Chapter Text
Will wishes the world would just stop turning for a minute.
Just so he could take a break and pull a breath in without shaking—stop trying to catch up with everything, look down at his feet, and not feel guilty for not moving an inch.
But the world never seems to listen to Will, even when he begs it desperately.
It’s been deaf to his pleas since he was twelve, no, probably ever since he was born. He’d prayed and prayed for the world to stop tormenting him, to stop Lonnie’s slaps and punches from landing, to mute the mean words from his schoolmates, to not let the monsters drag him into another dimension, to just do something. Anything.
But kindness from the world comes in crumbs, sprinkled in moments of his life.
It was just enough to keep him hoping, looking forward, waiting for tomorrow—enough to keep him running, to make him believe that he could outrun his nightmares and run toward his future.
It was kindness when Lonnie stopped coming home. It was kindness when Mike, Lucas, and Dustin came into his life. It was kindness when he came out alive after being lost in the Upside Down for a week.
But the pain never stops, and it never goes away either. It just arrives in increments, piling on top of each other, like a fragile Jenga tower ready to topple over.
He should’ve known that those crumbs were never a sign of promise.
So, here he is.
At seventeen, weariness has seeped its way from his skin and into his soul. A heaviness has settled into his bones, making his every move an effort. It’s an exhaustion no slumber could relieve.
When his eyes flutter open, he doesn’t dare move a muscle. He stays still, lying on the mattress thrown haphazardly on the basement floor of the Wheeler house. He stares up at the beams and lets the world happen to him, lets the house breathe around him, lets himself pretend that the world’s incessant movement has finally ceased.
He listens to the rattle of the pipes, the hum of the refrigerator, and the vibration of the heater. The house doesn’t creak at this hour. There are no banging closets and cabinets, no thuds made by careless feet—a sign that all occupants are still asleep.
The basement still smells like old wood and dust, the detergent that seems to permeate the entire house not strong enough to invade the basement. But every night, the cold would do what the detergent couldn’t. It would crawl in the cracks of the basement victoriously like little spiders. Will let it bite him.
He blinks, and the world starts moving again, churning and trying to digest him. Slowly, he pushes himself off the bed, his duvet rustling from the friction. Even though he knows no one is going to be there, he still glances at the sagging couch. Somewhere upstairs, his brother is snoring beside Nancy’s sleeping figure.
He creeps up the stairs and heads straight to the kitchen. He pulls a glass from one of the overhead cabinets, fills it with water from the faucet, and stares out the window above the sink.
The sun hasn’t risen yet, the skies still undecided if it wants to be a depressing gray or a whimsical periwinkle. The fog slowly descends, kissing the grass, wetting it with morning dew before dissipating. Somehow, he knows, those very grass blades that carried a droplet would bend and offer it to the ground, like it’s giving the memories of last night back to the soil.
Along with it, the gray, ashy spores fall like snowflakes from the sky and settle on every surface of Hawkins. The authorities try to assure the town that it isn’t a health hazard, but Mrs. Wheeler had been dubious about it and insists they still wear face masks when going outside.
Will thinks she’s not wrong for feeling that way, after all, he had seen the decay from the cracks slowly spreading on the vegetation in Hawkins. He’d also noticed that people in their town are now more susceptible to cough and asthma.
He jolts back to where he’s standing when he feels a steady flow of warm liquid dripping from his nostrils down to the slopes of his upper lip. He set the untouched glass of water beside the sink, his hand reaching up to touch his nose. He bends forward and turns the tap on, just a tiny bit, so the splash of the water wouldn’t be too harsh against the silence.
He tries to scoop the blood with his fingers, wiping them and running his bloodied hand under water. He watches as his blood swirls with the water, mixing before going straight into the drain. He does it over and over for the next thirty seconds until the flow finally stops.
There’s no panic rolling under his skin. He’s done this a couple of times this month, and he never dared to tell anyone, not even Mom. He knows they’d just worry uselessly. Will is fine. It’s just the cold messing up his sensitive nasal cavities.
He hears Mrs. Wheeler first before he sees her. The creaks on the stairs give her away, though he knows she tried really hard not to make a sound. Soon, the lights in the kitchen turn on, and Mrs. Wheeler, with her voluminous curly blonde hair, appears.
She jumps a little when she spots him leaning on the sink before flashing a kind smile.
“You’re up early. Bad dream?” She asks as she busies herself with preparing today’s breakfast.
“Uh, no, I just slept really early last night, I think,” he says, opening the overhead cabinets and pulling out several plates.
“Tell me if you don’t feel comfortable sleeping in the basement, okay? I’m sure Michael would be more than willing to share his room,” she says, and Will just smiles at her.
During the first two weeks of his stay here at the Wheelers, he’d observed that Mrs. Wheeler moved in the kitchen like she was stepping into a dance that only she knew. It was efficient yet graceful. And over time, Will learned the steps to it, and slowly, he joined Mrs. Wheeler as her dance partner.
He’d set the table first before he rejoins her in the kitchen, pulling a frying pan to cook the bacon and hash browns while she does the pancakes, eggs, and coffee. The dance made him feel less of a burden and more like he was earning his place here.
It seems transactional, but Will secretly loves this moment.
