already-small meal.

He frowns despite El’s content energy and looks back over to where Will disappeared to with concern.

Well, that doesn’t seem right, but they’ve been separated for so long that Mike might have just missed Will losing his appetite and becoming more obsessive than he used to. Still, it seems odd.

God, Mike hopes that Will’s okay.

-

Will coughs over the toilet bowl again as he tries to get any last bit of food out of his system. While he tries not to do this in public (the germs of public bathrooms and the smell of vomit following him around is… not appealing, to say the least), he also tries not to eat in public, but Mike had pushed so hard for Will to eat that he couldn’t get out of it without raising suspicion or feeling guilty, so… here he is.

He leaves the stall rubbing his knuckles where he has marks from the couple dozen times that he’s had to purge over the past six months and goes over to the sink.

Once he’s done washing his hands and gargling with the tap water to erase the taste and smell of vomit, Will repeats his reassurance: squeeze at his hip to make sure that the bone still juts out, tuck his fingers under his ribs to make sure that his stomach’s still concave and his ribs are prominent, feel how much his collarbone sticks out and make sure that he can tuck his fingers behind the bone, wrap his hand around his bicep to see if the can still do it and have space between his connected fingertips and his arm, and then do the same thing with both hands to his thigh. Just to make sure that he hasn’t somehow ruined his progress with the seventeen small bites that he ate, to make sure that he’s not too fat, to double- and triple- and quadruple-check that he’s still okay, that he’s still mostly bone, that he’s not too fat, that he isn’t too ugly.

Once again, the bones still jut out, his fingers still fit around his limbs and behind his bones, and he’s still not too fat.

Will sighs in relief, gives himself one more scrutinizing glance in the mirror, and leaves with a fake smile carefully plastered onto his face back to his sister and his friend. It’s going to be hard to balance losing the last 3.4 pounds in the next week with keeping his loved ones happy, but if he just tries hard enough, maybe he’ll be able to. Will’s a good liar, after all, and combine that with dedication, he can do it.

Just have to try harder.

-

Will walks back to their table, now with just three dishes (two completely empty, one still mostly full, though messy) instead of food with another fake smile, and as he sits down, he subtly pops a Tic-Tac into his mouth from his pocket. Mike wonders what it’s for before he remembers that they’re going to Rink-O-Mania - Will’s probably making sure that his breath doesn’t smell like burritos when he goes and talks to Angela. Mike rolls his eyes at the thought, trying to bury the hurt that that it brings.

“Are you ready to go to Rink-O-Mania?” El asks.

“Sure!” Mike says with forced cheerfulness. Will doesn’t answer, but follows along as they go back out to the van, where they ride over to the Rink-O-Mania. While El talks and Mike occasionally replies to a question, Will sits in silence, looking out the window and twisting the painting in his grip like he’s trying to break it in half.

As ashamed as Mike is to admit it, he’s watching Will more closely than he’s watching Eleven. He’s acting weird, and it’s scaring Mike, even if it’s probably nothing.

-

They pull up to the Rink-O-Mania, which, in Will’s opinion, is kind of a sensory hell. The music is loud, the sheer amount of people laughing and chatting is overwhelming, and the flashing lights are migraine-inducing. He and El have come here twice, once for a party for his mom’s work, once so that Will could finish teaching her how to skate, and both times ended with Will crying because he got overwhelmed (which is embarrassing, but crying is almost always his reaction to too much happening around him). So today’s going to be fun.

Will silently looks out the window, feeling alone. ‘Today’s going to be all about us’ confirms what he suspected this morning: everyone forgot his birthday. He isn’t mad, though - just a little sad and lonely. His mom’s too busy with work, and Jonathan’s too high, and El doesn’t really understand birthdays in the first place, and his friends are either in Indiana or have been so long that the day doesn’t matter to them (cough cough, Mike). Not to mention the fact that the only attention that either Mike or El has paid him today was pestering him into eating and that it’s become so obvious that Mike doesn’t care anymore, proved by that hug at the airport.

The van squeals to a stop, and Mike helps El out. As they walk in, seemingly forgetting him and leaving him in the dust, Will gets down carefully before walking after them.

“Hey, Will.” Jonathan calls from the van’s passenger seat.

Will turns to look at Jon with an empty expression.

“Have fun, okay?” Jon says with a forced smile and wave.

“Okay.” Will says flatly before turning back to join up with his friend and sister.

Inside, the lights are all blue, and Dead or Alive’s ‘You Spin Me Round (Like A Record)’ is playing loudly. He finds Mike and El at the skate counter, where they’re in the process of checking out some skates. Will gets some as well.

“Have fun.” the person behind the counter says.

“Thanks!” El says, grabbing hers and walking away with Mike by her side. “Bitchin’, right?” she says to Mike.

“Yeah, bitchin’. Do you come here a lot?” Mike asks.

“Yes.” El says at the same time as Will says “No.”

“Will does not.” El saves. “But I go to parties here.”

“No-” Will tries.

“It’s a big party place.” El says over his objection.

As they sit down to put on their skates, El stops Mike from putting on his skates. “Oh, I forgot. You need socks.” she says.

“Oh, shit.” Mike says.

“They- they sell them at the counter.” Will says, pointing past Mike to the counter, with his fingers almost brushing Mike’s chin as he turns to look.

“Oh, okay.” Mike says, immediately getting up and walking over.

He and El sit in silence lacing their skates for a minute, before Will says “How’d you forget about the socks? I mean, since you come here all the time.” He knows he’s being petty, but she just keeps lying.

“I… I don’t know. I just forgot.” El says defensively.

“Riiight.” Will snarks. After a minute, he breaks the silence again. “Why do you keep lying?”

“What?” she asks.

“Why do you keep lying to Mike?” Will asks.

“I’m not lying.” El insists.

“You’re not?” Will questions. “You’re friends with Angela and Stacy and you come to parties here?”

“I have been to a party here.” El says.

“For Mom’s work. That’s not what you implied.” Will insists.

“I have been helping both of us, Will. I told him that we are both popular here. I am protecting you as well as me. And I know that you know about that because you talked to Mike on the phone. It is unfair that you tell me he does not deserve the lies when you are lying as much as me.” she says.

That makes Will shut up. “I just… I don’t think Mike’s going to like that you’re lying to him so much. And he doesn’t deserve that. And when he finds out, he’s going to be mad.” Will finally says.

Mike sits down with a smile and neon socks. Speak of the devil. “Okay, so I asked for vomit green and I got vomit green! Isn’t that awesome?” Mike laughs. When neither Will nor El laugh, though, his face falls, and he looks awkward and sad.

Once they’re done putting on their skates, they go out into the rink, where El and Mike skate hand-in-hand while Will trails behind. He can’t see their faces, but he’s sure that they look like the perfect, happy couple, with Mike laughing about how bad he is at skating while El reassures him, both laughing and acting couple-y.

After a few near-misses where Mike almost falls, they stop skating and go over to one of the booths off to the side, at which point Mike offers to get everyone food. Will wants to vomit again. How on Earth do they fit it all in? How on Earth are they all not fat? Man, Will would kill for such a great metabolism.

-

“Hey, I saw that they have milkshakes. What does everyone want?” Mike asks.

“Chocolate for me, thank you.” El says with a smile.

Mike waits for a minute, but Will doesn’t answer. “Will? What milkshake do you want?”

“Hm?” Will says, looking over at Mike with an expression like he’d been caught off-guard. “Oh, I’m alright. Do you need money for you and El? I think I have a little bit-”

“No, I can take care of ours.” Mike says, cutting Will off. As he’s leaving, though, he stops. “Are you- are you sure you don’t want anything? I think they also have fries and popcorn and stuff-”

“I’m okay, Mike. I had a burrito this morning, remember? Thank you, though.” Will says. His smile would appear genuine, but Mike knows Will, and he knows it’s fake.

“O…kay. Um, just let me know if you change your mind.” Mike says hesitantly, walking away.

As he waits for the kid behind the counter to make the drinks, he frowns slightly as he thinks. Something’s up, even if Mike doesn’t know what it is. The way that he’s practically drowning in his clothes and how tightly his belt is drawn, the way that he’s eating so little, the way that he’s touching his shirt in specific places over and over…

Mike pushes it to the back of his mind. He’s being ridiculous. Will’s probably fine.

But what if he isn’t?

Mike ignores his thoughts (man, he’s doing that a lot today), pays for and grabs the milkshakes, and goes back to the table.

He sits down and places the chocolate in front of El’s and the vanilla in front of himself. Mike takes a sip of the vanilla, and he and El trade for a sip.

“No, mine is definitely better.” Mike says before drinking his own again.

He glances over at Will. “Hey, you want any? I could get another straw or two-” Mike offers.

“No, I’m okay.” Will says. Mike goes from a little interest in Will to full, undivided attention upon the sentence, as looking over at Will while Mike asked meant that he saw Will twitching.

Mike watches Will through his bangs as Will’s hands twitch and tremble, his head rotates in an awkward and painful-looking way, and he keeps grimacing over and over. After about a minute of Will’s weird spasms, he clearly clenches his jaw, stiffens his neck, and presses his hands against the side of the table. He’s still moving, but he’s also doing it in smaller and more controlled movements, though they also look a lot more painful while they’re happening.

“Will? You oka-” Mike starts to ask, but he’s interrupted by six teenagers coming over to the table.

“Ooh, milkshakes? Yum.” one says with a smile. She’s a blonde girl with elaborate makeup and hair in a half-up style, and she’s wearing an athletic set that honestly reminds Mike of something his mom would wear to one of her aerobic exercise classes.

“Where oh where have you been hiding this handsome thing?” she asks El.

“Uh, Angela, thi… this is Mike, my boyfriend.” El stammers.

“Angela. Pleasure.” she says with a bleached smile.

“Heard a lot about you. It’s really cool to meet some of El- Jane’s friends.”

“Friends?” Angela laughs. “Yeah, it’s cool to meet Jane’s famous boyfriend.”

“You’re dating one of Will’s friends, too, right? Jake?” Mike asks.

The brunette boy that Mike had been looking at behind Angela laughs. “Yep, I’m Jake. Will and I are the best of friends.”

Mike feels jealousy and anger mix with the uneasiness in his knot of emotions. Something’s weird.

“Come on, best friend, let’s go!” says Jake, grabbing Will’s arm that’s still spasming and shaking and pulling him away.

“Wait- wait, no, I want to stay-” Will says, eyes darting and head shaking. It hits Mike that Will’s afraid.

“Come on! We’re friends, aren’t we?” Jake laughs. He continues pulling Will away, with the rest of the group going along and laughing as Will weakly protests.

El grabs Mike’s bicep. “I- I am sorry, Mike.” she says.

Mike looks over at her and sees tears in her eyes. “What- why are you sorry? What’s going on?” he asks.

“I- I have not been telling you everything. I have been lying.” El says.

“Wait, what? ” Mike asks. “Why would you do that?”

“Mike, listen!” she says, getting up from the booth. “Will and I, we have been having problems!”

“Wha- okay, what kind of problems?” Mike asks, getting up as well.

El starts to answer, but is cut off by the song stopping and microwave feedback going.

“This next song is dedicated to Will Byers, the town faggot and local snitch!” comes over the mic as ‘Wipe Out’ starts playing and the spotlight hits Will, looking terrified and alone in the middle of the rink.

“Oh, fuck.” Mike whispers.

-

“Stay put.” Angela laughs, leaving Will and Jake as she skates away to the DJ’s area.

Jake laughs as Will tries to wrench his arm away. “Nu-uh. Nobody snitches on me, especially not a weak little faggot. We’ve gotta teach you a lesson.”

Jake lets go and skates a few paces away as the spotlight is turned to Will, right as the music stops and the microwave screeches. “This next song is dedicated to Will Byers, the town faggot and local snitch!”

Will’s frozen in place as ‘Wipe Out’ starts playing and people start skating around him in a circle, all laughing and calling out insults.

“Freak!”

“Faggot!”

“Christ-killer!”

“Go back where you came from!”

“Slut!”

“Jew!”

“Loser!”

“Queer!”

“Cocksucker!”

“Snitch!”

“Whore!”

“Crybaby!”

Will covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut as he begins to cry. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, please, God, make it stop, I don’t like it, please make it stop-

He’s forced back to reality by a vanilla milkshake being thrown at him. He slips and falls, curling in on himself on the floor in that mess.

“Oh my God, it looks like he cummed on himself.” he hears Angela laugh.

The laughter and the insults still coming and the music-

Will quickly unlaces his skates with nimble but shaking fingers, and he kicks them off before getting up as fast as he can and running through the crowd. It doesn’t matter where he goes as long as it isn’t here.

-

Mike watches in increasing horror as Will’s insulted, belittled, and humiliated.

“FUCK!” he shouts, beginning to push his way through the crowd.

He gets to the DJ’s setup, where the DJ is watching and laughing.

“HEY! HEY, HEY, TURN IT OFF!” Mike shouts.

“Sorry, can’t hear you, dude.” the DJ says, pointing to his headphones.

Mike yanks them off and pulls at the record until it comes off of the player with a horrible sound. “I SAID TURN IT OFF, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

“Jesus, alright!” the DJ says, immediately straightening up the station from Mike’s efforts.

Mike looks over to see Will covered in liquid, curled up on the floor as the people continue to laugh and tease.

“I- shit, shit, shit-” Mike says, immediately leaving the station (with El trailing behind and crying) to the rink. He tries to get through the crowd, but it’s so difficult. “Hey! Hey, let me through! Move!” Mike yells at the people standing around and watching. “Will! Will! Let me through! Will!” he shouts as he shoves people out of the way. By the time that he gets through the crowd, though, Will’s gone, with his skates sitting in some of the drink on the floor.

On his way back off of the rink, he turns to El. It’s not her fault, and Mike knows this, but he’s so angry about both what just happened and the fact that he couldn’t protect Will, so despite his best efforts, it’s bubbling over. “Look. We have to find Will. If we split up, we can cover more ground. Okay?” he tells her icily.

“I really am sorry, Mike.” she says.

“We’ll talk about it after we find Will.” Mike snaps. “Just… just find him, okay?”

El nods and turns away tearily.

Mike stands there as he tries to think. He’s been Will’s best friend for ten years - he can figure out where he would hide.

Mike turns and heads over to the bathrooms. Will would try to clean himself up immediately, then try to get as far away from the place as possible.

He looks around and finds the bathrooms, and he goes into the men’s. Inside, Will’s standing in front of the mirror, scrubbing at the front of his shirt with a handful of paper towels.

“Will?” Mike asks softly.

He sniffles. “It’s not coming out.”

“What?” Mike asks.

“The milkshake. It’s not coming out.” Will says, looking over at Mike with tears in his eyes. His face has been scrubbed clean from the drink already, but the front of his shirt and pants are covered.

“I’m so sorry, Will.” Mike says quietly. “I tried to stop it.”

Will doesn’t answer that time. He just keeps scrubbing at his flannel.

“Will, why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?” he asks quietly.

Will’s head snaps up, and he glares at Mike. “You’ve made it super clear that you aren’t interested in anything I have to say.”

“That- that’s not true.” Mike says.

“You’ve called once, Mike. You never called me back or answered my letters, even though El has a whole book of letters from you.” Will snaps.

“Well, that’s because she’s my girlfriend, Will!” Mike says.

