Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In another life, where none of this happened, maybe things would’ve been different.

I was ready—I was so ready, and I was proud of myself for finally being ready. 

Why couldn’t you be ready too?

—

“Do you think you’re imagining it?” He asked in a thick accent. 

“I’m not sure.” Will replied, his hands slightly shaking in front of him. He crossed his arms to stop them.

“What makes you doubt yourself?”

“I don’t know, Ivan. I just—“

“Richardson.” The man corrected him, although his face remained in that calm, almost eerie, expression.

“Richardson,” Will repeated, slightly nodding his head and taking a deep breath. “It just feels so… familiar. Like I’ve heard it before—I mean, I did hear it before.”

Richardson leaned forwards and refilled Will’s cup of tea. “He’s dead, Will.” 

“I know he is.” Will closed his eyes and nodded. He pushed against his nose bridge with two fingers, trying to make sense of all of this. “It just… it just sounds and feels like him.”

“It might feel like him, but it isn’t. He’s gone.” Richardson took a sip of his own cup of tea, keeping his eyes locked onto Will.

“Then what’s happening to me?” Will asked desperately. He felt like a child at this point, begging for his distress to be recognized.

Or at least addressed.

“You may be experiencing hallucinations due to stress, did you take a new job at that studio?”

“Yeah,” Will admitted. “But it’s not something big. Nicole needed some help with rendering some scenes, and I’m her friend.”

“If she’s your friend, then she understands how stressful your life already is.” Richardson said, giving Will a pointed look.

“She’s my friend, yes, but she doesn’t know everything about my life. She doesn’t need to know.” He replied, trying to keep his eyes from rolling.

“Then how do you consider her a friend? Isn’t she more of an acquaintance?”

“If we’re going by that logic, then you’re my friend.” Will said, the corners of his lips slightly quirking upwards into a smile.

“I’m your therapist, Will, I’m meant to know these things.” Richardson replied. He checked his watch before gesturing at the tea in front of Will. “Do you want to drink that, or should I take it away? Our session’s over.”

Will looked down at the tea. Having finished two cups already, a third didn’t seem attractive to him. However, he didn’t want to be rude. He picked up the cup and chugged it down before standing up and straightening his shirt.

“I’ll be seeing you then, Richardson.” Will said, heading for the coat hanger to retrieve his jacket and scarf. 

“Have a good day.” The other man replied, collecting the empty tea cups.

But before leaving the office, Will suddenly remembered something. He turned around and stared at Richardson, who gave him a confused look when he noticed.

“What about medication?” Will asked, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket. It was old and worn out, slightly bigger than his frame. His sleeves were the worst with strings hanging out of them, the rest all torn.

“Will.” Richardson exhaled, his face not being able to hide the discomfort and disappointment he was feeling. 

This look made Will backtrack, his nervousness being amplified by Richardson’s glare. 

“Ah, yeah.” Will pushed his glasses up and shrugged. “Sorry, um.”

He made his way to the door, not bothering to turn around and face that man any longer. “Bye, Ivan.”

—

Will gently knocked on the door with his free hand, his other tightly gripping a drink carrier with three cups of coffee.

He took the paper bag he put underneath his shoulder after knocking in his hand, trying to make himself presentable. A thought creeped into his mind while waiting for that inevitable greeting at the door: he should’ve ran a comb through his hair.

The door opened with a click.

“Will! Hey, how are you man?” Lucas said with a grin.

“I’m good, what about you?” Will responded, feeling a smile creep up on his face.

He hasn’t seen Lucas or Max in a long time, albeit it was his fault. Cancelling plans, making excuses… he doesn’t want to be around them, but also yearns for hang outs like the old times. He misses Max’s jokes, Lucas’ hugs—it feels embarrassing saying it out loud for some reason. 

Lucas grew a short beard and got short two-strand twists which suited his face shape, Will observed. When he pulled Will into a side-hug, an awkward one due to the drink carrier, Will could smell his strong, camp-fire scented cologne.

His appearance made Will shrink into himself. He has to confess that, although he hates it, he cares how he looks, especially now. The difference in their clothes, their hair, their scents—it made Will insecure. He wanted his friends to look at him and feel proud of who he became, not disappointed.

“Let me get that for you, come in.” Lucas said, holding open the door for Will.

It was bigger than Will’s apartment and more cozy. A dark red couch was pushed against a wall with a bow window, where a small black puppy was curled up. Max sat on said couch with a blanket draped on her legs, a toddler sleeping in her lap.

Will recognized the kid. The last time he saw him was when he was only a newborn. “Is that Charles?” He asked, slightly bending down and pointing at him.

“Will?” Max muttered, grinning and looking in his direction. Her eyes were white and glossy, and even after decades the sight of them pained his heart.

“Hi.” Will said with a sigh. In the past, he’d often wave his hand or nod his head towards her in acknowledgment. He’s dropped that habit now.

“I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other in a while.” He said, an awkward smile unconsciously spreading across his face.

Max’s red lips grinned at him, her hands slightly squeezing Charles’ shirt as she pulled him in closer—a sign of excitement. “Yeah well you should come over more often, then I’ll accept your apology.”

Will turned his head to Lucas, who chuckled at him. He returned the action, feeling his body loosen up more. The tension he felt on the way here dissolved in the reminiscent atmosphere of their childhood. 

“He brought coffee and…” Lucas raised a brow as he approached Will to take the drink carrier out of his hands, nodding towards the paper bag.

“A muffin for you, Max.” Will said, plopping the bag on the coffee table next to the drink carrier. Lucas took a cup and handed it to Will, letting the other two cool down a bit for him and Max

“Thanks,” She replied, “how is everything with you?”

“It’s fine.” Will said.

“Nothing new?”

“Nothing new.”

He held eye contact with the floor, refusing to lift his head up. Guilt dug its nails into his heart, ripping arteries in its cruel grip. He wasn’t one to lie. Ever since he was young, lying wasn’t something attractive to him at all. It was a quality that he found himself repulsed by, unconsciously criticizing others who did it. He didn’t understand the good of concealing yourself from people that trusted and loved you.

But, as all humans do, he changed. His first lie was of the painting and its significance, his second was probably to his dad when he moved in with him, and his most recent one was now. 

With embarrassment, he realized that lying both has its consequences and benefits. Finally, at 15, he had to admit that the world couldn’t function without fallacies. Life wasn’t going to remain the way it was when he was 8, living with his family in a small house. Even then, he couldn’t bring himself to lie to people who don’t deserve truth—who if they did know the truth, he would get harmed by them.

This should’ve taught him; it taught Jonathan. But he didn’t grasp the concept because of two things: Jonathan would do the job for him, protecting him from those people, and those people left too fast for him to understand the benefit of lies.

His friends, Mike, Lucas, and Dustin, just pushed the notion of lying being something absolutely terrible—something unforgivable and disgusting—and so, he always perceived this act as an insulting quality to have.

But at 15, he was isolated. His mother was busy with her new job and the big move, and his brother was smoking away what he once was—what he could’ve been. He couldn’t confide in El, no, because El had to confide in him. He knew what was right and what was wrong, and he further drove the narrative of lying being a negative thing into her.

And being left alone with his feelings… lies comforted him. He had no defense to his emotions, which were trying to destroy him from the inside out. So, the lies that slipped off of his tongue brought a warmth he became addicted to. And as he tightened the cap of the bottle more and more, he became more independent and reliant on himself. And finally, he saw good in that. He saw the benefit.

It helped others, like Mike and El in their relationship, and it did often hurt him, but that warmth that he was so drunk on was worth it. He sacrificed himself so that others could find comfort in their lives; he helped Mike, he helped El, he helped Jonathan—hell, he even helped his dad. It made life easier, it made him less of a nuisance. With time, he managed to control himself, even with the tightness of the bottle. He would not explode, he would adapt.

And now, he spared Max and Lucas of worry.

But are you really fine with that, Will?

“Shit.” His fist tightened by his side. He squeezed his eyes shut and slightly shook his head, trying to stabilize himself.

“Will, are you good dude?” Lucas asked, moving forward and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. When Will looked up to face him, he saw that his eyebrows were pulled into a frown: worry.

An awkward smile forced itself onto Will’s face. “Yes, I just have a headache.” He said, slightly nodding along with his words. He straightened himself up and took a sip of his coffee, the liquid burning his tongue.

Lucas stayed quiet, his frown still on display. He squeezed Will’s shoulder, and then it hit him. Lucas wanted Will to keep talking, to tell the truth. No, Will couldn’t do that. Silence covered the room with her thick blanket, suffocating Will. He needed to make an air pocket, to break it.

“I’m just sorta stressed out at work, and staring at a screen all day doesn’t help with it. Just gives me headaches.” He built upon his excuse, bringing the coffee to his lips again. Finally, he felt Lucas’ hand slip off of his shoulder and move towards his own cup.

“Hey, I have some pills for that if you want some?” Max said, also trying to break the awkwardness between the three of them. She moved Charles slightly away from her chest as she took the cup of coffee Lucas offered her.

“Oh, no it’s fine. I already have some. Thank you, though.” Will smiled at her, and even though she couldn’t see him, a smile paralleling his formed on her face.

Lucas grabbed onto Will’s bicep, trying to lead him to the couch. “Sit down, let’s talk.” He said, his tone light and polite. Will shook off his hand and took a step back, his eyebrows pulling into an apologetic frown.

“Sorry, but I have to keep moving. I have a client down the road.” He said, waving his hand mindlessly. This was true; in fact, the only reason he dropped by their apartment was because it was on the way to his client. Richardson told him that it was important to stay in contact with the ones that were still alive.

“Oh.” Lucas sighed. The distance that grew between them as they stopped hanging out more and more began to show its effects. It was as if every conversation they had was just a lengthy, wordy sister of small talk. Will felt that Max and Lucas probably didn’t want him to stay, either. This was clear through their lack of protest.

Lucas sunk down onto the couch next to Max, sipping his coffee. “It’s alright, you should come over more, though. We’d be happy to have you over for dinner sometime.” Lucas said, gesturing towards Max.

The movement of the couch caused Charles to wake up. He wiped his face and pushed himself off of Max, a cry on the edge of his tongue. Max tried to push him back closer to her, but he resisted, shaking his curls as he turned his head side to side.

“Shit, come on Charles.” Max muttered, putting down the coffee.

Suddenly, Charles turned his head to Will and stilled, his mouth frozen in a mid scream. He turned to Lucas and pointed at Will.

“Yeah, I know, I know. That’s Will.” Lucas said, chuckling. Will mirrored him, waving a hand to Charles. Charles held eye contact with him, ignoring his parents’ laughs. His small, brown eyes pierced into Will, refusing to wander and acknowledge something else.

Suddenly, Will felt dread. Seeing Charles actually move slightly scared him. When he was still, Will could ignore his entire existence. Ignore the fact that his friends moved on, that they progressed and he didn’t. But now that Charles was animated, proving his living-self to Will, that reminder of change being present hit Will’s mind like a sledgehammer.

They moved on. Will didn’t. Will couldn’t. He couldn’t move on with someone, he couldn’t have a child, he couldn’t let go of his therapist, he couldn’t even get rid of his jacket. Why could they change and not him? Why can’t he get something for once?

Do you resent them?

Will pressed his fingers to his nose bridge. He had to shake off this voice, quickly. He needed to let go of the past.

“Well, I’ll be leaving then. It was nice seeing you guys.” Will said, nodding towards them. Lucas stood up as a gesture of respect. Will smiled and turned around, heading towards the door.

“Hey, we’re serious about that dinner. Do you prefer chicken or fish?”

“Oh, chicken.” Will replied.

“What?”

“I can’t handle the smell of fish, it’s why I didn’t like hanging out in Mike’s bedroom. The basement was more breathable in.” Will joked, turning back around to face Lucas.

“What do you mean, Will?” Lucas asked, a confused expression on his face.

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Will said with sarcasm, fiddling with his sleeves.

Lucas turned to look at Max, whose expression mirrored Lucas’. “Will?”

Will’s heart dropped as he realized that Lucas wasn’t talking—that he hadn’t said anything at all ever since Will walked to the door. That voice… it was setting him up now. It was smart.

“I thought you said something.” Will sighed, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I’m sorry.” Lucas opened up his mouth to say something, but Will left before he could.

Will staggered down the hallway, sweat gathering at his brows. He got into the elevator and repeatedly pressed the ‘close door’ button. When the iron doors finally shut, he ran his hands through his hair and leaned his back against the metal wall of the lift.

Ever since he started living on his own, he involuntarily began to grow out his hair. He didn’t have the extra money for a barber or the time and energy to do it himself, and so, his messy hair practically brushed against his jaw. Although, that was the least of his problems at the moment.

Just then, the elevator doors opened. Before Will could leave, somebody walked in.

Will’s heart squeezed out all of its blood as he made eye contact with the person: Lois, his ex.

Chapter Text

Her eyes bore into him, dark brown pupils scanning his face. Her mouth slightly opened in shock, thick eyebrows rising to her short bangs. She was standing right in front of him, blocking him from being able to leave the elevator. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to leave.

“Will?” Lois said in a whisper, voice soft as ever. Her pretty lips curled up into a small smile.

“Lois.” Will breathed out. She was still as beautiful as ever: long lashes amplified with clumpy mascara, reddish lips covering pearly teeth, freckles scattered all over smooth, tan skin—her black, wavy hair reached her shoulders, and the micro bangs she always cut herself started to grow out into short-ish bangs. She wore a long, neat grey coat and black boots, a brown satchel bag hanging off of her shoulder, opposing Will’s brown jacket and black sneakers. He unconsciously stepped back.

He was always kind of intimidated by Lois’ beauty, and completely baffled when she asked him out. What did she see in him? Did he change now that time passed, now that he got older? She certainly didn’t.

Their relationship was short, only lasting four months back in 1989. In fact, Lois was the one that broke it off. Will still feels guilty about the relief he felt when she did…

She was gorgeous and way out of his league, but he couldn’t get himself to love her the way she wanted to be loved. He thought he was doing a good job—bringing her flowers and chocolates, taking her out on dates, cuddling with her in bed—so he was kind shocked when she broke it off with him. Still relieved, though.

He’s not sure if she noticed why his affections were so forced, and can’t decide whether or not he wants her to know. Although, he always assumed, with displeasure, that his sexuality was apparent to others. And Lois was smart, so she probably figured it out as well but wanted to be polite about it.

“Oh my god, it’s been so long! I’ve missed you so much.” Lois said as her eyes grew wider, mirroring her smile. Her one fang tooth stuck out as she grinned at him.

“Yeah, it has been.” Will sighed, still frozen in surprise. He took a deep breath in and ran a hand through his hair. “I missed you too—shit.”

The elevator doors closed behind her. The lift started moving upwards towards the level she pressed upon entering.

“Oh, sorry.” Lois said, coming to stand by Will. The awkwardness that he thought he abandoned in Lucas and Max’s apartment settled in the small, claustrophobic elevator.

“How’ve you been?” Lois turned to him. Will sensed that she was trying to fill the silence.

“Fine, and you?” Will asked.

“Yeah, same.” Lois replied, fiddling with a hair strand.

Will turned to look at his shoes, nervousness flowing through his body. How long has it been? 15 years? 18? Jesus. The last time he heard of her was a couple of months ago through Nicole, his friend (or “acquaintance”) at the animation studio. She served as Nicole’s lawyer when she was sued for defamation allegations or something of that sort. Lois was the one that got the charges dropped.

“God, this is so strange. I’m speechless. Did you ever get to make those comics?”

Will was about to reply but stopped himself. Did she really say that, or was it that voice again? He should start keeping people in his line of view to see if they’re actually speaking or not. Now, he’s screwed. 

He lifted his head to stare at her, catching her dark eyes in his light ones. Her smile stretched wider. “Did you?”

Will exhaled a sigh of ease, feeling his shoulders relax from the stiffness they were frozen in. He was so caught up in his relief that enough moments passed without his response to bring back that same awkwardness. “No, unfortunately. I do work for a studio though.”

“Like making cartoons?” She asked, seemingly enjoying the idea.

“No, well at least not for my section. I just help with rendering and stuff, it’s only a part-time job.” Will said, his grip tightening in his empty fists. He was beginning to feel insecure, and that feeling only intensified when he remembered that she went to Yale of all places.

“Ooh,” she said, drawing it out. She shifted on her feet towards Will’s direction, “Do you have a full-time job?”

Why does she think you might not have one? Does she think you’re too dumb and lazy to be able to handle it?

Will squeezed the shoulder strap of his bag again, trying to focus on Lois. “I work at a tech company as an IT consultant. It’s as boring as it sounds.” Will chuckled in an attempt to smooth out the conversation.

Lois copied his chuckle, keeping her eyes on him. It felt weird seeing her again, and he still hasn’t gotten over that initial surprise of seeing her. His heart beat loudly in his chest, the causes of which are both from nervousness and shock, and the return of that voice. 

The elevator stopped and its doors opened to a long, white hallway with a grey-carpeted floor.

“Do you live here?” Lois asked him, keeping her hand on the ‘open door’ button. She wanted to keep their conversation going.

“Ah, no. My friends do.” Will replied, “Do you?” She might’ve. Sure, he’s been here a couple of times, but not enough to recognize who leaves and enters the building.

“No, my friend lives here too. That’s funny, isn’t it?” She smiled, a laugh coming out of her mouth again. Will copied her in an uneasy manner.

Once Lois stopped laughing, she breathed in and said, “Anyways, I’ve gotta go. It was really nice seeing you again, Will. I’ve missed you, like a ton.”

“It was nice seeing you too. You’re still, like, awesome… or whatever.” Will cringed at himself, but it earned another laugh from Lois. 

Her expression eventually softened into a small smile, “We should go to dinner sometime and catch up.”

“Oh.” Will’s breath hitched. Does she mean a date, or a friendly hang-out? It’s probably just a hang-out, how could someone like her still be single? And plus, she wouldn’t want anything to do with him romantically. If she did, she wouldn’t have broken up with him… maybe. That was so long ago, maybe things changed? It didn’t matter, Will had to reply now. The longer the moment between them stretched out, the weirder it got.

“Maybe, yeah sure.” He finally blurted out.

“You got a pen?” Lois asked. Will reached into the inside of his jacket pocket and put his hand around a thin, long cylinder. His eyes widened as he stared at the cigarette he pulled out, quickly shoving it back into his jacket before pulling out an actual pen.

He always a box with him in case he needed it, but with only one left he decided to throw the box away to make some space in his pocket. However, his decision backfired on him.

Thankfully, though, Lois seemed not to notice as she was rummaging through her bag for a notebook. Once she retrieved it, she ripped out a blank piece of paper and teared it in two.

She took the pen and wrote down her number on one of the sheets before giving it back to him with the second sheet. Will followed her movements, scrabbling down his number.

As they swapped papers, Lois gave him a toothy grin. “Don’t lose it.” She whispered before turning around and leaving the elevator.

Will stared at her strut down the hallway until the iron doors shut and blocked his view. He slowly moved forwards and pressed on the ground button, the last traces of surprise left in him melted away. 

He took one glance at Lois’ phone number before neatly folding the paper and placing it in his jacket pocket, next to the abandoned cigarette.

—

Will stepped into his apartment. After finishing up with his client’s old computer, exhaustion piled up in him and haunted his every move. He threw his bag onto the couch before heading to the kitchen.

He took out the leftovers from yesterday and placed it in the microwave, practically dragging himself across the place. As the dish turned, he lent on the counter and pressed into his temples.

That voice didn’t bother him in hours, and yet, his head felt like it was being repeatedly hit by a hammer. For the past couple of weeks, his life seemed to be… down spiraling. He constantly felt like he was drowning, although there was no water to drown in—like it was all in his head.

Will pulled his head out his hands and lifted it towards the TV across the room. 

His heart stopped its rhythmic beating when he saw the figure. It was tall, dark, and unmoving—it looked like a silhouette of someone. 

That thing returned, only in physical form. He felt a million emotions upon seeing it, while simultaneously feeling nothing but numbness. It felt like his organs all suddenly started doing their jobs at an accelerated pace, while at the same time trying to destroy one another. 

This numbness froze his body, stubborn in its control over his actions. But he had to move, he had to do something. He had to make an attempt to harm this thing, to make it feel pain. To make it hurt enough to never return. He couldn’t even describe the damage it caused him in such a short period of time. Hearing it, seeing it, brought up great pain and ache.

It also brought hatred. 

Will let out a shaky breath and pulled back from the counter, his hands shaking as he reached into his jeans pocket. He pulled out a small pocket-knife and tried to hold it tightly in his grip despite the sweat of his palms.

With trepidation, he moved from behind the counter and started walking to the figure. The floor beneath him felt like it was made of pillows as his feet sunk into it step by step. It felt like a dream, a hallucination, a paralysis. He needed to either wake up, or end it all together. 

He chose the latter.

Even though a small part of him was reluctant to do so, he quickened his steps and ran straight at the figure with the pocket-knife raised up. He grunted loudly as he brought the knife down at the figure’s chest, frustration fueling his adrenaline.

But instead of stabbing that thing, he lost his step and fell straight through the darkness. The pocket-knife punctured the arm of his couch, breaking the soft linen. 

The only sound in the apartment was that of Will’s heavy, ragged breathing. His chest was panting rapidly, causing his knees to weaken and fall against the floor. His hands were still gripping the pocket-knife, and when he took them off, they were trembling violently.

He let out a small, desperate scream as the reality of his situation began to sink in, bringing the collar of his jacket to his mouth to stifle his sounds.

He couldn’t understand how? How is Vecna doing this? Manipulating him, torturing him? 

Will wanted help. He wanted someone to walk in and comfort him, to put an arm around him and assure that nothing bad was happening. He wanted them to wrap a blanket around his shivering shoulders and turn on the TV to his favorite movie. He wanted them to convince him that everything was normal, that he was normal.

He needed them to kiss his cold knuckles and hold his hands in theirs. He needed them to bring a cup of wine to his lips, letting the warm grape flavor settle comfortably in his stomach. He needed them to hug him close to his chest. He needed them to promise that they’ll never leave his side, and that that thing will never come near him again.

He let out another stifled cry, letting go of his collar and coming to pull at his hair. He needed to get out of here, wherever ‘here’ was.

Just then, his train of thought was interrupted by the loud beep of the microwave. He flinched before recognizing its annoying beat.

He grudgingly pushed himself up and walked to the kitchen, taking off his jacket and throwing it on the floor. He shut off the machine before turning to a cabinet in the back and pulling out a cheap bottle of wine. 

He poured himself a cup and reached into the nearby drawer for his pills. Richardson’s prescription. He was meant to take only one a day, but this felt like a moment of urgency.

He downed two pills with the wine before returning the bottle and taking out his dinner, stepping over his abandoned jacket, and settling on the couch in front of the TV.

Chapter Text

“It was so funny! Oh, you should’ve been there…” Lois laughed, taking another sip of her strawberry milkshake through a blue and pink striped straw. 

“I wish I was.” Will responded, a smile mirroring Lois’ one stretching across his face. 

It’s been a couple of days since they bumped into each other on the elevator. Lois called him the day after and scheduled a meet-up at this diner she called ‘ugly, but appetizing’. Although he was initially confused with this description, he understood it after looking through the diner’s thin, plastic menu.

He sunk his teeth into the burger she advised him to order, ripping off a chewable bite. It wasn’t the best meal he’s ever had, but it was still delicious. Lois also ordered a milkshake for him, even though he assured her that he didn’t want one. “Come on, it’s like the best thing on the menu.” She told him.

And so, he was stuck with a chocolate milkshake that was so thick he could barely suck it up the straw.

“You know, you helped a friend of mine a while back.” Will blurted out, trying to keep the conversation going. He noticed that Lois was the one that had to keep starting discussions, and that might start to bother her after a while. So, he said the first thing that came to mind.

“Really? Who?” Lois asked, pushing her milkshake to the side as she took a bite of her own burger.

“Nicole Morris, she works down at the studio with me. Pretty sure it was a defamation case…” Will muttered, trying to remember the missing details.

“Oh!” Lois said after a moment, her eyes blinking open, “Nicole, she was so sweet. I was shocked to hear about what she did to that guy. I honestly considered not taking the case because I thought that the defense would be weak, but after seeing her… god, she was so shy. I knew she would win if she just maintained that character.

“But, do you wanna know a secret?” Lois continued, leaning forward.

Will leaned forward too, putting down his burger. He felt his lips curling into a small smile as she stared at him with a ‘serious’ expression. 

“She really did do it.” Lois whispered, a grin growing on her own face now. 

Will let out a soft chuckle. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous the image of Nicole defaming that man got. She didn’t have a single bone of confidence in her body and absolutely hated confrontation, so he assumed that the case was just built up on allegations. But the fact that she actually did that—he would bring it up with her at work later if she didn’t get annoyed at the mention.

Will was about to lean back when Lois reached her hand forward and wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. 

“Ketchup.” She said softly, her hand stilling for a moment before she leaned back to her original place.

Oh.

Will slowly leaned away, letting his back hit the booth’s couch. He watched Lois sip the milkshake and take another bite of the burger, avoiding eye contact. The reality of the situation began to sink in.

Will wasn’t a stupid person—he could read the room. He understood the dynamic between them. How it shifted from romantic, to distant, to friendly, and to romantic again. He didn’t want it to go further, he wanted to stop this last transition before it finalized.

“I’m full.” He said, his tone un- purposefully monotone. He raised his hand and gestured towards the waiter, avoiding Lois’ eye contact.

“Yeah, same. I’m getting tired, too.” Lois turned to look out the window. The streets were all dark except for one, lonely lamppost.

The waiter reached their table and gave Will the bill when asked. Lois put her hand on it before Will could even see the cost, “Let me get it.” She offered, a polite smile on her face.

Does she think you can’t afford it?

Will quickly pulled the bill towards him with more aggression than he intended to, “It’s fine.” He said, flashing a quick smile at Lois. She nodded and began to wipe her hands with the wet wipe the waiter placed on their table.

Will took out his old wallet and paid the check before wiping his own hands with the perfumed tissue. “Where’s your car?” He said bluntly.

“Past the alleyway. Don’t worry, I can walk there myself.” She said, getting up from the booth and straightening her shirt.

“No, no. I’ll walk you.” Will said, getting up as well. He put his bag across his shoulder and pushed up his glasses before turning towards Lois. Her eyes lit up at his words, cheeks powdered with blush slightly reddening. 

“Thanks.” She replied. She put her hands in her coat jacket before walking out, turning her head to check if Will was following her. He quickly sped up his step to come walk by her, holding open the door for her to pass.

They walked past the bright lamppost and down the alleyway, which covered them in a blanket of shadows. Will could barely see what was in front of him as he walked through the narrow alley, only hearing the short breaths of Lois next to him. Her heels clicked against the floor in a patterned manner, opposing Will’s heavy boots shuffling on the pavement with a small hint of urgency. 

He was guilty to confess that he no longer wanted to stay in this situation—this date. He loved Lois, but it wasn’t in both of their best interests to hint romantic feelings to one another. He turned to look at her, her pearl necklace catching the moonlight and reflecting it magnificently. The wind pushed her hair off of her shoulders, and her coat further behind her long legs. 

She sensed his long stare and returned it, her dark pupils wide and focused. She abruptly stopped walking, grabbing Will’s wrist in a tight grip. He couldn’t help but flinch at the touch.

“What’s wrong?” He asked cautiously, his eyebrows pulling into a frown. She looked a bit distressed, her eyes scanning Will’s face with desperation. “I don’t want to go to my car.” She breathed out.

Will could see her lips moving into a small smile in the darkness of the alley. Her grip on him loosened, her hands moving instead to his chest. He felt his heart still at the gesture. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Lois got on her toes and pushed a chaste kiss to his lips.

Slowly, he stepped back from her, letting her hand fall from his chest. “Lois,” he muttered, “I’m not…” 

In that moment, he felt like a kid again. Humiliation scratched against his mind as hot tears stung his eyes. He quickly blinked them away and adjusted his glasses, avoiding eye contact with the other. He didn’t want to expose himself to Lois of all people, but now he felt like he had to; if he didn’t, she would think that she’s the problem. When he forced himself to look back at her face, he saw a sullen expression. A crease engraved itself in between her eyebrows, forcing Will to acknowledge her sadness. She shoved her hands into her coat and took her own step back.

In different circumstances, Will would’ve reciprocated eagerly; she was as close to perfect as a human being could possibly be. It wasn’t just her looks that isolated her from the rest: she was sweet, gentle, and kind, and practically a genius. Will used to feel embarrassed for her when they went out in public together—they were on completely different levels of status in every category imaginable. Her humor seemed to match everybody else’s no matter the diversity between them. She would get every reference thrown at her, and could remember the details of every person she met. She knew that so-and-so was allergic to peanuts, so she made sure not to add any to her recipe. And she knew that so-and-so liked this show no one has ever heard of, so she handmade them merchandise. 

But still, they would’ve been an amazing couple. They wouldn’t have been like his parents, or Mike’s, or even Lucas’—they would’ve been better. She would’ve loved him how he wanted to be loved.

The first time he brought her home—after renovating half the place himself—Lonnie commented that he liked her. He said that she was good for him, and that if he wanted to live a nice, rich life in the future, he should stay with her. To say that he was disappointed to hear about their separation is an understatement.