The calmness of the routine feels like something even the apocalypse could not touch. It’s almost idyllic. The meager sunlight that was strong enough to stab through the overcast sky slowly washes over the interior of the house through the windows, making it seem like the rest of the world did not exist. He wants to preserve it, to keep it untouched, but deep down, he thinks that would be impossible.
Will takes a quick shower while Mrs. Wheeler finishes up. He passes a beaming Holly on the stairs, her little legs bouncing down the steps. She greets him with enthusiasm. Nancy comes out of her room in a rush, tucking the back of her pink sweater into her pants, her hair smooth and tidied in a ponytail. Jonathan follows her, rubbing his eyes. When he disappears into the bathroom, Mike’s door remains closed across the hall.
Change comes easily to him now. He’d tried to stop it when he was fourteen, stubbornly grasping onto his childish board games, even though his fingers had started cramping long ago, but that time had passed. He knew there was no way things would stay the same. All of them were growing up, forming new interests, dabbling in romance, too excited to get a taste of adulthood.
It had hurt to watch all of his friends change. Their childishness was slowly washed away by the pouring summer rain, like the gasoline spills that reflect swirls of rainbow on the pavement. For them, it was gradual and therapeutic, almost like a cleansing ritual. But childhood was beaten out of his life with a bat, a forced expulsion decided by pain and anger.
He welcomed change in Lenora. It was sudden, almost like dunking himself headfirst in the pool, not letting himself decide if the water’s too cold. It was uncomfortable, but that was good, right? Because change means that he was finally catching up to his friends.
He’d never been more wrong. Change snowballed from there, going faster and faster down the hill, but he never could catch up to them, no matter what. Still, he welcomed it.
He’d slowly shed his horrid bowl cut when they returned to Hawkins. Mom hated it when he no longer sported the longer, neat ends of his bowl cut, but he liked it a little bit messy like this. He thinks it suits him better.
After showers just like this one, he’d run his fingers through them and just let them dry on their own.
He dresses quickly, trying not to let the cold seep into his pores. He wears layer after layer of clothes from Mike to combat the cold that seems to never go away, ever since the Quake. Even with a flannel, long sleeves, a blue sweater, and a collared jacket, the tips of his fingers are still ice-cold.
He blinks at the mirror. Shadows have permanently taken residence beneath his eyes. But at least, his skin isn’t looking sallow.
He swings the door open, letting the air and the image of Mike flood in. Mike is already dressed in his striped long sleeves and jeans, ready for breakfast, when he meets his eyes. He watches his face light up, his eyes crinkling just a tiny bit at the corners, his lips pulling into a slight grin, and suddenly, the house just seems a lot brighter.
“Hey, good morning,” Mike says softly, the door to his room clicking behind him. “Excited for later?” He raises his brow at him.
His brain stutters. He thinks of what today is, and he feels his chest grow warmer.
Did Mike finally remember? Did he plan something for him later? Was today going to be different from his past two birthdays, where he only received radio silence?
“Uh, what’s for later?” He tries to act nonchalantly, like he did not remember what today is, like it’s not important to him, even though his skin is starting to buzz with joy and anticipation.
“We’re going on a patrol, remember? We’re teamed up with Nancy and Jonathan,” he states matter-of-factly, as though he’s pointing out the obvious, and Will could feel his chest deflate before it constricts a little.
“Right,” he mumbles, trying to shrug off the creeping warmth of humiliation on his face. The tiny bit of hope he felt suddenly seemed silly now because, of course, Mike didn’t remember. He’d stopped remembering Will’s birthday two years ago.
“I can’t believe you forgot,” Mike chuckles as he passes him, oblivious to the hurt in his best friend’s eyes.
I can’t believe you forgot, he wants to spit right back at Mike. But he remains silent and just watches Mike go down the stairs and straight into the dining room, where breakfast chatter grows louder and louder without him.
He leans on the banister for a moment, his shoulders caving in. He ignores the fact that he probably looks utterly crestfallen and just lets himself feel.
***
Back when there were only the four of them in the Party, they had a birthday tradition where the four of them would stay up late and wait for midnight just to greet the birthday boy through their Supercom. Later, after class, they’d go to the diner to get milkshakes before heading to the arcade and ending the day with a movie at Mike’s basement. It was simple, but it was a celebration nonetheless.
They tried to uphold that tradition until they were fourteen before deciding to stop, but it seemed Will never got the memo. Because on his fifteenth birthday, he still waited by the phone since their walkies were useless with the distance between California and Indiana. He’d stared at the clock, counting down the seconds for the hands to strike twelve, but the phone never rang. Not from Mike, not from Lucas, not from Dustin.
He’d slept that night feeling heavy, trying to console himself with the fact that Mike was arriving later anyway, he’d greet him face to face, and that would be enough. Except that never happened.
Will waited and waited the whole day, until the last second of March 22nd, for nothing. But that was fine. Mike didn’t really forget his birthday, at least, not on purpose. Mike was just busy with El, and besides, the day had turned sour by the end of it.
But his next birthday would be different, he was sure of it.
Only, it hadn’t. He had lain there on the mattress on the floor, waiting for his sixteenth birthday in the dark, waiting for Mike to come down the basement and whisper his greeting, waiting for the Supercom to make a sound from his other two friends. But the door to the basement remained closed, and the Supercom remained quiet for the rest of the night.
Still, he didn’t give up. Later that day, when the four of them met up at the junkyard, he tried to remind them subtly.