She’s my girlfriend, Will! She’s my girlfriend! But… I can’t. I can’t keep looking at you like this. El loves me, and she’s my girlfriend, but I’m so focused on you and I’m so much of a pervert that I don’t love her back like she deserves. Goddammit, Will, just stop. Just get out of my head. It’s been months but I can’t stop thinking about you. I just can’t stop thinking about you. I wonder what you’re doing, and what you’re thinking, and whether you’d like whatever I’m doing, and I wonder if you met someone who you could be happy with who’s funny and pretty and smart and someone who you need more than me, and then I hate myself for thinking about you and wishing that you don’t meet someone who you would choose over me. I’m going crazy. I want to send you letters but she’s my girlfriend so I have to write them to her. I kept calling you but you never called me back and now you’re angry (god I wish you weren’t) and she’s my girlfriend but I still want you, I still love you, I still need you, and I can’t because that’s wrong, I can’t feel this way about a boy, least of all you, and I need to love El, but I can’t make myself no matter how hard I try. Please don’t make this harder than it already is, Will, can’t you see I’m hurting too?

“I get that she’s your girlfriend, and I get that she’s your priority! But would it really have been that hard to just- just send me a letter once in a while? To call, like, once or twice a month?” Will snarls. “And on top of months of radio silence, now that you’re finally here, I’m just a third wheel! I’m just a nuisance!”

“Well- Well, maybe you should have reached out! Why am I the bad guy? If you want things to go well, you should try harder!” Mike says, beginning to shout before toning his voice down (he doesn’t want to scare Will, even if they’re fighting).

“Oh, yeah, I should’ve known everything would be my fault again.” Will laughs sarcastically. “Because it always is, right?”

“Well, the common factor in all the shit in your life is you! So maybe it is!” Mike says. No, no, take it back, take it back, how could you say that, take it back-

Will looks so lost for a minute before his face turns to a hurt yet stony mask of anguish and resolve. “Well, good to know that we agree on something.”

Mike’s about to say something else - probably either backtracking (which he wants to do) or more dumb shit (which he doesn’t), he doesn’t even know - when Will cuts him off. “What even are we now, Mike?”

Mike looks at Will with a look that he hopes isn’t as filled with as much sorrow and pain and longing that he feels right now. “We’re friends. We’re friends. ”

Mike isn’t sure whether he’s telling Will or himself.

“We used to be best friends, Mike.” Will says.

“Well… I don’t know. But… why is it on me?” Mike says.

“I don’t know. But it’s not fair that it’s on me, either.” Will says.

He goes to leave the bathroom, but Mike blocks the way.

“Why did you even lie, Will?” he asks softly. “We’ve been friends for so long. You could’ve told me.”

“ I lied? El was the one who told you that we were popular!” Will says. “She's been lying to you, Mike! Straight to your face ever since you got here! So don't blame me just because I went along with it!”

“You still could’ve said something! And you still could’ve been happy! You don’t think I noticed that you’ve been moping and rolling your eyes and barely talking?”

“You brought me along on your dates, Mike! I’ve been a third wheel all day! Do you know what that’s like? I’ve been miserable!”

“That’s why you’re miserable? Not because of, you know, the fact that you were just publicly humiliated?! No, that’s fine, but God forbid you aren’t the center of attention!” Mike says.

With that, Will gives him a tearful look, filled with both devastation and anger, and shoves past him out of the bathroom.

“Will- Will, wait, I’m sorry-” Mike says, immediately trailing after him.

He continues following Will, whispering apologies under his breath and trailing after him like a scolded puppy, only to almost run into Will when he stops.

“What’s wrong?” Mike asks.

Only to see El smack that girl Angela square in the nose with a roller skate.

Both Mike and Will speed towards her until they stop, one on either side.

“Holy shit, El! El, what did you do?! What have you done?!” Mike asks in shock as he watches Angela cry and scream in pain.

There are people crying around them, and someone’s run off to call 911, and the girl is screaming and raising a hand to her busted-up nose, and Will’s still standing there with a shocked expression, wearing his milkshake-stained clothes and only socks on his feet, and El looks scared for a minute before seeming calm and collected.

“She hurt Will.” El says levelly. “She deserved it.”

She walks away, and Mike isn’t sure whether he should follow her or stay with Will, who’s staring in shock at the scene before walking over hesitantly and picking up a video camera from next to Angela.

He’s about to stay with Will, but a girl wearing a pink blouse, white skirt, and turquoise jewelry runs over to Will, putting her hand on his shoulder and asking if he’s okay.

Mike turns and follows after El, since apparently, Will doesn’t need him anymore.

-

“Angela!” El shouts, walking towards the group of boys and girls who hurt her brother.

They turn, all laughing. “Oh, look who it is.” Angela says.

“She looks upset…” one boy says.

“You ruined my brother’s day.” El says. “And mine. And you need to apologize.”

“Oh no, did we hurt his wittle feelings?” Angela says mockingly.

“Why would you do that?” El asks after a second of collecting her thoughts.

Jake steps forwards with a smile. “We were helping him. You see, your brother… he’s not right.”

“What?” El asks.

“People like him… they’re dirty. They’re perverts and child abusers, and they’re disgusting.” he says.

“Jake, be nice.” Angela says before turning to El with a mean smile. “You see, his kind shouldn’t exist. They’re a crime against nature. We’re trying to help your brother not be a queer or a creep anymore by scaring him. It’s too late to change him, but we can keep him from spreading his disease. We want to help Will not be a mistake and a crime against nature. You can understand that, right?”

That cannot be right, El thinks. Will is the person who has kept me safe. He taught me how to dance and skate and paint and speak and dress, and he helps me with my homework, and he makes me waffles and snacks, and he always hugs me after I have a bad dream. He is the best person I know. How can he be a mistake and a crime against nature when he is so kind and when he loves everyone so much?

As they walk away, laughing and replaying the video camera and watching her brother’s humiliation once again, El sees red.

“Angela!” she calls, grabbing a roller skate from a bystander and walking towards them.

As Angela turns, El raises the skate and hits her square in the nose with it with all her might, earning a satisfying crack and crunch.

As Angela falls backwards until she’s sitting on the floor, people asking if she’s okay, the split in her nose where El broke it turns red before blood starts to seep from it.

Angela starts to scream as Mike runs up to her and asks her what she did.

El feels bad for a moment, but then she looks over at Will, still covered in the drink that they threw on him and with tear tracks on his cheeks.

It was worth it. She loves her brother, and that means that she is willing to do whatever it takes to protect him like he has protected her.

“She deserved it.” El says, letting the justification and pride that she feels at having finally hurt the person who has hurt both her and her brother show in her voice. “She hurt Will.”

With that, El walks away, her boyfriend following her as Will’s friend Lucie tries to talk to him.

-

“Oh god, Will, are you okay?” Lucie asks, putting a hand on his shoulder. Will flinches at the physical contact, as ashamed as he is to admit it, and he turns to look at Lucie. “I’m so sorry, Will, I didn’t realize what she was going to do, and when I figured it out, I tried to convince her to stop, I swear-”

Will nods. “It’s fine.” he lies.

Lucie looks devastated. “I- 911 is on the way. I think you should stay to talk to the police. If you and your sister and friend all explain what happened, I don’t think that Angela can get you in trouble. I’ll vouch for you, and you can show them the video as well as having four witnesses-”

“Today’s my birthday.” Will whispers with tears in his eyes. It’s not important or even relevant, but it feels important to Will. Of all days, they did this on his birthday.

“I- oh god, Will, I’m so sorry.” Lucie says, and- is she crying? “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Will nods, saying some reassurance (he doesn’t know what he’s said, everything just feels like a bad dream, maybe he’ll wake up) before walking away and sitting down, curling his knees to his chest and hugging them. When he’s upset, he always hugs his knees. It makes him feel safer.

He presses his forehead to his thighs, and he stays like that until a hand comes on his shoulder.

“Son?” an adult asks, and Will looks up into the face of a man wearing a police uniform. “Are you alright?”

Will nods. “Are you here about what happened to Angela?” he asks, noting that Angela had apparently already been removed to a hospital.

“Yes. My name is Officer Sanders. Do you know what happened?”

“My sister went to talk to her and hit her in the face with a roller skate.” Will says. “Angela and her friends, they were… mean… and E- Jane was mad at them for me.”

“What did they do?” the officer asks.

Will grabs the video camera from next to him and hands it wordlessly to the officer, who rewinds it and watches Will’s humiliation.

When he’s done, he walks away to hand the video camera to another officer before coming back. “Okay. This seems like a pretty clear-cut case. The victim and her friends were bullying you, and then your sister attempted to protect you. I doubt that charges will be pressed, but we may need you and your sister to come down to the station to give statements later. Sound good, son?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Will says.

The officer pats his shoulder in a manner meant to be comforting before walking away to talk to the other officer.

Will checks his watch. It’s 5:58, which means that Jon and Argyle are probably outside. He’s glad. He wants to leave. It doesn’t matter if he hates the yellow room or if it doesn’t feel like home, because it won’t be here. It’ll be safe.

He sits up and looks around until he finds El and Mike over at their booth, sitting in silence. Will goes over and gets them wordlessly before leading them outside, where the pizza van is pulling up.

“Hey, brochachos! I- whoa, dude, what happened?” Argyle says.

Will shakes his head no and gets into the van, leaning against the window as his friend and sister get in next to him and they drive the way home.

He ignores the others in the van as they go, with Jon and Argyle rambling about ice skates and skate attacks and saying ‘blip blip blip’ over and over while the younger teens sit in silence.

When they get back to the house, Will immediately goes upstairs into his room, ignoring Murray in the kitchen, and grabs a change of clothes from the top of his drawers. It’s a gray striped button-up and jeans, and Will might make an effort to get long sleeves, but he decides against it. He’ll just wear a hoodie or something over it. He doesn’t have the emotional energy to choose something else.

He goes into the bathroom and does what he does best: cuts twenty or thirty lines onto his ribs and stomach, takes a boiling shower to both wash the rest of the drink off and inflame the cuts, paints another coat over his arms to hide the scarring and scabbing, and puts on his change of clothes.

Once he’s done, he leaves the bathroom, only to find Mike waiting outside.

Will blinks at their sudden proximity. Why was Mike waiting outside the door like that?

“Hi. Um, I- I was wondering if you were still okay sharing your room with me?” Mike asks meekly. Will realizes that Mike’s holding a suitcase behind him.

“Sure. Knock yourself out.” Will says monotonously.

“Will, I-” Mike starts.

“I’ll get you the air mattress.” Will says. “Be right back.”

He goes down the stairs and retrieves it from the office, with Mike following closely behind.

Will leads Mike to the yellow room, and Mike looks around as Will sets up the mattress.

“This room looks, uh…” Mike says.

“Yellow?” Will supplies.

“Yeah.” Mike says, giving a chuckle. “Lots of posters. It looks different than what I would have thought.”

“What did you think it would look like?” Will asks, half passive-aggressive, half genuinely curious.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d get rid of your shark bedspread, though.” Mike says.

“It was childish. We have to grow up sometime, right?” Will says, thinking of their fight last summer.

“I-” Mike says before stopping and taking a deep breath. “Will, I’m really so sorry for what I said. Both last summer and at the Rink-O-Mania.”

“Forget it.” Will says, stepping back as he finishes making the bed. “It’s not a big deal.”

Mike looks hurt, and Will feels the guilt hit him like a truck.

“It’s a big deal for me.” Mike says quietly.

“I- I know. I’m sorry, too. And I’m sorry that I’m being kind of a jerk, I’m just tired. Okay?” Will says. “Can we- can we maybe talk about this later? Because I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

A look that seems like a mixture of sadness and warmth crosses Mike’s face. “I- yeah, yeah, of course. Of course. I can’t imagine how tired you must be. I think Murray’s going to be done with dinner in a few minutes, though, so maybe wait to go to bed until after we eat?”

Will grimaces at the thought of dinner. “Yeah, sure.”

Mike gives Will a soft smile before setting his duffel bag down next to the mattress and going over to the door. He looks around the room one more time before leaving, leaving Will alone.

He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, standing there for a minute like that before going downstairs.

Murray’s plating up dinner as he goes down. “Hey, kid. Ya like risotto?” Murray asks cheerfully.

“Sure, risotto’s good.” Will says.

Will sits at the table next to El while they eat (well, Will mostly just pushes stuff around on his plate, though he does eat two pieces of broccoli and steals a piece of cauliflower from El’s plate). He’s too tired and upset to really be paying attention, but first his mom announces that she’s going to Alaska (which- what?!), then Mike antagonizes El (really, Mike? Really?).

Eventually, Will gets sick of both pretending to eat and the bullshit happening at the dinner table, so he gets up and leaves a minute or two after El. He gets his lighter from the nightstand before sneaking out the back door as quietly as he can, leaning against the side of the house as he looks at the stars starting to appear in the night sky.

“Happy birthday to me, I guess.” Will whispers, giving a broken, bitter laugh as he raises the lighter to the underside of his forearm and turns it on until his skin is blistering and hot in a circular burn.

He touches his fingertips to the burn, wincing and hissing when it hurts his fingers to touch. Will quietly tucks away the lighter into his back pocket and goes back inside, managing to make it to his room without alerting anybody to his presence.

Will really must be tired, because he falls asleep only a minute or two after his head hits the pillow after he gets ready for bed, even though it’s only about eight at night.

-

Mike gets tired of the TV and the Byers family drama around 11, at which point he sneaks into Will’s room, careful not to disturb the sleeping boy on the bed, takes a pair of pajamas and his toiletries out of his bag, and goes to the bathroom, where he showers and gets ready for bed.

When Mike goes back into the room, he quietly lies down on the mattress, where he stays for about five minutes until a whimper wakes him up.

Mike sits up, looking around in an attempt to discern where the noise came from. He realizes that it’s from Will when a quiet cry comes from the bed and Will shifts twice in just a few seconds.

Mike gets up off of the mattress and takes the few steps over to Will, at which point he hesitates before grabbing Will’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey, Will, wake up.” he says.

Will mutters something before crying out and thrashing again, and when his long-sleeve pajama shirt’s arm rolls up, Mike can see a burn on the underside of Will’s arm.

Oh, shit. Is this a nightmare or is it his True Sight? Is the dream actually hurting him?

“Will!” Mike says louder. When he still doesn’t wake up, Mike grabs both of Will’s shoulders (what the fuck? When did he get so thin? Mike can feel every bone in Will’s shoulders) and shakes him hard enough to wake Will with a gasp.

The second Will’s eyes open, blood starts pouring out of his nose, and after just a second of eye contact with Mike, he tilts his head back and cups one hand to catch the blood while pressing on the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, shit.” Mike says, immediately grabbing some tissues and handing them to Will.

“Tanks.” Will says stuffily. “Sorry I woke you.”

“No, you didn’t.” Mike says, handing Will more tissues.

Will gets up and walks out of his room over to the bathroom, still pressing on his nose. Mike follows, and he sits on the lid of the toilet as Will sits on the edge of the tub.

“How long have the nightmares been happening again?” Mike asks softly.

Will looks at Mike out of the corner of his eye. “This was a one-off. Wasn’t even about the Upside Down. Just a normal, person dream.”

“I- okay.” Mike says. He doesn’t believe it (Will wouldn’t be so composed and acting so normal if it really were a one-off), but he won’t push if Will doesn’t want to share.

“Will, there’s- there’s a burn on your arm. Are your dreams coming into the real world again?” Mike asks after a minute.

“No. I burned myself the other day with a hot glue gun in art class.” Will says.

Mike knows that’s bullshit too. Will’s always been careful with hot glue guns and knows how to handle them. Mike’s always been the one that would get burned with the glue when they did art projects together.