And even now, decades later, he could see that. It was strange; she didn’t look different at all. She stayed herself, even though she was probably forced to combat and confront as many challenges as he had to. Her existence haunted him. In her eyes, he could see the past. Her return forced him to confront himself, and he hated that. He hated her for that. He had to recognize what isolated him from others, and had to ruin the image of himself to yet another person.

Even after years of progress—accepting himself and embracing his identity—Will felt completely humiliated at the thought of coming out to Lois. And yet, he could still acknowledge that this feeling was unwarranted and idiotic.

“Lois, I’m—“

“It’s fine, Will.” She said, taking another step away from him. She pushed her hair behind her ear before looking back at him, “My car’s here.” She gestured towards the white car on the street near them.

“I’ll walk you.” Will repeated, but Lois shook her head and waved him away.

“I’m okay. Thanks, Will.” Lois nodded at him, giving him a small wave before turning to walk to her car. Her heels clicked on the pavement as the distance between them widened, both physically and emotionally.

Will watched as she got into her car and drove off, accelerating as she got further and further away from him. He sighed and pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips before lighting it up with his lighter. He kept his hand still covering the flame even after the fire completed its transfer, as if if he moved he would have to return to reality—he would have to keep walking forwards.

After a short moment, he forced himself to move. He took a sharp inhale of the cigarette, the smoke invading his lungs and bringing him the calm he yearned for. He dragged himself his car on the other end of the alleyway, its black color blending in with its surroundings.

He sat in the driver’s seat, the cold leather comforting his aching skin. He felt as if he had ran a marathon for some reason, like he just exerted the most energy he ever did in his life. Holding the cigarette in between his lips, he turned on the car and rolled down the window.

He let his head hit the steering wheel in exhaustion. All he wanted to do right now was nap in the backseat, but having free will doesn’t mean doing idiotic things. The diner was situated at a sketchy corner of the city, and it freaked him out. It was the only lit-up building on streets lined up with tall apartment buildings. As he drove, he noticed that none of the lampposts were turned on, besides the one back at the diner. He had to navigate using his headlights, which wasn’t much help with his old car.

The drive back felt longer than the drive to the diner. He was driving for around 10 minutes now and still hadn’t reached the open city. The nearest living thing was his own shadow. 

Will adjusted his glasses for the fifth time and itched the back of his neck in worry. Was he lost?

Suddenly, he lost hold of his cigarette that he was pinching between two fingers. It rolled underneath his seat, taking the only form of warmth and comfort he had with it.

“Shit!” Will blurted. He slightly slowed down the car in the empty road and turned on the lights above his head. He bent downwards and pushed his arm beneath his seat, searching for the missing cigarette. 

A grin stretched across his face as he grabbed it, pulling himself up and speeding up the car again to continue his journey. He pushed the cigarette to his face and held it in a tight grip in between his lips.

Will pushed his hair out of his eyes before moving his arm up to turn off the lights. He knew that he was alone on the road and that it wasn’t technically illegal to be driving with the lights on, but that childish feeling of fear in him urged him to turn it off immediately.

As his fingers grazed the button, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. God, he looked a mess. His nose scrunched up at his eye bags that seemed to get heavier by the day and the few strands of lighter highlights in his hair left. Memories of Nicole convincing him to get them because they’re the new ‘cool, young trend’ flushed back to him, a smile creeping up to his face at her pleads. He regrets giving in.

He flattened down his hair while looking in the mirror, slowing down the car again. When he let his arm fall back, he finally noticed what it had been covering. 

There was someone in the backseat.

That feeling of panic and fear crawled back into him, settling in his stomach. His foot accelerated the car as his arm swerved the wheel without him realizing, spinning the cage of a vehicle directly into one of the useless lampposts placed along the street.

Will’s body jumped forwards from the impact of the contact, his head hitting the wheel with unimaginable force. He felt himself slowly slipping away; passing out. However, as his eyes flickered to the lamppost that completely destroyed the front of his car, he noticed it slowly tipping forwards.

A rush of adrenaline sparked through his body, and Will for once thanked his recklessness for not strapping on the seatbelt. He slammed open the car door and fell out, rolling down the street in a ridiculous manner.

He lifted his head up from the ground to watch the lamppost fall directly on his car, destroying his windshield and crushing the driver’s seat. The sound of the metal bending into itself ached his heart—that was the first and only car he bought with his own money.

“Oh, god…” Will slowly rolled onto his back, refusing to look at his car any further. He was going to die if he didn’t notice the tilt of the lamppost fast enough, going to be crushed into an unrecognizable, ugly mess with the car.

It was because of that thing. It was because of Vecna. He couldn’t give an answer as to why or how that man was back, but he was.

Or, Will tried to reason with himself, he was just sick. What was it that Richardson said? PTSD? Schizophrenia? He couldn’t remember.

His body throbbed as he moved his hands to his face, digging his fingernails into his cheeks. He let out a long, sharp scream. Maybe it would’ve been better if he didn’t escape from the car, what did he possibly have left to live for anyway?

No—he stopped his thoughts as soon as they started, slapping his head harshly. He couldn’t let Vecna win again, or whatever else was challenging him right now.

He needed medication.

Chapter Text

Will staggered out of the car and towards the front door, shaking off Jonathan’s arm on his shoulder. “I can walk.”

He quickly straightened his steps in an effort to prove his claim to his brother. Although, that claim was disproved as he tripped over a rock.

“You sure?” Jonathan said, smirking. He walked past Will and to the door, unlocking it and holding it open for him.

Will rolled his eyes as he pushed himself into the house; he wasn’t in the mood for sarcasm. 

Jonathan guided him to the living room where Will plopped onto a long, textured, green couch, abandoning his jacket beside him. He sunk into it comfortably, letting his head roll back.

“I’ll go plate lunch.” Jonathan said, walking towards the nearby kitchen. Will nodded and let out a deep sigh, “Thanks—and thanks for picking me up from the hospital. Couldn’t really drive home…”

He turned to look at Jonathan with a cheeky grin. “I think I’m heartbroken over that car more than anything else.”

“Not even the expenses? What was it you had to pay, $4000?” Jonathan asked, setting the utensils down on the dining table.

“$4300.” Will corrected him, “Probably a couple more bills to replace my glasses, as well.”

Jonathan paused for a moment as if he was going to say something before continuing setting up the table. Will could smell the food from the couch. His hunger pushed him off of it to move to the dining room. “What is that? It smells so familiar…”

“Risotto; got the recipe off of Murray a while back.” Jonathan clarified.

“And this is the first time you’re making it for me? Jesus, Jonathan, you don’t have to gate-keep everything.” Will joked, sitting down at the dinner table. He grabbed a spoon and greedily started eating.

“That’s not my fault, you never come over.” Jonathan replied, beginning to eat from his own plate.

Will slowly nodded in acceptance, mouth too full to respond verbally. His distance wasn’t all purposeful; he had a tiring job, and medical appointments, and therapy sessions. His schedule was always full.

And yet, he feels like it’s right to admit that a part of him for the past few months was fostering fear. He was afraid that if he was around with his brother for too long, he would tell him about Vecna, and he didn’t want to burden him with that thought—not again.

His vents on the subject are only shared to Richardson, who seems adamant to not give him any medication at all. The only thing he managed to convince him to do was raise his dose of Seroquel from 2 pills to 3 pills a day.

“Where’s Denise?” Will asked, noticing the lack of her presence.

“She’s visiting her grandmother in Florida, apparently it’s her dog’s 10th birthday.” Jonathan grinned at his joke, looking up from his food to serve Will a sarcastic expression.

Will nodded, forcing his face to mirror Jonathan’s. The silence between them stretched and intertwined itself within the tension around. Silences used to be comfortable with Jonathan—a moment of quiet that brought ease and warmth. However, the silence that settled at the dining table was completely opposite to that. Will knew that Jonathan knew that something was wrong. He knew that Jonathan knew that he was having issues with his mental health. He knew that Jonathan knew that he was having trouble with holding relationships.

He knew that Will would have a lot problems with this when he cried in his arms back at Surfer Boy’s Pizza, and that time he vented to him on the phone about his break up with Lois, and when he showed up crying through the guilt he felt after splitting with his boyfriend Jesse. Will knew that Jonathan knew.

It shouldn’t be his problem; don’t make it his problem.

“Are you okay, Will?” Jonathan broke the silence timidly.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Will sighed.

“Fine? You drove into a lamppost and destroyed your car, you don’t feel anything regarding that?” Jonathan asked sharply, suddenly abandoning the softness he adopted while talking to Will an hour ago.

When he didn’t respond, Jonathan pressed on. “What were you doing driving at 2 am in an abandoned town anyway?”

Will froze, his hand tightening on his spoon as Jonathan’s words sunk in.

“What?” He asked quietly, slowly lifting his head to make eye contact with his brother.

“There’s nothing there. What made you think that driving in the dark with a busted car would be a good idea?” Jonathan took a breath, “You scare me, Will.”

Will’s throat tightened when he heard that last sentence. His eyebrows pushed into a frown. Scary? Was he really scary?

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, putting down his spoon. “I wasn’t alone, though. I was with a friend at a diner.” He gave his excuse, attempting to correct Jonathan.

“What diner?” Jonathan asked.

“It was…” Will tried to recall the name, “I don’t remember, but it had ‘shake’ in the title.”

“Sunny Side Shakes?”

“Yeah, they had this mascot dancing outside in a milkshake costume.” Will said, remembering the worker’s dedication to the awful dance they kept repeating.

“I know it, you wanna know why?” Jonathan paused for a moment, “Because I passed it when I was looking for the wallet that you supposedly dropped on one of the sidewalks.”

Will stared at Jonathan with confusion, what was his point?

“It was abandoned too. It looked older than Benny’s Burgers back at Hawkins.” His eyes bored into Will’s, and Will picked up an accusatory hint in his expression.

He felt his pounding heart collapse into itself. Even after he looked away from Jonathan, he still felt his eyes closely inspecting his every move. 

How was this possible? Lois and him literally shared a meal there together a couple of nights ago. There were employees, food, drinks, and even a music jukebox in the back—Will offered to give Lois some coins so that she could pick a song. He felt the thin material of the plastic menu in his hands, the cool leather of the booth against his back. It was real in the moment… in the moment.

But Lois was there, she saw it all with him. She was his witness. Jonathan might be confused, maybe he saw another diner opened up by the same business?

“Will, I want you to be honest with me.” Jonathan said.

“I am being honest.” Will replied, his hand tightening into a fist. He was beginning to get frustrated with Jonathan’s prying. He was just confused, or maybe had his own problems and is trying to distract himself by putting his focus onto Will. Whatever it was, he was getting onto his nerves.

Jonathan is treating him like he’s insane. The implications in his words were clear—matter of fact, they were barely implications at all when he was retorting like this. Still, he couldn’t shake the chill in his body. The diner was there, he knew that for a fact, but he could’ve sworn he left at around 9pm, not 2am. But that could be explained, he probably lost track of time.

“I’m going to ask you something, and don’t get mad.” Jonathan interrupted his train of thought.

“I won’t get mad.” Will said, his eyes piercing into Jonathan’s. Was Will gone for so long that Jonathan now perceived him as an angry individual? Like a time bomb, waiting to explode?

It contradicted how he was treated by Jonathan after the mind flayer incident. Back then, he was delicate and gentle with him. It was frustrating to be treated like glass, like a baby, but that’s better than being treated like a powder keg about to explode.

He held Jonathan’s eye contact, stilling his entire body. Moments passed, and he thought that Jonathan was reconsidering his choice of words.

Jonathan looked away and shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He sighed and lifted his head again.

“Did you go there… Did you go there to meet up with some people? People that would get you drugs?”

Will’s jaw almost dropped. Drugs? Him of all people doing drugs? He couldn’t even handle more than two or three cans of beer.

His eyes widened and his head slightly dropped as he furrowed his brows. “Drugs?” He repeated, an expression of surprise on his face. The initial irritation he was feeling was replaced with shock—he couldn’t even comprehend how Jonathan would think that. Was his constant, clear annoyance at Jonathan’s weed not enough?

“Listen, I know you’re going through something. Medication doesn’t always help as much as it should, and coping with drugs is usually what people do, so…” Jonathan trailed off, gesturing at Will with his hands.

“What the hell? I can’t even name three drugs, let alone get myself a dealer!” Will leaned back on his chair, his fingers rubbing at his eyes. “Seriously, Jonathan, you think that I would do that?”

“I think that it’s fine for me to bring up the possibility. I care about you so much, and I assume the same’s for you, so I think I should be allowed to address any concerns without any problems coming between us.” Jonathan replied, using his hands to place emphasis on his words.

“Well, I’m not doing drugs. I don’t need drugs because nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing’s happening. I’m fine.” Will said with finality, picking up his spoon again to continue his meal.

He heard a sigh from next to him, then the soft click of a spoon hitting the bowl as a chewable portion was scooped out. 

Jonathan stared at his spoon instead of bringing it to his lips. Will, on the other hand, shoveled scoop after scoop into his mouth like an aggravated madman.

“I’m sorry.” He heard Jonathan say from next to him, “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that… Will, I worry. I worry a lot. Jesus, I should get an award for it at this point. I thought that maybe if I could pinpoint the cause of your problems, I could help you or something. But, I don’t even know your problems, so how could I even see the cause?”

Jonathan sighed deeply, letting his full spoon fall back into the bowl.

“I just want you to talk to me again, like when we were younger. Just because I said that you have problems doesn’t mean I’m singling you out or anything, every human has their own shit, I just want to help you with yours. I feel like I need to as your family, and the distance between us doesn’t help lessen my anxiety over you any more.

“These past years… I don’t know, I just feel like I don’t even know you anymore. And that’s my fault too, I know that I should’ve put in more effort into checking up on you and stuff. You don’t even know much about me either, because I just…” He tried to find his words, “…I’m worried you might not like what you find out. That I’m not as ‘good’ as I used to be.”

Tears threaten to spill from Will’s eyes, wetting his lashes as he blinked them away. His eyes stayed stuck on the bowl in front of him, he felt like if he looked up he would crack and spill his guts out. Jonathan’s words hurt his heart, the pain reaching down to his stomach. His face twitched into a sad, distressed expression—he could feel his hidden wrinkles stretch as his frown deepened.

He wanted to say something back, but he couldn’t. His voice was stuck in his throat, and he knew that if he tried to release it it would just let out a long, desperate sob.

“Will,” Jonathan said softly, “Let me help you.”

He felt a hand on his wrist; a tight squeeze of reassurance. Jonathan wanted to know what he was facing, and his words almost convinced Will to give in. Even though he wants to, even though his heart aches at the thought of isolation, he can’t ruin Jonathan’s beliefs of peace.

The worst part about it was that Jonathan was quiet. He gave Will space—space Will couldn’t fill, and he felt guilty returning it empty.

He forced his face to soften and cleared his throat, finally lifting his head to look at Jonathan.

“I can return the help, but I can’t accept it. I don’t need it, Jonathan. I promise.” Will said, his voice shaking. He grew into a good liar, but still, in front of Jonathan, the lie just couldn’t seem to slip out smoothly.

Jonathan caught onto that. He shook his head, reaffirming his beliefs, and opened his mouth to add onto his argument. However, Will interrupted him before he could.

“I know it seems like I’m not okay or something, but I’m just like that sometimes.” He shrugged, “It’s just that I… I struggle a bit here and there. But I’m an adult, like you are, and I can deal with it myself because it’s never a big deal.”

He offered a small smile with his words, which juxtaposed the tears he kept blinking away from his eyes. When he inhaled, his breath was shaky and short.

He looked away from Jonathan, hoping that that ended the ordeal. But he could still feel those eyes on him, attempting to dissect his being. It made him uncomfortable. He squeezed and unsqueezed both his fists, staring down at his dish that only had a quarter of the risotto left.

Eventually, Jonathan seemed to back off. Their conversation slowly shifted into whatever, and they completed their meal.

—

Will was putting on his jacket when Jonathan walked back into the living room from what Will assumed was his bedroom.

As Jonathan slowly approached him in an awkward manner, Will noticed that he was fiddling with a paper envelope in his hands.

“What’s that?” Will asked, raising his eyebrows playfully.

Jonathan gave him the envelope and waited for him to open it, rubbing his chin with his hand.

A confused expression spread across of Will’s face, a grin growing to accompany it. He ripped open the envelope and widened his eyes at the sight inside: hundreds of dollars in cash.

“Jonathan? What the hell—”

“Take it, you can’t refuse a gift.” 

“I think I can.”

“Well, then you’ll break my heart.”

Will almost rolled his eyes at that. He looked back into the envelope and did a small nod, “I’ll pay you back.”

Jonathan gave him a pointed look and raised a brow, “If I agree, will you take it?”

Will smiled and nodded, closing the envelope again. He did intend to pay his brother back, even though he knew that Jonathan was only agreeing to shut him up.

“You can use that money to buy that new drawing tablet you wanted, or fix your glasses.” Jonathan continued, “Or maybe buy a new jacket, no offense but yours is all worn out and doesn’t even seem to fit you…” Slowly, the sarcastic smile on his face slipped. “Is that Lonnie’s?”

Will looked down at his jacket. The more he grew, the more he started taking Lonnie’s clothes rather than buying his own. He was always too drunk to notice anyways. If he did notice, like he did with the jacket, he’d get mad at him for weeks upon end. Will would turn into the person, or object, he could take out his idiotic frustration on. But still, Will would do it; what clothes was he supposed to wear? What clothes could he even afford? And the fact that eventually Lonnie would settle and lock himself in his room for days until he completely forgot about Will’s delinquency only encouraged Will to take the risk more.

Funny enough, Jonathan noticing it made him more uncomfortable than he was when Lonnie would.

“It hasn’t been his for the past, like, I don’t know how many years.” Will shrugged, nervously putting his hands in his pockets.

Jonathan’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Still, why are you wearing it? You can afford a better one—one that isn’t his.” He pressed on.

“I don’t know, it’s cute.” Will shrugged again, looking back down at the jacket. He felt a smile creep up on his face as he did that childish act.

“Nothing he owns is cute.” Jonathan replied, giving Will a mocking look.

“I make it cute.” Will said, the grin on his face stretching even further.

Jonathan rolled his eyes at his comment. “Seriously dude, get a new one. I’d be saying the same thing even if it wasn’t his.”

“Alright.” Will replied, pocketing the envelope. He didn’t intend to replace the jacket, at least not at the moment. He kind of grew attached to it. The more he wore it, the more he felt in control—like he finally managed to win against his father. 

Even though he lived with him by choice during adulthood, even though he renovated his house, even though he worked to pay his bills and debts, even though he purchased his medication and took it upon himself to monitor him, he still fostered this deep hatred for his father.

He hated his voice when he ranted, his thoughts that seemed to expose themselves through his stare, his large handwriting that took up half the page’s space, his hands that shook when he brought his cigarette to his lips.

He hated the fact that his influence seemed to haunt Will’s choices and decisions. The fact that Will felt disappointed in himself, even after moving out, when he thought that his father would be.

But what hurt Will the most was how the more arguments he got into with his father, the more he shrunk into himself. He wished he was like Jonathan in that way. His brother could fight back and defend himself against his father’s tower of rage, but he couldn’t.

It was only after years of living together that his father’s insults and threats lost their initial impact. His words lost meaning due to the amount of times Will heard them.

But still, even though he learnt to handle himself in front of his father’s incoherent yelling, they still haunted him. He felt like he didn’t have a choice over his own actions. 

The feeling of stealing his father’s clothes and wearing them, incorporating them into his own style that he knew his father despised, was like a rush. He felt victorious in a sense. 

He managed to make something belonging to his father belong to him, and he knew that a big part of his father’s anger at the subject was due to the fact that he proved that they could be alike.

It was as if he finally had a certain control over him. He brought change to their relationship dynamic and shifted the powers through something so small that it seemed almost ridiculous.

And so, he couldn’t throw away his jacket. It held sentimental value and a realization that strangely comforted him: He has influence over Lonnie’s perception of himself.

Will stealing his belongings frustrated Lonnie, but the fact that Will managed to make said belongings represent himself—his style, his aesthetic—disturbed Lonnie, which in turn frustrated him more.

It just reminded him of the fact that he was a father, and that Will was a part of his life; his history. 

And this deeply hurt Will. The irritation that Lonnie felt staring at him was painful. Was there a possibility that if he could prove that they had strong similarities, that his character overlapped with the other, he would finally have a father that cares about him?

Jonathan drove Will home that evening, making jokes about Will being a moth attracted to the lampposts lining the streets. 

It was only when Will sunk into his own bed, stuck in a state of despair at the reminder of his past, did he finally decide what to spend the money on.

Chapter Text

“I think I’m in love with you.” He whispered, his fingers resting against the cold surface.

Even with the loud background noise interrupting the moment, Will’s intense focus didn’t cease. If a volcano were to erupt right now, its lava melting the solid walls into nothing, he still wouldn’t flinch. His eyes remained locked on the beauty before him. 

So this is love? It was different from the affection he felt towards Jesse, and Lois… and Mike. He knew now that it was the type of emotion that hurt your stomach, that shortened your breath, that captured your soul and left you feeling a drunk sensation of both ache and yearning.

He never thought that he would become a person that got addicted; his family’s example ensured that he be repulsed to the idea. But now, with his new Wacom Graphic Tablet in hand, he understood their obsessions.

“Finally, I’ve been waiting years for you to confess that!”

Will’s train of thought froze. He lifted his eyes from the bright screen to see Nicole sitting across the table, directly in front of him in her usual seat. Humiliated, he realized that he was so focused on the tablet that he didn’t see her arrive.

“The lingering stares, the brief touches—Ugh, Will, it was so obvious.” Nicole grinned, rolling her eyes as she turned on her own tablet.

“You caught on? I thought I was being discreet.” Will replied, following her step.

Nicole’s dark eyes looked him up and down as she tried to give him an annoyed expression. Slowly, her face grew brighter and she began laughing, bringing the back of her palm to cover her mouth.

Will followed suit, leaning back on his chair to chuckle. Nicole was honestly the only person he met here that reminded him of the Party. Well, as much as she could remind him. They quickly clicked, realizing their interests overlapped a lot. They both liked The Cure and Bowie, were forced to get an eye checkup by a family member, resulting in getting glasses, and loved felines, especially tigers.

But still, her presence couldn’t quite capture the same effect of the Party’s hangouts, and that wasn’t her responsibility at all. Mike, Lucas, Dustin, Max, and his sweet sister El; they couldn’t be recreated. His biggest regret was moving away to his father’s, as if he was in control of that. He wasn’t the first to leave, but he still felt guilt upon their brutal separation.

It felt like an anvil dropping onto his chest, tearing through his skin, and ripping apart his lungs to sit comfortably on his weak, begging heart. He missed them so much, he couldn’t even put it into words.

Richardson kept placing focus on the subject, pressuring Will to let it out. However, venting on the topic of friendship made him feel childish. He should be more of an adult and handle it like one—handle it like a man.

The few times Richardson managed to pull out Will’s string of thought on the subject, Will ended up sobbing and choking on his own sharp breath. Still, even after doing what was advised of him, letting things out, the anvil didn’t seem to budge. 

And even though Nicole only brought back nostalgia, not the specific effect of the Party’s friendship, she was still very dear to him. He found comfort and warmth in her, a friendship so familiar and yet so different that it put him to ease. He liked the differences between his life at Hawkins and his life now, and this was just one of them.

“How’d you even afford that? Oh god, did you steal it?” Nicole asked something that none of his friends would. While all of them were conscious of Will’s financial issues that, as time passes, seem will never leave him, only Nicole made jokes about it and expected him to not get offended—which he never does.

His friends were often gentle with him, treating him like they would a fragile vase. After the accident, they returned back to the old methods they adopted while interacting with him—the ones they used after his return from the Upside Down. 

But Nicole, having known nothing about the actual depths of his issues, assumed that he was as broke as she was, and so was comfortable with this type of banter. It was like a breath of fresh air having someone treat him like something other than a baby or a time-bomb.

“No, I didn’t steal it.” Will rolled his eyes at her comment, letting his focus return to his sketch. With a sleek, black stylus in hand, he added soft lines to define the leaves of the trees in the background. 

“My brother gave me some money after the accident, he felt bad and wanted me to treat myself. I thought about keeping the money in the envelope and returning it to him in the future, like I made all of it back after buying myself a lobster dinner or something. But, I don’t know, I’ve been lying to him a lot and don’t wanna add this to the list.” Will ranted to her, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“So you bought a Wacom… Nice! Next time your brother feels bad about something, send him my way.” Nicole joked, beginning to work on her own scene. “You should’ve gotten new glasses, though. Your old ones were hideous.”

“I did get a new pair.” Will said, pointing to the brown frame.

Nicole lifted her head and squinted, “They look the exact same!” She started laughing again, her smile literally stretching to her ears.

“Shhh!” A voice from nearby shushed them loudly, bringing everyone in the brightly colored office’s eyes on them. 

Nicole stiffened in her seat, quickly falling into silence. It was sad seeing how quickly she abided to instructions because he knew the reason—she was worried that if she brought too much attention to herself, she’ll become a target. As a Japanese-American, half of that job was already done.

Will always came to her defense when a conflict broke out, and that convinced Nicole that he was a trustworthy person she could rely on. When he wasn’t there to defend her, well, Nicole would retaliate in her own way.

Will didn’t want her falling into another lawsuit, and so he moved his schedule to hers. When she was at the office, so was he.

“Hey, can you show me the sketch plans Harry made?” Nicole asked, now in a softer, quieter voice. Will had to slightly lean across the table to hear her.

“Yeah, one second.” Will bent under the table to open his bag and pull out a blue folder. He opened it on the desk and took a couple of sheets of paper covered in anatomy sketches and illegible notes. 

He handed the bunch to Nicole and watched as she flipped through them. 

“Jesus, some of these notes are in French.” She muttered, looking confusedly down at the page. “How am I supposed to read this?”

“Bonjour?” Will said to catch her attention, pointing to himself as he leaned back on his chair pridefully.

A smile stretched across of Nicole’s face, “You took a couple of classes in high school.”

“Exactly!” Will replied, holding his hand out. She gave him one of the papers with reluctance showing on her face.

Will brought it close to his eyes, and… “Yeah no, you’re lost.”

Nicole rolled her eyes as she took the paper back. “He’s trying to be cool and artistic by incorporating shit like this into his plans, but like, dude? Keep that for when the final project is done.”

“Want me to talk to him?” Will asked, hoping to be helpful.

“He won’t take it lightly from me, let alone a guy who only works here part-time.” She said, keeping the papers together by attaching a green clip on them. 

“Hmm… yeah, you’re right.” He sighed, beginning to stand up.

“What are you doing? Sit down.” Nicole snarked at him.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” Will said with a cheeky smile, walking past her. He could sense Nicole turning her head to watch him, to make sure that he wasn’t lying.

He opened the door to the men’s bathroom and walked in, heading straight to the sink. He pressed his fingers into his temples, thanking god for the emptiness of the room.

He took off his glasses and washed his face. As days passed, his headaches only worsened, and with staring at a bright screen all day, they felt as painful as what he would imagine waking up during brain surgery would feel like. 

He looked at his reflection in the wide mirror, his hands still on the sides of his face. Droplets of water rolled down his cheeks and off of his chin, hitting the marble of the sink. The ones on his forehead left trails underneath eyes during their own departure down, highlighting his eye bags. They were darker than yesterday, and the day before that.

He could barely sleep—that thing kept following him, his movements, his thoughts, his everything. He could even see its disgusting figure in the pupils of his own eyes, that were wide, staring into the mirror. 

His skin was also paler, he noticed; he could see his veins on his eyelids and hands. He was worried that his hair will start falling out next. 

Hastily, he wiped his face with the paper tissues near him. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a sheet of Tylenol and popped two into his hand. He titled his head back as he threw them into his mouth before leaning down to the sink to wash them down with water. 

He slapped his cheeks once in an attempt to stabilize—normalize—himself, then put on his glasses and walked out of the bathroom, plastering a smile on his face. 

He sat back down in front of Nicole and picked up his stylus, immediately returning to his work.

“Your phone was ringing like crazy.” Nicole commented, gesturing to the BlackBerry on the desk.

Will picked it up and looked at the 2 missed calls. “Shit, it’s Tristan, my boss.” He said as he dialed him back, pressing the small phone to his ear.

“Is he gonna send you somewhere now? Tell him you’re at an appointment, it’s lonely without you here.” Nicole said, smiling at him as she pulled on a desperate face.

Will gave her a sarcastic nod and a smile back, waiting for Tristan to pick up.

“Hey, sorry I was in the bathroom.” Will said into the phone once he heard a ‘beep!’, indicating that Tristan answered.

“No worries. Anyways, I’ve scheduled you for an appointment at 10, if that’s fine with you? Everyone’s booked already.” Tristan’s voice crackled through the phone.

“10? 10am?” Will asked.

“No, no—tonight, 10pm.” He said, as if it was a normal time to book something.

“Jesus, that late? Who the hell is this douche?” Will asked, leaning back against his chair. That was the time he went to sleep, and tomorrow he had to wake up early for another client.

“Austin Thomas, 246 Lexington Avenue, Apt 5B. Apparently, he’s coming back from a trip at around 9 and really needs his computer fixed, and this is the only time he could do it.” Tristan rambled off. Will could sense that he was reading all of this off of someone’s notepad.

“Yeah, yeah, I can make it. Do I get extra pay?” Will asked, smiling into the phone.

“I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow.” Tristan said, his voice low.