“Hey, guys, what’s today’s date?” He tried to ask in passing. He brushed aside the bubbling under his skin that made him feel disgusting and pathetic.
“March 22nd, why?” Lucas answered, his tone flat.
Will waited for something to happen. He studied their faces, looking for the light of recognition to go off in their eyes. He held his breath for the moment they erupt in gasps and splutter apologies. But they all just looked at him, anticipating his reply.
Silence lingered, going stale by the second, before the realization set in. They forgot. Mike forgot. Again. His chest felt hollowed out, empty yet heavier than before. Heat prickled his eyes as a lump grew lodged in his throat. He swallowed it down with force.
“Oh, uh, nothing,” he muttered, averting his eyes from his friends.
His eyes flutter closed. For two consecutive years, the same thing happened. So why did he think that this time would be different?
He should have known better. He should have known birthdays are something you leave behind in childhood, like D&D. Birthdays are something you ignore during an apocalypse. It’s not a priority, it’s not important. He had known this for two years now, but a spark still flickers in his chest, a pointless hope that his friends would somehow remember and celebrate his day.
Change. This is just another change he needs to accept.
***
So, he goes down, sits at the Wheeler dining table, tries to gulp down his coffee, and chews his hashbrowns and bacon, even though the coffee leaves his mouth drier than before, and the grease from the hashbrowns and bacon tastes more like wet cardboard on his tongue.
He nods when Nancy passes by him and whispers, “Junkyard, 4 p.m. Don’t be late.”
He tries to help Mrs. Wheeler clean up the table while Mike waits for him in the foyer, impatient and fidgeting. He ties the bandana over the lower half of his face and watches Mike and Holly do the same before they brave the outside.
“Ready, Holly?” He asks over his shoulder, where Holly struggles to mount her pink bike and keep her backpack fixed on her shoulders.
“Come on, we’re going to be late,” Mike whines, kicking his pedals and leaving them behind.
Holly huffs, “Wait for me!”
It’s the same scene Will had the pleasure to witness for two years. As many things have changed, there are still things like this. Routine, tradition, pattern. It’s only evident in small things that don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, but it’s good. Will likes to cling to moments like these because it allows him to pretend that things are still normal. It acts as a reprieve from the world that was falling apart right before their eyes.
Spores rain down on them, kissing and coating their hair, arms, and legs. The cold air is sharp and cuts his face, but he ignores it. Multiple Humvees roll up in a line before dispersing in different directions at the crossing. He knows that those not only contain soldiers, guns, and ammunition, but also a group of scientists.
The crew had seen people in lab coats traipsing along the barricaded cracks of the Upside Down, looking for any disturbances and trying to figure out what really lies beneath the fiery membrane-like tissue covering the cracks, while the military tries to stop people, mostly stubborn teenagers, from approaching the barricades.
Once they near the school, he sees other students like him, riding their bikes or walking fast. Most have their faces covered with something, while others don’t bother anymore. Either they’ve already gotten used to the spores, or they really believe the authorities.
They meet Lucas and Dustin in front of the school, both wearing serious faces. They rarely smile now, but who could really blame them when the whole school avoids them like a plague? Their peers stare at them with fear in their eyes, and sometimes, when Will meets their eyes, he catches a glimpse of the monsters reflected in them.
It’s not all bad. Their reputation as Devil’s spawns prevents everyone from messing with them, including the jocks. Perhaps, they’re too scared that they’re going to be the next sacrifice, or they didn’t want bad luck to rub off on them. But that didn’t stop the jocks from sneering or casually throwing jabs at them in the hallways.
“Fucking pests, poisoning the town,” Andy sneered by the lockers, flanked by his fellow basketball members on both sides.
“I bet that faggot’s their leader,” another one jeered, who might have been named Josh or Paul. Will cast his eyes on the floor, where sand-like spores from the students’ shoes swirl in different directions. He feels queasy and too exposed.
“Fucking mouth-breathers,” Mike says under his breath. Will’s head snaps up with a gasp, eyes wide with mirth and shock.
Mike rarely cusses, but when he does, it’s always crisp and sharp like he means it, and it always manages to catch Will off guard. Mike’s eyes are darker with anger, pointed and razor-sharp as he glares, but when he catches Will looking at him, he softens them.
“I still can’t believe you played with those douchebags for six months,” Dustin grumbled at Lucas.
Twelve months ago, Dustin would’ve barreled into a fist-fight with the jocks, heart still sore from losing Eddie, and angry for endangering Max. They would’ve been suspended by now for throwing punches to support their best friend, going home with split lips and purple eyes.
But over time, they’ve slowly learned how to keep their head down to keep the crew’s plans intact after Nancy drilled in their heads that they can’t have one person going out of commission because everything is crucial for their bi-monthly missions to succeed.
“They were okay before,” Lucas mumbled, despondent. It’s been his perpetual state ever since Max fell into a coma.
“They’re just scared by what they don’t understand.” Will smiled sadly at him.
It’s easy to villainize the basketball members for the havoc they caused and the witch hunt they launched, causing the crew’s plan with Max to fail, but Will understands that all of these must be hitting Lucas harder than anyone.
He was friends with these jocks for months. He trained and played with them every day, celebrated every win, and carried every loss with them. To see them turn against him and hurt the most important person to him must be torture.