“Okay.” Mike says. 

They sit quietly for another minute before Will breaks the silence. “It’s late. I’ll be done in a minute if you want to go back to bed. I’ll be back in the room in a minute.”

“Okay…” Mike says, getting up and walking out. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He goes back to bed, and even though he waits for about half an hour for the sounds of Will’s soft footsteps creeping on the carpet, they never come.

Despite the fact that Mike wakes up several times during the night and looks over, Will still isn’t in his bed, and Mike can hear the sounds of the TV from the living room.

Mike looks at the ceiling in the dark and tries to ignore the nagging feeling in his gut that something’s very, very wrong with his best friend.

Chapter Text

Will’s been up since about 11 last night in the living room watching TV. He would normally draw during that time, but Mike’s in his room, and if he’s asleep, Will doesn’t want to disturb him. Besides, he’s too embarrassed to talk to Mike again - the nightmare, nosebleed, and burn make him feel far too exposed. Over the past eighteen hours, Mike’s seen him far too vulnerable, and Will’s not okay with that. The way that Mike was looking at him in the bathroom - like he was seeing right through Will’s carefully-constructed facade straight into Will’s soul and mind. He doesn’t like Mike seeing through him like that. It makes him feel on-edge, like he’s on the verge of being in danger, even if he trusts Mike.

He’s just dozing off around six in the morning when he’s startled awake by a soft thumping sound.

Will immediately is up off of the couch, on his feet and ready to do whatever he has to do to protect himself and his loved ones.

However, as he looks around and listens intently, he realizes that it’s just his mom, trying (and failing) to quietly bring her suitcase down the stairs.

As she’s finishing lugging down her suitcase, he goes up, waits until she’s set it down, and tackles her, almost knocking her over in a giant bear hug.

“Whoa! Whoa, hey, are you okay?” his mom asks, giving a slight laugh when he first hugs her before her tone turns to concern when he doesn’t let go.

His eyes start to tear up as he realizes that if everything goes to his plan with Mike, the painting, and his death, and she’s still in Alaska in a few days, this is going to be the last time he ever sees his mom, the last time he ever gets to hug her.

“Will?  Will, hey, honey, what’s wrong?” she asks, pulling away from him to look into his face. She puts a hand on his cheek, and he leans into the touch, as much as he’ll deny it later.

For a moment, he wants to tell her. He wants to tell her everything about the Upside Down and Lonnie and what happened to him, wants to tell her about what he’s been doing to himself, wants to tell her about the bullying at school, wants to tell her that he really is a faggot, wants to tell her about how he’s not going to live past the end of the week. For a moment, he wants to open the floodgates and tell her everything.

But he looks into her eyes and sees how concerned she is, remembers the pain it would bring her both to have him keep living and to try to share his burden with her, and he smiles instead of letting the tears fall.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just going to miss you a lot. I love you, Mom. So much.”

“I… love you so much and am going to miss you, too. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be fine. Good luck in Alaska. I love you so much.”

“Okay…” she says, still looking concerned.

She picks up her suitcase and moves it towards the door before she stops and turns back to Will.

“Will- Will, if you’re not okay, you can tell me. I’m your mom and I love you. Besides, I was a teenager once, and even if we’ve had very different life experiences, I’ll still do anything I can to help, and I won’t get mad or judge you. Okay? I just want to help.” she says.

Will fights to keep the tears in his eyes. “Okay. But I’m really okay, Mom, I promise. Just focus on work while you’re in Alaska, okay? Everything’ll be fine here. I love you so much. Have fun, okay?”

“Okay… love you too. See you soon.” she says, clearly still concerned but not going to mention it.

It only occurs to Will after his mom’s left in the car with Murray that his promise that he’s okay and that everything’ll be fine might hurt her once he’s dead and she learns that he was lying.

Instead of thinking too hard about that, though, he goes and sits on the couch and watches TV.

After a few minutes, Jonathan comes out of his room. “Hey, morning.” he says. “Mom already gone?”

“Yup.” Will says. “How much you wanna bet that she forgot something?”

Jonathan laughs as he sits down next to Will and puts his feet up onto the coffee table, which Will does as well after some hesitation. “Ten bucks?”

“You’re on.” Will says.

“Wait, no, I’m not taking that bet. We both know how it ends.” Jon says.

“Too late.” Will says, making himself laugh. He needs to keep smiling. Even if he’s still hurting from yesterday (which, even though the hurt is burying itself deep enough that Will’s only thinking of it every minute or two instead of constantly, is still hard), he can’t let that show. He needs to be happy, normal.

They watch TV for a few minutes before Will gets up and makes waffles. (He figures that El’s going to be upset after what happened yesterday and the drama from dinner, so maybe her favorite will help cheer her up). 

As the waffles are cooking, Mike comes downstairs, yawning and clearly half-asleep. His hair’s a mess, and his pajamas are rumpled from being slept in. He’s not even wearing any shoes.

Will smiles as he looks at the waffle iron instead of at Mike. He’s so adorable. Will’s lucky that he has self-restraint, because if he didn’t, he would probably have kissed Mike and smoothed his hair before tucking it behind his ears… made Mike a cup of coffee and given him a plate along with a kiss on the cheek…

Will shakes it off with a deep sense of shame. It’s not okay to daydream about his sister’s boyfriend. Mike’s off-limits, no matter how cute he is when he’s a sleepy mess in the morning.

Once the food’s all done, Will sets out four plates (three with two waffles, one with one - guess whose that one is?). Mike, Jonathan, and Will all sit down (El won’t leave her room, according to Mike), and Will smiles at his plate as he chops up the waffle into little pieces and spreads it around, still thinking about how cute Mike is and glancing up at him periodically as they eat.

Will somehow manages to balance the guilt and the happiness that comes from his glances at Mike and his daydreams of a happy life of just the two of them as they finish breakfast (somehow, Will manages to not eat a single bite).

-

Mike comes downstairs around six forty-five in the morning, with sleep still in his eyes, his hair still messed-up from a disturbed night of sleep, and still wearing just his T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, not even wearing anything on his feet.

Upon going into the main intersection of the downstairs area, Mike sees Jonathan watching TV in the living room, and Will-

His hair’s slightly mussed, just like Mike’s (though it looks more like he was running his hands through it than sleep), and the way that the early morning light is hitting it makes the loose strands look like a halo around Will’s head. When Will turns to look from making breakfast over to Mike with a relaxed smile, Mike can see Will’s collarbones peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt along with the sun illuminating Will’s features, making them even more beautiful than usual.

“Good morning, Mike.” Will says, still with that lovely smile, and Mike has to remind himself to breathe as his heart stops before fluttering like crazy. Christ, he’s so gorgeous.

Mike sits at the counter instead of in the living room like he had planned. He doesn’t want to leave Will - not only is he worried, but he just wants to bask in the aura of peace and warmth that Will brings.

Will smiles as he makes waffles, and God, his smile makes the world so much brighter. One flash of Will’s teeth, and Mike just feels so safe and content. It’s amazing, and so strange at the same time.

It’s hard to describe how Mike feels in these moments, where the shame seems just far enough that it can’t reach him and he can just focus on Will. But he’s had six months of loneliness and sadness to think about it, and he has a pretty okay way to say how he feels (though it’s never quite good enough to truly express how beautiful he feels Will is, no matter how much Mike tries).

To Mike, Will’s an oasis in a desert. Every smile is a shining light in the darkness, every laugh a breath of fresh air. He’s a symphony of colors, perfectly balanced and so, so beautiful. He’s a vision of loveliness, almost too good to be real. Will is a masterpiece, a work of art, a shining light that’s so bright that Mike’s world revolves around him instead of the sun. He’s everything. He makes Mike’s heart sing. He’s a calm amidst the storm, the air in Mike’s lungs, the one who is both able to bring Mike to life and rip his heart to shreds. He’s Mike’s everything.

And… here comes the guilt.

Mike winces as his mind goes from singing Will’s praises to pointing out his own flaws. What are you doing? You have a girlfriend. You have a girlfriend and you’re talking about how beautiful another boy is. What’s wrong with you? Why are you like this? Why are you such a freak?

He’s pulled out of his head by a light touch to his forearm by his friend’s fingertips as Will passes by, quietly padding in socked feet on the tile. “Breakfast.” Will says, and as Mike fights the butterflies and warmth and electricity from the simple touch, he gets up and goes over to the dining table, where Will’s setting out plates with two waffles each on the table. Mike notes that Will’s plate only has one.

Mike sits across from Will so that he can both keep an eye on Will as he eats (to watch his intake) and so that he doesn’t have to look away from Will’s beauty.

As they eat, Mike watches Will, waiting for him to take a bite and prove that Mike’s worried over nothing. It never comes, however, with Will just cutting up his singular waffle into smaller and smaller pieces, leaving it in a pile of tiny waffle chunks in a puddle of syrup with not a bite taken.

Mike frowns and takes another bite. It’s clearly not the quality of the food, as these waffles are damn good and Will’s done it several times even though the food itself has been of varying categories and qualities. Something’s definitely wrong, though it wouldn’t seem it, with Will smiling and humming to himself a little bit as he wrecks his plate (which also seems off with what happened yesterday - Mike knows that if he were the victim of that, he wouldn't be so cheerful). Mike can’t quite place it. It’s that feeling where something’s there in your mind, but just far enough that you can’t name it. It pisses Mike off - he knows that something’s wrong with Will, and he knows that he knows what it is, but it’s just misty enough of an idea that Mike can’t use it. Tip of the tongue and all that.

Well, whatever it is, Mike’s gonna figure it out, and then he’ll make sure that it’s fixed and that Will can be happy. He deserves it. Will deserves everything.

After they’re all done with breakfast (Will throws his food away, which makes Mike frown even more), he decides to bring El her waffles. Does she like syrup? Apparently she does, as Will had put the bottle next to El’s plate.

Mike grabs the plate in one hand and the silverware and the syrup bottle in the other before going up the stairs, trying to remember where El’s room is before remembering that it’s the next one to the left from Will’s.

He knocks on the door, slightly opened, before pushing it open with his shoulder. “Hey, El. Will made waffles, so I brought you some, even if they’re getting kind of cold.” Mike says to the girl sitting hunched over at the desk as he sets the food down next to her elbow.

She doesn’t respond, too busy painting something in a Reebok’s shoebox. Mike realizes that it’s a diorama.

“Oh, that’s cool. Hop’s cabin, right?” Mike asks.

When El still doesn’t answer, he sighs. “So… um… are we not going to talk about it?”

“About what?” she asks flatly. The way she said it was eerily similar to the way that Will speaks when he’s hurt or doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

“I don’t know, just maybe, like, about yesterday, or… everything.” Mike says.

“There is nothing to say. They hurt Will, so I hurt them.” El says.

“I- I guess. But, um… I guess I’m, uh… I guess I don’t really understand. Why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I mean, you know that I’m not exactly Mr. Popularity back home. I mean, you’ve seen it. I’ve been bullied my entire life. And if you told me that they were picking on you and Will, I would’ve gotten it, you know?” Mike says.

“No, you would not.” El says. “You do not understand.”

“Okay.” Mike says. “Okay, then help me understand. Why wouldn’t I have gotten it?”

“They think Will is a mistake.” El says. Mike’s heart breaks a little at that, but he isn’t sure whether it’s because someone as perfect as Will could never be a mistake, or because he knows that Will’s thought that was true before, or because it’s the same old thing that he’s heard aimed at Will a million times. “They say that he is a crime against nature and a pervert and a… bad word for gay. They hit him and tell him horrible things and embarrass him, and he pretends that it is fine, but he is so quiet and sad. I watch him suffer, Mike, and you have not seen him go through this here. He suffers and I can do nothing.”

Mike wants to cry at that, because he does get it, he’s watched Will get hit by Lonnie and be bullied and his body pulled from the quarry and possessed, he does understand that feeling of watching Will suffer and knowing that no matter how much he wants to protect him, there’s nothing he can do. Mike does understand that. He understands that helplessness better than anybody.

“And they think I am a freak. They think I am stupid. They think I am a monster.” El says. “They talk to me like I am stupid. I am not stupid. They think I am stupid because I cannot speak or understand as well as them, and they think I am stupid because I do not know how to be around people.”

She finishes her efforts on the diorama. “Will and me, we do not belong.”

“Here in Lenora?” Mike asks.

“Anywhere.” she says. “We do not fit anywhere.”

“El- El, come on, you can’t actually believe that.” Mike says.

“They all looked at me like I was a monster.” El says.

“El, they just don’t know you. If they were your friends-”

“You think I am a monster too.” she says.

“I- what?” Mike says in shock. He loves El (even if it’s not in the right way), and even if she can be slightly terrifying at times when her powers go haywire, she sure isn’t a monster. She’s a kind, smart, unique person, and she’s a genuinely good, lovely friend to have. Mike sure doesn’t think she’s a monster.

“Yesterday. The way you looked at me. You… you were scared of me.” El says.

“No. No.” Mike says, scoffing. “No, no, that’s not… that’s… that’s not true. I was just surprised.”

That’s a lie. For a second, Mike really was scared, but it was more of the fact that he felt like he didn’t know El or Will anymore and that they were both in danger and hurting.

“I was a little upset in the moment, but, I mean… I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t know what to do about Angela. I mean, it was just so crazy, and it happened so fast. But when you defended Will, it didn’t change anything. I care for you so much.” Mike amends.

“‘Care’. But you… you don’t love me anymore?” El says, turning to look at him for the first time during the entire conversation.

Oh, no. Oh no, no, no, she can’t find out. She can’t figure him out. She can’t know about his… his gross little fixation … on Will. Her BROTHER. God, she would hate him. Honestly, so would Will.

“What… Who… Who said that I didn’t?” Mike says. He wants to facepalm. Way to go, Wheeler.

“You never say it.” she says.

That’s true. She’s right.

“I say it.” Mike says. Good job, Mike, you’re gaslighting her. Great idea. Christ, what’s wrong with you?

“You can’t even write it, Mike.” El says, getting up and grabbing a stack of letters. Oh no. “From Mike. From Mike. From Mike. From Mike. From, from, from, from.” she says, pulling letter after letter from the pile and throwing them onto the floor.

“Okay, okay. Eleven, you’re being ridiculous.” Mike says. No, she’s not, what are you doing, what’s wrong with you, why are you being such a horrible person right now? 

“What, like, what is this? You know what I think of you. You’re the most incredible person in the world.” No, you think the most incredible person in the world is Will, you dirty fucking liar. 

“And you can’t let those mouth breathers ruin you. Ruin us.” What? What is he even saying at this point?

“I mean, they’re nobodies. They’re nobodies, and you’re a superhero.” Again with calling her a superhero? She’s so much more than that. She’s a wonderful person and she’s more than her powers.

“Not anymore.” she says with tears in her eyes.

You've ruined everything. Why would you do that?

They sit in silence, just looking at each other, before they’re interrupted by a doorbell and the sound of Will pleading.

-

The doorbell rings, and Will looks over from the kitchen sink where he’s doing dishes (he got dressed in the same clothes he was wearing last night and then decided to clean up) to the door. “I got it.” Jon says, getting up from the couch.

Will figures it’s just a salesperson, but no, of course it isn’t.

“Hi, does Jane Hopper-Byers live here?” someone asks.

That gets Will’s attention, and he turns off the water and dries off his hands before walking over to where he can see. In the doorway are two police officers. Oh no.