Will’s eyebrows perked up. He covered his mouth to stifle a chuckle at the audacity.

A curious smile stretched across Nicole’s face. She gestured for him to bring the phone closer, “What’s going on?”

“Just text me the address.” Will said before ending the call. “I think he just asked me out again.”

“And you said yes?” Nicole laughed, playing with the stylus in her hand.

“No, he’s supposed to be my boss, and my friend.” Will brushed her off.

“Your friend who’s, what, 20 years older than you? Jesus, he needs to do something with his life.” She replied, going back to drawing. “Where’s he sending you this time?”

“This guy who booked an appointment at 10pm tonight.” Will opened up the message Tristan sent, “246 Lexington Avenue, Apt 5B.”

“You should go take a nap then, or something. I’ll finish up for you, don’t worry about it.” Nicole offered. She knew about Will’s sleep routine—in fact, she created an entire schedule for him as a thank you gift for something a while back.

“Really? Thank you so much.” Will said, starting to shove his things back into his bag. “I’m sorry for leaving y—“

He stopped.

“Will? You good?” Nicole’s voice echoed. It sounded distant and muffled.

“Will?” He heard her repeat, this time with a bit of worry and confusion in her voice.

“Will?” It spoke.

Behind Nicole, between the clattered desks and passing people stood a figure. It was human—a man, Will could tell. Although, he couldn’t make out any distinct features. The man was foggy and disconcerting in his stillness. His hidden face was staring directly at Will.

Will’s breath hitched as one of the man’s long arms twitched, as if it was going to extend and grab him by the throat.

“Wi—Will?” His voice blended into Nicole’s, “Help me, Will.”

“My stomach.” His arm pressed into his gut as he begged for Will’s attention.

Everything around stopped moving, or Will just stopped looking. Nicole was the only thing in sight, as the man was behind her. Her face was twisted into a worried expression, her eyes almost looked pained, as if she was the one experiencing this.

Will felt his heartbeat slow into the stillness of his surrounding. He tried to blend into the setting, tried to take himself out of the man’s attention. 

He was too terrified to move, or to speak, or to even breathe. His hand shook as he put down the stylus and adjusted his glasses, trying to inspect the man more clearly.

Before, it was just the thing. Now, it was human, albeit one empty of features. Still, it was strange. A small piece of him, one with a morbid fascination of the unknown, wanted to analyze the man before him. 

“Will… my stomach.” He said again, desperation dripping from its croaking voice—a voice that matched that of Vecna’s.

Slowly, the black fog, that seemed to only hide the man’s existence, partially cleared up. An ugly, pink, flesh-like color revealed itself as his skin tone. 

Will felt acid crawling up his throat—the color was similar to a demogorgen, its eye-burning skin stretched across a petal-like head. The reminder of the creature only made Will feel more sick.

“Will!” The man yelled from across the room, his voice shaking in disbelief at Will’s refusal of help.

“I can’t help you.” Will whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as tears pricked them. “I can’t.” 

The emotion in the man’s voice, the pure desperation, it differentiated him from the other thing even further. Weirdly, Will slightly felt bad for it.

“My stomach.” Will heard him repeat, his voice drawing out. 

He opened his eyes again, letting his tears roll down his cheeks. Before him, Nicole was moving her mouth, a look of shock dawning upon her.

But his focus was quickly redirected to the man, who finally moved his arm from his stomach.

Will almost vomited as he saw the gaping wound in the man’s stomach, its shade of dark red disturbing. 

“You need to save me.” The man begged, his limbs twitching as his voice became louder. 

Will watched as the wound expanded from his stomach to his chest. Before it could take over any more surface, the man moved.

“Don’t let them hurt me!” He yelled, and it caught Will off guard. The voice changed from its croaky pitch, to a high, familiar one: Dustin’s.

Will’s heart pumped faster as he finally recognized the man and his circumstance. He wasn’t there for the scene, but just hearing of it was enough for him to picture it. It was brutal.

Suddenly, before Will’s epiphany could travel any further, the man shrieked and pulled out an outstretched hand, running towards him—towards Nicole.

Will pushed himself up from his chair, leaned forwards to Nicole, and grabbed her arm. He pushed himself to the side of the desk and fell onto the floor, pulling her down with him. 

But as soon as his head hit the hard parquet flooring, everything stopped. The screeching of the man ceased, letting the usual sounds of shuffling steps and loud chatters fill the room again. 

Will quickly pushed himself up into a sitting position to see where the man went, but he was gone, and with him he took the last of Will’s normal image around the office. 

“What the hell, Will?!” He heard Nicole yell at him, but his mind was elsewhere. 

A hard smack on the back of his head brought him back to earth. He turned to Nicole, who now had an irritated expression on her face. She was also sitting up, rubbing at her arm.

“Why would you do that?!” She said angrily, hitting his shoulder. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. Nicole—“ 

She stood up and quickly jogged to the bathroom, squeezing the place on her arm that Will grabbed. 

“Shit.” Will muttered to himself, exasperated. He pulled his hair in frustration, but quickly stopped once he realized that people were staring at him. 

Will pushed himself off of the floor and straightened up. He shoved the last of his things in his bag and swung it over his shoulder. Then, he proceeded to walk to the door in a hurried manner, even pushing past someone in the process.

He needed to see Richardson.

—

Will rapidly knocked on the smooth, wooden door, pushing his hand through his hair repeatedly as he waited.

With a soft click, the door squeaked open. Richardson stood on the other side, his face turning into a confused expression as he saw Will.

“Will, hello.” He began softly, “We don’t have an appointment today.”

“I know.” Will gasped out, his breathing accelerating. His hands shook before him; he tried to shove them into his pockets but his body wouldn’t respond to his brain’s commands. “Richardson, I need your help. Like, right now.”

Richardson’s face twisted into a frown. He stepped out of the house and shut the door behind him, joining Will on the dark-oak porch. 

“I have someone inside right now.” He said, gesturing to his house.

“A friend?”

“No, a patient.”

“Ah.” Will sighed, adjusting his glasses. He fiddled with the sleeves of his jacket anxiously. While he didn’t want to interrupt a session, he felt like if he stayed isolated any longer, he’d smash his head on the concrete of the sidewalk.

Richardson looked down at the watch on his wrist. “Listen, they have about 15 minutes left. Are you alright with waiting in an upstairs bedroom?”

Will quickly nodded, “Yes, yes I can wait. I won’t bother them, I swear.”

His rambling withered into nothing as Richardson laid a hand on his shoulder and guided him inside. Will caught a glimpse of the patient before being pushed up the stairs to the side: a woman, probably in her late 30s, with a tight bun and bright red lipstick. She had an annoyed expression on her face, which made Will feel a heavier guilt weigh down on him.

Richardson opened a door to his right, “Stay in here and have some water—there’s a bottled pack underneath the bed.”

Will cautiously stepped into the room, and as soon as his body was through the door’s frame, Richardson shut it with a lock. It made Will let out a nervous chuckle.

He dashed to kneel by the bed and outstretched his arm to reach underneath it. He felt the cold plastic of the pack and latched onto it with his fingers, desperate for any sort of refreshment.

The moment he was about to pull it out, though, something wrapped around his wrist. 

Once again, when confronting danger, he froze. He felt pathetic in his act of fear, humiliated but still refusing to move. He could hear his own shaking breath as whatever was under the bed tightened its grip on him.

He can’t stay still, he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t abide by what people, or things, want in response to aggression and violence. It was a passive act that never had any positive outcomes in his favor, what was the point in doing it? 

He was an adult, he was a 36 year old man. He wasn’t the toddler standing before his father, nor the preteen standing before the demogorgen—it was embarrassing to act in such a childish way when facing potential danger. 

Will pulled his wrist, planting his knees on the floorboard as leverage. However, the thing gripping it didn’t seem to loosen its hold of him. He grunted as he shook his hand back and forth, sweat gathering at his brow.

“Don’t leave me, Will.”

A scream escaped out of Will’s throat. He slammed his knees against the floor in panic, yanking his hand left and right. The thing’s hold on him only tightened. He felt that if this continued, the blood circulation to his hand would stop.

“Richardson!” Will yelled in a frenzy, now getting down onto his stomach. He stretched his other hand underneath the bed and slapped at that thing, digging his nail’s into its thick skin. 

From downstairs, he heard a door slam and hurried steps tapping the floorboards. It seemed like the thing heard too, as it loosened its grip on his wrist. Will pulled his arms out from underneath the bed and pushed himself away. When he looked down at his wrist, he saw a thick, red ring around it—a hand print.

Richardson violently opened the door and rushed to Will, grabbing him by the shoulders. “What happened? What did you do?” He asked impatiently, shaking Will.

Will gasped for air, a sob breaking out of his body pathetically. His head lolled back, letting his glasses fall against his forehead.

He felt Richardson pull them off then place a cold palm on his forehead. Other than his own sobs, he could hear Richardson muttering beneath his breath.

“Did you drink any water?” He asked, his voice cracking in worry.

“No.” Will shook his head, shaking his injured wrist around. But Richardson wasn’t looking in his direction, he was heading for the bed.

“No!” Will yelled, dragging himself across the floor. Richardson was kneeling down to reach underneath the bed, the sleeve of his button-up raised up to his elbow.

Will pushed himself up and jumped on Richardson’s back, tackling him. “No!” He repeated, attempting to restrain Richardson.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Richardson yelled, fighting back against Will’s hold. 

They both rolled around the floor in a chaotic manner, as Richardson clawed at Will’s arms wrapping around his torso and shoulders.

“Will—Let go of me! Will!” Richardson shouted at him, trying to push Will away. “William!”

Will wasn’t going to let go. He’d rather lose a limb than be the reason why another person did. Richardson always said that he was just hallucinating, but the mark around his wrist was evidence that it was a tangible being. It’s strategic in its attacks, and Will knew by now that he wasn’t the only target. Even though its attempt at harming Nicole was horrifying, Will learnt something new about it. And now, he would protect his loved ones from it.

He felt an elbow hit his stomach, and his arms loosened as he grunted. Richardson pulled himself away from his hold, panting furiously. 

Will rolled away helplessly, rubbing his stomach in pain. “Why would you do that?!” He yelled, cradling his stomach.

“Seriously?!” Richardson shouted in disbelief, returning to kneeling beside the bed. He shoved his arm underneath it, reaching for the water pack.

“No! Ivan, there’s something down there!” Will yelled with any breath he had left inside of him, waving his injured wrist around again. “Look—look at my wrist!”

Richardson ignored him, pulling out the pack of water unharmed. He ran a hand through his graying hair, still panting after the tackle.

Will stayed quiet as he watched Richardson rip open the pack and pull out 2 bottles of water. He knee-walked towards Will, who slowly sat up in confusion.

“It got me, Ivan. It didn’t get you, but it got me. I swear—look, I got hurt.” Will whispered incoherently as Richardson opened a bottle and shoved it towards him. 

Will ignored him, going back to shaking his wrist. “Look at me!” He yelled in frustration, having to stop himself from punching Richardson’s ignorant face.

Richardson sighed and put down the water bottle before gently grabbing Will’s arm and pulling it towards him. Will watched him intensely as he inspected it.

“What am I supposed to look at?” Richardson asked confusedly. Will huffed out a breath and looked back down at his wrist, ready to point out the huge bruise forming around it.

“How can you not see it? It’s right—” Will pulled his arm out of Richardson’s hold and turned his wrist around repeatedly; it was fine. There were no bruises, no marks, no handprints.

“Jesus, Will.” Richardson breathed out, handing the open water bottle to Will again. He slowly put his hand around it and brought it to his lips, letting the cold liquid travel down his throat.

Richardson started drinking his own, coming to sit by Will and lean his back against the drawers behind them. Will followed suit, relaxing his shoulders.

His eyebrows pulled upwards into a cartoonish frown as he inspected his wrist again. He let out another sigh, “Richardson, it grabbed my wrist, I swear to god. It even tried to pull me under—“

“I know, Will.” Richardson cut him off, patting Will’s knee before taking another gulp of the water. “I know.”

—

Richardson gave his shoulder a tight squeeze as he passed him, settling himself on the small, grey armchair across of Will’s larger one.

He poured the both of them a cup of tea before even offering Will one, the drink’s jasmine scent flying around the room. It imprinted onto Will’s lips as he sipped it.

“Your hallucinations are starting to interact with you physically.” Richardson commented, staring at Will as he brought the teacup to his lips.

“Are we sure they’re hallucinations?” Will asked anxiously, his leg shaking up and down. “I mean, Richardson, it’s just like what happened before. The sounds, the voice—I might as well have heard a clock ticking.”

“Did you see his body?” Richardson asked calmly, his demeanor completely shifting from the frustrated, annoyed man he was an hour before.

“Yes… yes, I did see it. But—“

“Vecna is gone.” Richardson interrupted, putting emphasis on every word. “He wasn’t only killed in front of you, he was decapitated.”

“I know.” Will sighed. He felt like he wanted to cry from confusion, from having to confront himself—his insanity.

“I heard Dustin.” He said quietly, fiddling with the teacup’s handle. If he had his jacket on, he would’ve played with the sleeves’ strings. “The man—the thing that was speaking didn’t look like him, but it had his voice.”

“What was he saying?” Richardson asked carefully, his voice gentle and steady.

“He was begging.” Will replied, still in a quiet volume. He refused to look up at Richardson; his eyes remained locked on the tea swirling in the cup as it slowly got colder. 

Richardson didn’t respond, welcoming silence into the room. Will knew that if he were to lift his head, he would see him staring unblinkingly at him.

Will brought the delicate china to his lips again, drinking half of its contents in one gulp. He leaned forwards to place it on the coffee table, taking in a deep breath. In an effort to exile all the trepidation in his body, he wiped his hands on his thighs in a frantic manner.

“He kept repeating stuff about his stomach, holding it, too.” He placed a hand on his own stomach, trying to show Richardson his point. “Then, when he… when he finally moved his hand, I saw that he was talking about a wound.”

Will felt the same acid crawling back up his throat while recalling the gruesome details. He forced himself to keep talking, reminding himself that if he said it all now, he wouldn’t have to in the future, “The wound, it got bigger. It was like a gaping hole spreading across of his torso. I thought his organs were going to fall out.”

Will looked up at Richardson, expecting a response or a throwaway comment, but the man was silent. His face remained in its default expression: calm and pointed. It prompted Will to continue.

“He kept begging me to help him, to save him. He begged me to not let them hurt him.” 

“Them?” Richardson asked carefully, his face slightly flinching at Will’s words.

“The shooters at the lab, the ones that killed Dustin.” Will replied, his voice returning to its quieter tone.

Richardson put down his teacup on the coffee table, then leaned back on the armchair and interlocked his fingers. He stared at the ground thoughtfully for a moment before saying, “And Dustin was killed with a bullet wound to his stomach.”

Will’s hand tightened into a fist around the fabric of his shirt. His face flinched at the memory of Dustin’s death, a death he was thankful to not be near enough to see with his own eyes.

“You said that it only had Dustin’s voice, what did it look like?” Richardson asked, his words slow and drawn out.

“I don’t know, like, at first I thought it was like the others.” Will began, “But then l realized that it was human. I couldn’t make out any facial features, though—there was like this black fog hiding it.

“But then, the fog kind of lessened. I could see its skin, and the wound. It freaked me out.”

“Why did its skin scare you?” Richardson asked, pressing Will further.

Will felt tears gathering at the edge of his widened eyes, and a hiccup stuck in his throat. He exhaled shakily as he stared at his therapist, who stared back with a relaxed look on his face. It bothered Will.

“It was pink and fleshy,” He said steadily, “like a demogorgen’s.”

Richardson stayed still in his seat, a small frown disturbing his calm expression. His eyes flickered for a moment, exposing the worry he was fostering deep in his chest. “Did it do anything else?”

Will nodded, grimacing at the memory of it running towards him. “It ran in my direction. My friend, Nicole, was in front of me—it was going to push her, or hurt her… I don’t know.”

Will adjusted his glasses and looked away from the eye contact he was sharing with Richardson before saying the next part.

“I got scared and pulled her to the ground,” He paused for a moment. “I think I hurt her.”

Will felt a tear roll down his cheek. His face twisted into a grimace, preparing for a silent sob. He placed a hand on his face, dragging it down to his jaw as the hiccup of a cry escaped from his chest.

Richardson stood up and went to the kitchen, leaving Will in his mess. Will pressed the palms of his hands on his eyes as he began to cry and shake even harder. He couldn’t breathe in such a suffocating room; everywhere he looked he saw the same shade of grey on the smooth surfaces. 

Richardson returned with a tissue crumpled in his hand. He kneeled by the coffee table and placed it there, unraveling it to reveal 3 pills.

“Take these.” He said, shoving the water bottle Will abandoned by the couch into his hands.

“No, no—what are they?” Will asked, shaking his head.

“Zoloft.” Richardson answered, straightening himself as he stood up.

Will gave him a brief glance before leaning forwards and collecting the pills in his hand, swallowing them with a sip of water.

“Will.” Richardson sighed, taking a seat by him. “You are paranoid. You are hallucinating. You are losing your sanity.”

Will shook his head blankly, his hands tightening around the plastic water bottle.

“Why don’t you move in with someone? A family member?” Richardson offered.

Will shook his head again, “I don’t want to scare Jonathan with this, and Mom’s gone, and Lonnie—I don’t know where Lonnie is, and even if I did, I’d rather rip my own eyeballs out than move back in with him.”

He heard a soft chuckle by him. He turned his head to see Richardson’s curled lips slowly return to their normal position, straight and blank.

“Jonathan won’t mind.” Richardson said after a moment. He was met with Will shaking his head again, this time in a more affirming manner.

“He said he’s scared of me. What if I scare him even further?” Will asked, wanting a genuine answer.

Richardson turned his head away from him, looking into space while thinking of a suitable response.

“Scare him.” He shrugged, smiling again at Will’s dumbfounded face. “It’s for your benefit, Will. Jonathan knows that, he’ll care for you even if you point a gun at him.”

That got a small smile out of Will. He turned away, “It doesn’t matter, I’d still be guilty. Our love and care shouldn’t be one-sided.”

Richardson leaned back on the couch even further and crossed his legs, settling comfortably. “He was basically your father growing up. Would a father stop loving his child if they got sick?”

“Are you saying I’m sick?”

“Yes.” Richardson answered immediately, surprising Will. “Why do you think you’re here?”

Will remained quiet, fiddling with the plastic wrapper around the bottle. “Denise wouldn’t be comfortable with my intrusion.”

“His wife?”

“Yeah. She’s nice and stuff, but she wouldn’t be happy if I interrupting the normal life she built with Jonathan.” 

“And you’re sure of that?”

Will nodded. He was being honest—Denise was a sweet person, but that doesn’t equate to an invitation to her home unwarrantedly.

“Then stay alone, and bash your head into a wall while you’re at it.” Richardson said, gesturing to Will’s head.

Will held eye contact with Richardson for several moments, his perplexed expression clashing with Richardson’s serious one.

Slowly, a sly smirk spread across of Richardson’s face. He let out a sharp laugh before patting Will’s knee and getting up from the couch, “Pack a suitcase, Will.”

Chapter Text

Before he left the apartment to head to his client’s house that night, he packed a leather suitcase to drag with him down the streets.

Jonathan’s voice was cracky in the small phone. “Of course you can stay over.” He told Will, sighing deeply in relief through the speaker.

He asked him in Richardson’s living room, his therapist’s eyes piercing into every movement he made. He was worried that his shaky voice would be audible to Jonathan, exposing the distress that he was in, but Richardson’s nods of encouragement pushed him to continue talking. 

And so, it was agreed that Will would go to Jonathan’s house that exact night. He was offered a car ride by both Jonathan and Richardson, but he declined them almost immediately after the question slipped from their lips.

He was adamant about taking the underground train instead, claiming that it would clear his thoughts while simultaneously offering him distractions. For example, watching a man in a mascot dance between passengers, or a woman yelling at her husband about an affair he was complicit in.

But the truth is, he didn’t feel comfortable around the two at the moment. They were not just people who were close to him—people who knew about his highest moments and deepest periods of depression—but also individuals with insight into his mind. Even though he never told Jonathan about what was happening in his brain, he still knew the mechanics of the organ. He could sense when Will was struggling, when he was hiding something that was ripping him from the inside out. 

Will could see it in his stares. The only similarity between him and Lonnie was that their eyes exposed them. In Lonnie’s pupils, he could see emotions of disappointment and regret sparkling on the edge of the brown, narrowing circles. In Jonathan’s, he could see the distress and apprehension that prompts him to want to be so involved in Will’s life.

And he couldn’t be around someone like that in a small, confined space even for 10 minutes, or else his guts would spill out of his body like a disturbing avalanche. 

It seemed like earth listened to what he experienced today, as it decided to accessorize the roads Will trudged through with cold rain. It wanted to set the scene, and it brought his mood down even more.

He stepped under the awning of a shop and tucked his umbrella’s handle underneath his shoulder. He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, opening it with a soft click.

Glaring at the bright screen, he reread the address Tristan gave him. He looked around the street, searching for the row house of his client. 

“Hello, how can I help you?”

Will turned his head towards the direction of the voice. A short, hunchbacked man with thin glasses stood beside him—the shop owner, he assumed. 

“Ah. I don’t need help, thank you.” Will replied, offering a polite smile.

The man squinted his eyes at Will, gesturing to the covered crates behind him. “Help? Get off my property—I told you, we’re closed.”

Will furrowed his brows, his eyes slightly widening as he realized that he misheard him—he must’ve. He recognized that he feels more content with himself when he refers to moments like this, that have become more often, to be misheard mistakes rather than a dead being fiddling in his life.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you properly over all of this rain.” Will apologized, shaking his head. His eyes flickered down to his phone, then back up to the man. “Do you know this address?” He asked, showing the screen to the man.

The man gave him an annoyed expression before bending his neck to read the pixilated letters on the phone. “It’s down there.” He said, pointing to a small, shabby row house across the street. “Now go, I gotta make sure you don’t steal anything.”

Will muttered a quick thanks before crossing the street to the house, his umbrella held high above his head. His suitcase rolled uncaringly over the pennies abandoned on the sidewalk, pushing some over to the road and down the sewer drain. Will could’ve sworn he saw a key fall through the gaps as well.

When he reached the house, Will saw a black sign hung on the door. “Antique Shop” it read in loopy, yellow letters. He pressed down on the doorbell with his thumb, feeling the coldness of the button against his skin. 

The door swung open almost immediately, a hand gesturing for him to come inside without any introductions. 

Will wiped his boots on the mat placed outside before stepping through the frame, his wet glasses obscuring his vision. The door closed behind him, encapsulating him and the client in the warmth of the home.

He took off his glasses and wiped them sheepishly on the hem of his shirt, wondering why the man next to him remained quiet. Probably looking at him—judging him, Will thought insecurely.

“You’re fixing my computer?” The man finally asked, breaking the silence.

Will’s eyes flickered as he heard that voice. It carried words that had no special meaning, no weight, but the voice that they were said in was so familiar that it quickly grabbed his attention.

Will put on his glasses before turning to the man, his curiosity eating away at him. The few inhales of breath he drew in upon seeing the identity of the person standing before him almost suffocated him.

He froze, but this time not because of fear or trepidation, but because of recognition. A unique recognition that brought a great wave of nostalgia he almost perceived as hostile. He was being forced to confront his past feelings, and it was in the form of a human.

It was him—he was sure of it. The scar of age gave him soft wrinkles between his brows, but the wrinkles shrank into a smooth surface as he raised them. His eyes widened, appearing larger than they were.

Although the years that passed changed him—made him grow a stubble on his chin, made his unnoticeable acne scars disappear, made his eye bags sink deeper beneath his eyes—Will knew who was standing before him.

“Mike.” The name slipped through his lips softly while distant memories played in his mind like an old tape. It flickered as parts were skipped over due to their roots in hurt and aggression. Gaps revealed themselves as this intangible tape continued, stirring confusion in his chest. Were his eyelashes always that long, or did they grow over time? Did he gain some height, or did it remain the same as it was at 17?

They say that before death, the brain continues its function for a complete seven minutes after the body dies. It was most likely a myth—a whisper of a theory strategically placed in a story to aid a metaphor. However, even though his body was not close to being a corpse at all, it seemed that his brain resorted to that same, unimaginable theory, trying to prove it with all of its might.

A swing set, a D&D board, a digital watch, a painting—these sentiments quickly passed through his head, and he felt as if he was seeing them before his eyes. The scent of the acrylic paint he used for the painting, the scent of the blanket he tucked himself under in the basement. His past crushed his heart, squeezing it until the veins inside were bent into irreversible damage. 

“Mike?” Will repeated in a quiet voice, letting go of the umbrella weakly. It thudded against the maroon carpet on the hallway floor, the raindrops it carried seeping into the cotton.

Will noticed tears collecting at the edge of Mike’s dark eyes. He stayed quiet, his mouth agape. Will almost thought that he would topple over; he was slightly swaying left to right as he slowly blinked in a dumb stare.

Suddenly, Mike took a wide step towards him and engulfed him in a warm embrace. Will dissolved into the thin arms, shoving his face into the shoulder of his childhood best friend. He could smell the cheap cologne on the woolen sweater he was wearing, reminding him of pine trees. It was very adult.

Although, even though the person in his arms was one who he shared a sacred childhood with, one who he confessed his deepest secrets to time and time again, it still felt uncomfortable for him to be locked in a tight hug with them.

Decades passed from their last interaction. It was on a plain field, Will remembers. 

He could feel the nicotine relaxing his nerves as Mike walked up to him, placing a gentle hand on his back. His eyes were glossy and his face looked tired from the cries that repeatedly swept him away for the past week.

He gestured with a pale hand towards the cigarette Will was holding between two fingers. Will gave him a confused expression—Mike never smoked and was opposed to the habit Will developed.

He handed it over and watched Mike inhale the drug, only to be thrown over by a coughing fit. He quickly returned the cigarette, nodding at Will’s small smile with a sarcastic expression.

They didn’t exchange any words that night. If Will knew that it would be the last time he’d see Mike in years, he would’ve at least muttered a goodbye.

In hindsight, he’s relieved he didn’t know. He would’ve humiliated himself as he begged Mike to stay in a mess of tears. His pleas would’ve been useless, and he would know that, and yet would still continue to repeat them.

Or he would’ve stayed quiet, watching Mike leave in Jonathan’s beat-up car with Holly in the passenger seat. 

While the scenarios he daydreamed about often centered around the former reaction, Will knows that deep down he would’ve acted like the latter. He would have not spoken, not tried to change Mike’s mind. He wanted what was best for Mike, and if that was running away and erasing himself from history, then so be it.

“Shit—I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Mike whispered apprehensively into his shoulder, squeezing the leather of his jacket. “I’m sorry Will—” He took in a deep breath, hiccuping through the waves of tears that tried to drown him.

Will was speechless, doing nothing but gently returning the hug. He was unsure about how he felt at the moment, and so, he didn’t know how to act. 

His first instincts were to rub Mike’s back and reassure him that everything will be alright, even pet his hair with a gentle hand. But he knew that those instincts weren’t right to act on. The only reason they arose was because it’s the response his brain was used to when he was around Mike. It wasn’t right—not for the exact moment, at least.

Mike slowly detached himself from the embrace, now resting his hands on Will’s shoulders. His eyes flickered to every inch of Will’s face, making Will feel like a sample under a microscope.

He could feel the corners of his lips twitch into a small smile, his heart picking up a stronger beat. He noticed the several differences in Mike’s appearance, although not too much has changed. Still, compared to Lois, his looks did develop.

His face was sharper, highlighting his strong cheekbones. His eyebrows were thicker and unkept, like two bushy caterpillars. And his teeth were straighter—did he get braces?

“I can’t believe it.” Mike breathed out. Will wished he could read Mike’s mind, did he think Will changed too? Well, he knows he did, but he wants Mike’s opinion on it. Did he look better? Worse? He held Mike’s judgement at such a high level that it even surpassed his own.

It was only when he held eye contact with Mike at a close vicinity did his feelings really sink in. His chest rose up with a sharp inhale, holding back a cry. He felt a thick, asphyxiating sob settle in his throat. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry in front of Mike, but it didn’t seem like he had a choice.

He raised a shaking hand to cover his eyes, his knuckles pushing back his glasses. The frame pressed against his forehead uncomfortably. 

Tears were spilling down his face because of the strong feeling of nostalgia that overcame him—of yearning. He missed Mike so much he couldn’t even vocalize it. Mike wasn’t something that could be forgotten, he was like a bad injury. He was a broken bone in a cast, a scar across the hip, stitches running down a bruised stomach.

But what was making him actually break down and panic was how exposing this felt. While he wasn’t pleased with his personal character when Mike left, he would rather that be the last image Mike has of him than who he was now.

Yes—he graduated from a good university, bought his own apartment, got a stable job, but he also failed in so many little things that it made all of his achievements disappear in his realm of view. He felt that they couldn’t be appreciated because the simplest of things that had been unsuccessful hindered their structure. The steps that were placed so that he could climb to success were influenced by these simple things, so how could he call his life an achievement? Its very foundation challenged it, a loose pillar would cause it to collapse. Achievements should be stable and have some sort of safety net if not—but his ones were running on nothing but luck.

What’s the point of an apartment if it’s empty? Will roams around the wide living room with no purpose, rolls onto the queen-sized bed expecting someone to be next to him. He failed every relationship that was thrown at him.