“Yeah,” Lucas says softly, “I’ll see you guys later. We’ve got a really long day ahead of us.” He claps their shoulders before he goes to his class.
***
At lunch, Will found himself alone again in the Art room, surrounded by drying canvases propped on easels, sour papier-mache, and soft clay. It’s a sanctuary for Will, with its heavily decorated walls bathed in sunlight and the room smelling like eye-watering paint thinner and varnish.
He often goes here to hide or take a break from everything for a minute or two. This time is no different. He felt too tender to join and stare right into the clueless faces of his best friends at the cafeteria. He’d laid his head on the table and let sleep drag him from reality.
When he wakes, he’s greeted by the latest volume of the X-Men comic book flapped open in Mike’s hand. Mike, who is bathed in sunlight. Mike, whose other hand is shoved inside the pocket of his jeans. Mike, who is waiting for him to wake up.
Mike looks ethereal like this, the sharp planes of his face more delicate. It feels like a dream, soft around the edges and safe in every way. It feels like something he could never reach or let his fingers graze, too afraid that his skin would somehow taint the moment. He wonders, for a minute, if his subconscious had materialized Mike beside him.
When Mike catches his eye, he rests the comic book on the table and smiles at him gently.
“Hey, you skipped lunch,” he says, his voice fluid, and if Will reaches, he thinks he can run his fingers through it and feel it flow on his skin.
“Sorry, I fell asleep,” he croaks, his voice raspy and rough.
“Are your nightmares getting worse again?” Mike asks, his dark brows scrunching up and meeting in the middle. Will could get lost in his eyes. It often resembles a pool of chocolate, too thick to swim or wade in. Still, it dares him to sink and drown, and Will thinks he’s too weak to deny its allure.
He straightens up and shakes his head, “No, I just feel exhausted.”
Mike stares at him for a while, searching for something, before he nods. “Will you be okay later?” His voice is measured, careful, as though he didn’t want to trigger something in Will.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and nothing will come up tonight,” he chuckles slightly to put Mike at ease.
But Mike chews his lower lip, “Maybe you need to rest. We can just tell Nancy that you’re not feeling well. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Something in Will tingles, like Mike’s words agitated it, “I can do it, Mike. If you’re worried that I’ll be a liability, I can just switch places with Lucas.”
“It’s not that. I don’t think that—Will, you’re not a liability. You’ll never be a liability,” he stutters before he sighs, his voice firmer and steadier, “I’m just worried about you, okay?”
Will knows this. Mike and everyone else have always been worried about him. Everyone’s worries for him made him feel different things. When he was younger, it made him feel fragile, as if he were made of glass that could shatter if someone blew air at him the wrong way. But as he grew older, it began to make him feel like a burden—like he was hindering everyone from getting to their goal. Now, worry suffocates him.
It has never been like that with Mike, even when he worries. With Mike, he just felt like himself. He was just Will Byers, devoid of the traumatic past that still haunts his present.
But Mike’s worry right now makes his insides bubble and steam. Perhaps it was the way he was showing his worry after completely forgetting Will’s birthday that made it look superficial and highly performative. But Will hates it.
“Well, don’t be. You’re not my mom,” he snaps, swiping his bag off the table and jumping off the chair.
He regrets it even before his words finish echoing in the room. He flinches when he sees the hurt piercing through Mike.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that,” he mumbles, looking down at his feet.
“It’s okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t doubt that you can do it, Will, I just—just promise me you’ll take it easy later, okay?” Mike flashes him a smile, lips closed, just slightly stretched, and not reaching his eyes.
“Okay,” he surrenders in a quiet voice.
Mike stands up, extending a paper bag to him, “Here. Dustin wanted to give you one of the sandwiches his mom packed for him.”
He slowly takes it, too afraid to make a sudden movement that could come off as threatening. He smiles at Mike, almost sheepishly.
“Very generous of him,” he muttered, praying humor could banish the awkward air between them.
***
After school, they dropped Holly off at home. Mike barges in the front door, followed by a running Holly, her pigtails bouncing, and Will, who stops at the foyer. Mike had snatched Will’s bag once they reached the driveway, tossing both of their bags at the foot of his bed, before marching back down, footsteps thundering against the steps of the stairs.
He barely pauses in the kitchen before he tells his first lie, “Mom, we’re spending the night at Dustin’s.”
“Again? You just had a sleepover at Dustin’s,” Mrs. Wheeler’s voice reaches Will, laced with concern and confusion.
“That was two weeks ago, and it was at Lucas’,” Mike’s voice trails, getting louder and louder as he nears Will. He nods at Will as if to say, ‘let’s go.’
But Mrs. Wheeler hurriedly walks after Mike, watching him put his shoes back on with her arms crossed against her chest. “Why don’t you have the sleepover here instead? What are you even going to do at Dustin’s?”
“We always do sleepovers here, Mom.” Mike tries to roll his eyes discreetly, but Mrs. Wheeler still catches it, her painted lips turning into a frown. Will smiles at her apologetically. “We’ll just go hang out and watch a movie or something.”
“Well, okay. Just no sneaking out, okay? Follow the curfew,” she reminds them. Mike approaches the door, his mind already half out of there. “Don’t stay up too late. And oh, no underage drinking as well!”
“We’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Wheeler,” Will says softly, hoping the lie won’t be felt when it lands, but quickly follows Mike out of the house, leaving Mrs. Wheeler gazing at them and Holly hollering for her mom from the living room.