“Uh, yeah. Um, what’s this about?” Jon asks.

“Is Jane’s father or mother around?” the officer asks.

“Uh, no. No, her mom’s out of town. I’m her brother. Um, stepbrother. But, uh… I’m sorry, what is this about?”

“You may or may not be aware of an incident involving Jane at the Rink-O-Mania.” the officer says.

“That was an accident. It- it wasn’t El’s- Jane’s- fault.” Will says from behind Jonathan.

“A warrant says otherwise.” he says, looking straight at Will.

“A- a warrant? ” Jonathan asks. “Come on, that’s crazy, that doesn’t need to happen-”

The officers walk right by Jonathan and Will, straight to the stairs.

As the officers go up the stairs, Will tries to talk to them, getting ahead of them on the staircase and trying to block them from getting to El. “Look, it- it wasn’t her fault. I was involved in the incident, too, you can take me in for questioning or arrest me or whatever, but please, just leave Jane alone- There was an officer there at the Rink-O-Mania yesterday, Officer, uh… Officer Sanders, there’s evidence that it wasn’t her fault, please just double-check or ask him, it wasn’t her fault, she shouldn’t go to jail- look, you can arrest me instead, just please leave her alone-” Will pleads. They ignore him.

They walk into El’s room, where they confirm that she’s Jane Hopper-Byers and start reading her rights as they put handcuffs on her. Will watches with wide, terrified eyes, still pleading that they don’t take her in.

They take her downstairs, both Will and Mike following and trying to talk to the officers.

“Are the handcuffs really necessary?” Mike asks as Will tries to convince them to take him in instead.

“Can you please tell us where you’re taking her?” Jonathan asks as they put her into the back of a police vehicle.

“Eleven. Eleven, listen to me, okay? Eleven, will you please look at me? Everything’s gonna be fine. I am going to fix this, okay? Just… just stay calm and everything’s going to be fine, okay? Just… all you have to do is just trust me. I promise. I’m gonna get you out, I promise!” Will hears Mike shout to El through the window as the cops start to drive away.

“Has Mom’s flight left yet? Shit!” Jonathan says, putting his hands around the sides of his face. 

Will stares after the cop car trying not to cry. 

This is all his fault. If he had never gone to that party back in November and told Lucie, then he never would have been bullied, and if he had never been bullied, El wouldn’t have hit Angela, which means that she never would have been in trouble. This is his fault. He’s a horrible brother and a horrible person and how can anyone stand him when he hurts everyone he loves?

He fails, and he starts to sob in the middle of the road.

This is all his fault.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day after El’s arrest is a blur, with the Byers brothers and Mike going and talking to the police at Lenora’s station, where the only thing they learn is that she’s going to be transferred to a ‘detention hall for juveniles’. Will and Jonathan try to figure out a way to help her on the way back to the house, while Mike just rides quietly in the car.

However, when they pull up to the house, with a car that none of them recognize parked in front of it, Mike gets out of the car while it’s still moving, causing both Will and Jonathan to shout after him, but Mike doesn’t care. Are they more cops?

He skids to a stop outside of the door, looking at the handle, which seems locked and he doesn’t have the key to.

“Hold on.” Will says from right behind him, which makes Mike jump. Will doesn’t sound winded at all, even though Mike ran and Will would have had to as well to get here just after Mike. Not to mention, when did he even show up? Mike didn’t hear him coming at all.

Will pulls a set of keys from his pocket, but his hands are shaking, and he can’t get the key in the lock because of the severe movement.

“I- okay, okay, hold on.” Mike says, holding out his hand for the keys and attempting to look Will in the eyes (though Will doesn’t look at him). “I can do it.”

Will hesitates before dropping the keys into Mike’s hand. As Mike turns the key, he murmurs a ‘you okay?’ over to Will, though Will pretends not to hear as he wraps his arms around his own shoulders and looks over at the neighbor’s house.

Mike pushes the door open cautiously, unconsciously putting an arm out in front of Will as they both step into the room. There’s a light on in the living room, even though there shouldn’t be.

Mike wants to shove Will behind him and protect him from whoever’s inside as they creep into the living room, where two men are sitting on the couch.

“Who are you?” Mike asks, stepping in front of Will the second he sees that they have guns in holsters at their waistbands. “What are you doing in this house?”

“We’re from the government.” one says, and Mike wants to scoff - as if after everything that’s supposed to make him trust them? “We were sent to protect you while Eleven’s at Project Nina.”

“What?” Mike hears Will ask as he steps out from behind Mike to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “Where’s El?”

“At Project Nina.” one says.

“That means literally nothing to us.” Jonathan says, coming into the living room.

“Why don’t you sit down?” one says, almost looking bored, moving to one of the chairs across from the couch.

Mike sits down cautiously, glad when Will sits down next to him instead of next to Jonathan (even if he feels ashamed of that relief).

He listens as the agents talk, and it’s so hard not to take Will’s hand, which is resting in his lap, as they talk about horrible things happening in Hawkins.

He wishes he could hold Will’s hand. Mike just knows it would make him feel better.

-

“I’m sorry, I’m just having trouble understanding all of this.” Jonathan says after the agents have finished talking. Will sure agrees with that. “I mean, what exactly is going on in Hawkins? What’s doing these killings?”

“That’s what we’re trying to ascertain.” one of the agents says.

“Where is El, like, right now?” Will asks.

“For her safety, it’s best you don’t know.” the agent says.

“This is insane! This is insane!” Mike says, getting up and flailing his hands like he always has when he gets upset or stressed.

“So this training to get El’s powers back, how long is it going to take?” Will asks quietly.

“Could take weeks, could take months.” one says.

“Months?!” Jonathan says.

“Until then, we’ll stay with you. Agents Harmons and Wallace.”

Will does not ask which is which, though he kind of wants to.

“We’re not in danger. Our friends live in Hawkins. My family lives in Hawkins.” Mike says.

“Other officials are containing the situation until Eleven is ready.” the agent says. “In the meantime, it is of vital importance you do not speak to anyone about this.”

“No. No way.” Mike scoffs.

“I know this is difficult to understand-” the agent attempts.

“It’s not difficult, this is impossible!” Jonathan snaps.

“There are factions in our government who are working directly against Eleven, who are, in fact, searching for her as we speak. We can’t risk contact. If they learned about any of this, it would jeopardize Eleven.” the agent says, clearly annoyed and tired. “And if Eleven is jeopardized, so are your friends. And so is your family.”

“So, what, we’re just supposed to trust that you’re the good guys?” Mike scoffs. “Whoever you are?”

“We’re friends of Owens.” the other agent says, speaking for the first time. “Eleven trusted us. Now we’re asking the same from you. For you.”

Both Will and Jonathan sigh at nearly the same time.

All of them treat the agents with silence as they all get up and go their separate ways, Jonathan in the dining room, Will at the counter, and Mike still holding onto the back of the couch looking upset.

The agents eventually move to recline in the chairs and put on the TV, watching it in a way that reminds Will of two suburban dads on Thanksgiving.

Eventually, he gets up from the counter and starts walking around, which gets their attention.

“Where are you going?” the more talkative agent asks.

“I’m just getting something to drink. Is that allowed, or… how does this house arrest work?” Will snarks.

“You’re not under arrest.” the agent sighs.

“Riiiiiight.” Will says with an eye roll. “No, no, you’re here to protect us. And… watch TV, apparently.”

They ignore him that time.

As Will gets a glass of water with shaky hands, he sees Mike go upstairs out of the corner of his eye.

He decides that he’ll go and try to comfort Mike in a bit. He’ll just give him space for now.

-

Mike goes upstairs, not even sure where he’s going or caring. As long as he isn’t downstairs right now.

He goes into El’s room, where he finds a neatly-folded note on the bedspread that says ‘Mike- I have gone to become a superhero again. From El.’

Mike huffs as he puts it in his back pocket, angry at himself far more than he is with El. He messed up, and he gets why she’s mad, but God, he didn’t apologize for being a shit person and boyfriend before she got arrested. And now he won’t get to apologize until she has her powers back, and that might be months.

As soon as he’s calmed down, he leaves and goes back into the hallway, looking around and deciding where to go before going into a different room.

Mike steps into Will’s room, looking around it for the first time in the light of day. The walls are a dark yellow, though much of the paint is covered by posters. There are movie posters and music posters, as well as prints of famous works of art and seemingly random prints.

He walks over to the dresser and picks up the photo frames on the top, smiling as he looks at each one. There’s a drawn picture of a tiger, a picture of Will and Jonathan and Mrs. Byers, a picture of the Party that was taken over the summer, a picture of the Party on Halloween, and… just a polaroid of Mike?

Mike pauses as he looks at the polaroid clipped to the top of the Halloween frame. It looks like it was taken about a year ago, and it has Mike in a green button-up with a smile on his face as he looks over to the left, showing his birthmark. His hair’s much shorter and straighter, and he looks… genuinely happy.

Mike takes a deep breath and sets it down, trying not to think of the fact that Will has a picture of him - and specifically him - in his room in a place of honor. It’s not even in a frame, meaning that he took the time to clip it to the corner of another picture (which also had Mike in it). Even though that doesn’t mean anything, and there’s no way that Will could ever feel the way that Mike feels, it makes his heart race.

He continues looking around, noting the wooden bed with the panels above it and several blankets as well as a reddish-brown duvet, the stereo system sitting on top of a piece of furniture that’s absolutely stuffed with records and has cassette tapes littered over it, Will’s nightstand - with surprisingly little sitting on top of it, empty but for a lamp and a Walkman sitting on top of it, closet doors which are slightly ajar, the mattress Mike slept on, a painting easel, and a desk a few feet away from the bed, with a spinning desk chair, trashcan, and two pencil cups, one filled with pencils and pens, the other filled with paint brushes. Papers litter the surface of the desk, some smooth, some crumpled, and there are a few in the trash can.

Mike walks over to Will’s easel, smiling as he looks over the paint marks that cover the wood and the half-empty paint tubes. 

Mike picks up one that's completely empty, a blue color that Mike wouldn't normally be a fan of, but it’s apparently one Will likes, and that means Mike likes it too. He smiles at the fact that it's next to the full ones even though it’s empty - he’s sure that Will had just been so caught up in painting that he had forgotten to toss it out.

He touches some of the paint marks on the easel with light fingers, feeling the bumps of bright paint that Will must have forgotten to clean off. He can almost see it: Will painting in the corner on this easel, too focused on creating to clean up or to throw away the empty paint tube, quietly humming or singing along to whatever music he had put on and looking with a discerning eye at whatever masterpiece he was making, the light from either the sun or the lamp bathing him in a warm glow as he worked.

Mike smiles again at that, setting the paint tube back down where it was and continuing on his look through Will’s space.

After a minute, Mike walks over to the desk and starts looking through the papers, smiling at the drawings, which he immediately starts to smooth out and begins stacking. There are some of El, of his family, of Will’s own hands, of animals and plants that Mike assumes Will sees, of characters on TV, of buildings, of random patterns and doodles…

Mike organizes the drawings by topic into neat stacks, separating the art materials such as pastels, colored pencils, and drawing pads from the mess as well, frequently pausing to admire his friend’s drawings. 

Will never appreciates his own art, and it annoys Mike. Every drawing is a beautiful creation, made even better by the fact that they were made by Will, and it’s so frustrating when Will treats them like garbage, leaving them around or even crumpling them up. So, even if Will says to throw one away or decides that it isn’t worth finishing, Mike’s always saved them. To him, they’re pure gold, and he would never harm or let anyone harm Will’s art. They’re too precious, as is Will’s gift for it.

Even though Mike knows that he probably shouldn’t, he crouches down next to the trashcan and pulls out those papers with a small smile. It’s more than likely they’re Will’s art that he deemed not good enough, and if they aren’t, he can just throw away the paper again.

He frowns as he sees that the bottom of the trash can is charred and blackened. Did Will start smoking or something? He doubts that’s something Will would do - or something that Mrs. Byers would be cool with. Maybe it was an accident with a candle or hot glue gun or something. It’s probably nothing.

Mike begins to uncrumple the papers, but as soon as he sees the contents, he freezes.

He had started with the biggest ball, which was a crumple of a few drawings, which he started to take apart in layers. 

The first drawing is of a figure. It’s a boy in his underwear, and you can see muscle and bone under the skin. The boy in the drawing is thin, but not very - just an average person with a fast metabolism. It’s scribbled out.

Mike uncrumples the second one, the layer right above the first, and it’s another scribbled-out figure. It’s the same boy (or so Mike thinks - Will never finished the faces), but this figure is a lot skinnier. This one is skin and bone, looking gaunt to Mike’s eyes. It’s scribbled out as well. He can appreciate the skill and work that went into these, evident in the detail and black-and-white near-realism, but… why?

He opens the last one. It scares Mike, even more than the other ones. The boy in the drawing is so thin that it’s almost grotesque, with bones jutting severely in places they shouldn’t be. The drawing looks like, if it were real, it would have died of malnutrition long ago. This one isn’t scribbled out, but it has water stains on it. Mike wonders if it was from Will crying. Why would he be-

‘No. No no no no.’ is all Mike can think as the pieces fall into place. The way Will hasn’t really eaten since Mike’s gotten here, the way he’s so thin, the way he’s isolating himself, the way that his hand goes in patterns over his clothes (oh god, is he trying to feel his bones when he does that?), the way that he immediately left for the bathroom at the burrito place… it lines up too closely to that special they did on 60 Minutes on eating disorders.

Would Will- would he- would he really? Would Will starve himself so that he could look like the boy in the third drawing? Did he draw that because it’s what he wants to look like? Oh, God. Would Will really do that to himself? Is that what’s happening? Does- does Will have an eating disorder?

Mike takes a deep, shaking breath and folds the three papers, stashing them in his pants pocket in case he needs them to prove something’s wrong or prove to Will that he knows what’s going on. How is he supposed to bring this up? How is he supposed to ask? Just walk up to the boy who might hate him after six months of radio silence, who’s his favorite person in the world, and go ‘Hey, Will! I think that something’s very wrong with you! Do you happen to be starving yourself so that you lose weight? As a sidenote, how’s life? Why are you shaking so much? I’m asking because you’re acting weird and I’m pretty sure that you’re lying about, like, 99% of the stuff you say is fine. Also, I think your PTSD is back and really bad even though you say it’s fine!’? No! And besides, if Will’s weight loss and habits and drawings are all just a coincidence, he might get really offended that Mike would think that he would intentionally do that to himself.

‘ Okay. Okay, gotta think of a game plan. ’ Mike tells himself. He tries to think of something, anything, to do about the fact that Will might damn well be really sick with an eating disorder.

Mike decides that he’s not gonna say anything for a while, but he’s gonna push harder for Will to eat. If Will keeps acting so weird and resisting all efforts to get food into his system, Mike’ll bring it up calmly and with lots of evidence. But in the meanwhile, he’ll just keep watching Will and make sure that he eats.

With his head whirling from the new, horrible information, Mike uncrumples the other papers. They’re all dark, near-disgusting images, with figures ripping off their own limbs and into their abdomens, carefully-drawn dead bodies surrounded by cursive words that Mike can’t quite read but has a bad feeling about, and one that’s a surprisingly haunting drawing of a butterfly made of cobwebs. They all scare him. Why is Will drawing these? Mike adores Will’s art and talent, but these are all honestly horrific.

He looks at them on the table, unsure of what to do. He loves Will’s art and doesn’t want them to get thrown away forever (as they’re all beautiful in a haunting, disturbed way), but… Christ, he doesn’t want to look at or keep them, either. What is he supposed to do with them?