And what was the point of his job if its pay barely paid off the rent each month? He walks across hundreds of streets to reach his annoyed client of the day. He spends hours sweating in a clustered home office with no air conditioning, fixing a computer that was made in the 70s. There was no passion in it—none at all.

He couldn’t even be proud of his part-time job at the art studio. He was paid to correct and improve others’ art pieces with no credit being served to him. He had no creative control.

What if Mike knew about his job at the studio? What if he was excited to see Will’s projects, his creativity bleeding into anatomical muscles stretching on screens? What would Will say to that? 

Will’s head hurt—his temples hurt. The rush of emotions that crushed into him, pushing his ribcage to pierce into his lungs, was unnatural. It was as if these thoughts weren’t his.

It was only when Mike—his childhood best friend, his love and pain, the bane of his existence—saw his life did he start hating it. The hatred festered in his gut until he felt nauseous.

He was completely and utterly humiliated. How could he have been content with a life like this for years? How did he only see this now?

What good have you done since you moved out of Hawkins?

“Will, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—shit.” He heard Mike say with a clearer voice, indicating that he stopped crying as much.

“It’s okay.” Will said in a quiet voice, nodding. He moved his hand from his face to drag it across his jaw. He held his arms out, staggering towards Mike to fall into another hug.

—

“I’ll be a bit late, but I’ll be there. I promise.” Will muttered into his phone, leaning on the wooden door frame of the living room. Mike was sitting on the long couch, a mug in his hands. He was staring off into space, clearly avoiding Will’s eye contact.

“Are you sure? It’s like, really late. Did you miss the train or something? I can come over and pick you up.” Jonathan’s voice echoed through the phone, carrying a worried tone.

“No, no it’s fine. I just ran into a friend and wanted to chat with them for a bit. They said they’d drive me to your place afterwards.” Will responded. He wasn’t that keen on having Mike drive him over to Jonathan’s—what if Jonathan saw him? He still held a grudge against him for stealing his car. However, it was better than having to sit on a plastic chair while a junkie eyes him from across the compartment, leftover cocaine smeared on their nose.

He heard Jonathan sigh, “Alright, but if you don’t come before 2am I’m calling the police.” 

Will nervously laughed at Jonathan’s joke, at least he hoped it was a joke. He exchanged goodbyes with his brother before ending the call, coming to sit beside Mike on the couch.

Will spent an hour or so fixing Mike’s computer, which was stationed in the downstairs office. There were shelves of papers—bills, customer orders, notes—all around him, some falling to lay on the floor.

He could hear Mike fiddling around the nearby counter the entire time. He honestly felt like Mike was just trying to occupy himself with something so as to have a reason to stay on the ground floor. 

When Will peeked around the corner, he saw Mike dusting the antiques propped up around the store, although they looked quite clean to him. At least he moved from the counter.

He was then led to the actual house upstairs. It was small and cozy, but extremely messy. Mike embarrassingly cleaned the coffee table as Will settled on the couch, taking old magazines and snacks into a nearby room and shutting the door.

He muttered an apology, which Will found funny, before offering to bring him a drink. Will didn’t accept, and so, Mike wandered to the kitchen and came back a few moments later with one mug of milk tea in his hand.

He brought the mug to his lips every time an awkward silence was welcomed into the room. After the initial emotional greeting, their feelings began settling down. This invited nervous conversations that tried to avoid deep topics, while also treading the edge of them like a blind acrobat.

“How’s Jonathan?” Mike asked in an attempt to melt the tension between them.

“He’s fine.” Will replied, offering a small smile. “He got married about two years ago and is expecting a kid—no, twins, which is cool.”

A grin grew on Mike’s face at hearing Will’s words, “Tell him I said congrats.”

Will briefly nodded before looking away, focusing on the lamp across the room. He fiddled with his sleeve.

He didn’t want to come off too strong—but oh, he wanted to know everything he missed in Mike’s life. Although, that would mean that he would have to say stuff about his own life in return.

“Why did you leave?” He suddenly blurted out. “Why did you change your name—your life?”

He heard Mike sigh next to him, “I’m sorry.”

Will turned to look at him, his face twisting into a frown. “That wasn’t an answer.”

He held eye contact with Mike, refusing to blink and miss a twitch in his expression.

Mike pulled his eyebrows together and squeezed a hand on his knee. He stayed silent for a couple of moments, constructing a suitable answer in his mind.

“I couldn’t be there anymore; not in that town, not near the party—it wasn’t you. It was never you.” Mike finally said, his glare holding a hint of desperation.

Will looked away. He understood. He knew how overwhelming it was to continue living this life after everything. His name, his face, his history—it haunted him. When he moved in with his father in Indianapolis, he was constantly paranoid that someone would recognize him. Even after disconnecting with the town, the thought of someone knowing his name or face from a newspaper stressed him so much that he would resort to pulling his hair and scratching his skin in public spaces.

The first time he thought of running away, erasing himself from the world, was in 1988, March 22nd—his 17th birthday. He never celebrated his birthdays after leaving Hawkins, and so, it wasn’t unusual for there to be no party or cake or gifts on this particular day. And yet, walking through that small house, breathing in the scent of beer and cigarettes, staring at his father passed out on the couch in a clearly uncomfortable position… it frightened him.

He wanted to be freed from the life he had made for himself, its restraints teared through his skin. It was a torturous feeling, loneliness. How could he live a life full of isolation and fear?

He still remembers the feeling of the cold kitchen tiles against his barefoot feet as he walked to the kitchen, his intentions nuclear and hazardous. He opened the drawer near the oven and wrapped his hand around the gun. 

His father collected them and scattered them around the house in case of an emergency, that’s what he always said. Still, it felt like the guns’ only use was to taunt him, to dare him to use them.

The only reason he is still alive was because of a phone call.

Lois interrupted his plan, wanting to ask him on a date the following Thursday.

He accepted and went to bed.

So he understood Mike.

“I wanted you sometimes, when things got too crazy.” Mike said, his voice soft.

“Me too.” Will said, turning his head back to Mike. He felt a smile of relief grow on his face.

“It’s good that my computer broke,” Mike joked, “if not, I wouldn’t have known you were here.”

Will let out a small chuckle, his fingers coming to intertwine on his lap.

“We can hang out now, like old times.” Mike said, his eyes glossy as if he was in a dreamy state.

Will’s breath hitched. He looked down at his hands, carefully considering his words. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He felt Mike stiffen beside him, and guilt rushed through his veins like a waterfall. Still, he refused to lift his head or comment any further.

A few moments passed in which no one moved.

“Why?” Mike asked.

When Will forced himself to look at him again, his heart sunk. Mike’s face was sad—just sad. There were no secret emotions hidden here or there, he was just sad, and Will could see that.

“I’m not sure how I feel about this yet.” Will confessed, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He was honest in his words. A flashback of what he did to Nicole played in his head. He didn’t want to hurt her, and he didn’t want to hurt Mike either. He couldn’t trust himself at the moment.

“You won’t.” Mike tried to reassure him.

“Mike,” Will said with a small, exhausted laugh, “You don’t know what’s happening right now.”

Mike blinked stupidly, biting his lower lip. “I don’t know what’s happening, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help.”

“I don’t need help.” Will said sharply, his eyes narrowing down on Mike. “When I know I’m good, I’ll come to you.”

Mike flinched backwards, making the guilt Will felt amplify. He looked away from Will, a gloomy look in his eyes.

Will opened his mouth to say something, wanting to amend anything he might’ve broken. However, he stopped as Mike leaned towards the notepad on the nearby desk. He ripped out a paper and tore it into two, handing one to Will.

“You’re right, you should come to me when you’re comfortable to do so.” He said, handing a pen to Will. “Write down your number.”

Will watched as Mike bent down to the coffee table to scratch his own number on his piece of the paper. Will followed suit, feeling relief in his chest at Mike’s acceptance.

Will pocketed the paper with Mike’s number, watching as Mike tucked his in the drawer of the coffee table.

“Thank you.” He said, giving Mike a warm smile. 

“Call me anytime—when you’re good.” Mike replied, pulling a questioning face.

Will rolled his eyes and chuckled. The years that passed gave them something Will cherished: boundaries. The old Mike would have insisted on knowing what was bothering Will, but this one seemed too scared to, as if if he did too much Will would leave. The awkwardness and tension between them saved Will, and he would forever be thankful.

An hour later, Mike led him to his car down the street. He settled comfortably in the passenger seat, lazily lolling his head to the side.

He kept going in and out of sleep as Mike followed the directions he muttered to him.

When Mike tried to walk him to the door, he placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine.”

“Oh.” Mike sighed before nodding in understanding.

“Thank you.” Will said again, a soft look of joy on his face. “I’ll see you.”

“I hope so.” Mike said, mirroring Will’s expression. 

Will stepped out of the car and dragged his suitcase to Jonathan’s porch, waiting for Mike to drive away before ringing the doorbell.

Chapter Text

Jonathan’s house was larger than Lonnie’s. It was mostly an open space with no hallways, rather relying on archways to separate the house’s sections. 

There were two guest bedrooms on the first floor, which, according to Jonathan, were going to be renovated to a nursery and playroom. For now, their walls were painted in a soft beige, complimenting the wooden furniture of the rooms.

It was all quite bright—the wallpaper, the floors, the furniture. Will could tell that Jonathan left all of the designing to Denise. He seemed to be content with her choices, showing his appreciation of the fluffy carpets and light-colored lamps through little comments. 

It was a stark difference from Lonnie’s house.

Lonnie’s was smaller, dimmer, and more suffocating. All of the inside was painted in a dark, grey blue, making the house even more off-putting. The floors were originally carpeted, but holes were torn into the fabric over the years by the soles of heavy boots.

Will passed those boots everyday as he entered and left the house. They were positioned by the door, old and dirty and alone, rarely used anymore. But in the mud stains, scuffed soles, ruined laces, and peeling leather, he could see an age—an era—that he missed. 

An era that he might’ve liked to be a part of. An era where his father was different. He only saw traces of it in the holes it tore in the fabric of the carpet.

The furniture was also old. A brown couch, its color faded, was placed in front of a small TV. A sunflower-patterned blanket was folded on its armchair, seemingly the only thing that was neat in the house. The dining table was crooked and made a squeaking sound whenever someone accidentally bumped into it. The lamp in the living room was broken and wouldn’t turn on even after Will changed its bulb. The bed in his room was small and had a loose leg. The dresser’s wooden material was chipped, and the middle drawer couldn’t be opened since its knob fell off when Will kicked it after a particularly rough argument with Lonnie.

A year after he moved in, he started renovating parts of the place. It was an activity to pass the time more than anything—the summers were long and boring in Indianapolis.

He mended the tiles in the bathroom, then cleaned the stains off of the carpets, then replaced the old door knobs and light bulbs, and even fixed the chipped paint in his bedroom. He enjoyed that project the most, as he would take breaks to paint small flowers or stars or tigers along the corner edges of the walls—places that were hidden in the shadows.

He never touched Lonnie’s room, never even entered it. He knew that Lonnie had a larger bed, more space, more storage, more things to fix, but he didn’t want to go there. It had Lonnie written all over it, and that was overwhelming.

It was too much pressure for Will to even stand in the same room as him, and having to be surrounded by his personal belongings just felt like a nightmare.

Besides, none of that matters because Lonnie rarely left his room. In the beginning, he’d leave the house for hours and come back at 3am too drunk to even walk. Will would take pity and lead him to the couch or his bed where he’d pass out until 4pm, drag himself over to the fridge, eat Will’s leftovers while watching TV, then leave the house to repeat the cycle.

But after a month or so, the pity that Will had withered into nothing. The more he was subjected to unwarranted comments, violent attacks, and tiring arguments, the less he cared about Lonnie.

He’d watch from the kitchen as Lonnie staggered through the house just to fall on the ground. Will would only move from his position to go to his bedroom.

One time, Lonnie hit his head on the corner of the coffee table when he fell. He bled on the carpet as he grunted in pain, trying to get Will’s attention. 

Even though he felt terrible, Will’s stubborn mind wouldn’t let him help his wounded father. He doesn’t regret it to this day, but he does wonder if that was the branch he missed. Maybe if he helped him, if he bandaged his head and dragged him to the couch, then Lonnie would’ve started being nicer. 

Deep down, he knows that that would’ve never happened; Lonnie wouldn’t even have remembered that gesture. And yet, he still has this hope that he would’ve changed—that he would’ve started caring. Perhaps it’s a stupid belief that he created as a child and was too scared to let go of. 

—

He brought the pastry to his lips, sinking his teeth into the glazed layers of bread. 

“Mmmm.”

“Is it good?” Denise asked, looking at him intensely.

“Yeah, really good. I like the custard.” Will said, brushing crumbs off of his lips.

“What else is good?” She asked another question.

“The… texture.” He replied, tearing his eyes off of Denise to stare at the pastry. He couldn’t even tell what it was: a croissant? a tart?

“You don’t have to lie, I know I messed up.” He heard her softly chuckle and sink down into her chair.

Will smiled and put down the pastry, “No, it’s nice. It’s sweet and stuff, just a bit… dry?”

“Yeah, thanks for being better than Jonathan, though. He said it was delicious and forced himself to eat the entire thing.” Denise laughed at the memory, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. 

As soon as the mention of him slipped out of her lips, Jonathan walked through the front door. He passed by the two sitting in the dining room, muttering a quick hello before going upstairs.

“He needs a haircut, right?” Denise asked, gesturing towards the direction Jonathan went in.

Will smiled as he nodded, letting out a relaxed sigh as he leaned back in his chair. He felt a soft vibration in his pocket along with a muffled tune. 

“Someone’s calling you.” Denise pointed out, getting up to clean the table off of the failed pastry. 

“Yeah.” Will grunted as he looked down at the caller: Richardson. He hesitated before answering, quickly shuffling to the guest room—his room.

“Hey.” He said into the phone, settling down on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning,” A crackled voice rattled through the phone, “Did you make it, Will?”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m here.” Will nodded out of habit. The other end of the line was silent, and so, he felt obliged to continue, “You were right, Denise doesn’t mind. She’s using me for food trials.”

“I never said Denise wouldn’t mind.” Richardson said, his British accent slipping into his words.

“You implied it.” Will retorted, a soft smile growing on his face.

“And now I will imply something else.” 

Will straightened his posture, pressing the phone to the side of his face. “And that is?”

The phone fell silent again, delaying the response that Will was waiting for. He pulled it away from his ear to check that Richardson was still on the line, and he was.

“Richardson?” He asked into the phone,“Are you there?”

“Are you a good person?” 

Will’s breath hitched. He cleared his throat as the question registered in his head—was he a good person? It was straightforward, but the answer was complex and esoteric. Did he seriously expect him to explain it all in a phone call? He wasn’t even sure he knew his own answer.

“Morally, yeah.” He replied, deciding to only brush the surface.

“Hm.” Richardson hummed. It was a simple sound, insignificant and unimportant, and yet, hearing it was like a dagger stabbing into Will’s gut. 

His finger twitched around the phone, his grip growing weak. He took a deep breath to ground himself—a technique to cope with anxiety taught to him by Richardson himself—and cleared his throat once again.

“What is it?” He asked, swallowing away the nervousness gathering up in his throat. He tapped his foot against the floor; a soft, rhythmic sound echoed in the room.

A deep sigh emerged from the phone. Will felt like he could feel the hot breath on his own neck. He reached a hesitant hand up to brush away the feeling, an action that had nostalgia and dread buried within it.

“What have you ever done that was good?” Richardson’s voice was clear and confident, breaking through the crackling sound of the phone. The barriers of distance seemed to disintrigate into nothing.

Will pulled away the phone from his ear. He took in a shaky breath and squeezed his knee, staring at the blank screen of the phone. His knuckles grew white as they tightened around it, twitching ever so slightly.

It was a useless object, at least in these circumstances.

Slowly, he moved his eyes away from it. He turned around, dreading to see what was behind him.

“What have you ever done that was good, Will?” Richardson repeated, standing tall in a neat, ironed suit in the back corner of the room. The hot rays of sunlight that bled through the curtains casted a spotlight onto his structured face.

With trepidation, Will found his footing and got up. He stood opposite Richardson, coated under a thick shadow.

His therapist’s lips moved, but Will couldn’t hear anything over the loud drum of his thudding heart. He squeezed his hand into a fist before relaxing it again, breaking the piercing eye contact he held with Richardson. 

Richardson paused and titled his head, a look of agitation washing over him. He took a step forwards, entering the shadows.

Will willed himself to move, hazardly pushing past whatever was in his way. He felt a pull on his foot and immediately looked down, tearing away his eyes from the man who was inching his way closer to him. His foot was tangled up in a cord connected to the tall lamp by the closet. He pulled it out without mercy, causing the lamp to topple over onto the ground. He heard its bulb crush as it collided with the hard floor. The lamp acted like a barrier between the two men—a fat log blocking an abandoned road.

“You’re lost. You’re confused.” Richardson’s voice sunk deeper, his eyes darkening as they narrowed down on Will. 

Will shook his head, resorting to a physical action due to his vocal cords’ refusal to work. He looked around himself, scanning the room for anything that may be of some help; something that can act as a shield.

His suitcase was propped up by the door, but that was too far away. It was too out of reach. Will wouldn’t even be able to graze its surface if he stretched out his arm. It was too out of reach.

Help was too out for reach. Protection was too out of reach. They were always too far away from him—placed strategically at a distance so that he would be able to see them, but not use them. 

But did it have to be that way? Was help just a yell away? If he were to scream his lungs out, would Jonathan come? Would Jonathan save him?

Would Jonathan have answered the phone if he had called, frightened and shivering in a phone booth? Would he have driven over at 3am and thrown Will a towel? Would he have taken him back to Lonnie’s, only to pack a duffel bag and take him to stay at his dorm? Would he have shuffled Will down the hallways, sacrificed his bed for his younger brother? Would he have helped?

“Jonathan!” Will yelled, an echo quickly following. “Jonathan!” He repeated, his voice cracking. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, “Jonathan—please. Jonathan!”

“What have you ever done that was good for the likes of your mother?”

“Jonathan, help me! Jonathan!” His voice grew louder, he could practically feel the insides of his throat ripping open. He backed up until he hit the wall, and as his back touched it, he felt whatever resistance he once had perish. 

He felt weak, cornered by the taller man’s shadowy figure. He had to physically keep his body upright as each organ slowed their functionality into nothing. The only parts of his body that maintained their stability were his eyes. They remained stuck on Richardson, who was getting closer at a painfully slow pace.

“Why didn’t you turn around to check on her? Why didn’t you walk at her pace?” Richardson pressed further, his face twitching into a disturbed expression. “Why did you let her trail behind, alone?”

“Jonathan…” Will muttered, his last stable platform finally collapsing. He pushed his palms against his eyes as he choked out a sob. He aggressively took off his glasses and threw them to the floor, then quickly reached his hand back up to cover his face.

“You just let her die, didn’t you?” He heard Richardson ask, his words picking up an accusatory tone. Will felt like if he were to remove his hands from his face, he would see a finger pointed towards him in horror.

His knees dropped, not being able to support the rest of his body any longer. He fell to the ground with a soft thud. Emotions of humiliation and cowardice formed in his chest, and yet, he couldn’t seem to care. His pathetic position was the least of his problems at the moment.

Because he was right. Help was always out of reach.

Richardson kneeled down towards Will and put a gentle hand on his head. “Are you a good person?” He repeated his question, his voice changing back to the softness it once had.

Will pulled his knees closer to his face, shaking the hand off of his head. He pressed his sniffling nose against his thigh, hiding his tears from his therapist. At 36 years old, he was reduced to what he once was: a child.

He heard a sigh from the person beside him, “Do you want me to leave?” 

There was a hint of concern in that sentence. When Will moved his face and looked up at him, he saw that the man’s eyebrows were pulled together. His face was twisted in a sad frown, eyes conveying a feeling of true worry.

Will’s breath hitched. Even though he knew that this wasn’t real—that this was all in his head—and that it was nothing but manipulation, he still felt a warm flush of comfort in his heart. He parted his lips to say something, but couldn’t find any words. It was a strange feeling, and no words of any language could do it justice. He was terrified, and comfortable.

Still, his survival instinct kicked in and he pushed himself away from Richardson, sliding down the wall towards the door.

“Will.” His voice was gentle, light, soothing— paternal. He placed a hand on his knee, giving it a small squeeze. He slightly shook his head, displaying the distress he was apparently in, “You’re destructive. But to change, you need to confront that.”

Will let his legs straighten out, pulling his knees away from his chest. He let out a shaky breath, feeling both exposed and cared for. The way Richardson was looking at him; his eyes reflected genuine empathy.

Will stared into them. His brain was telling him to be smart, that it wasn’t real, that it was a ploy. But his heart begged him to give in, finally getting the attention he yearned for ever since he was a toddler. 

“I care about you.” 

Will let out a small cry. He quickly pushed a hand to his mouth, stifling the noise. He couldn’t look at Richardson any longer, he shouldn’t, but it was as if he was hypnotized.

His eyes began to blur as tears glossed over them. But even then, even through the blur, he caught the quick flicker of change in the man before him. For a moment, a moment so brief… so unnoticeable, instead of Richardson’s face—pale, structured, clean shaven—he saw his dad’s. He saw his stubble, his frown lines, his crow’s feet. He saw the eyes he inherited, the pupils that reflected the same care Richardson’s did a second ago. An expression of honest worry was draped over his dad’s face. It was almost unreal. Will felt like if he were to reach a hand out, his dad would disappear into smoke.

Then it flickered back to Richardson. However, Will was too stunned to care. The moment they once shared was gone.

Suddenly, the door shot open. Jonathan stood in the frame, the light from the rest of the house bleeding into the room. 

Jonathan came. Help wasn’t out of reach, Will just had to ask for it. Deep down, he was thankful that Jonathan came late. He was thankful that he got to see his dad, even if it drained him. He felt empty, but he didn’t feel regretful for it.

“What the fuck—get away from him!” Jonathan ran towards Richardson, tackling him to the ground. He pulled a fist back before diving it down directly at Richardson’s nose.

Will pulled himself up and staggered away from the two, confusion fogging up his thoughts. How could this be possible? Jonathan sees him too? Does Jonathan see Richardson, or Lonnie? Does he see dad?

Blood began to pour out of Richardson’s nose, painting his face in the thick substance. Jonathan grabbed him by the collar and yelled incoherently.

Suddenly, Will moved. A waterfall of emotions exploded in his chest. He felt empathetic, he felt care. 

He grabbed Jonathan’s shoulders and tried to drag him off of Richardson, “Get off of him! Jonathan—” He hooked his arms underneath Jonathan’s shoulders, pulling him off of Richardson who was now bleeding all over his cheeks and chin. 

“Don’t touch me.” Jonathan said sharply, shoving Will away. His eyes were unfamiliar, far away, out of reach.

Will frowned, “Jonathan, are you okay?”

“Who the hell are you?!” He yelled at Richardson, who was getting up to his feet. The man’s suit was now crinkled, completely imperfect.

If Will was conscious, if he was actually focusing, maybe he would’ve realized that this Jonathan slipped up. He would’ve realized that these two know each other. It was like a dream—the timelines and facts have shifted and for whatever reason, it makes sense.

“He’s my therapist.”

“He’s my dad.”

Will heard himself say both; the sentences intertwined into one. As he stared at Richardson’s scruffy appearance, he questioned his identity. He didn’t know if this was a person he should trust, or a person he should oppose. Perhaps the man was both.

Jonathan turned to Will, an aggravated expression on his face. “This is who you were screaming over?” He pointed a finger towards Richardson, who was now wiping away the blood from his face with his tie.

For whatever reason, Will shook his head. He felt the need to lie, to protect Richardson. He looked down at his shoes, anxiously fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. He felt cornered again. He felt like a kid.

“Jesus christ, Will.” Jonathan exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

When Will looked back up at Jonathan, he was taken aback. His brother was staring directly at him, his eyes shadowed and pointed. He was silent, but Will could tell that a hundred words were bubbling up in his chest, wishing to escape. Whatever those words were—whether they were insults or words of comfort—Will wouldn’t know, and he never would.

Jonathan stepped closer, backing Will into the door that was suddenly closed shut again.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Will whispered. He moved a hand towards the doorknob, refusing to break eye contact with Jonathan. When he shook the knob, the door only rattled. It was locked.

A small panic began to foster in his body. To him, it was unwarranted, but he couldn’t brush it off. “Jonathan, I said don’t look at me like that.” He repeated, willing his voice to stay loud and clear.

Jonathan ignored him, his face twitching for a moment to reveal something: disdain.

Will shook the knob again, confusion settling in his stomach like an old friend. When he looked at Richardson, who was standing in the back of the room, for help, he only gestured towards Jonathan and shook his head.

It troubled Will even more, but before he could think of a solution himself, Jonathan grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

“What the hell, Will?!” He yelled, causing Will to flinch. Jonathan’s voice was loud enough to make his ears hurt. 

“Get off of me—” He begged in a small voice, grabbing Jonathan’s wrists and shoving him away. “Stop acting like that.” Will moved away from the door, coming to stand in between Jonathan and Richardson. He ensured that the distance between him and Jonathan was larger than him and Richardson’s.

“Like what?” Jonathan snarled, putting his hands on his hips. His eyes were wide, erratic, even. 

Will stayed quiet, analyzing his brother’s expression, posture, behavior. It freaked him out, hurt him.

“Like what, Will?” Jonathan asked again, his voice louder, more demanding.

His eyes narrowed down on Will, as if he was challenging him. Will’s hands bunched into fists, twitching as Jonathan raised his eyebrows at him. 

He was acting like Will was the stupid one, like Will was the one being weird. It made Will desolated—dejected that his brother was acting this way.

“Like what?!” He yelled, a vein appearing in his forehead as his voice grew louder. His face was twisted in an ugly scowl, lacking whatever care he used to have.

Will dared himself to flinch. His fists grew tighter, his stare hardening. The sadness he adopted was transforming.

“Like what, Will?! Like what?!” Jonathan screamed, moving to grab a vase on the dresser. 

Will watched him silently, blinking away frustrated tears. He relaxed his hand only for it to crumple back up into a fist again. He inhaled deeply to try to calm himself, both from sad frustration and restless fury.

Jonathan grabbed the vase and threw it on the ground. Will’s eye twitched as it shattered at his feet. It was beige with a beautiful hummingbird painted on it—Denise’s choice, obviously.

“Like what?!” Jonathan’s voice was loud. He dragged out the words, shoving a finger into Will’s chest. His eyes, once light and tender, were hollow and glacial, empty of all emotion and empathy.

Will’s thoughts interrupted one another, brewing a cacophony in his head. He blinked away the fog that seemed to take over his vision, causing him to slightly stumble backwards. But when it cleared, when he locked eyes with Jonathan’s once again, he felt cold—empty, even. 

Jonathan was empty, too.

Will moved forwards, his hands reaching out to grab Jonathan’s throat. He pushed him into the door, tightening his fingers with no mind. Jonathan choked, trying to catch an inhale of air. His hands came to grab Will’s chest, desperation washing over his face.

Will squeezed his neck, anger rushing through his body like it was the blood travelling through his veins. His eyes were still blinking away tears, contemplating his actions. He moved from staring at Jonathan’s eyes, which were full of anguish, to his hands around his neck. His hands were steady, methodical, as if this was natural for them. 

He tightened them, even as his heart was hissing at him to let go. Jonathan tried to yell, but could only let out a whimper. When Will looked back up at him, he was staring directly at him, begging. But Will was frozen, disgusted but satisfied.

Slowly, Jonathan’s hands went limp, letting go of Will’s shirt and falling to his sides. His head lolled to his shoulder, rage gone from his dull eyes. 

Will swallowed back a sob, hesitantly pulling his hands back. Watching Jonathan slump down the wall and onto the floor like a rag doll evoked something in him. His hands shook as he stepped back, realization sinking in. He let out an exasperated sigh, stumbling backwards until he hit Richardson who caught him in his arms.

Jonathan was still. He looked like he was staring out into space, jaw stuck hanging open like a zombie.

“Look at what you’ve done.” 

Another exasperated sigh escaped from Will’s chest. Panic grew in his head like a storm, suffocating any sane thoughts that tried to calm him. He turned around to Richardson, grabbing at his arms.

“No—no, what happened? What happened?” Will shook his head, his voice shaking as he forced every word out of his mouth. He turned back around to see Jonathan’s limp body in the same position, bruises already forming along his neck. 

He let out a gasp followed by a yell of his brother’s name, but he was silenced by a hand on his mouth. Richardson pulled him into an embrace, burying Will’s head into his chest. He clung to Richardson, allowing his cries to be muffled by the fabric of the crinkled suit. 

“You’re alright.” His voice was back to being deep like a guttural melody scratching Will’s ears. 

That asphyxiating feeling that he felt a hundred times before returned, clogging his chest and throat. It felt like he was stuck in a whirlpool—stuck in a rotation of feelings: sadness, pain, anger, and grief.

“Will.” He heard Richardson say. He buried his face into his chest even further, silencing another sob.

“Will.” Richardson repeated. Will shook his head, holding Richardson in a tight hug so that he couldn’t pull away.

“Will!”

He blinked his eyes as they adjusted to the light.

“Hey, are you okay?” A hand was placed on his shoulder. He looked up to see Jonathan, a concerned expression plastered on his face.