In just a minute, they are back on the road, pedaling fast and hard away from Mike’s house and into the path in the woods that leads to the junkyard. They try to keep out of the road as much as possible, just in case they’re still out once the curfew takes effect. It feels effortless now, their movements more relaxed but still vigilant after months of doing this.
It only took six months after the Quake for the military to enforce curfew in their town, right after the evacuees were relocated. They had been tight at the beginning, detaining anyone who set foot outside their house a minute past curfew. It forced the crew to meet at daylight in the SQWK Station, where Robin and Steve are currently employed, but it also risked El and Hopper being found by the authorities.
But after Robin intercepted multiple distress radio calls from the military at consistent intervals, two months after curfew was enforced, it was easy to conclude that something weird was happening with the Upside Down during curfew and that they needed to act now. It was just too perfect, the curfew kept the town oblivious to what was happening, but also ensured their safety.
It was also Robin who recognized the pattern. She’d told them one afternoon, in her signature raspy voice and fast cadence, “Right, so you know how I was messing with the Cerebro last night because I was bored out of my mind. Well, I intercepted a message again. It’s choppy, but it’s pretty much the same as the other five messages from the past three months.”
“Which is?” Nancy probed with slight impatience.
“Seven down. Not enough. Fall back. Discontinue,” Robin said, each word landing like a punch.
“All of the message follows the same thought. Sometimes they drop a word or replace it with another. But always numbers first, different numbers each time, seven, four, one, and ends with ‘discontinue.’ And I think, I think these numbers,” Robin croaked, “they’re casualties.”
Silence reigned in the room, a storm brewing inside Nancy, a dread growing inside Will, and the urge to protect breaching Steve’s face.
“It is Vecna.” El’s steady voice shattered the fragile air between them.
Lucas inhales sharply, and Joyce takes a subconscious step towards Will, always ready to worry, always ready to prevent any danger from reaching him.
Will shook his head, all the heads turning towards him. He hated the way they looked at him, holding their breaths for the next words he’ll say, like he’s the harbinger of bad news. Their eyes always held the same thing: fear, trepidation, panic, anger, and it’s always directed at him, as if they were already looking directly at Vecna.
“It’s not him. I haven’t felt him since that day,” he says, his mind tunneling back to that moment where they watched dark smoke billow out from the cracks in Hawkins. “He’s been quiet, too quiet.”
“If it’s not him, then it could be the Demogorgon or Demodogs or Demobats or whatever Demo shit exists in that hell hole. But one thing’s for sure, they are attacking twice each month. Once in the first week and again in the third week of each month,” Robin said ominously.
The next month after that was spent sneaking at curfew to meet up with the crew, split into pairs, and stake out near the cracks where they can see soldiers at a safe distance. Will had stared at the cracks from a distance. It was glowing red, like a deep gash on the ground that refused to heal. It keeps bleeding into their world, and the government clearly has no idea how to stop any of this.
The woods had been quiet that night. He’d been paired with Nancy at the northern crack, her hands gripping her shotgun tight, ready to aim and shoot. There were no crows cawing or owls hooting, the branches of the trees were still, and the leaves were, for once, not shaking. Even in the dark, he could see his breath bloom from his lips and curl into smoke.
It was in between his breaths, just a flicker of a second, when the first Demogorgon appeared out of thin air and landed with a growl that could obliterate the world, its flower-like head blossoming in the sickest way possible. It straightens and towers over the clambering soldiers, its too-long limbs pale and oily. Panicked shouts erupted, orders echoed into the woods, gunshots blasting off into the cold of the night.
Will took an automatic step back, his limbs locking up, and his breath labored. He’s back to that night again, when he was just twelve, and so horribly helpless. He stared with horror as a second Demogorgon ripped its way out of the crack and started mauling the first soldier on its path.
“Shit,” Nancy hissed and raised her gun, her feet planted apart and firmly on the dried leaves, “Will, report to the others.”
But Will was frozen. He couldn’t feel his fingers or press his Supercom.
When Nancy was only met with silence, she took a glance at him and didn’t hesitate to bring down the gun and swipe the walkie out of his useless hands. She pressed on it and put it near her mouth.
“Two Demogorgons just appeared here at north. What’s the status of everyone’s station? Over,” she fired off.
Static came first before Dustin’s voice came with clarity, “Nothing here at east. Over.”
Nancy gulped, nodding at the walkie. She gazed up at Will again, the cogs in her mind turning, looking for a solution to unfreeze Will.
Will’s eyes remained far away, wide and afraid as soldiers get dismembered before him, blood bursting from the severed joint and splattering onto the ground. Some were dragged into the cracks and into another dimension, still screaming and kicking the monsters. He was once one of them, but he had come out alive. He feared luck wouldn’t be on their side the way it had been on his that night.
Will’s ears suddenly felt like they were filled with water, muffling everything, trying to soften all the sharp noise around him.
He can feel Nancy gripping his arm, shaking him. She might have been screaming his name, but he couldn’t hear anything.
“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” Robin screeched, then, “Three Demogorgons, south,” she said, her voice clipped, like her vocabulary was reduced to nothingness.
“Mike?” Nancy called, her brother’s name coated with worry, “What’s the situation over there?”