Mike takes them and tucks them gently into the front pocket of his duffel bag. He can decide what to do with them later, but for now, they’re safe.

He’s startled by Will knocking at the doorframe. “Um… everything okay?” he asks softly, and Mike wants to say no, Will, everything’s not okay, I think you’re putting yourself in danger and it scares me, I can’t lose you, that thought scares me more than anything else in the world, please just tell me if I’m right and you’re starving yourself, I just want you to be safe and happy, I won’t be upset, just please be okay.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.” Mike dismisses. “Just, uh…” Thinking that Will’s mentally ill? “...El left me a note. It says she’s gone off to be a superhero again.”

“Mm.” Will nods. “Well, it means that she’s okay, so at least there’s that.”

But are you okay, Will? Because I don’t think you are.

Mike sits down on the end of Will’s bed as Will starts pacing. “You know, I… I mean, I really don’t think they’ve thought this through. If this goes on for a month, or months, and people can’t get ahold of us, they’re gonna totally freak out. And meanwhile, my mom’s probably having a panic attack or something.” Will rambles, gesticulating wildly with his arms that keep folding and unfolding and bobbing head. “And what about Hawkins? They’re supposed to keep it contained. Like you can contain any of this without El. I mean…”

“Yeah.” Mike agrees, staring at El’s note while thinking of Will’s drawings and their implications.

“If you keep staring at that, it’s not going to change. You know?” Will says more gently.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Mike says, crumpling it.

Right then, Mike makes a bad choice. He doesn’t love El like that, and he can’t keep fighting with her. If he could just get Will’s blessing-

“Before the cops came, me and El, we… we had a bad fight. We never fight. I mean, we fought before, but just, like, silly fights, stupid fights. But, I don’t know, this one just felt more adult. Like, it… it felt more real. Like, a fight you can’t come back from. Maybe I should’ve said something, and if I would’ve said that thing, then maybe she’d want me there with her, wherever she is.” Mike says.

“No. Look, Mike, you’re gonna see her again, and whatever you didn’t say, you can say it to her then. Okay?” Will says.

Mike feels so ashamed at the disappointment he feels that Will didn’t tell him to break up with El.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Mike says.

“She’s gonna be okay. She’s not in Hawkins. That’s what we should be worrying about.” Will says.

“You don’t trust Owens?” Mike asks when it occurs to him what Will’s saying.

“I- no. I- I don’t know. I mean, he’s been good to us and good to El, but he- he wasn’t able to protect me. That was you guys that saved me. That was you guys.” Will stumbles.

Memories of Will screaming as a monster from another dimension possessed his frail body flit through Mike’s mind for a second.

Mike sighs. “Looks like it’s gonna be up to us again.”

“It always is, isn’t it?” Will smiles as he sits next to Mike.

Mike looks down at his lap, where he’s twisting his hands so that he doesn’t try to reach out and touch Will. He glances back up, first to Will’s lips - no, Michael, stop that - then up to Will’s eyes before back to Will’s lips again. Michael James Wheeler, stop it! he thinks to himself.

“And that’s why we can’t stay here.” Jonathan says, stepping into the doorway.

Jonathan’s sudden interruption makes Mike very, very glad that he didn’t kiss Will like he was thinking about doing.

Jon grabs Will’s spinning desk chair and pulls it up, sitting with his leg on either side of the back. “Listen. Let’s assume these friends of Owens are telling the truth. We can’t call Hawkins without alerting the military, putting El in danger. Alright, fine: we just go to them.” he says.

“Go to Hawkins?” Mike asks.

“How?” Will asks, finishing Mike’s thought. God, he’s amazing.

“What are you worried about? Ponch and Jon out there?” Jonathan asks. “They’re half-asleep watching golf.”

“No, Jonathan, I mean that we don’t have a car or money.” Will snarks. (God, Mike loves it when Will’s snarky. It’s hilarious and so cute)

“Then we’ll hail ourselves a ride. A cheap one.” Jonathan says, handing them a flier for Surfer Boy Pizza.

They all look at each other, and as Mike’s dark brown eyes look into Will’s hazel and Jonathan’s light brown, he knows that they’re going to figure this out and they’re going to get out of here.

Chapter Text

“Excuse me, sir?” Will asks, standing on the stairs next to Mike and holding their ticket out of here.

The agents ignore him, too caught up in watching the TV.

“Excuse me, SIRRRRRRRR.” Mike says, glaring bullets at them. It takes all of Will’s effort not to laugh.

One sighs and looks over. “What?”

“We’re hungry.” Will says, holding out the flyer.

They see the word ‘pizza’ and seemingly forget everything else. “I could eat.” says one.

Jonathan makes the call and tells Argyle to get down here (and orders two pizzas to distract the agents), and Will and Mike go upstairs to pack up. Mike goes into the bathroom first (presumably to get his toiletries), and Will immediately goes into the yellow room.

He looks around, trying to decide what to take. There are so many things that he’s attached to here, and he doesn’t know when or if they’ll be able to come back.

Will decides that he’ll take the things he needs, like clothes and a toothbrush and stuff, his walkman and tapes, some of his art supplies, and Bobert the Plant. And some pictures he doesn’t want to leave.

He immediately starts grabbing things and shoving them into his backpack, which he empties onto the floor next to his dresser. When (if) he gets back, he’ll clean up the mess, but right now, he just needs a place to bring everything.

Will goes over to his desk to grab his sketchbook and some pencils, both colored and not, for the road, but as he grabs them, he freezes and looks over the wooden surface.

Huh. His desk is way more organized than before. Did Mike- Did Mike clean it up?

Something dawns on him, and Will looks over at the trash can, which is now empty. Oh, no. Did Mike see the drawings that were so dark and painful that he wouldn’t keep them?

He gulps at that thought. Okay. So there were the four bloody ones and the moth and the three ritual ones, and… oh, crap, Mike must’ve seen the thinness drawings if he saw the others, too. Oh, God. How’s he going to explain those away?

Will decides that, if Mike asks, the drawings were all scenes from a horror novel that he’s been reading. The thinness drawings were the main character, the other ones were moments from the book that Will found so impactful that he wanted to draw them.

Okay. If Mike asks, he’ll have an excuse.

Will puts the pencils (three plain and a box of colored) into his front khaki pocket and tucks a small sketchbook (only about 4” by 6” - small enough to carry with him in case he gets nervous and needs to draw at school - and with only three pages used) into his back pocket, where it sticks out just below the hem of his tucked-in yellow flannel shirt. Better to save room in his backpack and keep them from getting lost.

Will then goes over to his nightstand and table, where he gets his Walkman and some of his favorite tapes.

As he moves on from grabbing his music and all his other non-necessities (except Bobert, who he’ll grab on the way out) to his clothes, getting down on the floor and kneeling so that he can get inside his dresser, Mike comes in, toiletry bag in hand. He puts it into his duffel bag, zips it up, and hefts it onto his shoulder.

“You’re packed already?” Will asks, glancing over from where he’s trying to fit clothes into his bag.

“Yeah. I mean, I never really unpacked.” Mike pauses for a second. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?” Will asks, hardly looking over his shoulder. He’s serious - what did he do that warrants thanks while Mike’s been here?

“For knocking some sense into me over these past few days. I was being a total self-pitying idiot.” Mike says.

“Well, I didn’t say it.” Will says, smiling over his shoulder at Mike, who’s now sitting on the end of his bed.

“You didn’t have to.” Mike says, smiling in return (and- wait, did he look at Will’s lips? There’s no way. Will’s probably projecting. He should not do that). “Hey, also, about the last few days-”

“You don’t have to say anything. I- I was being a total jerk by ignoring you and I deserved everything that happened.” Will says, turning back to the dresser.

“No.” Mike disagrees, shaking his head when Will looks over. “No, no, no, no. You didn’t deserve anything bad.”

“Listen, the truth is, the last year has been… weird, you know? And I mean, you know, Max and Lucas and Dustin, they’re… they’re great. They’re great. It’s just… It’s Hawkins. It’s not the same without you. And I feel like I was thinking too much about El this whole time, and… I don’t know, it just feels like I lost you or something. Does that make sense?” “I have no idea what’s going to happen next. But I think that, whatever it is, we should work together. I think it’ll be easier if we’re… if we’re a team. Friends. Best friends.” Mike says, coffee eyes softened as they look into Will’s, who can’t keep himself from smiling and feeling hopeful.

“Cool.” Will smiles awkwardly.

“Cool.” Mike agrees (did he glance down again just now? Maybe Will’s lip is cracked or something, because Mike keeps looking at it. Or maybe it’s just his imagination. All Will knows is that Mike definitely isn’t thinking what he’s thinking).

Will’s thought process involving Mike and their lips (which is hard not to start blushing to) is interrupted by the sound of tires screeching outside.

“That was fast.” Mike mutters, eyebrows furrowed.

“Thirty minutes or less.” Will jokes.

“Alright, you guys ready?” Jon says, ducking into the yellow room.

“Yeah.” Will and Mike both say at nearly the same time. Will hesitates for a second, but then he grabs the two paintings in his left hand. He doesn’t want to leave them behind, even if he might not be able to give them to Mike.

The doorbell rings, and they hear the agent guy say from the living room “Pizza time. I got it.”

As the doorbell rings again and again (which is weird, Argyle usually just rings twice), the agent guy says “Yeah, I’m coming, hold your horses, Jesus Christ- hello-”

There’s a popping sound and then a thud, and Will’s lived through enough that he knows what that means.

“What the hell was that?” Mike asks.

“Oh, shit.” Will says. He’s not dumb - he knows the sound of someone being shot.

“Stay here!” Jonathan says, clearly knowing what that means as well, holding up a flat palm and jogging out to the living room.

Will looks at Mike in fear, while he looks at Will in confusion and anxiety.

There’s rapid-fire popping sounds, and Will hears the sound of gunfire and shouting before Jonathan appears in the doorway again, pure panic on his face. 

“What’s going on?” Mike asks, going to lean his head out the door, and when Jonathan practically shoves his head back in and says ‘Get back!’, he clearly gets it, his face going slack in terror.

“Listen, we gotta go right now!” Jonathan shouts, grabbing them and pulling them out into the hall after giving it a quick look.

“SHIT! SHIT!” Mike shouts, clearly panicking. Will can’t blame him. He’s panicking too, if the sudden lack of air isn’t any indication.

“GO! RUN!” Jonathan shouts as he pushes them through the hallway and down into the living room, where they all press against the wall next to one of the agents as he shoots at whoever’s attacking them. Will squeezes his eyes shut as he pants, too terrified to move or think or do anything. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, please please please don’t let us get shot, I’m so scared, please, God-

He feels pressure against the front of his body, and when he looks, he sees Mike throwing himself in front of Will, leaning heavily on him as he covers Will’s body with his own, while Jonathan tries to pull Mike away and back against the wall.

The agent guy gets shot one, two, three times, and they keep running through the living room as the gunfire intensifies.

Eventually, even though the agent guy is shot and bleeding like crazy, they get out to the driveway in a blur, where Jonathan slams a hand on the window as he shouts at Argyle to stop the car.

“The hell is going on?” Argyle shouts as they open the door and struggle to get the agent into the backseat.

“Gogogogogogogogo!” Jonathan shouts.

“Whoa, is that real blood, man?!”

“DRIVE!” Mike, Jonathan, and Will scream in unison.

“Okay, okay, alright!” Argyle says, starting to kick the car into gear.

“But… OH MY GOD WHY IS THAT GUY HOLDING A GUN?!” Argyle screeches as a gunman starts approaching the van with his machine gun raised.

“DRIVE!” they all scream again.

“OKAY!” Argyle shouts, speeding away right as the gunman fires, denting the van door. Will throws his arms over his head before he can think to do anything else.

As they keep going full-speed away from the Byers house, Will comes to his senses, immediately starting to press on the agent’s wounds. “Mike! Jon! Help! He’s gonna bleed out!” Will says over the agents pained cry at the pressure, his hands becoming warm and sticky.

“I- shit, shit, okay.” Mike says, immediately scooting over to help.

“OH, SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!” Argyle shouts from the front seat.

Jonathan also comes over, helping to press on some more of the gunshot wounds. “Keep pressure on it!” he snaps at Will, whose hands are shaking so much that he’s having a hard time keeping them down. 

Will feels like he can’t hear right. It’s like the sound of the gunshots and the body hitting the floor and the shouting is ringing in his ears and echoing in his head, the horrible sounds on a loop as he tries to stop his hands and voice from shaking so that this agent, who protected them and is now bleeding to death from over fourteen gunshot wounds to his torso, won’t die.

“I know! I know!” Will says, panicking as he tries to will his limbs to be steady enough to help this guy.

“Oh, God. Oh, God, it’s not slowing.” Mike says.

“Just put more pressure on it! Keep putting pressure on it! Get the napkins!”

“Come on!” Mike cries, looking so, so scared.

“MIKE! NAPKINS!” Will snaps. He feels bad for his tone, but Mike gets up and grabs some, so at least his outburst did something helpful.

“Shit!” Mike cries.

“Argyle! Get us to St. Mary’s!” Jonathan shouts up to the front.

“I don’t think praying’s gonna help that dude!” Argyle shouts.

“No, you idiot! St. Mary’s Hospital!”

“No… no…” says the agent on the floor.

“What?” Will asks as gently as he can with his voice and hands still shaking. He needs the gunfire in his head to stop so that he can hear what the agent’s saying.

“No hospital…” he says weakly.

“We’re gonna get you to the hospital.” says Jonathan, coming back over from where he had gone to yell at Argyle.

“You need to warn… O… Owens…” the agent says, gurgling slightly as blood starts to fill his mouth.

“Okay. Okay. Owens.” Will says, moving a hand from the agent’s wounds to his arm, squeezing in some approximation of comfort. He’s not dumb. He knows that the wounds are too many and that he’s lost too much blood. Will isn’t dumb. He knows that the agent is dying. All he can do is offer comfort and an ear.

“The girl. She… she’s in danger.” the agent says.

“Okay. How… how do we find Owens?” Jonathan asks.

“Nina. Nina.” he says.

“Nina. Who’s Nina?” Mike asks.

“A pen! Okay, a pen!” Will says, seeing the agent’s gesture and grabbing the pen from the agent’s shirt pocket, placing it in his hand. “Okay!”

“Shit.” Mike says in a strangled voice.

“Here’s the number.” the agent says weakly, holding the pen.

“Number. Number.” Will repeats, and he doesn’t know why, it’s such a small thing to repeat, but he’s scared, and it’s helping him process and calm down. “Number. Okay. Number.”

“He wants to write something.” Mike says. “Will, Will, get a magazine or something. Will, grab something.”

Will pulls his sketchbook out of his pocket and pulls out a page, leaving bloody fingerprints on the paper he pulls out and the covers, but he doesn’t care.

“He’s really bleeding a lot…” Argyle says.

“Right here.” he says, handing over the sketchbook paper.

“Come on. Hey. Write the number. Hey! Look at me! Hey, come on! Hold on!” Mike cries as the agent’s hand grows weaker.

“Oh, shit.” Will registers Mike saying as the agent’s hand falls away, leaving the pen in Mike’s grasp.

He looks in a daze at the man who gave his life to protect them, who is now lying dead on the floor. Whose blood is everywhere and who died in agony. The man who died to keep them safe, even though Will didn’t know his name.