“What?” Will muttered, looking away to examine his surroundings. He was in the dining room with Denise sitting across from him, her painted nails digging into the tablecloth. In his hand was a pastry, its crumbs stuck to his lips.

Jonathan shared a worried look with Denise before clearing his throat, “Are you alright? You were spacing out for a while.”

Will gently put the pastry back down on the plate before straightening his posture. He adjusted his glasses and turned back to Jonathan, “Yeah, just tired.”

“Oh.” Jonathan let his hand slip off of his shoulder.

“Well, how was it?” Denise asked, cutting into the conversation.

“What?” Will said, his voice small.

“The pastry.” She replied, gesturing to the plate between them.

“It was good. Tasty.” He answered, getting up from the table. He licked the crumbs away from his lips and took in a deep sigh, “I’m gonna go on a walk.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Denise give Jonathan a pointed look. She raised her eyebrows at him and nodded towards Will, which prompted Jonathan to say, “I’ll come with you.”

“No, I want to go alone. I want to clear my thoughts and stuff.” Will said at once, moving to the front door.

“I’ll be quiet, Will.” Jonathan followed after him, watching as Will put on his brown leather jacket. He pointed at it with a small smile, “We can get you a new jacket, I know a place.”

“I don’t want a new jacket.” Will answered, placing emphasis on ‘want’. “Please, Jonathan, I want to go alone. I’ll be back before dinner.” He gave Jonathan a pleading look, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket.

Jonathan sighed as he finally nodded, putting his hands in his jean pockets.

Will turned to face the door, placing a hand on its shiny knob, when something caught his eye. Just by it, next to the coat hanger, were a pair of black boots.

“Your’s?” He muttered, pointing at them. 

“Oh, yeah. Do you like them?” Jonathan asked, coming closer to bump his foot against its leather.

“Huh.” Will said, ignoring Jonathan’s question. He turned to look at him, catching the confused expression on Jonathan’s face. 

Jonathan’s eyes were light and tender, like they always were.

Will opened the door and left, accidentally slamming it behind him.

Chapter Text

The sun set faster than he expected it to. It took the light from the sky, allowing the moon’s soft glow to cast a shine on the hoods of the cars lining up the street.

On one of the hoods, a black sphynx cat stood wide-eyed and alert. He stared daggers into Will, dragging his paw against the metal of the hood.

“You’re a brave one, aren’t you?” He hissed as Will walked by, twisting his tail in the air.

Will stopped in his tracks to look at him, “What?”

“Walking around alone like this, is it not scary?” He crawled to the top of the car so as to be at eye level with Will, twitching his few whiskers with every step.

Will took a deep breath as he analyzed the cat, judging him like a real human being. Although he had the body of a cat, his eyes seemed to be that of a person. Small pupils peered at him, devoid of any emotion.

‘It's late, I’m tired, I’m just seeing things.’ Will thought to himself, running a hand through his hair.

He walked off, gritting his teeth together as the wind slapped his face.

“Where are you going?” He heard the cat jump off of the car and begin to trail behind him on the sidewalk. 

He turned his head towards the cat for a brief moment. “Home.” He said sharply. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to brush off the cold with a small shake of his shoulders. 

“To your apartment?”

“No, to Jonathan’s.”

“Ah.”

He didn’t know why he was conversing with the feline—why he was even acknowledging him. Perhaps he wanted the company after being alone, isolated, for a while.

He walked a couple of rounds around the neighborhood, taking breaks to sit on the benches scattered around. The streets were empty apart from a car or two sprinting down the road every half an hour. There were no dog walkers or joggers around, not even students walking back from school. It was as if time stopped for everyone but himself and the cat—the cat who was now trotting by his side to keep up with him.

“Do you think Jonathan’s comfortable with keeping you around, especially after that?” The sphynx asked curiously, his paws patting against the cobblestone of the sidewalk.

Will fished out a box of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket on the inside of his jacket, ignoring the cat’s question. He took one out and returned the box to his pocket, placing the cigarette in between his lips.

“Let me rephrase that…”

Will brought the lighter to the end of the cigarette, its orange light contrasting the night blue of his surroundings. He inhaled, feeling his stress wrinkles smooth out as he finally relaxed.

“Are you comfortable being around Jonathan after doing that to him?” 

Will stopped walking. He looked down at the cat, squinting his eyes at him. Slowly, he squatted down, his pants making a shuffling sound. The small light of the cigarette glimmered between them; a spark exposing themselves to one another.

“I didn’t do anything.” He said sharply, his teeth biting down on the end of his cigarette. He grunted in frustration, throwing the it to the ground, one end completely crushed.

Will picked his pace back up, crossing his arms together tightly. His shoes hit the concrete in heavy thumps, contrasting the light steps of the cat who caught up to him again.

“Stay here for a little longer.” The cat’s pitchy voice broke through the wind.

Will ignored him again, lowering his head so that his nose grazed the leather of his sleeves. 

“I’m not going to be here the next time you want me.” He hissed at Will, coming by to brush against his legs.

Will quickly side-stepped away, almost losing his footing. “Why would I ever want you?” He muttered, glaring at the cat.

“Because you’ll need me.” 

Will scoffed as he shook his head, causing a few strands of his hair to fall forward and tickle his nose. The cat titled his small head, widening his eyes at Will.

“Why is that shocking to you?” He asked, seeming genuinely offended.

Will turned his head to the side, a smile growing on his face. “This is ridiculous.” he said, “I don’t even know you, how could I need you?”

The cat glared at him, its face moving through expressions like a human. White whiskers twitched as he frowned, his eyes unblinking. He bent his head downwards, bringing a paw upwards to scratch at his ears. Will almost felt bad staring at him.

“Well, you’re here now anyways.” The cat said, turning to look behind him.

Will moved his eyes to the direction he was looking at; he had reached Jonathan’s house. His eyebrows furrowed, it was still a couple of blocks away. 

“You did that?” He nodded towards it. 

The cat just stared at the house, silent and unmoving. 

“Alright, alright.” Will started walking to it. He stepped up to the porch before turning around, staring at the cat standing idly on the sidewalk. He tried to lock eyes with him, but those beady eyes wouldn’t look at him, glaring at the house instead.

Will sighed and turned back around, knocking softly on the door. He waited a few moments, biting his cheeks as the wind grew stronger behind him. 

Light flooded outside as the door clicked open, drenching Will and the porch in bright yellow. Jonathan stood before him, his hand tight on the handle.

“Will, finally.” He sighed, opening the door even wider, letting more light spill out into the night. A smile grew on his face, his eyes catching the moonlight. He outstretched his arms for an embrace, stepping out to get closer to Will.

Will shrugged off the nervousness that seemed to hook onto him. He hesitated to hug his brother, instead turning around to the sidewalk—to the cat. Through the fog of the night, he squinted, squeezing his hands together as he scanned the area. But even if Will were to stand searching for days, months even, he wouldn’t have found the cat. 

Dejected, he turned to face his brother again. He awkwardly fell into Jonathan’s embrace, burying his face in his itchy sweater. 

—

“Soon.”

“But when?”

“Soon, Will.”

He plopped onto the flower-patterned couch, hiding his face in a throw pillow. Beside him, the cushion sank a bit, followed by a hand coming to rub his back.

“Don’t be upset with me.” His mother’s voice was gentle, pleading with him. 

The hand crawled up to his head and buried its thin fingers through his light brown strands. Lips, soft and delicate, placed a kiss on his forehead.

His mother’s arms pulled him off of the couch and carried him into an embrace as she stood up. He grabbed at the flannel shirt she was wearing—it was a dark reddish brown with missing buttons here and there. The fabric smelled like her, the scent embedded into the cotton.

He felt himself slightly bounce as she walked through the house. It was empty except for them. He knew that Jonathan was at a sleepover—he wanted to go with him, but he was too shy to ask. He didn’t know where his father was, perhaps at work. 

He wasn’t sure what “work” was, but he’d leave for a couple of hours and sometimes come back with mail and groceries and such, and so, it must’ve been good. Good enough for them, at least.

His grip on his mother tightened as she bent down to place him on his bed. He heard her laugh before shaking him off, laying him on the soft mattress. His small head sunk into the thick pillow, muffling his hearing.

In the glow of the nightlight, small stars shone on his mother. The shapes danced across her face and chest before retreating to the ceiling. He looked up to see the stars continue their journey. Some of them flickered in and out, like someone stole their shine.

He raised a small hand up towards them, pointing. It was engulfed by a bigger hand, covering his in its palm. The cold metal of a wedding ring pressed into his skin, sending a shiver through his arm.

His mother tucked his outstretched arm under the blanket before pressing another kiss to his forehead, then his cheek. She stared at him, a soft smile on her lips.

“Joyce?” The voice was deep and far away, unable to reach.

His mother turned her head away from him, moving to the door. A shadowed frame stood, his face barely visible in the darkness of the hallway. 

Will forced his eyes to close. He felt a warm hand patting his cheek before the weight on his bed was lifted. A click of footsteps echoed away, but he could clearly hear whispers being exchanged nearby.

He squinted his eyes open again. He could see the back of his mother at the door frame, her arms crossed. His father’s face became clearer as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The man was frowning and rubbing at his forehead. He seemed upset or agitated—maybe it was because he came home empty-handed this time.

His mother sighed deeply and ran a hand through her hair. She pushed through his father to leave the room.

He could tell that she was now upset too. His father was an infection, unable to handle his emotions himself so burdening someone with them instead.

His head was in the direction Will’s mother left, but instead of following her, he turned to look at Will.

Will felt his heart tighten. His father’s stare pierced through the room’s stillness. The stars of the nightlight glowed on his face and frame, although they seemed slower in their movement. 

He took a hand out of the pocket of his coat. Will thought he was going to come in, but he only reached for the door to shut it. He painted the room in black, apart from the stars that glimmered even brighter in the gloom he brought.

Will sighed, pulling the blanket closer to his chin. It was only then that he realized that this wasn’t his blanket—the scent was different.

He inspected it in the dark; he could see its blurry shapes. Flowers—sunflowers, he thought—patterned against a dark, plain background. He could see it draped over the sofa in the living room, stretched on the grass outside as a makeshift picnic blanket, folded on the armchair of his father’s couch.

Will blinked his eyes open, adjusting them to the bright light of the room. Confused, he looked around him. What happened to the dark? What happened to the warmth of the blanket, almost suffocating him? What happened to the shuffling of his mother’s footsteps in the hallway, or the clicking of doors opening and shutting through the house?

The realization didn’t come quickly, but naturally. It was as if time itself slowed down for him—waited for him to adjust before continuing where it abruptly left off. The switch of the environment was harsh, but he settled in his position like the shift was normal and inevitable—like the loss of comfort was inevitable.

His reflection was blurry in the mirror. He squinted and stepped closer to it, leaning on the sink in front of him. His ribcage pressed against the porcelain, its white frame crushing his brittle bones—at least that is what it felt like.

He brought a hand to his face. Shaking fingers traced the dark eye bags pulling down his features. He brushed them along his cheeks, following the tears rolling down to his jaw. 

He squinted, confused, and leaned closer towards the mirror, its crack breaking his reflection in two. Using the sleeve of his grey jumper, he wiped them off. 

His lips were pale, dry, and trembling—trembling like the rest of his body. His breathing was broken into short inhales, periodically catching onto the air around him only to release it a moment later. He felt like it had no benefit.

He shook his head in an attempt to calm himself. A hand was rubbing his forehead, the other on its way to press against his temples. But his fingers were already occupied, wrapped around the plastic of a pill bottle. 

He brought it up to his face. It was empty apart from a bit of dust stuck to the inside of the orange plastic. The cap was missing, forgotten somewhere.

He rotated the bottle in his hand to the prescription sticker stuck on its side. 

It read, “Lithium Carbonate 300mg (Eskalith)”, and in a small, printed font, “Lonnie Byers”.

His hand tightened around the bottle, sweat gathering in his palm. His headache, previously a mild pain, spiked sharply as the past itched itself beneath his skin.

His eyes wandered down towards the tiles of the floor. He shifted his foot, protected by a fuzzy sock, away from a white cap brightly contrasting the blue of the flooring. 

His lungs squeezed into his body, forcing a small gasp out of him. With hesitance, he squatted down, avoiding the whitish-water puddle by the toilet.

He reached out a hand to grab the cap before seeing the bottles by it. A couple were laying in the puddle, awaiting to be retrieved. Others were still standing in wait. Yet, all of them shared something in common: their emptiness.

He blinked, swallowing the saliva clogging his throat. Sweat gathered at his brow as worry eased itself into the bottom of his stomach. Frantically, he grabbed at a nearby bottle, bringing it to his blurry eyes to read the prescription. 

“Haloperidol 5mg (Haldol)” and by it, in the same small letters as before, “Lonnie Byers”.

He brought the bottles to his chest, holding them close with one hand as he reached forward to collect the others. His knees sunk into the puddle, absorbing the water into its cloth. And yet, that matter seemed far away at the moment. It held no purpose, it held no value—it could not distract him from the panic rising in his chest.

All of the bottles, empty and light, belonged to the same person. And yet, it seemed like their owner lacked care or consideration for them. 

It was only when he got closer to it did he realize that the water in the toilet was slightly overflowing—not enough to completely flood the bathroom in an unstoppable waterfall, but instead to drip onto the floor in a torturous stream.

The water had freckles of white dust flowing above its surface. However, that did not compare to the remains of dissolved pills deeply immersed into its matter.

There have been many moments in which breathing was difficult; the feeling of being strangled without a hand around your neck was all too familiar to him. Still, the past sensations did not prepare him for the numbness that spread from his organs to his skin. 

His lips trembled open, his body collapsed into a hunched position. He gripped onto the seat of the toilet, breathing in the uncomfortable air of the bathroom. Even if these mechanics were what kept him alive, they only seemed to torment his being.

The scent of the toilet was nauseating, the cleaning and polishing he served it day after day was now useless. The dim light of the room cornered him, pushing him even further into the tiles he ever so carefully fixed with bandaged hands.

Those same hands, now shaking and cold, squeezed at his shirt in an attempt to comfort his body. He inhaled sharply, causing a shriek-like sound to erupt from his chest.

His emotions were confused. They battled with one another, trying to decide whether they were upset, or raging. These intangible things held a fight in his chest, turning it into a Colosseum while he struggled to hold onto any of the threads that held him together.

There wasn’t enough time to watch their battle, to watch one emerge victorious, the other dead, and wipe sweat and blood off their face as they are escorted to his heart. Time was water slipping through the gaps of his cupped hands—gaps that he swears he had sealed before. 

He gripped onto the wet toilet seat and pushed himself up, his knees weak and cold from the water pressing against his skin. The bottles he held to his chest toppled to the floor, apart from one trapped in his grip.

Struggling, he slammed open the door and forced himself out and into the living room. The white noise of the overflowing toilet escaped into the rest of the house, shamefully exposing Lonnie.

Lonnie who was standing near the TV, a hand hitting the device in a repeated manner, willing it to work. He was wearing the same undershirt he always wore, torn at the bottom from carelessness and negligence.

He staggered closer, his steps becoming more calculated as he proceeded. The carpet, and Lonnie’s bad hearing, hid his presence, silencing his uneven footsteps.

His eyes narrowed down on the man before him, blurring everything useless around to maintain his focus. His emotions bled through his stare. If the two men were sharing eye contact, the thousands of complex feelings the younger one fostered would finally be translated to the other. However, them being understood wasn’t something one could be sure about. 

His grip tightened around the bottle as he brought it back, swinging it directly at Lonnie. It bounced off of his shoulder and fell to the ground, its impact hard enough to catch Lonnie’s attention. 

He turned around to face Will, his confused expression quickly turning into annoyance. His eyebrows pulled in together, further revealing the offense he took. Lazily, he let his arms fall from the TV, fully facing his son.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” He asked, taking a step closer to Will.

Will’s breath hitched, but he stood his ground. His eyes fell to the ground, to the bottle on the carpet. Lonnie stopped walking. He tilted his head, following Will’s eyes to the floor. 

In the corner of his eye, Will saw Lonnie’s shoulders compress into himself. He stayed still for a moment before bending down and picking up the bottle. It seemed even smaller in his hand—even less important.

He straightened himself up and brushed invisible lint off of his shirt. He frowned, turning the bottle around in his hand as if it was something he had never seen before.

“Why would you do that?” Will broke the silence. His question came out fast and snappy, the words grabbing onto one another to practically connect.

“What?” Lonnie responded, finally tearing his eyes away from the bottle.

Will coughed and insecurely rolled his sleeves up, attempting to assert himself. “Why would you flush your meds down the toilet?”

Lonnie was quiet for a second, looking at Will like he was stupid or overdramatizing a normal, natural situation. 

Will nodded towards the bottle, raising his eyebrows in order to push Lonnie to respond.

“I didn’t flush them.” Lonnie said, his words drawn out like there was a comma in between each one. Will could practically see the gears turning in his head, trying to put together a sentence in a drunken haze.

“You did.” Will said, crossing his arms against his chest. Maybe it was from his anger, but a sense of confidence washed over him like a wake-up call. He cleared his throat again and took a step closer, his feet quick to regain their stability. “I paid for them. I paid for them, and they were expensive.”

Lonnie stood up straighter and threw the bottle to the couch. It rolled down into the crack between the cushions. He raised his chin, forcing his eyes to shoot a glare at Will. 

“I paid for them with a shit ton of money, too.” Will continued, unconsciously tugging at the skin around his nails. 

“I didn’t tell you to.” Lonnie muttered, breaking eye contact with Will. He pushed past him, shoving at his shoulder without mind. 

“Wait.” Will’s voice cracked, his anxiousness and fury beginning to stir into one storm. His hand stretched out to grab Lonnie’s shoulder and turn him back around, switching the positions of the two men.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Lonnie said through gritted teeth. He pushed Will’s hand away only to take a step forward in an attempt to frighten him. Usually, an action like this would force Will to cease arguing. However, it seemed that with time’s fast passing, the power dynamics between them encouraged Will to adopt a more assertive nature. 

He blinked away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. The pain in his throat was gulped away, and the sweat on his brows was wiped off. His vision continued to focus on Lonnie, blocking out the world resuming around him.

“Why would you flush them? They help you.” He tried to keep his voice steady, to show that he was still open to understanding his father’s perspective.

“What makes you think that you can talk to me like that?” Lonnie suddenly took a step forward, his voice rising in volume with every syllable. It was clear that Will’s words had shifted something within him, and he felt the need to defend himself.

Will relaxed his hands that had crumpled into fists; his nails were pressing into his skin to create shapes along the organ. His clothes felt sticky, or perhaps they had just melted into his body.

“I’m trying to be… understanding.” He settled on the word, trying to convey it through his face. “It’s just overwhelming—”

“Listen, you can’t talk to me like that—I’m the person who put a roof over your head twice, I’m the person who paid for what you own, I’m the person who cleaned your shit, I’m the person who kept you alive, I’m—I’m the person who brought you here!” Lonnie’s sentences fell out of his mouth incomprehensibly, his face constructing into an ugly expression. His eyes were slowly widening, as if surprised at his own words. He swung his arms around to make gestures as he argued, “You’re acting like I’m insane when I’m not! You’re acting like your mother. I’m a good person—”

“You’re a good person?” Will interrupted, raising his voice. His heart uncontrollably spilt out of him, releasing his truth in a cacophony of incoherence.

The clock in his mind ticked until it couldn’t contain its gears anymore; the pressure built up for years crushed its thin glass into shards to be embedded into his skull.

He shoved a finger into Lonnie’s chest, “You wanna be a good person? You wanna be normal? Then take your meds. I paid for them, I booked your appointments. I didn’t waste months of my life waiting—no, trying to get your life to get fucking better!”

The silence of the room was loud enough to sting his ears. If time were nothing more than a concept, a theory, then this moment would have disproved it. Lonnie stood before him like a mannequin, his face devoid of anything understandable. His chest didn’t rise as he breathed, nor did his eyes blink away the dryness that continuously glossed over them. He was nothing more than a refrigerated corpse willing itself to catch its soul.  

For a split second, his eyes shifted from the rage they were paused on to dejection. It was brief, barely caught by human vision, and yet, Will caught it. It was not an isolated emotion, because in the highlight of his pupil, grief was exposed. It was confusing, what could he be grieving?

What he could’ve become, what he should’ve done, what he had wasted, what he had sacrificed, what he had forgotten, what he had remembered, what he had lost, what he had found but not wanted? Will rolled the marble of thought over in his brain, but how could he assess something he knew nothing about?

And, still, why does that thing deserve pity?

If something harms you, why is it expected of you to forgive it? 

Lonnie opened his mouth to say something, but for the first time in a long time, he seemed to be out of words. He shook his head, squeezing his fists together only to release them a moment later.

Will looked at him expectedly, awaiting something he was unsure of. He was afraid of Lonnie’s response, but dreaded the silence that would be given to him instead.

Lonnie looked confused—lost and unable to channel any emotions. With age, his core of confidence broke with his memory, his vision, his hearing. His hands shook when he held a pen, his eyes squinted to read something, his feet grew tired after walking short distances.

Still, why does he deserve pity?

Lonnie brought a hand to his chin to itch at his stubble, his eyes stuck on the floor. His shoulders hunched for a moment as he turned his body around to the direction of his bedroom.

“Lonnie—” Will started, his voice small. 

Lonnie turned his head back around, eyes wide and searching; the purpose of their search was unclear to Will. 

Will stumbled over his words, different syllables spewing out without a distinct order. He couldn’t string together a sentence that could satisfy the situation. The strings he was given were weak, snapping at the slightest of stretches. They couldn’t hold his thoughts, or release them in a digestible way.

Lonnie quickly turned his head away again, but Will caught a glimpse of the scowl that grew on his face. He stumbled to the white door across from him, chipped at the corners through years of use.

Will heard the loose knob’s jangle as Lonnie clicked open the door. The steps of his bare feet against the carpet were silent, and yet, Will felt like he could hear every fiber of his being crack the more he moved. 

Lonnie disappeared into his room. The last thing Will saw was an arm reaching out to slam the door shut. The sound was harsh on his ears; it was loud and unwanted. But when it reached him, he was pushed aback by a cold wave. 

He gasped, bringing a hand up to massage his chest. 

Another hand patted his back.

“Are you okay? How did you manage to choke on water?” 

Will looked in the direction of where the voice was coming from.

Jonathan let his hand slip off of Will’s back and walked over to the sink, resuming his task of washing the dishes. 

“Yeah.” Will wiped the tears that gathered at the corners of his eyes due to his choking fit a moment prior. He cleared his throat and blinked his eyes in a repeated manner, trying to adjust them to the light. His knees felt weak from the stressfulness he was plunged into a mere second ago. He swayed, trying to center himself correctly so that his legs could go back to supporting his upper body appropriately.

“Who are you taking those to?” Jonathan asked, nodding towards the counter in front of Will.

Will looked down. On the marble counter, next to a cup of water, two small baskets of pastries were sitting. The scent of the fresh croissants and tarts put him at ease as they blended into the air around him. 

On the handle of each basket was a white card. His fingers brushed against one of them, tracing the letters scratched into the paper.

“Nicole.” He moved to the second one, “And an old friend.”

Lois was written in neat, practiced cursive.

Chapter Text

Will hurried down the busy street, holding his two baskets close to his chest. The wicker of their handles scratched into his palms as his grip tightened on them; he was afraid of dropping one while pushing through a group of people. His leather business bag hung from his shoulder. It slapped against his hip as he picked up his pace.

The streets slowly lost their clusters of people as he got closer to his destination. The sounds of footsteps withered into one pair. The air eventually smelt only of the pastries underneath his nose. The glaze on them shimmered in the sun, making them look more appetizing than they already are.

Will slowly stopped walking as he reached the grey steps of an apartment building. The railings were cold against his palm, comforting the scratches on his skin.

He waited there in deliberation, his hand gripping the railing as he stood on the first step. He bit his lip, is this the right time?

He wasn’t sure if the plan was his or if it was Vecna’s. A big part of him believed it was the latter’s; the idea of going to Nicole at the moment was torturous—what should he say? He knew he had to apologize, and he wanted to, but his life right now was so overwhelming that he couldn’t put together a coherent sentence that accurately conveyed his emotions. The only thing that could come out of his mouth is word vomit. If he could bet a trillion dollars against his own success in this, he would.

He puffed out his cheeks and sighed. “Alright, Will.” He whispered to himself, running a hand through his hair. It was growing even more unkempt these past weeks; his bangs tickled his eyes at this point. 

“Will?!”

He jumped and staggered back, causing him to lose his footing and plunge to the floor. His arms quickly covered the top of the small baskets so as to protect the pastries from falling out. They sat on his chest, one slowly tilting to the side.

His lower back ached against the concrete of the sidewalk. He groaned and pushed himself up, carefully setting the baskets on his lap. He reached one of his hands up to adjust his glasses.

“Shit—sorry!”

He looked up at the direction of the voice. Body half-out the window of one of the apartments, Nicole peered down at him. Her hair, short and dark against her pale skin, swayed in the wind. Her loose shirt followed its movements, the cartoon character printed on it dancing like an animation as the shirt bent and relaxed.

His eyes squinted as the heat of the sun stung his face. “Nicole?” His voice cracked.

“Are you ok, dude?” She yelled down to him, cupping her hands around her mouth.

“Yeah, yeah.” Will nodded, pushing himself off of the ground. He straightened his shirt and fixed his hair with his hand. “Let me in?” He asked, giving Nicole a pleading grin.

She awkwardly smiled back at him and left the window. He stumbled up the steps of the apartment, moving her basket to his right hand. He trudged up the birch, wooden stairs of the apartment building, trying to silence his panting. 

When he finally reached Nicole’s floor, Will walked up to her door. It was already open with Nicole standing in its frame, a hand on her hip.

“Hi.” Will breathed out. 

Nicole didn’t respond, just stood still and inspected him. Her eyes trailed up and down his figure as she analyzed him. His hands squeezed around the handles of the baskets anxiously, his insecurity catching up to him.

“You need a haircut.” Nicole turned around and entered the apartment, her tone neutral.

Will followed her into the apartment, gently closing the door behind him. “Yeah, I know.”

Although Nicole is the first one to comment on his appearance, he knew that he looked… unlike himself. It wasn’t just his hair—his clothes were always unironed, his face was scratched up from god knows what, and his eye bags were so dark that they practically looked fake. He also caught himself making erratic gestures sometimes, or widening his eyes while ranting.

He can tell that he’s changing. But, he’ll be back to his old self after getting rid of Vecna. And because he knows that no one would believe him—since the only person that knows doesn’t—he’ll do it himself. He just needs time, and may god be generous with it.

“Nicole.” Will started, placing Lois’ basket on a nearby counter. “Nicole, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get it.” She plopped down on her vanilla-white couch.

“What?” Will replied, confused.

“Listen, I know that some people get their bad days. You didn’t mean what you did last week. I mean, I could tell that from your reaction.” She leaned forwards, folding her arms on her lap. “You don’t need to apologize, but I have to admit, it’d still be nice to hear you to.”

Will walked around the coffee table to sit next to her. The couch was so soft he literally sunk into it.

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, placing the basket of pastries in front of her.

Nicole smiled at him—a real smile. She turned her attention to the pastries and grabbed a croissant, its flakes already dropping everywhere. 

She brought it to her lips and bit into it, humming approvingly when the flavor reached her taste buds. She turned to Will and slowly nodded her head at him, shaking the croissant in front of his face.

Will laughed softly, awkwardly rubbing at his arms.

“I’m sorry.” She blurted out through her bite.

“For what?” Will asked confusedly.

Nicole stared at him silently as she continued to slowly chew. Will raised his brows at her, pressing on her to hurry up.

“For making you feel like you needed to apologize to me, even though it was kinda clear that something weird was happening with you.” Nicole said after swallowing her bite.

Will furrowed his brows, “A second ago, you said you’d like it if I apologized.”

“Yeah, and both points can coexist.” She replied, stopping herself from almost taking another bite. “You hurt me, so an apology was nice. But I still feel weird about it because it seemed like you were going through it back there.”

“Ah.” Will said, taking in her explanation. His eyes wandered down to his hands that were interlocked on his lap. His thumb rubbed against his other one’s nail in a repeated manner.

A comfortable silence hung in the air. These silences seemed to follow him, becoming more frequent during the intimate conversations he had with people. It was one of the only things he couldn’t complain about. In fact, he was so grateful for this phenomenon that he was willing to donate another one of his kidneys to Lonnie if it meant that it would stay.

“Thank you.” He said in a quiet voice, a small smile on his lips. His eyes remained locked on his hands. “And thank you for not pushing me to talk about it.”

“You’re crazy to think that I care enough about you to ask.” She replied, a giggle escaping from her mouth.

Will turned his head towards her, a shocked expression on his face. “I’m so offended.”

Nicole rolled her eyes. She picked out some crumbs clinging to the wool of her sweater. “Who’s the other one for?” She asked, nodding towards the counter. Lois’ basket sat on its edge, looking as lonely as a small tulip among tall, magnificent sunflowers.

“It’s for my friend.” Will responded, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He turned on his BlackBerry and waited for the screen to load.

“Oh my god, Will. You should’ve bought a new phone with that money your brother gave you.” Nicole joked, getting her own phone out of her pocket.

Will rolled his eyes, ready to defend himself, “I barely use it, anyways.”

“You should get one of these new phones, this guy called Steve Jobs made them—called it an iPhone. See how cool it looks?” She turned the device in her hand. It was thin and had a huge screen for a phone, no keyboard in sight.