“Peaceful,” Mike said, the word falling out from his lips and into Will’s ears, piercing through the water, bringing him back to his body. “Do not engage. Nancy, you can’t engage. We’re not prepared.”
“I know. We retreat tonight. Meet us at the junkyard.” Nancy’s voice registered on the walkie with authority.
***
The first thing Will does once he and Mike reach the junkyard is get his shotgun from the hatch that stores every weapon Murray had supplied them. It’s propped next to Nancy’s rifle, still loaded with the leftover bullets from their last patrol two weeks ago. He sets up three cans on a log while they wait for the others to arrive.
He plants his feet on the ground, firm, steady, and apart. He raises the shotgun and rests its stock against the skin between his chest and shoulder, left hand gripping the forestock steady, right hand on the trigger. He squints, breathes in, and squeezes, the gunshot resounding through the forest surrounding the junkyard. His ears ring, but the clink of the can is unmistakable from the silence that follows.
He breathes out and does it again twice more before he drops the shotgun. Between his second and third shot, Nancy arrived with Jonathan. Before he finishes his practice, Nancy is already next to him with her shotgun.
“Nice shot,” she comments as she checks the magazine of her gun.
“Thanks. I’ll set it for you,” he offers.
When they met up that night with the others, one thing was clear to everyone: the Demogorgons won’t just stop at the soldiers. They’ll be prowling all over Hawkins once they become unsatisfied with them. And that would happen sooner than they think if they don’t act now, as Robin pointed out that the attacks are escalating.
Nancy never brought up the way he reacted the night they witnessed the attack, and he’ll forever be thankful for that. That would’ve only worried everyone, and Mom would’ve hovered around him more when he already loathes himself for freezing up and his body for still living in the past.
He expected Nancy to keep him out of the plans, to view him as nothing but useless, because really, what could he contribute to the crew when they went against Demogorgons if he froze up like that?
But instead of doing that, Nancy went up to him and said, “I heard you know how to use a gun.”
“What?” He asked, clueless about where the conversation was going.
“That’s how you survived the Upside Down for a week, right? You used Lonnie’s hunting rifle.”
“Yeah,” he said meekly, voice just above a whisper, “but I just mostly hid.”
Nancy nodded. “Well, I’ve got a spare shotgun and some pistols. You can have them if you’re ready,” she said casually before walking away.
Will’s lips had parted, his mind reeling. Nancy wanted him to join their patrol missions. She’d offered him firearms even though she saw what the sight of Demogorgons did to him. She’d said those words like he wasn’t a hopeless case. She was offering her shotgun like a lifeline, a second chance to prove that he can do something right.
He hadn’t held a gun again since he was twelve, but his mind was still screaming how he should’ve been one of those dead soldiers now decaying in the Upside Down, so he’d picked up the shotgun Nancy offered, practiced every chance he got, and swore to never miss a single shot again in his life.
He may be wrong and different, but even Lonnie could admit that Will was a goddamn good shot.
Two cars park at the junkyard as the sky starts to darken. Steve’s excessively hairy head pops out from the window of his car before he waves his arm at Nancy, which Jonathan rolls his eyes at. Robin bolts out of the passenger seat, followed by Dustin from the backseat, while Steve opens his trunk and pulls out his nails-embedded bat. Meanwhile, Murray saunters out from the other car, both of his hands carrying boxes of ammunition.
“I come bearing gifts and not just for the prince and the princess.” He grins at both Nancy and Will, handing out the boxes to them before he turns to Mike. “But to the most loyal knight and the valiant ranger, as well.”
Lucas takes that perfect time to roll up on his bike.
“Okay…?” Mike says, unsure and awkward.
“Now, I know you’ve been carrying the same bat as our Casanova, King Steve here, but I think that this would suit you better,” he says to Mike with enthusiasm, going back to his car. He opens the door to the backseat and pulls something long with a hilt.
“A real sword for the Paladin,” he says almost maniacally after he unsheathes the sword, the silver double-edge blade glinting and glowing.
“Holy shit,” Mike inhales before rushing towards Murray, marveling at the sword. “Where did you get this?”
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Murray says, pleased with himself. He passes the sword to Mike by the hilt. “Just be careful when you swing it.”
Will almost smiles to himself at the joy on Mike’s face. He remembers how sore Mike was when Nancy declared that he wasn’t allowed to handle a shotgun, let alone a pistol, like him and Nancy, who were the only two that Hopper deemed decent shooters after they taught everyone how to shoot.
Lucas passed. His aim was good, but he was too nervous to hold a gun and decided to stick with his wrist rocket. Both Dustin and Mike had trouble with the gun’s recoil, their bodies not properly absorbing the force of the kickback.
“As for you, my liege,” Murray turns to Lucas, “Let’s not kid ourselves that your wrist rocket does any damage. You’ll do better with this,” he says, brandishing a crossbow. “I already took the liberty of customizing these arrows. They’re highly flammable. All you have to do is light them up with one of those flame throwers, and you’re good to go.”
“Cool. Thanks, Murray.” Lucas smiles as he stares at the crossbow heavy in his hands.
Jonathan, Robin, and Dustin beeline to the hatch. Dustin takes his spear, while Robin and Jonathan put on the flamethrower Murray smuggled into their town. Robin takes another two bags full of Molotov cocktails and gives one to Mike and the other to Steve.
Meanwhile, Will and Nancy load up on their ammo. Nancy straps the belt full of magazines across her body while Will takes two pistols with him.