He hears Jonathan and Argyle arguing as he looks at the agent’s body, and he gives a shaking exhale. He wants to press his hands into his eyes, but he’ll get blood on his face. The dead man’s blood.

As Will leans back from the body, going to crouch on his feet and look at his hands stained and glistening red with the dead man’s blood and trying not to freak out, Mike seemingly loses it, as he stares at Will’s chest for a minute before diving at him, clawing at the fabric.

“Mike?! What-” Will tries as Mike starts unbuttoning Will’s flannel shirt with shaking hands and a determined ferocity.

“Were you hit?!” Mike shouts as he practically tears the fabric with his hurry to get it off of Will’s chest.

“What?!” Will asks, looking down at his own body for the first time. He almost faints when he sees the blood running down the center of his shirt. “Oh my God!”

When he gets the flannel shirt off enough to expose Will’s undershirt, Mike blinks and breathes a sigh of relief, leaning back when he sees that Will’s long-sleeve gray shirt that he was wearing under the flannel only has a little bit of blood on the collar where it was exposed, apparently satisfied that Will wasn’t shot.

He then looks at Will’s face. “Will- Will, your nose-”

Will touches his face and finds that his nose had apparently started bleeding during the shooting.

“Oh.” he says, not sure what else to say.

“Are you okay?!” Jonathan asks in a panic.

“I’m fine.” Will says in a daze. He feels like he’s underwater. Nothing seems real, not the blood, not the guns still echoing in his ears, not even him. “I’m okay. Just a nosebleed.”

He looks at his hands again, still so bloody, and looks over out the window, trying not to cry. In the back of his mind, he registers that his two paintings are sitting on the floor of the van. Apparently, he held onto them throughout the shooting and put them in as they helped the agent in.

As Will looks out the window, he sees black vans in the distance.

“Get off the road.” he says, staring out at them.

“What?!” Mike asks, looking at the vans, too. “Oh, shit.”

“Get off the road!” they say in unison.

When Jonathan realizes and starts shouting at Argyle too, he swerves, getting them off the road and away from the people who want them dead.

“I know somewhere we can go!” Argyle shouts.

-

Mike grabs his toiletries from the bathroom as he takes deep breaths, trying to get the nerve to talk to Will again before they leave.

After standing outside of the bedroom door for what’s probably, like, three solid minutes, collecting himself and planning out what to say, he goes into Will’s room, closing the door behind him as he enters.

“You’re packed already?” Will asks, glancing over his shoulder at Mike. 

“Yeah. I mean, I never really unpacked.” Mike says.

As Will focuses back on his dresser and Mike sits down on the end of Will’s bed, Mike definitely doesn’t sneak a look at Will’s ass (and he even bites his lip, oh dear god what is he doing), which his khakis make look really good. Wow, Michael, pervert much? his brain supplies, and he tells it to shut the fuck up because Will’s really easy on the eyes (which his brain then makes fun of him for saying).

He pauses for a second, fighting a blush, and smiles at Will. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?” Will asks, turning to pay more attention to Mike, who nearly dies when he sees how attractive Will’s facial side profile has gotten.

“For knocking some sense into me over these past few days. I was being a total self-pitying idiot.” Mike says.

“Well, I didn’t say it.” Will smiles.

“You didn’t have to.” Mike says, smiling and nodding and looking at Will’s lips again what the fuck is he doing- “Hey, also, about the last few days-”

“You don’t have to say anything. I- I was being a total jerk by ignoring you and I deserved everything that happened.” Will says, turning back to the dresser.

“No.” Mike says, and he wants to cry, how could Will think that he deserved anything that’s happened over the past two days? He deserves so much more than that. “No, no, no, no. You didn’t deserve anything bad.”

Will looks back over, and Mike decides what he needs to say.

“Listen, the truth is, the last year has been… weird, you know? And I mean, you know, Max and Lucas and Dustin, they’re… they’re great. They’re great. It’s just… It’s Hawkins. It’s not the same without you. And I feel like I was thinking too much about El this whole time, and… I don’t know, it just feels like I lost you or something. Does that make sense?” Will nods, and as he looks at Mike like he hung the moon and stars (why’s he looking at Mike like that? Is he really so happy to have the confirmation that Mike and Hawkins care about him?), Mike continues. “I have no idea what’s going to happen next. But I think that, whatever it is, we should work together. I think it’ll be easier if we’re… if we’re a team. Friends. Best friends.”

“Cool.” Will says, nodding his head and smiling like crazy. Jesus Christ, he’s absolutely adorable.

“Cool.” Mike nods, looking at Will’s lips yet again, he needs to knock that off-

Mike’s thoughts about kissing Will are interrupted by the sound of tires screeching outside.

“That was fast.” Mike mutters, eyebrows furrowed.

“Thirty minutes or less.” Will jokes.

“Alright, you guys ready?” Jon says, ducking into Will’s room.

“Yeah.” Will and Mike both say at nearly the same time. Mike sees Will hesitate for a moment, then grab two paintings from next to his dresser in one hand.

The doorbell rings, and they hear the agent guy say from the living room “Pizza time. I got it.”

As the doorbell rings again and again, the agent guy says “Yeah, I’m coming, hold your horses, Jesus Christ- hello-”

There’s a popping sound and then a thud, and Mike knows that’s not good, but he doesn’t know what, exactly, that sound is, even if it’s eerily familiar.

“What the hell was that?” Mike asks.

“Oh, shit.” Will says. Mike looks over at Will - if Will’s swearing, that means that they’re in serious shit.

“Stay here!” Jonathan says, holding up a flat palm and jogging out to the living room.

Mike looks at Will in confusion and anxiety, and Will looks at him in terror as he grabs onto Mike’s arm with his free hand, which is clearly trembling. What does he know that Mike doesn’t?

There’s rapid-fire popping sounds, and Mike hears what sounds like a combination of fireworks and popcorn and shouting before Jonathan appears in the doorway again, pure panic on his face. 

“What’s going on?” Mike asks, going to lean his head out the door, and when Jonathan practically shoves his head back in and says ‘Get back!’, he gets it, and he can feel his face going slack in terror.

Holy shit. Holy shit, those are gunshots.

“Listen, we gotta go right now!” Jonathan shouts, grabbing them and pulling them out into the hall after giving it a quick look.

“SHIT! SHIT!” Mike shouts. There’s no way out except THROUGH THE GUNFIRE, oh dear God, what if they get shot-

“GO! RUN!” Jonathan shouts as he pushes them through the hallway and down into the living room, where they all press against the wall next to one of the agents as he shoots at whoever’s attacking them. Mike stays against the wall for a second, but when he realizes that the shots are getting closer to where they are, he throws himself in front of Will in a panic and ignores Jonathan trying to pull him back, knowing that whatever happens, he isn’t going to let Will get hurt.

The agent guy’s back starts to become stained with red as he keeps firing and crying out as he gets shot, and they keep running through the living room as there are more and more shots fired.

Eventually, even though the agent guy is shot and bleeding like crazy, they get out to the driveway in a blur, where Jonathan slams a hand on the window as he shouts at Argyle to stop the car.

“The hell is going on?” Argyle shouts as they open the door and struggle to get the agent into the backseat.

“Gogogogogogogogo!” Jonathan shouts.

“Whoa, is that real blood, man?!”

“DRIVE!” Mike, Jonathan, and Will scream in unison.

“Okay, okay, alright!” Argyle says, starting to kick the car into gear.

“But… OH MY GOD WHY IS THAT GUY HOLDING A GUN?!” Argyle screeches as a gunman starts approaching the van with his machine gun raised.

“DRIVE!” they all scream again.

“OKAY!” Argyle shouts, speeding away right as the gunman fires, denting the van door. Mike flies backwards in an attempt to keep himself safe, and he sees Will throws his arms over his head and squeeze his eyes shut.

As they keep going full-speed away from the Byers house, Will goes over and starts to press on the agent’s wounds. “Mike! Jon! Help! He’s gonna bleed out!” Will says over the agents pained cry at the pressure.

“I- shit, shit, okay.” Mike says, immediately scooting over to help and trying not to think about the feeling of the agent’s heartbeat and blood seeping through his fingers.

“OH, SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!” Argyle shouts from the front seat.

Jonathan also comes over, helping to press on some more of the gunshot wounds. “Keep pressure on it!” he snaps at Will, whose hands are shaking so much that it looks like he’s having a seizure.

Mike feels like he can’t think, like he’s frozen in time, half in the Byers living room getting shot at and half in the van keeping the agent from bleeding out.

“I know! I know!” Will says, and Mike wants to snap at Jonathan for making Will more upset, but they don’t have time, he’s bleeding so much, he’s going to fucking die-

“Oh, God. Oh, God, it’s not slowing.” Mike says, trying not to start crying.

“Just put more pressure on it! Keep putting pressure on it! Get the napkins!” Jonathan says.

“Come on!” Mike shouts, and he’s scared, he can’t think, it’s like he’s frozen-

“MIKE! NAPKINS!” Will snaps, and the fear and stress in Will’s voice is enough to snap him out of it, and he goes up and finds some napkins in the glove compartment.

“Shit!” Mike cries as he brings them back over as fast as he can.

“Argyle! Get us to St. Mary’s!” Jonathan shouts up to the front.

“I don’t think praying’s gonna help that dude!” Argyle shouts.

“No, you idiot! St. Mary’s Hospital!”

“No… no…” says the agent on the floor.

“What?” Will asks gently, clearly attempting to compartmentalize his own panic for the agent’s sake.

“No hospital…” he says weakly.

“We’re gonna get you to the hospital.” says Jonathan, coming back over from where he had gone to yell at Argyle.

“You need to warn… O… Owens…” the agent says, gurgling slightly as blood starts to fill his mouth.

“Okay. Okay. Owens.” Will says, moving a hand from the agent’s wounds to his arm and squeezing, leaving a bloody handprint on the white sleeve.

“The girl. She… she’s in danger.” the agent says.

“Okay. How… how do we find Owens?” Jonathan asks.

“Nina. Nina.” he says.

“Nina. Who’s Nina?” Mike asks. They can find El. They can find El and run and get back to Hawkins and save themselves.

“A pen! Okay, a pen!” Will says, apparently recognizing whatever the agent’s doing with his hand and grabbing the pen from the agent’s pocket, handing it to the agent. “Okay!”

“Shit.” Mike says in a strangled voice. This guy’s dying in the back of a pizza van and they just got shot at, Jesus Christ-

“Here’s the number.” the agent says weakly, holding the pen.

“Number. Number. Number. Number. Okay. Number.” Will repeats over and over.

“He wants to write something.” Mike says as it occurs to him. “Will, Will, get a magazine or something. Will, grab something.”

Will pulls a sketchbook out of his back pocket, ignoring the blood he’s leaving on it, and rips out a page.

“He’s really bleeding a lot…” Argyle says.

“Right here.” he says, handing over the sketchbook paper.

“Come on. Hey. Write the number. Hey! Look at me! Hey, come on! Hold on!” Mike cries as the agent’s hand grows weaker. No. No no no, he can’t lose Eleven. He’s so close, just write the number.

“Oh, shit.” Mike says as the agent’s hand goes slack and limp, leaving Mike holding the pen.

Mike stares at the agent. He was so close to writing the number and he didn’t. Why didn’t he? What if there’s no other way to find El ever again? He doesn’t want to lose his (girl)friend.

Mike looks up from the agent’s body, desperate for anything to look at but the corpse, when he sees blood down Will’s shirt in a dark streak.

No. Oh, God, please, no, please don’t let him have been shot, oh, God-

Mike all but throws himself at Will, tearing at the fabric over Will’s chest as he desperately tries to get the shirt open to look for a gunshot wound.

“Mike?! What-” Will tries to say as Mike starts unbuttoning Will’s flannel shirt with shaking hands and a determined ferocity. Mike doesn’t care if his feelings about Will are wrong and he’s afraid to take advantage of Will by touching him without telling him about what he is, but he doesn’t give a shit, Will could die-

“Were you hit?!” Mike shouts as he practically tears the fabric with his hurry to get it off of Will’s chest.

“What?!” Will asks, looking down. “Oh my God!” he says upon seeing the blood.

When he gets the flannel shirt off enough to expose Will’s undershirt, Mike blinks and breathes a sigh of relief, leaning back when he sees that Will’s long-sleeve gray shirt that he was wearing under the flannel only has a little bit of blood on the collar where it was exposed, meaning that it wasn’t Will who got shot, only the agent guy.

He then looks at Will’s face, pale and with a stream of blood from both of Will’s nostrils. “Will- Will, your nose-”

Will touches his face and apparently finds that his nose was bleeding.

“Oh.” he says, swaying as the van bounces.

“Are you okay?!” Jonathan asks, a terror in his eyes that Mike understands better than anyone.

“I’m fine.” Will says in a weirdly even tone, still bouncing along with the movements of the van. “I’m okay. Just a nosebleed.”

Will stares at his hands with a blank expression, looking at the blood that covers them like a latex glove before looking out the back window for a second, still holding his hands out in front of him.

“Get off the road.” he says quietly.

“What?” Mike asks, looking out the window too, where he sees the black vans in front of the Byers house following behind. “Oh, shit.”

“Get off the road!” they say in unison.

When Jonathan realizes too and starts shouting at Argyle along with them, the van swerves with Argyle’s jerky movements, getting them off the road and away from the people who want them dead.

“I know somewhere we can go!” Argyle shouts.

Chapter Text

As Will and Mike sit silently in the backseat, both with hands covered with blood from the dead body on the floor, Argyle still panicking in the driver’s seat, they drive off the road to some mysterious destination that Argyle promises is safe.

“Will?” someone asks, but Will can’t answer or move to look at who’s asking. He’s stuck. The guns are still deafening, and he feels so, so cold and he can’t feel his feet or hands, and his whole body is just shaking and trembling, and it’s like he can’t force any noise out of his mouth except for whimpering. He knows that it’s over, but oh, God, is it really over? Or are the guns and the blood and the shouting just going to come back the second he blinks one too many times?

“Will, hey-” someone tries to touch his arm, but he just jerks away in response. “Sorry…” the person says, withdrawing their hand.

“I’m gonna take the long way so that we won’t be followed, alright, dudes?” Argyle says (he thinks it’s Argyle? His ears are ringing, he feels like he can’t think straight, his mind’s moving too fast but still going in circles…).

Will doesn’t answer as he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take deep breaths (why is it so hard to breathe, are his lungs giving out like they did years ago?). He’s been through worse. This isn’t vines being forced down his throat, this isn’t a monster controlling his body, this isn’t his father coming at him with fury and fists raised, this isn’t being trapped in another dimension with a monster hunting him. He’s been through so much worse than a few bullets fired. So why is he freaking out?

He’s startled by a blanket being gently placed around his shoulders, tucked carefully under his chin. “Here. I- I found this under Argyle’s seat. Your skin’s really cold. I don’t want you to go into shock.”

Will wants to say thank you to whoever’s taking care of him, but he can’t talk or move, he’s still stuck, his head is still underwater and filled with cotton and his chest is too tight and his lungs are too small-

Someone touches his shoulder, and even though he flinches away, the hand doesn’t move. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” they say, and he feels fingers on his throat. “Whoa, your pulse is really fast.”

The fingers drop from his pulse point to a palm over his chest. “Okay, deep breaths. Everything’s okay, alright? We’re okay now. Deep breaths. Move my hand.”

Will takes one, two, three, four deep, shuddering breaths, gaining praise from whoever’s touching Will. “Okay, you’re doing great. Keep breathing. Everything’s okay. We’re okay. Alright, I’m gonna get you some water. Do you think you can drink?”