“How the hell did you get that?” Will joked back, staring at the phone in awe. It looked modern and futuristic, like it was ahead of its years. It was a mini Wacom tablet that he could call people on, he thought.

“I robbed a bank, but don’t tell anyone, okay?” She chuckled and returned it to her pocket.

Will shook his head and returned his focus to his phone, searching through his contact list for Lois’ number.

“Shit.” He muttered under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Nicole asked, now eating one of the raspberry tarts.

“I need to get her address from her, but I think I deleted her number by accident or something. I can’t find it in my list.” Will groaned, scrolling back up to search for her again.

“This is why you need an iPhone.” Nicole commented, chuckling at her own joke.

Will put the phone in his lap and rubbed his forehead, frustration began to creep into his mind. He relaxed his other hand from the fist it was clenched in to run a hand through his hair.

Then it hit him.

“You know Lois, don’t know? You have her number?” Will asked Nicole. She had some cream smeared on her nose and chin, which kind of distracted him from the situation.

“Lois?” Her face twisted into a confused expression, “I don’t know a Lois.”

Will’s eyebrows furrowed. He leaned back against the couch, his phone falling beside him. “Yes you do.” He said, nodding at his own words.

Nicole raised a brow at him, wiping the cream off of her face with one of the napkins tucked into the basket. “No I don’t.” She said with an awkward laugh.

Will straightened his back again and squeezed his knees. He felt a sharp pain in his chest as Nicole’s words settled in. Jonathan’s comments of concern also returned to him, the ones about the diner, the town, and the drug accusations.

He sighed, agitated that things were changing again. He shook his head at Nicole, “You do know her, Nicole.” His voice was confident and affirmative, refusing to acknowledge her rebuttal.

Nicole made a weird face at him. She set down the tart, yet another awkward laugh escaping from her lips. “Is this like one of those things that people do to get their significant others to confess to an affair? But like, for friendships, obviously.” 

Will stared at her, his eyes widening as moments passed. 

And Nicole stared back at him, her smile slowly slipping off of her face. 

“Will, I don’t know who the hell Lois is.” She said, “You’re starting to freak me out, dude.”

“Sorry.” Will shook his head. He tugged at the skin around his nails, strategically constructing a sentence together in his brain. He needed to make sure that what he wanted to say made sense.

“She was your lawyer, remember? For that defamation case.” He said slowly, each word coming out with a hint of emphasis. In an attempt to calm himself, he rubbed his hands back and forth against his thighs.

Nicole set down her tart, which was now half-eaten, on the napkin. She turned to Will with a raised brow, shaking her head at him. “My lawyer was Seth Garcia—You know, the guy with that huge widow’s peak.”

Will blinked at her. He shook his head again, confident in his memory. He moved his eyes away from her and stared at the tart instead, its raspberries decorated in a pattern to make a heart. It was a bit wonky and made it difficult to get a raspberry in each bite, but it was pretty.

If you were to ask him where he got it and the rest of the pastries, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. There weren't any logos attached to the basket or printed on the back of the cards. A part of him thinks that Denise might’ve made them for him, but he doubts that she became a master baker in such a short time.

How much time has passed? From the incident at the studio? From the reunion with Mike? From moving in with Jonathan?

When he came back from that walk, did a week pass? Did two weeks? Was his apology too late? Did it make him look bad?

A strong bullet of pain shot into his temples. He was stuck in the cage of his mind and couldn’t get out. Has anyone dealt with this before, being held captive by their own self?

But it isn’t himself, isn’t it?

It’s you.

Will’s eyes squinted at the window. It was closed, but its polka dot patterned curtains weren’t covering it. He could see the empty street on the other side of the road, along with the red bricks of the opposing apartment building. A lamp post stood on the cement, its light bulb turned on even though it was bright outside. There was nothing to shine upon but the shadow of a man standing near it.

He tilted his head at Will when he noticed him. The action was so human, it frightened Will. The more Vecna began to appear in his life, taking on different skins, the more he learnt how to be human. 

There was no use referring to him as it anymore. Aside from the fact that the pronoun doesn’t fit him anymore, the small voice of Will’s child self thought that it was disrespectful.

“What’s her name? Her full name.” Nicole’s voice cut through his mind, interrupting his loaded train of thought.

Will’s eyes ripped away from the figure and towards his friend, the reminder of her existence serving as comfort to him. She had her Dell Laptop open on her lap, the screen on Facebook.

“Will?”

“Lois Smith. I… I don’t know her middle name or anything.” 

“You don’t know her middle name?”

“You’re supposed to know that!”

“I don’t know her, Will!” Nicole said, making a frustrated gesture at him. She muttered a quick “sorry” and returned her focus to her laptop, clicking away on the thick keyboard.

Will interlocked his fingers together and closed his eyes before they wandered back to the window. He willed his mind to think—to remember anything else about her, anything that would be of use to him.

“There’s like seventy six people called Lois Smith here.” Nicole scrolled through the list. “She was a lawyer, right?”

“Yeah, and, oh—she graduated from Yale.” Will told Nicole, the nausea bubbling in his stomach swirling into a whirlpool as he stared at her laptop.

Nicole leaned forward to get a closer look at her screen, moving through the uniformed names. Will almost had his head in the screen, pushing into Nicole’s side uncomfortably. 

“Will.” She said under her breath, “None of these profiles are lawyers, let alone Yale graduates. This one is a gardener, did she garden?”

“I don’t know—use the other search bar, the one for groups.” Will blurted out, almost grabbing the laptop himself. He pulled on the neckline of his shirt, trying to cool himself from the strange heat that began to crawl through his skin. 

Jonathan’s words were stuck in his head like a broken cassette tape he was unable to turn off, even if he smashed it. 

“What were you doing driving at 2 am in an abandoned town anyway?”

“There’s nothing there. What made you think that driving in the dark with a busted car would be a good idea? You scare me, Will.”

“Sunny Side Shakes? It was abandoned too. It looked older than Benny’s Burgers back at Hawkins.”

The thoughts flew around his mind like it was an open flower, and they were bees in search of nectar. He couldn’t swat them away, acknowledging them only multiplied them.

But he knew that Jonathan was wrong. He’s seen it, he’s seen it all. He tasted the dry burger and the thick milkshake. He felt the plastic menu in his hand, and the soft lips of Lois on his own. Things started getting weird when he left the diner, he admits that, but everything that happened before, that was real. 

He knew that it would be difficult to prove that, and he couldn’t explain what Jonathan saw, but he knows what he saw. His mind isn’t the most trustworthy at the moment, but the thing that happened with Lois, that was something he could believe. 

It wasn’t a flashback, nor was it something that paused time. It was a day in his life, he never “woke up” from it. 

“Oh, is this her?”

Will turned to the laptop. A blurry photo of Lois was centered on the screen. She looked young, younger than when he saw her. She had her old microbangs and a small scar on her chin, the one that only healed after four months of treatment. 

When she and Will went on their first date, she walked straight into a lamppost and hurt her chin, leading to her getting that scar. By the time they broke up, it was gone, hidden under layers of new skin. 

“Shit, Will.” Nicole whispered, scrolling down the page to read a post. It was a paragraph belonging to a user called Reagan Smith.

“What is it? Nicole, what is it?” Will bent closer to the screen, trying to skim through the paragraph. The letters were tiny, making it difficult to read, and the headache pressing into his skull wasn’t helping.

He turned to Nicole, who was following her finger on the screen. She adjusted her glasses and bit her lip before leaning away from the laptop in resignation.

“She’s dead, Will.”

Slowly, Will backed away from the laptop and sunk into the couch. His hands picked up a shaky rhythm, causing his fingers to twitch against one another. 

“According to this… memorial group, she died in 1991.”

His lungs almost fell out of his body as he breathed out. His eyes wandered around the room for something to latch on to, something to distract him. Distant memories travelled through his head, slow enough for him to recognize them, but too fast for him to digest them. Lois, he knows Lois. He saw Lois. There wasn’t anyone to grieve. Her casket was empty until someone could actually show him her corpse.

“It was a car accident.”

“I don’t want to go to my car.”

Lois’ words, a melancholic melody to his ears. Her jittery nervousness, her wanting to keep the date going. She didn’t expect him to walk her to her car, but still, she took advantage of the fact that he did. She gave him a hint that night, but he didn’t catch it. He let her go—he let her die again.

His eyes were dry of tears, his throat free of hiccups. He was processing this slower than he needed to. His foot tapped against the floor, his fingers scratched against his pants; he was anxious, but not sad—not in a state of grief.

How was he meant to grieve a person who died 16 years ago, a person he saw a couple of weeks ago?

“She didn’t even get to graduate.”

Nicole turned to him with a concerned expression on her face, but he didn’t see it. His face was covered in his shaking hands, their warmth comforting.

He felt a hand move to rub his back reassuringly, its hesitance apparent in its touch. He sighed into his palms and pressed the tips of his nails into his forehead, placing a bit of pressure into the skin. 

His thoughts were a spiraling staircase, every step breaking as he passed it. Nothing was lasting, and so was everything. He could feel his mind in every touch to his head. It was hot, burning his fingers with no care. And yet, it was still cold—cold enough to shock him awake.

“Maybe you mixed her up with someone.” Nicole said after a moment, her voice soft. Her hand moved to his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Will dragged his hands away from his face to run them through his hair. He let out a deep sigh to try to calm himself. Grief was a feeling that was slow, settling in the hearts of loved ones over the course of weeks only to dissolve into nothing more than a passing thought. And yet, grief’s first stage didn’t seem to think Will was ready for it. He was empty like a tomb waiting to be filled with a soul that is lost in a cemetery. 

He tugged at his hair, bundling up the strands in his grip before releasing them. Hesitantly, he lifted his head up to face Nicole.

Their brief glance was too much for him. Her eyes, wandering over the points of his face, sent a shiver through his bones. The confusion within her was growing in the pit of her stomach; he could tell by her mannerisms that shifted through 52 emotions like a deck of cards.

Slowly, he straightened his posture, causing her hand to slip off his shoulder. She furrowed her brows and moved away, but kept her eyes locked onto his.

He kept his breathing steady, inhaling and exhaling in a patterned manner. His hands shook in his lap, mirroring his brain that was searching for a way to escape from under Nicole’s microscope. She parted her lips to say something, but quickly shut them again.

Will broke eye contact, moving to stare at the window instead. The street was empty of all anomalies, and yet, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was someone other than Nicole staring at him.

“I’m gonna call a friend to pick me up.” He blurted out, quickly turning his face back to Nicole with wide eyes. “I need to process this.”

Nicole nodded at his words, “Yeah, definitely. Go talk it out with them.”

Will let out a sigh of relief; she understood, and is going to leave him alone for now. He nodded his head back at her, although there was nothing to say. When he caught himself, he shot up from the couch and wandered to the hallway, picking up Lois’ basket on the way.

He opened the apartment door and left, accidentally slamming it behind him. Through the wall, he could hear Nicole’s footsteps shuffling around the room. 

He moved towards the stairs and turned on his phone, returning to his list of contacts. The names in them stood waiting as he skimmed through them, their pixelated font thick and funky.

He stopped at a familiar name. A person who wouldn’t ask too much, who would understand his thoughts and troubles, who would bury a body with him if asked to do so. He clicked the call button on the keyboard and brought the phone to his ear.

“Hey.”

“Oh, Will! Hey.”

“Can you pick me up?”

“Pick you—? Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

—

The cheese of the mozzarella stick stretched as he bit into its crust. It was a satisfying visual, and its texture was perfect. He twisted the stick in his hand, causing the cheese still connected to his bite to twirl in the air.

“And Holly’s doing her residency right now, she’s working on becoming a pediatrician.”

He was half listening to Mike talk, too focused on his own mind. It felt surreal to be around him, like he was stuck in a dream. Perhaps he was. 

His thoughts kept rotating through the shock that Mike’s back, the moment he had with Nicole, Lois’ sudden death, and the man staring at him from behind nearby a tree. 

He stared out of the passenger window of Mike’s car, peering at the figure pressing his nails into the oak wood. He kept shaking his head at Will, as if what Will was doing was disappointing him.

Will’s heart picked up its pace the longer he watched the man, waiting for him to move away, or closer.

“Will, are you okay?” Mike’s voice cut through the tension.

Will jumped; he kind of forgot that Mike was with him, that he was talking and it wasn’t just white noise. 

“Sorry.” Will sighed, putting the mozzarella stick back into its box. They had grown hungry and decided to stop by a gas station with a drive thru for an unfamiliar fast food place. Their menu was small, but the meal was delicious. Better than what he had at the diner, at least.

Mike parked the car at the empty gas station so that they could eat and chat, but they couldn’t talk a lot due to the food they kept stuffing in their faces. Mike, somehow, found a way to rant about his life, though. Will nodded along, amused by the tale of how Mike became “Austin Thomas”. 

However, his focus slowly slipped away from Mike, his words becoming background noise to the dilemmas Will was battling with in his head. 

Now, with Mike’s concerns raised, he cursed his weak concentration skills. Guilt bubbled up inside him for unconsciously ignoring Mike, and for giving him too much attention.

“Sorry.” Will repeated, wiping his hands with a cold wet wipe. He noted the lack of perfume in the tissue. “It’s just that… I got some bad news, like an hour ago. A friend of mine died.”

“Shit, Will.” Mike said under his breath, his voice gentle despite the profanity he used. He reached a hand out to pat Will’s shoulder, although Will saw him hesitate in the corner of his eye. Still, Will melted under the touch. He turned his head towards Mike and gave him a small smile.

“I’m sorry. Were you two close?” Mike continued, his sad expression making him look like a pup. 

Will nodded, turning his attention to the dirty windshield in front of him. He blinked away the confused tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Grief played differently with him, like it was trying to get a reaction out of him for its own entertainment. “We used to be, but we stopped hanging out years ago.”

The silence in the car was comfortable, easing Will’s nerves. That was what was strange with Mike; he could calm Will’s panic without even thinking about it. “We reconnected a couple of days before she died.” He added, gulping down the lump in his throat. He inhaled, then out, his breathing shaking his body like a rattlesnake.

Mike nodded, his eyes drifting to stare out of the windshield like Will. They both stared at the empty, grey wall of the gas station. Will could tell that Mike was thinking of something to say.

This was only their second meeting after almost two decades of radio silence. It was still awkward, but the ice between them melted the closer their conversations got to their warm hearts. Still, how could you comfort someone you barely know anymore? Will understood.

“I know that like… we’ve been separated for a long while. And I know that I’ve missed some things to time, so I can’t say the same things I used to tell you when we were kids and expect you to get better. Because with time, people change. And—and I wasn’t there for that change. But, I know who you are, Will—at your core. I think that some of my words can be of use to you, even if they’re generic.

“I’m here for you, Will. It’s weird between us right now, you know, the tricky tenseness still hasn’t gone away. But that doesn’t mean that what we had in the past just disappeared with time—it’s not a scar that can heal over. I’m still your friend, Will. I’m right here.

“And, um… maybe the distance that grew in our friendship was good. Not—not like, oh, I’m so happy we aren’t close anymore, I’m not a douche. I mean, like, the distance… it can help you talk to me about your feelings since the pressure of maintaining this really close relationship isn’t there—and that’s not a good thing, but it’s not bad either!

“Just takes the pressure off, you know. You don’t have to see me every single day of your life—unless you want to.”

Mike sped up at times to fix his wording, and slowed down to place emphasis on some parts. It was the same way he spoke when he was a teen—nervous to hurt Will.

Will looked down at his lap where his fingers were fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket. He pinched the fabric, blinking away the blur casted over his eyes. He could feel the corners of his mouth move downwards, twitching against his attempts to fix them into a straight line.

“I know.” Will’s voice was small, barely heard over the sound of the radio quietly hissing an unrecognizable song. He turned his head to see Mike already looking at him, a comforting expression on his face. His eyes peered into Will, peeling through the layers of his mind.

“Don’t be scared to talk to me about anything. I want us to go back to being friends, actual friends, not whatever awkward, forced vibe we have going on right now.” Mike said, a smirk creeping up to his face. 

Will chuckled through the sob trying to escape from his throat. It slowly disappeared in the solace that Mike brought, opposed to the unsettling grief fostering inside him. The stages began their journey in his brain, complicating the already stressful environment up there.

“Thank you, Mike. Really.” Will said, his smile growing even wider. He felt this strange giddiness in his chest, infecting his current, varying emotions. “And thank you for picking me up.”

Mike tilted his head at him and raised a brow. “I think there’s one more thing you’re forgetting…” He joked, stroking his chin in thought. 

Will laughed softly and looked down at the empty fast food bag on his lap. “And thank you for the food.”

“It wasn’t that, but I’ll take it too.” Mike replied. He kept his confused expression on, expecting one more thing from Will.

Will furrowed his brows, a stupid smile still on his face. He tapped his finger on the leather of the car seat as he pondered the answer. Thoughts swirled in his head, twisting and twirling like a hurricane in the night.

“Oh!” Will grinned. “Thank you for agreeing to take me to the diner.”

Chapter Text

The car engine softly hummed into a stop as Mike parked the car. Following Will’s instructions, he pulled over by the side of the street nearest to the diner. It was where Will parked his own car when he first came to the town.

The streets were deserted and quiet. Lamplights lining said streets refused to do their jobs and turn on, drowning the town in a blurry mess of darkness. It was suffocating, and that suffocation was addictive.

In the night’s blanket, in the hidden parts of earth, he could face himself. He could take off the mask stitched into his skin and be with his soul—a soul that sought refuge from his self-sabotaging tendencies. This was important, as he was with Mike. With Mike, he wanted to be who he was, not the fabrication he had to adopt in front of certain people. He wanted Mike to see him and understand, but how could anyone understand him? How could anyone understand that the selfishness this other being inside of him has has been feeding on his thoughts, his feelings, his rights?

Still, even after years have passed, that young child in him hated lying to Mike.

Lying, something he grew comfortable with. A ribbon he tied around his finger, pulling on it to remember. Remember… remember what? How could he remember things if he hadn’t forgotten anything at all? He hadn’t forgotten the pain that came with truth, he hadn’t forgotten the importance of leading people to a different conclusion, for that was a way of protection. He hid behind a tree of dishonesty he planted in between the relationship with his father, with his brother, with his anxious friends, with his lovers.

He assured his father that he was content with the living conditions he provided. He promised his brother that he was not targeted in school anymore, nor college, nor his workplace. He fed into his friends’ assumptions that he was doing well, even better than that. He danced around an issue with Lois instead of addressing it. He pulled the covers of the bed over his face when Jesse asked if he was alright.

His shield was strong in his grip, its metal reflective of the identity he put forward. It never faltered in its appearance, and if it did, he would repair it with his own skin if he had to. He would untangle the flesh stretched into tight knots of muscle around his bones, only to rope them around his shield. He’d hold himself together no matter the storms he’d have to trudge through, no matter the waves he’d have to hold his breath in. It was in his nature to do so, as his father had done, and his father, and his father as well. 

And yet, this shield—this mask—was lowered, but not completely surrendered, around Mike. 

He saw Mike’s questioning eyes, and Mike saw his as the shield unveiled them. Tension was sawed through with a weapon of trust and familiarity, leaving its blood to pool around their feet. The melancholy hidden behind the shield melted at the sight of hope. Its sorrowful songs evaporated into silence, a wind that passed without thought. A reaction from a connection, a hand coming out to graze the palm of another, its trembling fingers interlocking with the cold skin. 

Slow breathing that was pulled out of its lungs like a spider and its web. Melancholy couldn’t grasp the purpose of their identity before Hope, their thoughts nothing but a cacophony of confusion.

How could someone understand? How did Hope, of all people, understand? 

Because the truth is, in all aspects of reality, of the universe that engulfs us, hope is the only thing that can convince melancholy to shed its despair—its destructive tendencies.

Drunk on trust, belonging, and intimacy, laughter was exchanged between the two. The night fed on their love, using it as the energy to power its own home. It adorned the sky with its stars, bright and reflective of family. Family, a mixture of parents, brothers, sisters, friends, and lovers. People who understand one another, and can in any stressful circumstances.

Mike opened Will’s car door. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. I must’ve spaced out.”

“Don’t worry. I get it.”

Will felt a small smile growing on his face, mirroring the one on Mike. His pale skin was blue in the light of the lamppost, like a filter was placed over him. 

He stepped out of the car and joined Mike on the empty sidewalk. It was quiet, as suspected, leaving the two to wander in the few hints of awkwardness between them.

“That’s the diner?” Mike asked, nodding his head towards the building. Its neon sign was turned off, hanging by a thread—literally. The small window on the door was broken, and upon closer inspection, it seemed to have been broken by a brick that was now laying alone inside the diner, surrounded by small shards.

“Will, I know you said this place was sketchy and stuff… but I didn’t expect it to be like this.” He heard Mike from behind him. He leaned in closer towards the broken window, peeking into the diner. Dust was collecting on the leather of the booths, damaging its precious material. The dark blue paint of the walls was chipped everywhere, one wall having an entire hole in it. There were a couple of rats running about here and there, their steps causing a soft clattering sound as they trampled on the shards of glass.

And the smell… dear god. He took a step backwards to escape the pungent smell. Suddenly, his back collided with something.

“Sorry—” Mike whispered apologetically, quickly grabbing Will’s shoulders to stop him from tripping. “Shouldn’t have bought these sound-proof shoes, but they were on sale and…” He rambled off, his fingers drumming on Will’s arms in unison.

Will nodded, his head turned to his side to hear Mike. He let out a soft chuckle, which prompted Mike to do so as well.

“Yeah…” Will slowly moved away from Mike’s grip, turning around to face him.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry.” Mike apologized again in a sheepish manner. He smiled awkwardly, showing off his straight teeth.

Will’s eyes focused on him. He stared at his little movements, small changes in his expression. The way his mouth moved to form words, and his eyebrows pulled in together to show his nervousness. In the blue light, he looked like those pictures of people underwater; it was like he was some beautiful, oceanic being trying to imitate a human.

Then he changed. He tilted his head and raised a brow, fiddling with the zipper of his jacket. A cheeky smile grew on his face as he said, “What are you doing?” His tone was light—confused, but entertained.

Will blinked back into reality, his stupidity sinking in; he was staring. “Sorry.” He said, scratching the back of his neck.

A moment passed between the two, and then another. Their faces were frozen as they stared at each other unblinkingly, both urging the other to do something. 

“You don’t have to whisper.” The words spilled out of Will’s mouth without even thinking about it, “We’re alone.” He gestured towards the empty streets, the burnt out lamps—the darkness they were hiding in.

“I know, I know. But… it’s creepy.” Mike said carefully, his words only a volume higher than a whisper. “And I kind of wanna give into the scary vibe—really sets the mood.” He added jokingly.

Will found himself letting out a soft chuckle, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth. “It’s like those old D&D campaigns we used to do, but instead of fighting magical monsters, we’re fighting the monsters we’re manifesting.”

Mike thought for a second, pulling a thoughtful expression. His hand was placed on his hip, the other on the strap of his backpack. Eventually, he raised a brow at Will, a cheeky smile on his face. “What the hell are you manifesting?” He asked, laughing in between his words. 

Will felt his chest unravel like a loose ball of yarn as a laugh escaped from him, the type of laugh that only children experienced. He unconsciously leaned forward in his fit of chuckles.

He felt a hand grip his shoulder for support; Mike was in the same position as him, his pale, blue face catching hints of red.

The two laughed like they were kids again, shushing one another in the dark of a bedroom so as to not wake up their parents—shushing one another in the dark of a town so as to not wake up the truth.

Well, Will’s truth.

He was terrified. His heart sank as they reached the diner, and it only continued to sink the closer they approached it. Contact meant confrontation meant realization.

He was sure that what happened with Lois was real. He was sure.

Eventually, they recovered from their fit of laughter. Will tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Someone opened it before—he could tell from the brick and shattered window. It seems that they somehow locked it before they left. How could they lock it from the inside if they were alone? 

Perhaps whoever broke in—a thief, seeing that the inside is completely empty and destroyed—locked the door and escaped from the vents or the back door instead.

When did this happen? This… robbery? He thought back to what Jonathan said. 

“Sunny Side Shakes? It was abandoned too. It looked older than Benny’s Burgers back at Hawkins.”

It wasn’t old. It wasn’t abandoned… No. It was robbed, gutted from the inside out, after Will and Lois concluded their “date”. That would explain why Jonathan saw something completely different from him when he went to the diner. 

Will nodded to himself, playing that explanation in his head again. He stood idly in front of the door, letting the thought settle.

Suddenly, he was lightly pushed to the side. An arm went through the broken window and clicked open the door from the inside, just like the robber did once before.

“Thanks.” Will breathed out, shooting Mike a soft smile that was returned.

He pushed open the door with his foot, leaning through the door frame to get a scope of the diner. Maybe the criminal was still there, hiding in a booth with a loaded gun.

“Hello?” Mike’s voice echoed from beside him. He was also peeking into the diner, a curious look on his face. 

Will slapped his shoulder. “Seriously? Hello?”

Mike shrugged, a playful smile growing on his face. He stepped into the diner without a care. The shards of glass broke underneath his heavy steps.

Quickly, Will followed behind him. The further he walked into the diner, the more nervousness stirred in his stomach. This wasn’t what he remembered at all; only a few things were the same. The booths had the same, worn-out leather, the counter had its spotty marble cover, and the floors had their blue tiles, albeit some were broken and out of place. Will pushed one across the floor with his foot, causing an annoying sound.

Mike was walking ahead of him, leaning down to inspect the dusty tables and plastic menus.

In one of the booths, there was a bill holder, its leather old and torn. Tucked inside of it was a 10 dollar bill; Will recognized it as his own.

A pale hand reached forward and took it. “Sweet!” Mike whispered to him, shaking the money in front of him. He moved his hand to pocket it.

Will’s hand quickly dashed forwards and grabbed Mike’s wrist. His other slipped the money out of Mike’s hand.

“That’s my money.” Will said, his tone a bit sarcastic even though he was being truthful. He tried to play with his words in a jokey manner.

Mike raised his eyebrows at him and leaned forwards to nudge his shoulder. “Yeah, well I found it first.” He nodded towards the money expectedly.

Will narrowed his stare at him, pulling his eyebrows together. For whatever reason, he felt a bit defensive. Mike didn’t know that Will came here a mere week or two ago, he didn’t know that Will dined at this place when it was still up and running. When he asked Mike to take him to the diner, his proposal went as follows: “So there’s this place—it’s kind of sketchy—but I have to go to it… I forgot something important there.”

Mike knew nothing of him and Lois’ date at the diner, and he intends to keep it that way.

Something in his brain told him that if Mike knew of his past visit here, then his viewpoint would be corrupted—perhaps influenced to be like Jonathan’s. He needed him to stay utterly and completely unbiased—blind.

However, for one reason or another, he felt like he needed to prove to Mike that this money was his. It was as if these 10 dollars could show him what he accomplished in these years, even though they were barely anything. He held the green paper in his hand, slowly crumpling it as moments passed between the two.

“It’s mine. I worked hard for it.” He said confidently.

“I think I worked as hard as you did. You know, checking all the booths and stuff. It was actually a really dangerous job—a radioactive rat could have jumped straight at me from underneath one of the tables.” Mike rambled off, maintaining a sarcastic tone. He gestured around as he spoke, as if showing off his achievements in this one act of finding Will’s money.

Now isn’t the time, Will. 

The voice was soft. Gentle, even. It delivered its advice in a couple of words then left as fast as it came. This was all Will needed to retire his argument.

He cleared his throat, forcing a smile. He could chat with Mike about what he’s done and accomplished any other day, but if he were to do it now with nothing but a ten dollar bill, it would only be a detriment to Mike’s perception of him.

“Do you want it?” His words slowly left his lips. He chose them carefully, trying to slip back into the playful banter him and Mike had adopted.

A twitch of a muscle—that’s all it took to expose Mike’s worry. It was small and irrelevant to what he intended to say next, but Will caught it and held onto it like it was his own heartbeat.

Throughout their time here, Mike was nothing but friendly, playful, humorous, and honestly, oblivious. But he wasn’t, he wasn’t any of those. Will couldn’t see that because he was too obsessed with how he carried himself, which was apparently not good enough to hide his strange behavior.

He should’ve known. He should’ve known that time can’t hide him from Mike, no matter how many years pass. The boy—man was like a detector, he could tell when something was off with Will, even when his own self couldn't. 

Sometimes, he couldn’t. But those times he was too busy or overwhelmed with his own life: exams, science fairs, demogorgens, El.

El. Oh, El.

Arguably, she had it worse than any of them. He hoped that she was doing better, making a mental note to visit her soon.

Still, he should’ve known. He should’ve focused more on the person observing him rather than himself.

Mike’s eye twitched; It twitched at the shift of Will’s demeanor. He wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t locking eyes with Mike, fixated on his aged face. 

The face that quickly dissolved into its regular, light expression before replying.

“Nah, you can keep it, but that means that you owe me something.”

Chapter Text

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it.”

A small smile played on Mike’s lips, strangely stretching his pale face under the blue light. “Lunch.”

Will’s face mirrored his, flashing his teeth in a nervous grin. A real show of happiness, not the ones he fabricated in an attempt to lessen Mike’s worry. “Okay.”

Mike looked away from him, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. With heavy steps, he walked past Will and further through the dark diner. “This place is really… something. Just wish we had flashlights. Or a gun.”