It’s another routine Will has gotten used to. Gather the crew, practice aim, load up, go over the plan for the last time, and head to the designated crack with the team. It’s comfort before the chaos, the calm before the storm, the purgatory before they submerge into hell. Will takes this moment to quiet his mind.
The leaves crunch before Mom, El, and Hopper emerge from the trees. El comes running up to the crew, her arms wide. Her hair is longer now, going past her collarbones, and all curly. But it’s the bangs that make him smile. It’s the same bangs he used to sport when he still had his bowl cut, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyebrows. It reminds him of California, though he knows California wasn’t the kindest place to her.
“Mike!” She beams, her arms wrapping around Mike’s shoulders. Mike automatically returns the hug.
Will tries his best not to stare. He has learned that if he wants to avoid the ache, he needs to stop himself from looking at the two of them. So instead, he faces Mom and lets himself be enveloped by her.
“How are you, baby?” She says, her eyes roving around his face. Her hand cups his face before moving to his hair, still mourning his bowl cut up to this day. “Are you sleeping well?”
“Yeah, I’m great, Mom,” he chuckles and lets himself lean into her hand. “Really.”
“Okay,” she says softly.
She moves on to Jonathan, hugging him and studying him the same way she did with him. She’s doing that a lot more these days, treating Jonathan the way she treats Will, like she was making up for the time she didn’t pay enough attention to her first son.
“Alright, we’ll be quick. Here’s the plan for tonight,” Nancy says, the authority is back in her voice. “Team one will consist of Jonathan, Will, Mike, and me. We’re on the northern crack tonight. Team two, Steve, Robin, Lucas, and Dustin, you guys are on the southern crack.”
“If the attacks continue the same pattern, the Demogorgons will come from the north and south since they appeared on the east and west last time,” Mike interjects. “We take out any strays that go into the woods. We do not approach the military. We keep in contact and report as often as possible.”
“We’ll monitor you through the walkies. El will try to find Max in the Void first, before she tries to search for Vecna.” Hopper’s voice rumbles. “We’ll be in the cabin if someone gets injured.”
Silence descends upon them, each one of them just breathing in. This moment always happens every mission, sandwiched between preparations, planning, and moving. It’s that moment where everyone tries to gather as much courage as they can with their thundering hearts because no one really knows for sure how each mission will go down, even though they’ve already tried to understand every pattern they have.
Will thinks some of them are convincing themselves that everything will be alright—most probably Robin, while some are just muttering prayers under their breath. But Will doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he looks at every person around him, trying to memorize their faces, in case this is the last time he sees them.
Five seconds per person. Mom first, then Jonathan, then El, followed by the rest, only to end on Mike. Mike, who has his sword at his hip and a bag over his shoulders. Mike, who is standing with his arms crossed against his chest and a solemn look in his eyes, but most importantly, looking back at him.
In another universe, Will is convinced Mike is a real knight preparing for battle, ready to charge towards the enemy, leading the troops towards victory.
Will holds onto that moment, where Mike’s dark chocolate eyes are only on him, and the whole world blurs around them. It’s a small window he lets himself afford, where he lets the love he feels for this boy wash over him without feeling any guilt or self-repulsion. He lets himself feel the electric air between them without convincing himself it’s all just in his imagination.
He lets it linger for five seconds before he turns his eyes away, and the feeling gets cut off.
“I will do my best,” El breaks the silence, turning to Lucas, then to all of them. “Be careful.”
Dustin and Mike grab their walkies, ready to go. Mom turns towards him and Jonathan, worry evident in her eyes. She fidgets for a bit, and for a minute, Will thinks she’s going to stop them from going. But she sighs and stills herself the way she always did for the last missions.
“Be safe, okay? You need to come back to me whole. Stick together no matter what,” she says, her voice quivering.
“I’ll take care of Will, Mom, don’t worry,” Jonathan tries to assure her, but her eyes only water more, and she ends up engulfing the two of them in a hug.
“We’ll see you later, Mom,” Will whispers before he pulls away and heads towards the two Wheeler siblings.
***
When they reach their designated location, they spend the next four hours staring at the military doing rounds around the northern crack, all of them waiting for something to happen. They spend it with their eyes open for so long that Will’s eyes start to feel dry.
Tonight feels serene. Too serene.
Will can feel Jonathan’s patience wearing thin as he squats beside Nancy, who’s leaning up against a tree. She’s been quiet for some time now, and Will can almost hear her think. Mike holds up the walkie to his mouth again and checks in with the other group.
“All good here. Over,” Dustin says.
“This is weird,” Nancy finally mumbles. She inhales and turns towards them, her eyes looking over each one of them.
“Maybe nothing will come up tonight,” Jonathan suggests, and Will gets hit with the decentering feeling of déjà vu. He’d uttered the same words earlier to Mike.
Nancy isn’t really convinced. She turns to Will, her eyes zeroing in on him, making him fidget. “Do you feel anything?” She asks.
Will doesn’t answer right away. He tries to focus, as though that would help him feel anything from Vecna. He ends up shaking his head at her.
“Nothing from Vecna.”
She then turns to Mike, “Radio El. Ask her if she found him.”
Mike does exactly what he was told, but it’s Hopper who answers him. “She’s still looking for him, but so far, we got nothing.”