Will manages to nod. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

The person disappears, and the blanket is tightened around his shoulders again with murmurs of comfort.

A bottle of water is lifted to his lips, and Will feels so embarrassed, he’s acting like a helpless child when he can take care of himself, what’s wrong with him-

Will lifts his arm and takes hold of the bottle over someone else’s warm hand, and he drinks of his own accord.

“Alright. You okay now?” comes the second that he lowers the water.

Will nods. He still can’t open his eyes or speak or think straight or stop shaking, but he feels a little bit better.

“Do you have your pills? Have you taken them today? Xanax might help.” the person says.

Oh, no. Oh, no no no. He doesn’t have any of his medications.

Will shakes his head and goes to cover his ears because covering his ears always makes him feel better but oh, God, his hands are still covered in blood.

Will makes a sound that’s caught somewhere in a weird place between a wail and a whimper and a scream as he flaps his hands and shakes his head over and over and over. I want my hands to be clean, no blood on them, get it off get it off get it off GET IT OFF GET IT OFF-

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, calm down-” the person says, trying to grab his wrists, but don’t touch him he can’t-

Will makes an unholy screeching sound as he jerks his wrists, which surprises the person into letting go, which then allows him to keep flapping his hands as fast as he can.

“Will.” comes a different voice, so quiet that he almost can’t hear it. “I know. I know it’s scary but everything’s going to be okay. What’s wrong? What do you need?”

Will shows his palms as he keeps moving his hands, showing the blood that he knows is still there.

“Is it the blood? Is that what’s wrong?” the person asks in the same soothing tone.

Will nods as best he can with his head still shaking.

“Okay. Okay, I’m gonna need you to stop moving for just a minute so that we can clean it off, okay?”

Will takes as deep of breaths as he can as he slows his hands, trying to stay calm and not start flapping his hands again even though he wants to. He settles for shaking his head even more in response.

“There you go. It’s okay. It’s okay.” they say as a wet piece of… something (paper or fabric, Will can’t tell) gently wipes over and over at his hands, leaving a lack of stickiness where it scrubs.

“All done.” they say. “No more blood. There’s still a little bit on your face, though. Do you want me to wipe that off, too?”

Will nods. His face feels sticky with the warmth too, he doesn’t like that, but it’s still better than on his hands, he can breathe better but his chest and lungs are still too tight, his mind is still moving too fast, his head still hurts-

They wipe under his nose and over his lips and chin, carefully getting all of the blood from his nosebleed off. “Okay. Okay. All done. No blood. Better?”

Will nods as he takes deep breaths. He feels a little bit better, and he can’t feel okay with a dead body that he doesn’t know the name of on the floor, but he feels a bit better, and he can sit here without having to flap or shake his head, so he’s probably doing better than he was before.

After a minute or two of sitting hunched over and stock-still on the floor, he opens his eyes with much effort, blinking at the light.

“Hi.” Mike says from in front of him with a soft smile, and Will can’t tell if it’s sad or nervous, but it’s safe. It’s Mike, and Mike feels safe. “Hi there. Are you feeling any better now?”

Will nods, still not able to get any words out.

“Okay, good. We still have a bit until we’re at wherever Argyle’s taking us, so you have a bit to finish feeling better, okay? There’s water on the floor next to you, the blanket’s still on your shoulders, and your sketchbook is on the floor. Do you have pencils?” Mike says quietly.

Will nods.

“Okay. Just take your time and do whatever you have to. It’ll be okay.”

Mike moves away and sits down about three feet further away, showing Jonathan kneeling behind him with a furrowed brow. “I- I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have touched you, I should know better than that when you have one of your moments, I’m sorry-”

Will wants to tell his rambling brother that it’s okay, he knows that Jonathan never knows what to do with Will during one of his moments and that Will isn’t mad at Jonathan, but he still can’t quite talk, so he just reaches out and gently squeezes Jon’s arm instead.

Jonathan squeezes his hand back before shifting to get up. “Okay. Are you okay now? Do you still need me here? Or are you okay if I go and sit near Argyle?”

Will moves his head in a gesture that he hopes gets across the message of ‘I’m fine, Jon, go be with Argyle if that’s what you want to do.’, and apparently it does get the point across, as Jonathan gives a shaky smile before getting up and going over to crawl into the passenger seat.

Will holds his hands out in front of him and looks at both the fronts and backs. Apparently, they did a good job getting them clean, as only a slight red stain in the deeper grooves on his palms is left behind as proof that blood had once covered his hands.

Mike comes over again and gently pulls the blanket up over Will’s shoulders and covers the top of his head. “It fell off.” he says in way of explanation. He tucks two edges of the blanket into the neckline of Will’s gray undershirt. “It won’t fall again that way.” he says simply, leaning back and sitting down again. With the blanket covering his back, falling over his front, and covering his hair, leaving only his face truly visible, Will thinks he probably looks like a small Italian grandmother.

He realizes that his yellow flannel has a lot of blood still on it, from both his nose and from the agent’s body, and he unbuttons it the rest of the way from where Mike had gotten it about halfway down. Will shrugs the shirt off and moves the blanket so that it’s more of a cape with a hood as he balls the shirt up and sets it aside.

Will realizes that Mike’s staring at Will’s torso, now in just a thin, gray long-sleeve shirt, and he gives Mike a look that he hopes is saying ‘What are you even looking at?’.

Mike snaps out of it and looks back at Will’s face, looking extremely awkward. “Sorry. I, uh- sorry.”

He turns away, looking out the window as he turns a little bit red and fidgeting with his hands, which are still as bloody as Will’s were.

Will moves over (the blanket trails behind him like a cape, which he would swish dramatically if he hadn’t just watched someone die), grabbing the water bottle next to him and getting some on one of the unused napkins before lightly taking Mike’s wrist, pulling his hand (and attention) over to his lap, and starting to gently and quietly clean the blood off.

“I- oh. Uh, thank- thank you.” Mike says, watching Will work as his face turns bright red.

Will decides not to overanalyze that reaction and instead just finishes wiping down Mike’s hands until both boys are clean again.

Once that’s done, he goes back over to the other corner, choosing to look at Mike instead of at the agent’s body on the other side of the van. Mike still has the coloring of a tomato, and he’s fiddling with the pocket on his shirt as he looks out the window. The pocket is sideways, and it has a triangular gray flap. It looks like an envelope. It’s a very strange shirt.

“What’s up?” Mike asks, looking over at Will.

Will shakes his head and gives a small smile, grabbing his sketchbook from the floor (and wiping it off with another napkin to reduce the bloody fingerprints to light pink circles) and pencils from his pocket and starting to sketch. It calms his nerves, and it makes his body go from shaking to still. He could probably even speak if he tried to after about twenty minutes of drawing soothing circles.

“Alright, dudes, we’re here!” Argyle says.

Will looks up and finds that they’re… in the middle of a junkyard?

He’ll roll with it, he thinks as he sets down his sketchbook. What other choice is there?

-

Mike gets down from the van, stretching his tense legs as soon as he’s down from the door. His whole body hurts, like his muscles are all like the strings on his guitar back home and about to snap. Apparently, that’s how his body has decided is the best way to protect against bullets.

“Alright, what’s the plan?” he asks, looking over to the front seat as he offers a hand to help Will out of the van.

Jonathan gets out and sighs, looking away and looking disturbed. “First, we bury the body.”

Mike glances over at Will, who’s taking off the blanket and setting it in the van. After his moment (as they’ve called them since he was little, as he’s had those periods of hand-flapping and other movements for as long as Mike’s known him - but then again, Mike gets them too, so he can’t judge), he’s worried about Will’s capacity to do this. He doesn’t want Will to get upset again.

Will looks over and gives Mike a steady smile, seemingly mostly recovered from his earlier shock and earlier moment.

“Will you be okay?” Mike asks softly.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Will you?” Will asks.

“Yeah.” Mike says, nodding. He looks at Will’s shirt again and inhales sharply before looking away. Will’s undershirt is very thin and very tight, and it shows Will’s abdomen with a lot of detail, which… definitely isn’t making Mike feel things when combined with how good Will(‘s ass) looks in khakis.

“I think there are shovels somewhere around here.” Jonathan says, starting to climb over cars as he goes. Apparently, he and Argyle have been here before.

It’s not long of standing around (during which Mike sneaks a few more glances at Will’s torso - sue him, Will apparently has abs and that’s really hot, okay?) before Jonathan comes back over with shovels, handing one to both him and Will (though he pauses before giving one to his brother, probably as worried about Will’s moment happening again as Mike is). After he hands over the tools, he leads a panicking Argyle away.

Will looks over at Mike. “We need to find a good place to bury him.”

“Okay, yeah, you’re right. Where do you think-”

“Somewhere quiet and peaceful.” Will says. “We’re not just shoving him under a car, we’re giving him a grave. That means that it needs to be a solid area that’s mostly undisturbed and is able to be dug deeply into.”

“I- okay.” Mike says, following after Will and using his shovel as a walking stick.

Eventually, Will stops in a smaller area, a plain patch of dirt circled by rusting, broken cars. He pats the dirt with his shovel and nods, apparently satisfied. “Here. Here’s okay.”

Will starts digging, breaking ground by driving the shovel blade into the soil with his heel, and Mike soon follows next to him. Before too long, the sun starts beating on Mike, and he takes off his blue shirt to reveal his white T-shirt under. That doesn’t make him cool enough, though, and he pulls his dark curls off the back of his neck and puts them up with a hair elastic that he keeps on his wrist for such occasions.

He begins digging again after laying the shirt on a nearby car hood, and when they’re about a foot deep into a six-foot-long, three-foot-wide pit, he notices Will staring at him.

“What? Do I look bad?” Mike asks, resting on the shovel and self-consciously touching his bun and birthmark (oh no, what if it’s getting redder with the heat? God, Mike hates that stupid birthmark. It’s so ugly and it takes up pretty much half of his face and it makes him look so different from everyone else. He knows how ugly it looks, how ugly he looks, does Will think he’s ugly? Oh no, if it’s turning darker with the heat does Will think he looks bad? Mike doesn’t know what he’d do-)

“No!” Will hurriedly says, and- is he blushing? It’s probably the heat. “No, no, you look good. I’m just not used to seeing you with your hair up is all. You’ve always had shorter hair.”

“Oh.” Mike says, and he suddenly feels very stupid for being so worried about Will thinking he’s ugly. This is Will he’s talking to, who would hold Mike’s hand and hug him tight on days when Troy and his friends were especially cruel, tell him as he cried that his birthmark is part of what makes him special, that he wouldn’t be fully Mike without it, that it makes him look even prettier (Mike still blushes a little at the memory of an eight-year-old Will telling him so earnestly that Mike was really pretty even with his birthmark). He wouldn’t think Mike was ugly even if his birthmark was getting darker.

Mike hopes, anyway.

Another foot or two deeper, he looks at Will, who is currently driving the shovel into the dusty ground with a foot on the blade, and starts to stare at his torso. While the… the attraction… plays a part in why he keeps staring at Will while his upper body is covered by just a thin gray undershirt, so does the concern. The tightness of the shirt doesn’t just outline his chest, abs (seriously, when the actual fuck did Will get abs???), and muscles, but it also outlines his ribs, his protruding collarbones, how small his waist is, and how terrifyingly thin he is. The longer Mike looks at Will, the more sure that he is that his theory about an eating disorder has merit. Will shouldn’t be so thin. He looks like a skeleton. He looks like he’s absolutely starving.

Honestly, Mike just wants to sit Will down and make him eat until he doesn’t look like his bones are going to break with a single touch.

Will meets his eyes, and as Mike looks Will up and down (damn, he has nice legs, even if they’re twigs) once, twice, three times before licking his lips (oh lord what is he doing) and goes back to shoveling the soil (he just did a triple take, what on Earth is wrong with him?), Will apparently does the same, staring back at him before shoveling dirt out of the sandy hole that’s getting deeper and deeper.

‘Well, that was questionable on both ends.’ Mike’s brain supplies. He tells it to shut up. It was probably just Will copying because Mike was making him feel weird. He hopes that he wasn’t being too creepy. He hopes Will isn’t uncomfortable.

“Hey, you guys need any help?” Jonathan asks, carrying in a shovel. Argyle’s carrying… a pizza box and a Sharpie?

“Yeah, that… that would be great.” Mike says, still trying to figure out what on Earth Argyle is doing. 

“Does anyone know the guy's name? I'm making a gravestone.” Argyle says.

“I- Argyle, we're hiding his body!” Jonathan argues.

“I’ll just put down ‘Unknown Hero Agent Man - Saved Jonathan, Argyle, Will, and Mike From Certain Death.’” Argyle says, starting to write.

Mike and Will exchange ‘you seeing this shit?’ glances, just like they have ever since they found out that the world was full of dumbasses.

“I- you know what? Fine. Do your thing, dude.” Jonathan says, starting to dig along with them.

Argyle colors on the pizza box (Mike guessed that he was a stoner as soon as he saw him, but Jesus, how much pot does he have to ingest to be so… just generally weird?) as they all dig, and as the day gets warmer and warmer, Will starts flagging, panting as he fights to keep shoveling.

Jonathan shakes his head. “Okay, just- You and Mike go catch your breath on a car or something. I can finish it up. The grave is almost deep enough.”

Will starts to object, but Mike talks over him. “Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks, man.” 

There’s honestly no need for Will to get heatstroke or collapse of exhaustion (because Mike knows that the last time Will slept was for about two hours the night after Rink-O-Mania), so they can leave Jonathan to take care of it instead for, like, ten minutes.

Mike then walks over to sit on the top of a car that’s a little ways away, and after a moment of hesitation, Will follows, sitting next to him with a soda can between them. 

Mike hunches over so that he can be on Will’s eye level as he pulls the agent’s pen out of his pocket and looks at it.

“If that guy would’ve lived one more second, ONE more second, we… we’d know where she is.” Mike says after a minute. “Why… why didn’t he just say the number? Write it?”

Will nods, looking at him with undivided attention. Mike… finds that a welcome change from most people. In the months separated from Will, he’s forgotten how much he missed the way that Will would actually listen to Mike instead of just ignoring what he says like most people.

“I should’ve explained myself.” Mike says. “Maybe Eleven would’ve taken me with her and things would be different, but-”

“No.” Will objects gently.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know what to say.” Mike finishes. That’s a lie. He knew exactly what to say. But he just couldn’t make himself lie like that.

“Sometimes…” Will starts. “Sometimes, I think it’s just scary to open up like that. To say how you really feel. Especially to the people you care about the most. Because what if… what if they don’t like the truth, you know?”

Mike nods. That hits a bit too close to home. But… what’s Will talking about? He doubts it’s about the same reason Mike’s relating so much.

He opens his mouth, about to say something - he isn’t sure if it’s a confession, or telling Will he knows about the eating disorder, or even just saying ‘I know, I understand’ - but is cut off by Jonathan shouting.

“Hey, we’re almost done with the hole!” he says.

“Okay!” Mike shouts back.

He looks back down at the pen and something clicks. “Wait- Will, do you have paper?”

Will digs through his pockets before producing a scrap, and Mike scribbles on it. The pen doesn’t write.

“Why would he give me a pen that doesn’t work?” Mike asks, immediately unscrewing the tip.

A small roll of paper falls out.

“Holy shit!” they say at the same time.

Mike looks at Will with a wide smile, and Will smiles back as well.

He unfurls it and excitedly shows his best friend what it says.