“A gun?” The word caught Will’s attention. He turned to Mike, staring into his back as he trailed around the empty place.

Will took in the view. Round tables, dirty and collecting layers of dust, once carrying weirdly textured trays and crumpled burger wrappers. The smell practically pained his nose, as opposed to the delicious fresh fries that made his mouth water.

He took a couple of deep breaths. Was Jonathan right? Could he have possibly been right?

He didn't know, but he needed to leave this place before the ugly truth arose—he wasn’t sure he was ready to face it.

“Mike.” Will walked after him, almost tripping over a fat rat that had scurried near his foot. “Mike, we should probably get going.”

“What about that thing you wanted? Didn’t you forget it here?” Mike turned his head, raising a brow. 

“Ah.” Will nodded, the memory of his lie coming back to taunt him. Awkwardly, he wiped his hands with the front of his jacket before resting them on his hips. “I just… I don’t think it’s here, now that I think about it.”

“Really?” Mike asked. His face adorned a confused expression, prompting his lips to settle in a straight line. He gave the diner a quick look, “I mean, it probably wouldn’t have ended up in a place like this. I doubt it.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Will sighed, feeling relief foster in his chest. He let out an exasperated chuckle, “I wouldn’t even go to a place like this, right?”

Mike took a step towards him, raising his brows again. “You did, though. Like, why are we here if you didn’t?” A nervous smile stretched across his face. Will caught his hand itching at his wrist—an action he usually did when he was nervous, or worried.

He felt a lump in his throat. 

“No, I mean… I did come here. Except, I didn’t.” Will said, now voicing his contradictory thoughts out loud. “When I came here, it was different. It was really different. Then, something happened and the place changed. But that’s not my fault.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to say it was your fault. Like, I wasn’t trying to imply that.” Mike raised his hands, shaking away the notion with the flick of the wrist. “But, I don’t think I… I don’t think I understand what you mean.”

Will looked away. Tears gathered at the edges of his eyes, threatening to spill if he said the wrong thing. He brought a hand to his lips, silently cursing himself for losing track of where the conversation was going. He slipped up—now Mike is concerned.

Suddenly, he found himself laughing at the absurdity of the situation. How could he bring Mike here? How could he ask him for his opinion on Will’s sanity? How could he even address his troubles in front of this man—this man he only knew during his childhood? He worked differently now, and yet, Will completely ignored that.

“Will, are you ok?” He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah—yeah, I was joking.” Will looked up, now forcing a laugh. He cringed at how fake it sounded. “Like, the whole I’m possessed at a creepy place thing.”

“Oh. Hah.” Mike nervously smiled, trying to play along with Will. “Seriously, though, are you sure the thing you need isn’t here?”

“Yeah.”

“Can we still explore a bit?” Mike asked, now taking his phone out of his pocket. He turned on the flashlight and pointed it at himself from a low angle. “We could be like these doomed main characters in a horror movie. We’re exploring a haunted place while the audience screams at us to get out.”

Will frowned, “Well, wouldn’t you want to listen to them?”

“Characters never listen to them, and what are we?” He turned away from Will and began exploring the diner again, stepping behind the counter to examine old beer and expired Pepsi cans.

He was putting on a whole bit to lighten up the mood, Will knew that. It usually made him roll his eyes, but he still enjoyed it. Although, now, it was just bothering him. He needed to get out, and at this rate, he’s willing to hijack Mike’s car and ditch him.

“This place is boring.” Will said in an attempt to stop Mike.

The harsh light of the phone flashed into his eyes from behind the counter. He couldn’t look at Mike without eyes pupils burning.

“It wasn’t boring when you came here the first time, right?” Mike responded, although no spite was evident in his words. “Will, if you killed someone here, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Will sighed, squeezing the leather of his jacket in agitation. He turned his head towards the light, his eyes half-closed against the pain. “Promise?” He said sarcastically.

“Pro—” 

A loud bang sounded, catching the both of them off-guard. Mike redirected the light to the far end of the room—where the sound came from, where the blue back door stood. 

“Jesus Christ!” Mike yelled, his hand shaky. 

Will took a few steps closer to Mike, the counter being the only thing that separated them now. He rested his hand on the cold marble, “Maybe it was a rat?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Mike sighed. Still, he refused to move his camera light away from the back door.

As he stared at it, Will intently watched him. In the dark, he could only make out a few features, but that was enough to tell that Mike’s worry was amplifying now that things were going on externally.

“Mike—” He started, but was quickly cut off by Mike’s raised hand. He brought a finger to his lips before pointing at the direction of the door, eyes wide and waiting. 

Will shook his head at him confusedly. He raised a brow, which got nothing in response.

Mike’s eyes just wandered back to the door. Slowly, he leaned forwards, taking a careful step towards it.

“Mike!” Will whispered, his voice sharp. 

Mike waved him off, instead leaning forwards even further. He tilted his head to the side like he was listening to something—something important.

With hesitance, Will followed suit, careful not to step on any discarded shards of glass. But even then, even with a step closer to the door, he couldn’t hear the thing that Mike seemed so intently focused on.

Mike turned to him, moving the flashlight towards Will instead. “Do you hear that?”

Will’s face flinched as he snapped his eyes shut against the glare. Upon seeing this, Mike brought the phone down to point to the side. The light was weaker, but it still made them clear to one another in the dark.

“Do you hear that, Will?” Mike repeated.

Will was about to shake his head but stopped himself before doing so. He thought for a second; these sounds were worrying Mike, adding onto his pre-existing anxiety about the whole matter. He could take advantage of that and get them the hell out of here.

He shifted his expression into fear, raising his brows and widening his eyes. “Yeah… yeah, I do.”

“The hell is that?” Mike asked, pointing the light back at the door again. “It’s like… knocking.”

Will raised a brow. Knocking? 

“Mike, I think we need to leave. I don’t even need anything from here.” Will said, his voice steady and clear. He almost outstretched a hand over the counter to get hold of Mike.

“You don’t wanna investigate it?” Mike asked, a nervous smile spreading across his face. He gestured at the lonely corner once again, “I mean, isn’t this the type of shit you see in horror films?”

Agitation began creeping up on Will. Why couldn’t Mike just get it? Why couldn’t he just leave? He didn’t want to be annoyed with him, but he was and he couldn’t understand why. He just didn’t want to be here, and it felt like Mike was making a joke out of it.

“Mike, I want to go home. Now.” His voice, now louder than before, cracked. He pushed a stool to the side to get close to the counter, leaning across it to emphasize his distress.

Mike’s demeanor faltered.

Slowly, he turned off the flash of his phone and returned it to his pocket. He faced Will now, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip. He felt guilty, Will could tell, and that made him feel guilty, too.

“Sorry.” Mike said, his voice still stuck in a whisper, “I pushed you too far. Let’s go to the car, I’ll let you punch me.”

Will tilted his head, “I don’t want to punch you.”

He lingered for a moment, staring at Mike with guilty eyes, before turning around and walking to the door. 

Mike followed, crushing the glass Will had taken the time to avoid beneath heavy feet.

When they reached the car, Will waited by the passenger door for Mike to unlock it. Now, under the blue light again, Mike looked even guiltier, even sadder with the way things had went. It hurt Will’s heart, just like every one of Mike’s frowns did.

He cleared his throat, scratching at the back of his neck. “Maybe the person I killed was acting up. You know, trying to scare you.”

After a moment, he heard Mike chuckle. It was soft, faraway but close at the same time. Something of the past brought into the future. Replicated, not mimicked. 

It was them falling back into playful jokes. Offensive, maybe controversial, but sweet in a strange way. It wasn’t deranged, it wasn’t unnatural, but still strange. Weird was a better word.

“Maybe.” Mike replied, his teeth peeking through his smile. “Do you think they’ll ever forgive you?” He asked, his voice stretched into a playful tone.

It caught Will off-guard. “Forgive me?”

“Yeah, no. I don’t think they can. They’re dead, right?” Mike asked, gesturing back into the diner.

Will squinted at the flickering neon light holding its name, Sunny Side Shakes. If that one thick thread snapped, it would fall and crush the both of them. They’d die, skulls cracked open. Their eyes would roll to the back of their heads and stay there, finding comfort in the darkness. In death.

“I hope so.”

Chapter Text

Will brought the mug to his lips, letting the striking caffeine take its course in his body.

“Are you comfortable?” Richardson asked.

Will brought the mug down to rest on his lap. He looked at Richardson with questioning eyes, slightly tilting his head to the side.

Richardson shifted in his seat and leaned forwards “I mean, living with your brother. Is it comfortable?”

Will looked down at the sleeves of his grey sweater. He fiddled with the edges, twisting the fabric in his fingers. “It’s alright,” He adjusted his glasses, “just a bit awkward sometimes.”

Richardson made a small hum in response. 

Will lifted his head to look his therapist in the eyes. His face was calm, relaxed. It both eased and scared him. There was something eerie in the way he nodded his head, the way he brought the cup to his lips, the way he hummed whenever Will said something instead of just responding with advice.

It was a therapist’s technique to get you to keep talking. If there’s silence, you’ll be compelled to fill it, and when you do, word vomit will be spilled.

Will cleared his throat after considering his choices: continue to talk, maybe even confess some things he wanted to keep away from Richardson, or remain quiet.

He anxiously bit his lip until the skin tore. A metallic taste spread across his tongue, suffocating his little taste buds. When he ran his teeth across them, a ticklish feeling arose.

“Is that normal?” Will knowingly stepped into Richardson’s trap for his own sake. Still, he tried to throw the ball back to Richardson.

A smile grew on the man’s clean-shaven face. “Yes, why don’t you think so?”

“I didn’t say that it wasn’t normal,” Will frowned, “it’s just… I don’t know, weird. I feel like it should be addressed, right?”

Richardson’s smile dissolved into a straight line. He mirrored Will’s frown and brought his hands together on his lap, abandoning his cup on the glass table between them. In the right light, Will could see fingerprints on its delicate surface.

In those hooded eyes, Will saw him considering what to say. A coherent sentence was easy to make, but not when you’re being questioned by someone like him. Like Will. He was aware of his oddities, the ones that throw people off, that make them feel like they either had the audacity to say whatever they wanted to him, or the exact opposite. There was no middle ground when it came to him. He was a quiet person, reserved to his own mind. 

And that didn’t help his therapist at all.

“Well,” Richardson started, “I’ll ask you something, and you have to be honest in your response.”

Will quickly nodded, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forwards. “I’ll be honest. I’m always honest.” His eyes were wide behind his glasses, trying to emphasize his principles.

He caught the small rise of Richardson’s chest. His tie shifted to the side as he took a deep breath, unveiling his heart beneath the heavy layers of skin and fabrics. 

“Are you scared of Jonathan?” He asked, keeping his eyes locked on Will.

Will let out a sigh, blinking stupidly at Richardson. He couldn’t help it when the sigh turned into a soft chuckle. “Scared? Of Jonathan?”

“You said you’d be honest with me.” 

“That question wasn’t… Listen, I’m not scared of Jonathan. He’s my brother—my family.”

“You’re father, too.” Richardson said, finally looking away from Will to bend forward and pick up his cup.

Will raised his brows, confused at the statement. What was he implying? That he was relying on Jonathan to fill a part of the standard family image? It was already filled, even if the man was… different.

He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly snapped it shut after he couldn’t find any words. His chest rose as he took a deep breath, intently watching Richardson’s slow movements as he got up from his seat.

He followed suit, pressing his hands into the armchairs to push himself off of the low chair. “What are you trying to say?”

Richardson began striding to the nearby kitchen. He turned his head to the side as he answered Will, “You search for guidance from him, you admire and take after him—Oh, don’t trouble yourself and stand up, I’m only bringing the biscuits.”

Will continued following him, ignoring what he had said. He placed his hands on the counter and watched as Richardson opened the cabinets and looked around for the supposed biscuits.

“I feel like that’s… normal.” He said, “I mean, you can search for guidance in people other than your parents, like Anakin and Obi-Wan.”

Richardson reached into a cabinet and pulled out a small box with a strawberry pattern on its lid. He placed it on the counter with a grin and tapped his fingers along it, “Parental guidance, Will.”

He struggled a bit, but popped open the lid of the box and slid the biscuits onto a plate. He pushed it across the counter to Will—an offer. “It’s good for you, that special bond with your brother. And the biscuits.”

Will rolled his eyes, holding back a smile. He took one of the biscuits and held it close to his face, staring into the strawberry jam filling like it was a mirror. The scent of it was better than Denise’s pastries by a lot, he thought.

He bit into it and felt the jam explode sweet flavors across his tongue. The biscuit itself was soft, quick to crumble when he bit it. Still, the balance of the textures and flavors couldn’t be better.

“But I fear that it may interfere with your recovery.” Richardson said, his face now taking on a serious expression.

Will shoved the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, barely chewing it before swallowing. He stared at Richardson with a confused face, a bit of worry mixed into the expression. 

Before he could say anything, Richardson spoke. 

“I’m worried that you compare him to your father.” He said, knitting his brows together. “And I’m worried that the answers your getting may be counterproductive.”

“To my recovery?” Will spat out before Richardson could continue, tilting his head to the side. “What am I recovering from? I’m not an addict. Nothing’s wrong with me.”

Richardson sighed and dragged a hand down his face, clearly exhausted with the conversation. Still, he straightened himself up and leaned closer to Will, stepping into his role as a therapist.

“Your still recovering from what Henry has done to you.” He said, his voice now softening into a whisper. “You hear him, you feel him. His past is so tightly tied to your future, you cannot even process it.”

He tapped Will’s head with his index finger, “You’re suffocating under the hold he has on you. The… the pressure, it’s only worsening with time. I’m trying to figure out the cause, and I fear that Jonathan is the problem.”

Will stepped back, letting his hand fall from the cold counter. He bit back his words as he considered the matter. While he didn’t agree with Richardson, his words still hold weight. They should be acknowledged.

Worsening—he’s worsening. Apparently, his mind is trapped within a cage other than his skull. 

The voice ticked away in his head like a clock. It echoed thoughts out of his control, echoed the things he would rather forget. 

He saw Henry in the way he held himself. He saw the man in his walk, in his posture, in his speech, in his eyes. He was present in the way Will brought the coffee mug to his lips, the way Will took a step closer to Mike and one farther away from Richardson and his brother.

“Are you comparing him to your father?” Richardson asked, finally breaking the silence.

Will took a moment to answer, tracing the edge of the counter with his eyes. He thought back to that day when he tried Denise’s pastries. The crumbs on his lips, the phone call, the questions Richardson asked, the flicker he saw in him—the flicker of his dad.

It didn’t end there, it moved to Jonathan. 

His brother had acted unnatural. He was off, out of place. The way his anger took control of his body; it scared Will, terrified him.

He choked his brother; was it because he reminded him of Lonnie?

Could an idea so outrageous possibly have some truth to it?

“I’ll… I’ll move back into my apartment.” Will said slowly, his eyes stuck to the counter. His voice was soft and low, similar to a child’s. It was as if he was seeking approval from Richardson.

“Can I help you?” Richardson asked, taking a step closer to Will.

Will shook his head, swallowing back the lump in his throat. He looked Richardson in the eye, “I can do it myself.”

Richardson shrugged and took a biscuit off of the plate. “You want to isolate yourself?”

Will frowned and let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair. The strands separated in locks between his fingers. “Alone time isn’t isolation.”

“It is in your case.” Richardson was quick in his response. “You can’t be left alone for too long in this condition, Will.”

He threw the biscuit back onto the plate, exhaustion beginning to expose itself in his snappy mannerisms. The darkness beneath his eyes and wrinkles engraved into his forehead showed that the man was in distress, possibly going through something himself at the moment.

It was ironic that he was a therapist in his condition.

Will cleared his throat, bringing the attention back on him. For the first time in this entire conversation, he said something with confidence. 

“I’m not alone, I have Mike.”

—

The gas masks were strapped tightly onto their faces. Will knew that when he takes it off, there’ll be red marks running along his cheekbones and jaw.

He took deep breaths and heard his chest rattle, battling against the particles of the Upside Down. 

The grip on the gun in his hand tightened as they entered Melvad’s convenience store. The bright colors on the walls were faded and chipped, as opposed to its distant counterpart.

The Upside Down doesn’t only kill the living.

“Finally.” Mike gasped. The gas mask clicked when Will pulled it away from his face, letting it rest on his chest instead.

He followed suit, loosening the straps of his own. They weren’t supposed to do this—breathe in the particles—but for one reason or another, it felt safer inside this building, like the walls could protect them.

And yet, as soon as he inhaled this “protected air”, his vision began to blur. Still, it was better than the mask. The more breaths he took, the lighter his head felt; it calmed him, relaxed him, smoothed out the stress tight as a knot in his mind.

“Only for a second, okay?” Will asked, his grip on Mike’s waist tightening.

Mike gave him a lazy nod, “There’s no use to it anyways, our tanks are empty.” He gestured to the small oxygen tanks attached to their bags. Hopper had insisted that everyone should take a couple before entering this hellscape.

Will and Mike emptied their last ones.

They had gotten separated from the group after an attack in the woods. Four or five demodogs launched at them, digging their rows of teeth into their padded shoulders. Nancy was shooting at them in a panic, Steve was swinging a bat into their crooked heads, and Jonathan was trying to get them—Will, Mike, and Lucas—away from the creatures.

They broke out into a run, following Jonathan through the thick woods. He kept reminding them to look down and avoid the vines, but Mike still stepped onto a couple. Every time he did, a low groan rumbled through the place.

At first, Will thought that it was because Mike was a clutz. He could be 60 feet away from a window and still find a way to crash into it. 

However, when Will turned around, worried about the distance between the two, he saw that Mike was limping. He had a red hand on his side, and upon further inspection, Will realized that the redness was coming from his own body.

He halted, his stomach dropping to his feet. He stumbled towards Mike as fear bubbled inside him, affecting his coordination.

Before he could even outstretch his hands, Mike fell onto him. Will wrapped his arms around him and became a pillar of support.

Time slowed down. He couldn’t hear Jonathan’s fast steps, or Nancy’s curses at the demodogs. There wasn’t a chest rising and falling other than his own. 

Mike pressed his head into Will’s shoulder, using the padding as a pillow. His breathing was slow and painful, cracking into the gas mask like he was a veteran smoker.

Isolated from the rest, Will staggered forwards with his patient. He followed Jonathan’s tracks, but eventually, the wet dirt stopped carrying his footprints. 

After every painful step, Mike said something incoherent into the mask. Will tried his best to ignore it, to keep his focus on finding the others, but it was no use. The whispers of please and breaks tortured him.

Relief filled his body when he found a road. It was empty, just like the forest, but it meant that they were close to home. If they go to the Wheeler house, the others could sense them and send someone to save them. Hopefully.

But halfway through their painful journey across town, Mike practically collapsed. He began to drag his feet against the gravel and his head lolled back like he was a ragdoll. Will thought he died for a moment.

When he saw Melvad’s in the distance, hope rose in his chest. 

“I don’t think… I don’t think it’s that bad, Will.” Mike said as Will lowered him to the ground. He made him lean against the empty shelves, ensuring that he was as comfortable as possible.

“Just—Just wait here.” Will slurred as he stumbled up, the effects of the particles already taking its toll on his body.

He rolled his backpack off of his shoulders and plopped it next to Mike. “There’s some bandages in there, but I… what do I need?” He said to himself.

He started wandering through the aisles, searching for the mystery item. Mike groaned in the distance, begging Will to hurry up. The whining sort of bothered Will—he was going as fast as he could.

His knees wobbled with each step, and eventually, they gave out. He held himself up by grabbing the shelves and practically sticking his elbow in them as he scooched forwards. 

Ever since Vecna healed, the Upside Down doubled in deadliness. He remembers soldiers going in there with full-body suits. When they came out, they were cleaned inside these large, white tents.

All he and Mike had was a half-empty first aid kit, a roll of bandages, and… disinfectant.

His fingers wrapped around a bottle of soap. It was covered in a floral pattern and sticky Upside Down residue.

“I got it!” Will yelled to Mike, beginning to stumble back to where he had left him.

Mike yelled back a weak “yay” in response.

When Will returned to him, he saw him slumped in the same position, hand pressing against his side. He crumbled to the ground and knee-walked to Mike, shifting across the dirty floors like it was a dried-up ice rink.

“I’ll disinfect it and wrap it in—in some bandages for now.” Will said, more to himself than Mike. 

Mike nodded, a crooked smile on his face. “Just… just don’t hurt me.”

Will fished out the bandages and a bottle of water and placed them next to the soap. He looked up at Mike’s pale face and squinted, scrutinizing every blurry detail.

There were splotches of red and brown across his face and chest, and Will was sure that they were matching. His hair grazed his shoulders—it was long enough to tie into a comedically small ponytail.

Will giggled at the thought, earning a confused expression from Mike.

“Take off your jacket and pull your shirt up.” Will said, returning his focus to the soap, bandages, and water. He needed something to make the disinfectant in, perhaps a bowl.

Mike wiggled out of his jacket and delicately raised the bottom of his mustard yellow shirt, revealing an ugly wound.

It made Will wince just looking at it. He leaned forwards, his nose almost touching the blood. From here, he could see better—he could see through the fog of his brain.

“It barely touched you!” Will said, leaning back to look Mike in the face. There was an open scar running across his hip, probably inflicted by one of Nancy’s bullets. It didn’t hit any major organs, thankfully. Will wasn’t the best medic, especially not in this euphoric daze.

“It hurts.” Mike said, his tone serious. “Please, just do something!”

“I can’t.” Will said after a moment, looking back down at his supplies. “I need a bowl.”

Mike stared at him confusedly. He knitted his brows together before raising one. “Find one?!” His voice cracked as he spoke like he was 13 again.

Will widened his eyes, “You’re right.” 

He pushed himself up again, taking a moment to find his footing before trudging through the store. He could hear his own uneven footsteps echo behind him.

Eventually, he came face to face with some plastic Tupperware. He grabbed one and began walking back to Mike, ripping the plastic cover off with his teeth as he did.

“Okay, I got it. I can… fix you.” Will said, exasperated. He fell to his knees next to Mike and clicked open the plastic bowl, throwing its lid behind him.

He poured all the remaining water they had left into it.

“What if I’m thirsty?” Mike asked, watching their only water source go to waste.

Will ignored him. He twisted open the cap of the soap bottle and poured a drop of it into the mix before stirring it with his own hand. His fingers danced through the liquid like he was a magic wizard creating a potion in a cauldron.

“I need something else to disinfect the wound, like some cloth.” Will said to Mike as he stirred the disinfectant.

Mike slammed the back of his head into the shelves, causing them to rattle. “I don’t know, Will. I’m in pain.”

Will rolled his eyes. He looked back at the wound and grimaced. It was gross and ugly, but it wasn’t life-ending. Mike was being overdramatic.

“You don’t have to be mean about it.” Will said under his breath as he looked around for something to use. Mike didn’t hear it, instead continuing to take deep breaths of the god-awful air.

His eyes locked onto the bandana on Mike’s neck. He grabbed it and pulled it off of him, making Mike whine again. “Jesus Christ!”

He dabbed the bandana into the disinfectant, proud of his survival skills. 

“I need to clean it, so don’t move.” Will warned Mike, who was holding the side of his shirt up.

He nodded in response, looking elsewhere as he dozed off into space.

Will shifted closer to Mike and bent his head downwards to see better. Moving his hand felt like controlling a video game character. It was swaying left and right way more than he intended to.

When he actually started cleaning the wound, he tried to be steadier. It was a trouble to get the dirt and dried blood off. Every time he pressed down a bit too hard, Mike would wince, causing Will to freeze.

Now closer to the wound, he started feeling bad. He didn’t want to hurt Mike, but he physically couldn’t stop himself from getting too close to the cut. The edges were too thin, the room was too cold, and the air was too suffocating.

They needed to refill their tanks, but how?

“Just put the bandages on, please.” Mike said, his voice small. 

Will’s hand stiffened over the wound. Mike’s voice—so soft, so distant—melted him.

He nodded, feeling the heavy weight of his head rock back and forth. His shoulders ached with each reckless movement.

He reached behind him and grabbed hold of the bandages. They unraveled as he began to wrap it around Mike’s waist, slightly going over the waistband of his jeans.

When the fabric was pressed against the wound, Mike let out a sharp gasp. He shut his eyes and brought a hand to his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had collected on his knitted brows.

When Will decided that enough layers had been done, he plucked off a bit of tape from the roll in the kit and placed it on the tail of the bandage, successfully bandaging the wound.

“Is it tight?” He asked, staring at his work. Hesitantly, he patted where the wound would be.

Mike shook his head and pulled his shirt down. “No, it’s good. You did good.”

A small smile grew on Will’s face. He pulled himself up from the crouch he was in in order to face Mike. A wonky grin was on the boy’s face, blood smeared just by his chapped lips.

“Thank you.” He whispered, shifting himself to sit straighter. He stared at Will with wide eyes, and in them, Will saw clouds fogging the space between them and reality.

The distance between the two couldn’t even be called that. Every exhale was the other’s inhale—every blink could be heard. They could see a clear picture of themselves in each other’s pupils.

When a strand of Mike’s unruly hair fell across his face, Will heard it collide with the skin.

This image of Mike was strange, but alluring. He was fascinated by his eyes, his blush, his freckles, and his lips. They parted when he breathed, taking in more of that drug.

With hesitance, Will reached out a hand and tucked away the fallen lock of hair. He saw that his hand was shaky and felt pity for it, as if it wasn’t a part of him.

Nothing was a part of him now. Not rationality, not tradition, not fear.

It didn’t feel like there was matter between them. There was no oxygen, no particles. He could move forwards and time would slow like he was in space.

And when he did, testing out his theory, he was proven right.

Mike’s eyes slowly closed, letting his dark lashes fall onto his cheeks. He tilted his head to the side as Will came closer, although that didn’t stop their noses from brushing against each other for a moment. 

Will didn’t see it reach up, but a hand rested on the side of his neck. It was near the place Vecna touched, and yet so far away. 

The warmth was comforting—relaxing. No rules stopped him, no eyes watched him.

It was just him and Mike.

Their lips grazed one another for a brief moment, slow and delayed. It seemed like both wanted the other to approve, to move forwards.

Could this be a correct step?

Suddenly, Mike pushed forwards, capturing Will in a messy kiss. His hand moved from his neck to the back of his head, fingers curling into the strands. He pushed Will closer to him, and Will followed his direction.

The kiss was fast and desperate. Their lips collided into one another without mercy, and teeth grazed them when they lost their rhythm.

Will grabbed Mike’s collar with one hand, and let the other rest on his face. He placed pressure on his cheek as the kiss deepened like he was ensuring that this was real, that if he moved Mike wouldn’t disappear.

While that night had no guilt or worries, as they were caught up in the drugs of the air, the night afterwards was drowning in it.

Will remembers the event, but there were gaps bleeding into it. 

He wonders, does Mike remember it too?

Chapter Text

Will dragged his suitcase into the lobby of his run-down apartment building. The little wheels rolled against the ugly, brown tiles, making an annoying sound.

He took a deep breath, smelling the strong stench coming from the abandoned garbage can nearby.

The apartment building wasn’t necessarily bad, just neglected.

A sharp spark sounded near him, causing him to flinch and grip the handle of his suitcase even harder. The electric box near the door was always malfunctioning, but it wasn’t so bad. His lights never went off, so it was doing its job just fine.

He stumbled to the elevator, desperate to just reach his room and go to bed. The sky outside was getting darker as the sun set, further driving the point that he needed to sleep.

He stepped into the lift and crouched down to reach his button: level 4. 

Sighing, he let his back hit the wall. In the past, its cold surface would’ve frightened him—would’ve made him scream and scratch at his back. Now, after time had passed, coldness was just another form of comfort. 

Perhaps a coping mechanism, a reminder of the past and how far away it was now. He could touch things without breaking down; it was good progress, a good reminder.

The elevator hummed as it moved up, carrying the weight of Will and his old suitcase. He had hastily packed his bag when he returned to Jonathan’s, explaining that he had to go back so he could be closer to his job.

The short leave he took was proving to hurt his financial stability, as the majority of his money came from the amount of clients he received.

Jonathan told him that he was fine with helping him by dipping into his own wallet, and before Will could respond, Denise saved him. She put her hand on Jonathan’s arm and gave him a concerned look, clearly warning him on making such a hefty promise.

And so, Will left. The distance would help. In fact, he hadn’t heard the voice in a couple of days—at least not enough for it to be a worry.

The elevator pinged as it opened, letting the lights of the hallway brighten the metal room. 

Will pulled himself off of the wall, running a hand through his hair and effectively making it messier. He dragged the suitcase behind him and tried to ignore the rattling sounds of the wheels.

Suddenly, when he stepped into the hallway, something pulled him back.

He turned behind him to see the wheel of the suitcase stuck in the crack between the elevator and the hallway. Disgruntled, he sighed.

Using whatever strength he had left, he tugged on the suitcase, hoping that it’ll set it free. But tug after tug, the wheel remained jammed.

He brought a hand to his nose, pressing onto its bridge, before dragging it down to his jaw. Red marks spotted his face from the pressure of it, emphasizing his disappointment.

“Come on.” He said under his breath, walking back to the suitcase. He stood with his back to one of the elevator doors, placing trust in it detecting a body and not completely crushing him.