Will is scoping out the woods when he gets the feeling at the base of his spine. Just a slight tingle before it amplifies as it travels up to his nape. It’s like he’s being plugged into something, the sudden current flooding his veins, his skin tight on alert, and his limbs too aware. It’s like the current licking up his spine made him shoot up into the sky, and when the sensation ends, he’s suddenly falling and falling, and it seems like it’s never going to end.
His lids flutter close when his eyes start rolling back into his head. He could feel himself shake like leaves, and the hands that followed on his body before he completely loses control of it. He’s slightly aware of Jonathan’s voice calling him, but Mike’s voice floats above his, like he’s nearer.
Cold suddenly envelops him, and when he opens his eyes, he’s seeing through eyes that aren’t his own. Everything is tinted red and smudged at the edges with how fast he’s moving, like when he runs his fingers on ink that hasn’t had the time to dry.
His limbs suddenly feel too long to be his own, and his skin too oily and pale to belong to a human being. Deep inside him, the thirst for blood and violence overflows and spills, the animalistic instinct to hunt like a predator overriding his brain.
It’s that moment when Will becomes aware that he is seeing and feeling things through a Demogorgon—in fact, multiple Demogorgons. Fear claws at his heart, the organ slamming uselessly against his ribcage, trying to burst out of him.
But he’s jolted back into his body in a snap, like somebody shook him and brought his soul back to his physical body. His hearing returns to him, his eyes roll back down, and his body stops shaking. He’s out of breath, gasping and gasping for air.
“Shit, Will, come on. Come back to us,” Mike chants in desperation.
Jonathan and Mike crowd his vision, and he’s suddenly feeling their clammy hands on him. Jonathan has his hand on his nape, as if that would help him focus more, while Mike is gripping both of his arms like he’s scared Will would slip away from his grasp and vanish into thin air.
“Will, tell me what’s wrong! What happened? Was it Vecna? Did you see him?” Jonathan fretted.
He shakes his head out of Jonathan’s grip and catches a glimpse of Nancy running her fingers through her hair in distress. She’s holding the walkie tightly, yelling, “Will is having an episode. We need to leave!”
Will stumbles towards her, the pupils of his eyes trembling in panic. He grabs her by her arms and physically turns her towards him. She meets his eyes, and there’s desperation in hers.
“Something’s wrong,” he heaves, “You need to warn them. They’re coming.”
A screech and growl echo somewhere far away from them.
She stills for a second, fear flashing in her eyes before it disappears altogether, and determination and composure take its place. She presses the walkie again and shouts, “Stay alert. They’re coming, we don’t know how many. Meet at the junkyard.”
She takes her fingers off the button and tosses the walkie to Mike. She grits her teeth and says to them, “Let’s go.”
She raises her rifle, and the three of them follow her command, adapting a stance poised to fight back. She starts marching back to where they came from earlier and away from the terrifying sound, but they can still hear the stomping nearing them.
“Go,” Nancy barks, stopping for a moment to let them lead instead, guarding their rear. “Whatever happens, don’t stop moving until we reach the car.”
The stomping gets louder and louder and is multiplied. Jonathan starts to pick up his pace, Will and Mike following him, and Nancy a beat late. Another screech pierces through the air, and they finally see the two Demogorgons heading their way, their flower head spread open, ready to devour.
Jonathan jumps towards Nancy, pushing the two boys behind him. In a few feet, Nancy’s car waits ahead of them like salvation that their fingertips long to brush.
“Come on, Will,” Mike breathes, his hand reaches and grabs Will’s, pulling him out of the woods.
But before they step on the clearing, Nancy’s rifle goes off in succession, and Will feels sharp pain bloom at different points of his body. He screams and crumples to the ground. Mike calls out his name, grunting as he hauls him up and starts dragging him to the car, arms straining.
Jonathan shoots them a glance in alarm, his hand ready to press on the flamethrower.
“Stop, Nancy, it’s hurting him! It’s hurting Will!” Mike roared.
Jonathan automatically pulls his hand away from the flamethrower and instead grabs Nancy to run. Nancy cusses, hand stops squeezing the trigger. They throw themselves inside the car and drive out of there, tires smoking.
They speed up, their fear of getting caught by the military tossed out of the window. The two Demogorgons are still chasing them, galloping like horses but as fast as cheetahs. Will is gasping on the backseat, his head on Mike’s lap. He’s delirious, the spots where the pain bloomed now burn like hell.
Mike is still holding his hand, his other hand brushing his hair off his forehead, disregarding the bullets of sweat on it.
“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay,” he whispers, though there’s still urgency like he doesn’t really believe the words he’s spouting, but he still feels the need to assure him.
Jonathan reaches for the walkie on Mike. He presses on it and yells, “Dustin, don’t hurt the Demogorgons! Can you hear me? Robin, Steve, anyone!”
But before Jonathan could even finish his words, Will was writhing on the backseat again as the two Demogorgons chasing them screech before they tumble to the ground, twitching like they are being tortured. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut, his face scrunched up as he screams himself hoarse. Mike tightens his hold on him, keeping him steady and grounded, but all Will could think of is that everything burns.
He could feel his skin melting, the heat from the invisible fire reaching his bones. He doesn’t know how to make it stop. He thinks if this goes on for a few seconds more, he might just really die, and right now, that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. He’d take that if it means he’ll never feel this pain ever again.