“The number!” Will says, and he looks like he’s over the moon.

“We’ve had it this whole time!” Mike exclaims.

“GUYS!” Will shouts to Jonathan and Argyle. “WE HAVE THE NUMBER!”

Jonathan walks over quickly, and Argyle slowly meanders over, still doodling on the cardboard headstone. 

They talk for about five minutes and plan on what to do, and they finalize it: they plug the number (which is a phone number) into a payphone, and then they get answers from whoever picks up. If nobody answers, there’s probably going to be a voicemail (right?), and they can use that to figure out where Nina is.

“Alright.” Argyle says, going to walk back over to the van.

“Wait- we still have to bury him.” Mike says.

Jonathan looks over at the van. “I- yeah, alright. I’ll be over to help carry him in a minute.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike sees Will start to reach for his arm (is it his hand or his wrist? Mike doesn’t know) before apparently deciding not to (Mike wishes Will had decided to, he knows it’s wrong but he just wants to hold Will’s hand), instead just saying a quiet ‘Come on, let’s go’ to Mike.

Mike follows him back to the van, though Will’s a fast walker and is there far before Mike. As he picks up the pace to get to the van (which Will has already reached and is inside despite the fact that Mike’s still about twenty yards away), he idly thinks that Will walks with his hips. Mike had never noticed that before.

After he reaches the van, he stands there for a second, wondering whether to get into the backseat or not.

He pokes his head in and sees Will pulling on the agent’s limp arm.

“Help me get him onto the blanket.” Will says, trying to pull the agent onto the blanket previously around Will’s shoulders.

“We might need that. Will-” Mike starts to argue.

Will whips around to give him the look he’s always given when he disagrees with someone and is ready to fight. “He died to protect us - some kids who didn’t even know his name. The least we can do is bury him with respect.”

Mike feels ashamed at that. The agent really did give his life to protect them, even though they didn’t know him or his name and were kind of jerks. He was a hero, and Will’s right - he deserves a better burial than his body rotting as sand fills his mouth. A shroud is the least they can do.

“Alright.” Mike gives, going over and grabbing the agent’s leg as Will pulls on his arm. They manage to pull him onto the blanket with much effort, and though Mike’s about ready to just call Jonathan and Argyle to help them carry the body to the grave, Will’s apparently not done.

Will starts to arrange the agent’s limbs, moving his legs to be straight and not awkwardly bent and moving his arms to fold his hands over his chest. He smooths the agent’s hair, makes sure his eyes are closed, and straightens his clothing. It makes Mike choke up and his eyes water a little; it doesn’t feel as much like a goodbye as a ‘thank you, I won’t forget what you did for us’.

“Okay.” Will says, stepping back from the body and wiping his eyes hurriedly with the back of his hand. “Okay, he’s ready to go now. Help me get him over.”

Mike waves Jonathan over, and the three of them all take hold of part of the blanket and heave, managing to take small steps and getting him over to the grave. They lower him into the sloping walls, and though Mike immediately grabs the shovel, Will stops him with a touch to the arm. 

Will slides down into the grave along with the body and repeats the ritual he just did, making sure that the agent’s body is dignified and peaceful.

Before covering the agent with the makeshift shroud, getting out, and filling the grave with soil, though, Will pauses before taking the holster off of the body’s shoulders and taking round replacements from the left pants pocket after some searching.

“What are you doing?” Mike asks.

Will clicks the leather holster onto his waist through his belt loops, ignoring the shoulder design in favor of a belt. “If El’s in danger, we’re gonna need weapons.” he says calmly as he puts the rounds into his own pocket before climbing out of the hole, coming to stand next to Mike.

“I- Will, I don’t think any of us can shoot a gun.” Mike says. He looks over at Argyle and Jonathan. “Right? None of you can shoot?” They both shake their heads and say variations of ‘no’, though Jonathan nods his chin towards Will, who’s looking at the soda can on top of the car.

Out of nowhere, Will pulls the gun from its new position on his hip in one fluid motion, cocks it, and fires at the can on top of the car where they were just sitting, hitting it dead-on with a bang and sending it flying.

“Correction: you, Argyle, and Jonathan can’t shoot a gun.” Will says with a small smile as he lowers it to his side. “I, however, am a fair shot.”

Holy fucking shit.

“Holy shit, dude.” Argyle says, and Mike would be inclined to agree with that. “Dude, why didn’t you tell me your brother was a freakin’ sharpshooter?”

Jonathan looks at Will with something between sadness and pride. “It’s not something we talk about much.”

Will looks the gun over with a murmur of ‘Model 29, nice’ and checks it again before putting it back into its holster, and as he covers the agent with the blanket and begins to shovel the dirt over the body with Jonathan, Mike feels frozen.

Okay. Alright. Will can shoot a gun. Why is his heart beating so loud and fast that his blood’s roaring in his ears?

Oh, wait, because he thinks that’s really fucking hot for some unknown reason.

‘Okay. Okay, Will can shoot a gun. That is normal and YOU WILL BE NORMAL ABOUT IT. It is a valuable life skill and you should not get hot and bothered about it, understood? It doesn’t matter if the holster on his hip looks super hot and badass right now or- oh fuck-’ Mike tries.

Will rubs his forehead with the back of his hand and leans on the shovel as Jonathan pats the grave down, and that pose makes him lean to one side and stick his hip (made to look even more prominent with the gun resting on it) out, and excuse you, Will, he is trying to ignore the fact that you are extremely attractive and your clothing choices and movements and fighting abilities and general existence are making that very very hard, stop it.

Will nods to himself as Jonathan finishes up before getting off of the shovel, wiping off the handle on his khakis (probably to get rid of fingerprints) and sliding it through the broken window of a nearby rusting car shell into the backseat. “Next things next, we need to find a phone booth. We need to get some answers and find El.” he says.

As they all follow Will’s example, putting the shovels into the same car and heading towards the pizza van, Mike feels like the darkness ahead is cut through with a glimmer of hope.

Chapter Text

“Pull over! Pull over, there’s a payphone!” Jonathan says.

The tires screech as Mike and Will are almost thrown in the backseat with the force of which the van turns. As much as Will likes Argyle, dear God, he shouldn’t have a license.

They’re on the ground as soon as the van’s stopped enough to open the door, with Mike and Will practically running over to it.

Will puts in the quarter that the phone requires with twitching and shaking hands (they’ve been ticcing nonstop ever since they left the junkyard, and it’s honestly pissing Will off) and putting in the number that Mike hands him on the slip of paper.

But when it gets through, it’s just a weird beeping.

“Here, listen to this.” Will says, holding out the phone for the others to listen to.

All of their brows furrow as they try to place the sound.

“It sounds like a busy tone, maybe?” Mike suggests.

Will shakes his head. “I- maybe, but it sounds weird.”

“Does this remind you of anything, then?” Mike asks, and he’s holding the phone to Will’s ear, and his heart is racing because Mike’s hand is over his, they’re holding hands, oh God oh God oh God-

“No, you’re right, I think it’s a busy tone.” Will says, trying to save the fact that he’s probably blushing and oh, god, is he acting weird? Oh no-

“So a dead end.” Jonathan says.

Mike sighs and nods. “Shit.” he says.

“I- alright. Let’s just go back to the van and try to think of something else to do. There has to be some way to reach the Nina Project.” Will says.

They all go back, and they gather around the doors of the van as they look at maps, trying to figure out where to go. “So- 209, that’s a California area code- or they could be using a fake number that routes back?” Jonathan suggests.

“There’s no way it’s in California. The government isn’t that dumb.” Mike says.

“Not in California.” Will says, mulling it over in his mind as everyone talks about what to do next.

Suddenly, he gets an idea.

“Oh my God.” he says, putting his hands on the side of the head as he smiles.

“What? What’s ‘oh my God’?” Jonathan asks.

“I know who we can go to.” Will smiles.

“Who?” Mike asks.

“Turnnnn arounddddd… look at what you SEEEEEE…” Will sings, swaying side to side as he does. He can practically hear the eye roll from Jonathan.

“Suzie!” Mike says, and he sounds as overjoyed as Will feels. “Oh my God, Suzie!”

“Who’s Suzie?” Argyle asks.

“Our friend Dustin’s girlfriend. She’s a total genius and a computer whiz. If we could get to her, she could get us the information on the Nina Project.” Mike explains.

“Oh, sweet. Where does she live?” Argyle asks.

“Utah.” Will says.

“Where in Utah?” Jonathan asks.

“Um…” Will says, looking over at Mike, who looks back at him with about the same mix of feelings.

“We’ll figure it out. We can get a Yellow Pages in Utah and find her house.” Will suggests. “We just need to get to Utah.”

“I can do that.” Argyle says. “I can get us to Utah, dudes, we just need to pick up some supplies.”

“Okay.” Mike says. “Okay. So we stop at, like, a convenience store and then hit the road to Utah.”

“Yeah, man. Should be good. Get there in about a day.” Argyle nods.

“Great.” Will says, and it probably sounds sarcastic, but he’s being genuine. He just wants to find his sister and make sure she’s safe, and if Suzie can help, he’s all for a visit.

“Alright, I think there’s a store a few miles down the road. I saw a sign.” Jonathan says. “So let’s just get back in the van, get the supplies, and go to Utah.”

They all get in the van, and though Will’s becoming less confident in the Suzie plan the more he thinks about it, he chooses to have faith and maintain his hope of getting to El.

If they can just get to Suzie, they can get to El.

Chapter Text

It’s about five minutes of sitting in the van before they pull up to a short building, standing out in the desert with its white exterior walls, green roof, and large sign (that Will can’t read. When he hasn’t eaten or slept in a few days and he’s had something - like the shooting - mess with his head, his eyes won’t focus enough to register the words).

They all get out, and even though they were out of the car less than ten minutes ago, Will still is glad to be on solid land. Seriously, Argyle should’ve had his license revoked by now.

“Alright, dudes. I’m gonna fill up the gas tank and can while you go inside. Get me gummy bears.” Argyle says. “Or… any candy in general. Candy’s life, brochachos. You should all get some.”

Will sees Mike give Argyle one of his patented ‘Mike Wheeler’s What The Hell’ looks, which makes it hard for Will to not smile.

“We’ll get you some gummy bears.” Will promises as he starts to follow Jon and Mike where they’re going into the store. “Promise.”

Argyle gives a thumbs up and a smile, and he shouts “You’re the best, Little Byers!” after Will.

He gives a thumbs-up back before going into the store, where they’ve already split up.

Will shrugs it off, grabbing a basket and starting to grab necessities. He starts by grabbing a bag of gummy bears for Argyle before wandering through the store, grabbing whatever he thinks they might need.

Will passes through the personal care aisle, grabbing the toothbrush and toothpaste and other toiletries he was supposed to bring, before he passes by the razors, and the temptation’s too strong.

He quietly opens a box towards the back, taking out a few of the flat, straight blades that are wrapped in plastic before closing it again. He feels a little bit bad about stealing, but him buying razors would raise suspicion by Jonathan, who’s already watching him like a hawk - at least, that’s what it feels like.

Will tucks them in his pocket and continues grabbing what he’ll need over the next few days, and when he’s done, he goes to look for his brother and friend, who are both in the food aisle.

Mike’s basket is full of chips and granola and candy and water and soda, and Jonathan’s is about the same, though with some other random supplies like toiletries.

“Hey, Will, what food do you want?” Mike asks, looking over at him.

“Uh…” Will says, trying to think of what to say. Even if they’re busy finding El, he’s not going to use that as an excuse to get fat again. He’s so close to being a good weight, he can’t mess it up.

“Chips, candy, granola bars, what?” Mike asks patiently.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll just eat some of what you’re already getting.” Will says. “I… get carsick, so I doubt I’m going to be really hungry.”

Mike’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks like he’s about to say something, but as he opens his mouth, Will cuts him off. “I’m, uh, going to go to the bathroom before we hit the road, so, uh… can you check out my stuff too? I’ll pay you back later.”

Mike closes his mouth and nods, blinking a few times before looking at Will with a soft yet concerned expression. “I… sure. Here.”

He takes Will’s basket from his arm and puts the stuff from it in with his own. “But- you won’t know how much I owe you?” Will says.

“Don’t worry about it.” Mike says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’ll be, like, five bucks for your stuff. I can get it.”

Will goes to object, but from the way Mike’s standing, Will knows that the avenue of conversation is over. So he just turns away and looks for the bathroom, and he finds them on the other side of the store. Will goes inside, and when he’s safely locked in a stall, he takes one of the razors out of his pocket and does red lines up the side of his thigh. Maybe his own blood coating his hands can cancel out the agent’s, make his hands truly clean again.

He keeps going until he’s done thirty or forty stripes against the side, dripping dark red in a pattern reminiscent of a tiger’s fur with the alternating red-and-skin pattern. Once he’s satisfied that he’s bled enough for now, Will presses some of the toilet paper against the cuts until they’ve slowed their bleeding, and he wipes up the blood haphazardly before pulling his pants back on and leaving the stall.

As he washes his hands, watching the water turn orange-red as it takes the blood off his hands, he breathes for what feels like the first time since the shootout. Now, he’s at least partially atoned. He can’t ever make up for it entirely, but hopefully if he hurts enough, he’ll be forgiven. He isn’t sure whether he seeks forgiveness from the people who he’s failed - who are dead because of him - or from God. He’d be happy with either.

Will leaves the bathroom and goes to the checkout, where his brother and friend are waiting. He doesn’t smile - he’s too exhausted to fake one right now - but he does make an effort to keep his face smooth and calm.

Mike holds out the bags to let Will look inside. “I, uh, I got you some extra snacks.”

“Thank you.” Will says, and with the words he does fake a smile. He doesn’t want to seem ungrateful, even if it’s a waste to buy food that he’d rather die than eat.

-

Mike makes a beeline for the food aisle once they’re in the store. It’s been a long day (even though it’s literally only four in the afternoon, Jesus Christ), with lots of stress and manual labor, and Mike’s absolutely starving. He only ate, like, half of dinner last night, and as good as the waffles this morning were, they weren’t meant to be filling enough for a full day, especially one that involved so much shoveling.

He starts grabbing pretty much anything that strikes him as possibly good or interesting, and he ends up with three large bags of chips (barbeque, sour cream and onion, and jalapeno), full-size bags of M&Ms, Skittles, Starburst, Sour Patch, jelly beans, gummy bears, and a box of granola bars. If it’s colorful and/or looks appetizing, Mike’s getting it. He literally does not care at this point.

Once Mike’s satisfied that he’s gotten enough junk food, he goes over to the drinks, where he picks up some Coke (two six-packs of the original, not the new stuff Lucas likes, it’s absolute shit) and water (because that seems smart to have in the desert).

When he puts them in the basket, he looks at the food and realizes that he should probably get something that’ll actually be filling and healthy.

He goes back over to the snack aisle, and after some debate, he grabs a couple things of nuts and some more granola bars.

Jonathan’s also browsing in this aisle, and when Mike sees toiletries in his basket, he considers getting some of his own, but then he remembers that he’s the only one who actually had managed to get his stuff out of the house, including toiletries. He’s fine.

Will walks in, looking around before standing next to Mike, his basket full of basic necessities and… gummy bears?

“Hey, Will. What food do you want?” Mike asks. While it’s great that Will’s gotten gummy bears (which is kinda weird, though, he’s always preferred chocolate over any other candy), he wants to make sure that Will gets something that’ll be filling, too.

“Uh…” Will says, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, hazel eyes wide.