He bent downwards and placed both hands on the sides of the suitcase. Now with a firm grip, he wiggled it left and right in an awkward attempt to unjam the wheel.

Still, all he got in response was that rattling sound.

It took every ounce of his being to not rip the material to threads with his own teeth.

To make it worse, he placed trust on the wrong thing.

The elevator door began closing. The one on the left pressed into his back as it emerged, hitting him directly in the spine.

Quickly, he pushed himself up straight and shoved the door back into the wall. The elevator pinged again as it finally detected him through force. He responded to the sound with a small, reluctant “Thank you.”

“For what?” A voice came from the hallway, accompanied by the sound of footsteps against the carpeted floors.

Will turned to the voice, unfamiliar with it. 

Walking towards him was a tall, tan man with dark brown hair—it kind of reminded him of Steve’s. He was wearing a plain, off-white shirt and brown pants underneath a long coat, clearly on his way to leave.

When the man reached Will, he looked down at the jammed suitcase and tilted his head to the side. Now that he was closer, Will could see the freckles on his face—like Mike’s. They weren’t as clear as his, though, not against his tan skin.

A grin grew on his face as he looked back at Will, ignoring his problem. “You didn’t find it funny?”

“What?” Will was quick in his response. His voice was loud, too loud. He cringed on the inside.

His widened eyes darted around the man’s face like a cat, assessing the person standing before him. Now that he was grinning, Will could see how his left canine was a bit crooked, twisted to the side. It quickly disappeared behind the man’s two-toned lips as his smile was flattened by the tension.

“The joke… ‘For what?’,” The man said sheepishly. “Ah, sorry. It was lame.” 

“No! No, it was funny.” Will replied, finally catching on. After a beat, he forced a small laugh, hoping to fix this interaction.

The man stared blankly at Will’s antics, his lips slowly parting as a smile tugged on them. A small chuckle escaped from them before he covered them with a hand.

His eyes mirrored Will’s, widening a bit. The unexpected reaction seemed to have taken a toll on the situation.

“Sure,” He said as his childish giggles slowly came to a halt. He gestured at the bag, “Need help?”

Will’s eyes fell to it, “Yeah, it’s stuck. I—I tried to pull it out but it didn’t work. The wheel is jammed.” He gulped away the strange nervousness in his body. 

He doesn’t really communicate with anyone in the building—he doesn’t communicate with anyone at all. The only people he keeps in touch with are Jonathan, Richardson, Nicole, his boss, and now Mike. In public, he avoids interactions as much as possible, to the point where he was now anxious about getting help from someone.

The man bent down to his knees and stuck a hand beneath the suitcase. It wiggled side to side as he placed pressure on it in an attempt to unjam it. 

Awkwardly, Will bent down to help, feeling useless in his position. 

“Hold the bottom of it and I’ll try to twist the wheel—I think it’s hooked to the sides.” The man said, leaning away from the bag.

“Alright, yes.” Will said under his breath. He stared at the bag with intense focus, calculating his hands’ movements before doing anything. Carefully, he lifted the bag.

The man rolled his sleeve up before reaching underneath and grabbing hold of the wheel. It made a painful sound of metal screeching against itself—Will almost dropped the bag to cover his ears.

With a little twist, the wheel plopped out of the space between the elevator’s crack. 

Will pushed his bag, making sure that it was in fact free. He stared as it rolled off a bit to the side, leaving the space between him and the man empty.

Silence filled that space—comfortable yet uncomfortable at the same time, like itching a bite. When Will looked back at the man, he noticed that he had been staring at him.

His eyes widened slightly, confused. Who was he?

Before he could ask, the man stood up, brushing his knees as he did. He held out a hand for Will.

He looked at it, then at the man’s face, then the hand again. Anxiety sloshed around in his stomach. A bad drink to his lips. The thoughts in his head weren’t quite clear, he couldn’t make out how he felt. It was different—weird.

With hesitance, Will took the man’s hand in his, grateful for the help. A sharp zap struck his palm upon contact, causing him and the man to flinch back.

Static shock.

“Sorry.” Will mumbled profusely, dragging himself to his feet. “I’m sorry.”

The man tilted his head to the side, staring at Will’s mannerisms with an amused face. He slowly shook it, mouth dropping open. “Don’t be.”

Will nodded. Don’t be.

The silence between them now wasn’t stuck between comfortable and uncomfortable; it was the latter. Will looked down at his feet, wishing that something would fill the silence, making the discomfort go away.

“Do you live here?” He blurted out. He lifted his head to look at the man, oblivious to the straightforwardness of his question.

He nodded, “I just moved in, actually.” He fished something out of his coat jacket—a key. “404.”

The side of the key caught a bit of the sun’s withering light, reflecting it into Will’s eyes. “I’m—” He blinked it away, “I’m 407.”

He heard the key jingle as the man returned it to his pocket. He opened his mouth after a moment, but Will interrupted him before he could say anything.

“Thank you.” He said, “I honestly just accepted my fate. Forever chained to the elevator.” 

A soft chuckle escaped from the man, what was his name?

“What’s your name?” Will asked quickly, his voice faster than his thoughts.

The man seemed to be taken aback, pausing for a second before answering. He straightened the front of his shirt, “Jimmy.”

Jimmy—Will hammered it into his memory. He muttered a small ‘okay’ before walking off, dragging the suitcase behind him. The wheel that was stuck seemed to have taken some damage as it made a sharp, screeching sound as he turned it. 

But before he could return to his room, the man—Jimmy—called out after him. “What’s yours?”

Will stopped. He cleared his throat, his anxiety about Jimmy growing with every passing moment. He turned his head to the side, “Will.”

“Alright, I’ll see you around then, Will.” He said before walking off. 

Will heard the sound of the elevator doors opening and shutting, accompanied by that familiar ping sound.

He’s been living here for a while now, but this was the first time he’s ever talked to a neighbor one-on-one, and he had to admit, it was nice. Even if it was nerve-wracking for some reason.

He shoved the key to his room into the door and twisted it, listening for that satisfying click. The door swayed open, welcoming him.

Something else did too.

From here, Will could only see the back of his couch, but it was enough to see the head of a man—of a thing, of it.

How strange it is to live like this?

Chapter Text

Will is only sure of a couple things.

He’s 36. He has a degree in computer science. He works at a company that fixes devices. He works part-time at an art studio. He lives alone in an old apartment. He’s on a couple of meds, but not too many.

He has 7 contacts saved on his phone: Jonathan, Max, Lucas, Richardson, Nicole, his boss, and Mike.

He wants to delete them all.

Things are just too overwhelming lately. Maybe leaving Jonathan wasn’t the best decision, but he needed to listen to Richardson, and he needed his job back. 

And he needed to get rid of Vecna, even if it meant doing it alone.

—

The cubes pressed against his skin were painful, but necessary. 

He submerged himself into an ice bath. The coldness made him shiver, but it helped him focus. He waited too long, avoided it too much… that feeling.

He needs to make a plan—a plan good enough to kill Vecna once and for all. They didn’t do it well enough last time.

He pressed his chin into the palm of his hand. His eyes were closed, breathing slowed. Every little movement, every passing moment, was crucial to perfecting this operation.

He wouldn’t ignore it anymore. He wouldn’t make any more excuses.

This wasn’t a mistake—wasn’t a coincidence. 

He was chosen.

His thoughts floated on the surface of the ice cubes, hopping from one to another as he strung them together. 

How was he supposed to get rid of something no one can see?

He pressed his hands into his eyes, stopping the tears he felt threatening to fall. This wasn’t fair, none of this was. 

He was alone again—young again. He brought his knees to his chest, making the little cubes slosh around in the water. It was the only sound in the room, besides his cracking sobs.

He wishes he never grew up. At least when he was a kid, people believed him.

Richardson… Richardson doesn’t understand. Jonathan doesn’t either. 

He took a deep breath, although it was shaky and painful. His lungs felt heavy with fear. Every inhale was poison to its walls.

He just wished someone would understand—someone would look at him and see what was wrong. They’d offer to help him bring that thing down. They’d pick up the shovel and dig a grave while he dragged the body from the car.

He placed two shaky hands onto the edges of the bathtub and pushed himself up. Water rolled off of his chest and stomach, but it left visible traces that burnt into him. 

Wobbly legs carried him out of the tub, planting their feet onto the bathroom carpet. He gave it a couple of taps, enjoying the feeling of the soft fabric. 

The beige towel hanging by the door was snatched down from its hook with one pull. Will wrapped it around himself, grabbing its edge to wipe his face of bathwater and tears.

As it brushed against his lips, he bit into it. The material felt strange on his teeth, but for one reason or another, he kept it there. The discomfort distracted him from what he was about to do.

He waddled out of the bathroom and into the living room, leaving wet footprints behind him. On the coffee table, his phone sat alone. There used to be a plant there, a present from Lucas and Max when he bought the place, but he couldn’t take care of it well enough. Its leaves dried up and fell across the table; watching it wither was depressing, so he brought it to the art studio and gave it to this kid who enjoyed working with tangible items. A couple of days later, a statue made of newspapers and curled up leaves appeared near his desk—his latest project.

Nevermind that, those memories.

Making sure his hand was dry, he picked up his phone and brought it to his face. Without his glasses, everything was a bit blurrier. He didn’t want to misclick and get into an awkward situation.

He swiped through his contact list until his squinting eyes landed on Mike’s name.

—

16/02/07 — 05:43PM

MSN Messenger

Will.B says:

Come over?

Aus_1971 says:

Yes! Let me finish up something first.

Will.B says:

Okay.

Aus_1971 says: 

:-)

—

Will looked through the peep hole of his door, waiting for Mike’s distorted figure to arrive. He could hear his own heavy breathing, which made him extremely uncomfortable. Was he always like this? This… nervous? 

It was the same feeling as when he came out to Jonathan, then Lucas, then Max. It was like a pit on his stomach—a hungry, all-consuming pit waiting for him to feed it. 

But this wasn’t like this at all, wasn’t it?

He leaned away from the door. His feet were starting to hurt him, as he had been on his toes to reach the peep hole. If Mike doesn't come soon, they’ll be broken. 

He put his hands on his hips and stretched his back, feeling that satisfying crack rush down his spine. A sigh escaped from his mouth, this was one of the most relaxing things he’s experienced the past month—but he couldn’t linger on this too much.

Outside, he heard the sounds of footsteps coming towards his room. He rushed to the door and looked through the peep hole.

To the side, he saw Mike’s bent figure walking down the hall.

Relief exploded in his chest. He stepped away and swung open the door, struggling with the knob for only a second.

“Mike.” He said before the door even fully opened. 

Mike halted before it, shocked by Will’s quickness. He raised his eyebrows and curled his mouth into a smirk, “Hi.”

Will stood still for a moment, blocking the entrance to his room. “Hi.” He finally said back. His voice was almost a whisper, like that Hi wasn’t meant to be heard at all.

Suddenly, a door down the hallway clicked open.

Will’s head turned to it, eyes snapping open. 

The man from before, Jimmy, walked out. He seemed too preoccupied with slinging his satchel across his shoulder to notice Will, thankfully.

Will grabbed Mike’s forearm and pulled him into the room. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone—this was top secret work.

“Ow!” Mike yelped as he was mercilessly shoved into the room. 

Will slammed the door shut and turned to him, leaning his back against it. “Don’t be loud.”

“Loud? Will, what’s going on? What did you see?” Mike asked, gesturing to the hallway behind the door.

Will took a step closer to Mike. He ignored his questions, brushing them off with a simple shake of his head. He brought his hands to his shoulders.

“What I’m about to tell you—it’s serious.” He said, leaning closer to Mike. His voice was shaky, just like his hands resting on Mike’s shoulders. He squeezed his jacket as his grip tightened.

“Okay, yeah. Serious.” Mike nodded, putting his hands up in surrender. “Got it.”

Will sighed in relief. Mike gets it, Will knew he would. He blinked away the tears from his eyes which allowed him to see Mike clearer now. The blur lifted.

It was only now that he noticed how close he was to Mike.

That memory of them in the Upside Down rushed into his mind. He stiffened, his breathing hitched. The beating of his heart wasn’t only from fear now.

Suddenly, he pushed himself a couple of steps back. 

Mike stared at him with a confused look on his face. He seemed puzzled, and worried. 

Will didn’t want Mike to worry, but for him to get some help, he had to be. It was the great compromise.

“Do you want a drink?” He asked, taking a step towards the kitchen. He opened a drawer and took out a coffee capsule.

“Eh, no I’m fine. It’s alright.” Mike’s response echoed through the room as he moved around to the couch. Will heard the sound of the cushion squeaking as he sat on it.

“Are you sure?” Will asked over the sound of the coffee machine’s rumbling.

“Yeah, I had a big lunch.” Mike said.

Will nodded and looked away. He stared into his mug as the coffee filled it, the scent of caffeine wafting into his nose.

He shut his eyes and took a deep breath; he needed to say this in a clear, believable way. He didn’t want to scare Mike off. If Mike’s gone, then Will’s gonna have to deal with this by himself. 

He doesn’t think he can.

When the machine finished its job, he picked up the mug and made his way to the couch. He placed it on the coffee table before sitting down next to Mike.

“Listen,” his words were slow and quiet, “Even if… even if you don’t believe me, you can’t say this to anyone.”

Mike frowned. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stared at Will. Then, he opened his mouth, “Will, did you do something bad?”

“No.” Will said quickly, slightly offended by the insinuation that he’d do something bad. “I just—Fuck, Mike. I just need you to promise that you won’t go to anyone with this information. If they know about this, then they might… do something to me. If they do, then I’ll never be able to…”

His words trailed off.

Mike raised a brow, expecting him to continue, but he doesn’t. 

Finally, after a beat passes, he puts a hand on Will’s shoulder, “I swear on every person I love that I won’t tell anyone.”

Will’s eyes narrowed in on him. The heat on his shoulder stiffened his back—distracted him.

He couldn’t afford straying away from the problem, all because Mike Wheeler wanted to get touchy.

Another beat passes, then another. The two stared at each other in silence, Will’s thoughts desperately trying to cling onto the matter at hand while Mike’s touch brought memories he’d rather forget. 

“Vecna’s back.” He suddenly blurted out.

The hand on his shoulder slipped off. 

Mike’s eyes widened, “What?”

Will opened his mouth again, ready to continue. He’d been preparing for this moment. He ran a hundred scenarios in his head, and he was ready to handle every single one of them—That is, as long as Mike didn’t panic too much.

“Basically—”

“What the hell do you mean?! He can’t be back—he can’t be. It’s just… it’s just not possible. I mean, his head was chopped clean off. There’s no… what? And—”

“Mike.”

“—if he really is back, why now? And why not in Hawkins? This doesn’t—”

“Mike.”

“—make any freaking sense! He’s dead. He’s dead.”

Mike’s rambles came to a halt. 

His reaction was anticipated, but Will doubted his readiness now. Thinking about it and actually doing it—there’s a difference. He lost all his confidence.

“I… I know. I thought he was dead too. But,” Will paused, “I hear him. I—I feel him. Just like in Hawkins.”

Mike tilted his head to the side, “You feel him? Like, on your neck?” He gestured to his own before awkwardly dropping his hand.

“Oh.” Will thought about it for a second. He doesn’t remember if there was ever anything to do with his neck, but if he had to guess, there probably was an instance where goosebumps ran across it, right? Why would Vecna stop doing that? “A bit. Not as much as before, though. I feel him like—I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain.”

“I get it.” 

“You do?”

“Yeah… yeah, I do.”

A hopeful grin grew on Will’s face. Someone actually understands, someone gets him. 

“Thank god.” He said, “Everyone was making me feel like I was crazy.”

Mike looked off to the side, his serious expression faltering for a moment. His brows knitted together in a frown as he chewed on his bottom lip.

His demeanor was very telling.

Will’s heart dropped. “You… you don’t believe me, do you?” He said after a moment, letting the silence settle between them.

Mike’s head snapped back to look at him.

“No! No, I believe you, I really do.” He started, putting his hands on his chest. “It’s just that… who didn’t believe you?”

Will shook his head, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I feel like it’s important. If it’s someone who wasn’t there—in Hawkins with us, I mean—then their opinion doesn’t matter, they wouldn’t understand. But if it was someone who was there, like Jonathan…” Mike paused and took a deep breath before continuing, “I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t believe you.”

He was choosing his words very carefully, like one wrong thing would make Will blow up. It bothered Will—he was treating him like a child, like a patient.

“My therapist doesn’t believe me.” He replied, “He thinks it’s—” He stopped himself before saying PTSD. 

Considering what Mike just said, Richardson does know about Vecna and he doesn’t believe him, and according to him Will is just seeing things. But the thing is, Richardson doesn’t get it. He wasn’t actually there. He was handed a file with Will’s name on it—that’s it. 

His opinion is invalid.

And yet, if Mike knows about this, he’ll believe Richardson. He’s never met him before, let alone know what he looks like, but he’ll take his opinion as fact. It’s not—Richardson doesn’t understand the full story.

“Is he one of the government-assigned ones?” Mike asked. 

“No.” The lie slipped from his lips. He looked away, unable to look Mike in the eye. “I—I felt like one who didn’t know would understand my feelings more. They… they wouldn’t look at me like a victim of… it. Just a patient.”

Slowly, Mike nodded his head. Will wasn’t sure if the excuse did its job, but this was a good sign.

“I stopped seeing mine after like a year or so.” He said.

“They found you?” Will asked, turning back to look at him.

“Of course they found me. I didn’t do that good of a job at hiding.” He responded, a sarcastic look on his face.

“Austin.” Will said the name out loud, more to himself. He felt it on his tongue—different, strange. It didn’t sound like Mike at all. “You believe me, Austin?”

Mike took a deep breath and looked away. He stared off into space for some time, considering everything. 

Why is he taking such a long time to accept this?

It annoyed Will, scared him. If Mike doesn’t believe him, maybe… maybe Richardson is right.

“We need to see El first.” Mike said, pulling Will out of his thoughts.

“What?”

Chapter Text

Her body wasn’t cold, just unmoving.

Even through the glass, the sound of the monitor could be heard echoing the beats of her poor heart.

Will tried to look away—to blink and see the bed empty—but it was if a hand remained on his head, forcing him to stare at the body. It’s nails sunk into his scalp, but a scream wasn’t appropriate nor warranted in a space like this.

“She would’ve known.” Mike’s voice came from his right.

“I know.” He replied, keeping his voice quiet so as to not disturb the asleep. “But… but maybe he’s hiding from her.”

In the reflection of the glass, he saw Mike turn his head to him. Slowly, he followed suit.

His friend’s dark brows knitted together. “It doesn’t work like that. You know that, Will.”

Will bit his lip. 

The door to his left clicked open.

“Good evening, Mr. Byers.” A lanky man in a white doctor’s coat walked in, addressing Will with a nod. “Just visiting today?”

“No, actually…” Will fell quiet. He knew what he wanted to say, he knew what he came here for—what he dragged Mike here for. And yet, saying it out loud felt wrong.

It was a good thing Mike said it for him.

“Was there anything irregular with Eleven?” He asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Will could see them tremble as they stood a mere moment ago, although, he wasn’t sure if it was because of the sight of Eleven or the abnormal coldness of the room.

“Irregular?” The doctor asked, tilting his head to the side.

“Irregular.” Will repeated.

After the defeat of Vecna, Eleven fell.

Her body collapsed, bending at the waist and cramping up. Her face was blue, although she was breathing. 

She just fell, and for 20 years, she didn’t clasp the hand reaching down to pull her to her feet.

It was medically classified as a coma, but the reason was unknown. She showed no previous symptoms nor suffered any injury to cause such an immediate shift in her condition.

But when Vecna’s heart stopped, her’s slowed.

“No,” the doctor shook his head, shifting from foot to foot. “No, no irregular behavior has been detected.”

“Can you check?” Will asked, quickly cutting in.

The man’s eyes wandered from Will to Mike, a dumb expression on his face. 

“Well,” he stammered, “I can, but the results will be the same.”

Will began to feel agitated. The doctor could very well so check on his sister without interrupting anyone’s day, but he instead wants to make Will look stupid. 

“Stop acting—”

“No, that’ll be fine. Thank you.” Mike said, grabbing Will by the arm. 

Before he could process anything, he was being pulled out of the building by a tough grip on his bicep.

The two stumbled onto the street, awkwardly clinging to one another to avoid faceplanting into the sidewalk due to an invisible step. 

Once he regained his balance, Will pushed Mike away from him, frustration controlling his body. “What the hell, Mike?!”

“Will.” He said, exasperated. He took a step towards him with an outstretched hand, as if approaching a wild animal. “There’s nothing irregular or… abnormal with El. He’s right, the results would’ve came back the same.”

Will let out a breathy chuckle. “So? You dragged me out—I probably have a bruise now!”

“Sorry.” Mike said in a small voice, biting his lip and looking away. 

Will shook his head, clearly sick with his companion. “Why do you treat me like that? Like—like I need to be calmed, like I can’t control my emotions or actions.”

Mike tilted his head in confusion. His raised a brow and pressed his teeth into his lips hard enough to spill blood, Will guessed. 

Would it still taste like iron if it was another person’s? Would it carry a hint of their scent in its flavor, or remain true to its biology?

Will’s eyes widened.

He took a step back, almost tripping onto the road. What was he thinking?! Why were his thoughts racing from angry to… whatever this is?

He couldn’t see himself, but if he could, if he could step close enough to Mike to see his own face staring back in those dark pupils, he’d see a red blush tinting his cheeks.

The spiraling staircase his mind was falling down vanished when Mike responded.

“A couple of hours ago, you were normal.” He said. “It’s… difficult… for me to talk to you when I don’t know if you’re going to freak out on me!”

Regret was evident on Mike’s face as soon as the words slipped from his lips.

“Will—”

“Don’t say that to me.” Will said in a whisper. He blinked away the tears clinging to his lashes. His ribs couldn’t support the heavy weight of his heart, causing it to sink to his stomach.

Mike’s face twitched.

The air around the two of them stilled. Love, a concept of peace and yearning, would die at the sight of them.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Mike replied.

Will sunk his teeth into his cheeks. The familiar iron flavor rushed into his mouth.

The question still stood: would his taste any different?

“I’d rather die than listen to you.” Will said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He could feel his own lips twitching into a smile.

Mike looked taken aback, startled by the switch again. For a moment, he didn’t reciprocate Will’s emotions. He held his grudge close to his chest, hurt by Will’s outburst.

And yet, he felt inclined to follow in his steps. Will could see it in his eyes—he didn’t have to see himself to see Mike mirroring him.

“I’d kill you first.” Mike said.

A dark joke. Dark humor. Controversial humor. 

Will didn’t like it growing up. Actually, he didn’t like it until… now. It was strange. His self from an hour ago would look at him with confusion, or better yet, disgust.

Mike, on the other hand, wasn’t new to this banter. He’d go back and forth with Lucas in the past, and no offense would be taken.

He was always gentle with Will, though.

Why is their relationship different? Where did the innocence go? The care?

The care remains, Will argues, it just changed. They are comfortable enough to joke about death, because if one were to die, the other would surely follow.

At least that’s what Will thought in his new brain.

That’s when it clicked: death.

It doesn’t change for them, but it might change for others. Evil.

Chapter Text

Will didn’t grow up religious, but Lonnie was a self-proclaimed believer in Christ.

Every couple of weeks, usually after a particularly bad event, his father would take the family to church.

It would always be Sunday. The sun would always be burning Will’s thin pupils. The car would always be under work, or sold.

He remembers the sounds of feet shuffling back and forth against red carpet. He remembers the smell of his father’s cologne. 

He remembers the quiet ride home, in which Jonathan would be reprimanded for putting on his headphones.

But at the end of the day, these weak traditions his family followed will always be that: weak. None of them were religious, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be.

He knew that Lonnie grew up a devout christian, but after his mother died—Will’s grandmother—he stopped wearing that old cross necklace.

After that, he actually seemed to be… nicer, like a weight was lifted off of his chest.

So why was it that whenever the Byers were cornered, they fell into religion—the thing that pained them the most?

Will raised the brick with wobbly hands. The sticky blood made it difficult to hold onto, but as he threw his arms down, it felt natural, like it was meant to be there. 

The brick hit the back of the brunette’s head, deepening the red hole created a few moments ago.

He raised his weapon again, holding it towards the sky like a miracle bestowed upon him. The sunlight escaped through the curtains and shone on his bloody hands—someone was watching.

God?

He bent at the knees, shakier now, and brought down the brick one last time. 

With a grunt, he straightened himself, abandoning the brick in Jimmy’s head.

His father taught him something, and due to the fact that this was a rare occurrence, Will forbade himself to forget it.

To fix oneself, a sacrifice must be made. An eye for an eye.

A lamb, a tree, a child—a sacrifice must be made, something good.

Will wasn’t sure if Jimmy was good, but he was better than most.

Surely, better than Mike.

“Open the door! Please, Will—fuck!”

Will stumbled backwards, away from the still body. A finger twitched once before resting, catching the sunlight’s harsh glare on the ring wrapped around it.

His back hit the solid wood of the door, causing a shock to run down his spine. 

“Will!”

Mike’s voice broke the force of the door and rattled through Will’s slumped body.

He doesn’t know what happened—doesn’t know whether he opened the door or Mike, doesn’t know who disposed of the body or how. All he knows is that one way or another, his sin was erased.

Was it God, or his own ignorance? Were the words etched into the sacred text the words of the Lord, or did he etch them into the delicate paper himself?

Was there even a religion at all?

—

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands shaking before him. A cold towel wiped away the dried blood in between his fingers and under his nails. It was gentle, and yet, he couldn’t help but flinch away when the cool water pressed into his palm. 

He looked down at Mike who was kneeling next to his knees, completely focused on his task. Wipe after wipe, his eyes remained unblinking. 

“I don’t think…” soft words slipped from his lips, “I don’t think that was good.”

He lifted his head to look at Will; his stare was more accusatory than understanding. Gentle.

Will cleared his throat, “Just say it.”

He leaned down so as to shorten the distance between them. Now, they were so close, they were practically in their own bubble. A cold bubble.

Will pulled his hands away from Mike’s, although Mike had already stopped wiping. His hands looked rusty with all the blood remaining—like he was rusting.

Mike tilted his head—Will couldn’t tell whether or not it was sparked by confusion or intimidation.

“Say what?” He asked.

“That I’m not—” Will’s voice got caught in his throat. He coughed once, then spoke again. “That I’m not a good person.”

He felt the tension of the room increase. It was almost tangible now—almost thick enough that Will could squeeze it in his hand.

His rusty, shaking hand that was slowly inching towards Mike’s face.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Will.” Mike breathed out, as if shocked by the assumption. A small smirk twitched on his pale lips.

“But you don’t think I’m good, either.” Will spat out definitively.

Mike let his head fall to his chest as an abrupt laugh escaped from him. And even though Will’s view was just his dark locks, he refused to move his eyes away.

He wasn’t frustrated, just sad. Why couldn’t Mike take this seriously?

“Will—” he chuckled, lifting his head again. A light blush arose on his cheeks, hiding his freckles beneath a fog of red and pink.  “Will, you’re being so… pessimistic. Or maybe, philosophical, asking me about human morality.”

“Well, I talked to Richardson about it plenty of times, and he said it was an important point of discussion.” Will quickly defended himself. “I don’t see why it’s funny to you.”

“Richardson?”

“The therapist.”

“Ah, yes. The therapist!”

Mike’s head lazily lolled to the side. His smile widened, his gaze was euphoric. Will felt like he was dealing with a drunk person. He thought he escaped that many years ago—perhaps not.

“Stop acting like that!” He yelled, confused. “I—I don’t understand, why is any of this—”

“Did you tell Richardson about that night?” Mike interrupted him, inching closer. He placed his hands on Will’s knees, pressing the cold towel into his pants, effectively soaking them.

Will shifted back a bit, giving himself more space. His spine was beginning to ache now; leaning down is reminding him of his age.

“What night?” He asked, knitting his brows together. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, contradicting the incoherent yell that escaped him a moment ago.

Mike’s pupils were so large, it seemed like there were no whites in his eyes at all—like they never existed, a fragment of Will’s imagination.

He squeezed his knee.

“At Mel—?” Will began to ask, his words moving faster than his mind.

He was cut off by Mike springing forward, using the hands on Will’s knees as support.

Within a second—perhaps shorter than that—their lips collided.

It felt like all the air in his lungs was punched out. After hesitating, his body bent forwards, leaning into the kiss. The action was slow, cautious, uncertain—but none of that made it less comfortable, less natural.

And Will was right. He didn’t have to deepen the kiss to taste the blood remaining on Mike’s lips. It was sweet—metallic, yes—but sweet, like honey. 

He moved his hands to cup Mike’s face, forgetting the blood he was probably smearing across those freckles.

The two ignorant men forgot blood, forgot dirt, forgot guilt and pain and all those feelings sad men were supposed to have. Those feelings that stab a little heart after kissing it, after feeling the soft beats like rhythmic vibrations. 

He loved to love a man like him, like Mike. 

But the body dissolved in his hands faster than guilt could settle.

The lips he was leaning against disappeared. He fell forwards into nothing before straightening his back, trying to process what just happened.

Before him wasn’t Mike, but nothing.

He was alone.

Alone, apart from the cold towel sitting on his knee, looking like a blobfish. A red blobfish.

“Where is he?” He whispered to himself, panic arising in his chest. He turned left, then right, searching for something—a sign of life other than ugly seafood.

“Home.”