Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It was just something that couldn’t be explained away.

Even after Will’s disappearance and eventual return, after the mall fire, after the deaths of countless people, things settled. They found ways to cope. Hawkins, somehow, came back to life.

Because those events could be written off as tragedy, dismissed as bad luck - a small community struck by misfortune. An unlucky hand at life...pure coincidence.

Hard to believe, but not impossible.

But when the ground began to tear itself open, when a wound split deep through the centre of town, fire burning from within like the devil herself stirring from slumber.

That was different.

That couldn't be explained.

In the past, Hawkins had a way of snapping back, a way of pushing past the fear: burying the strange and pretending nothing had ever happened. Things stabilised quickly - families eager to return to the status quo.

Convention was desired; it was needed. The town dragged itself forward inch by inch, legless and limping, toward some warped idea of normality.

Everyone survived on one simple comfort: leaving was always an option. That, if something terrible were to happen again, safety waited just thirty minutes down the road.

It was an 'open door', an exit.

But that exit was closed now, the door boarded shut. Under army control, locked doors meant closed windows, lights out, curtains drawn, houses abandoned. It didn’t take long for the town to understand what that silence meant.

The soldiers who blocked the streets were not doing so to 'protect' Hawkins; they were containing it. And due to that, everyone in Hawkins was trapped. Prisoners. Maybe they always had been.

Will was surprised at how calm the reaction was: most people marched on, careful and looking to the ground with every step. People left, some stayed. Churches filled out on weekdays and slowly faded back to Sunday Mass. School reopened, and Will asked to go back.

He didn’t care to sit and wallow in his own mind, worried about what was going to happen the next time he felt Vecna grow (the way he was always growing).

Because Will could still feel it, that presence. Something small, irritating, and unnerving. He likened it to a fly just out of sight, buzzing around his head.

When alone, it was unbearable. It gnawed at the edges of thought. He would try to swat it away, slapping at arms, face, neck - desperate to crush what couldn’t be caught. He would worry about where it was. Whether it was in his head - bouncing around his brain. Whether it under his pillow at night - or in the walls. Did it sit in the pipes, making all of his showers cold? Did it wait for him there, just past the drains, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike.

He wondered what it would take to make that feeling stop. To silence the buzz.

But Will hadn't found an answer to that yet. Thoughts reached the point of fear, but never gathered a single solution. There was nothing more to be done.

So Will tried to surround himself with people and ignore the itch. Which, after years of practice, was getting easy.

Will had lived with a beast in his head for nearly as long as he could remember. It had taken up space in a small corner of his mind, and he had locked it there. Banished it to a box that said ‘do not touch’ on the front. Marked red, all capitals, in crayon.

All Will needed to think about now was going back to school.

Vecna could be in Hawkins at any moment, and nothing would ever prepare him. No amount of locking himself up would help. So Will opted for ignorance, to pretend none of it was happening in this reality, because it had not happened yet.

It was strange, really. Will felt like two different people. The boy from before the Upside Down, and the thing that came back. Two versions of himself he slipped between without choice, nor warning. Tossed from one identity to another, like a ragdoll spun in circles by invisible hands. Small and careless—a child’s grip. Tight enough to hold him together, but only just.

If they ever let go, Will wasn’t sure he’d survive the breaking.

There was the Zombie Kid: Will Byers, living in a hell dimension. Possessed by some dreadful spectre, clashing, biting, and screaming. It was a part of himself that returned whenever he did, whenever the monster erupted from the cupboard and spilled into his room. Violent and raw, something that hovered at the edge of being human, too much and not enough all at once. A wrath set within him that was not his own. Anger that clung to him for words said that he had never heard, punches he had never felt, a weapon he had never drawn.

Somebody else’s pain that became one with his own. Mixing and fusing into his personhood.

The feeling would flow through him like fresh water, as if it were the stream near his house.

The summer would come and boil away just enough to make life manageable. Then it would pass into Autumn, free-'fall'. November would hit him like hail, melting into the riverbed as rain tapped spirals upon the surface. The box he had built would break and overflow, leaking into the ruins of Castle Byers. Knee-deep in water wherever he went. Not dying, not drowning, but being reminded of when he was.

On those days, Will would make sure to be precise. His movements careful and coordinated, as if not to fall and feel his face sink under. Because if he did, he’d plunge into the deep, inhaling thick bouts of nothingness. A thick tar would penetrate his insides, choking the goodness out of him, leaving behind a blackness that weighed heavy in his lungs. Something that burned evil into him. Breathing in fear, breathing in nothing at all.

Then there was Will. Just Will. A kid who loved painting and D&D.

Just Will.

A boy who had drawn a rainbow ship for his mom and had given a girl his favourite toy. A gay boy. A fairy. A queer. Stuck in the middle of small-town America, just trying to get through the day without anybody figuring that out.

Somebody who had fallen in love with his best friend, and couldn’t help but feel guilty about it.

A part of him wished they’d stayed in Lenora, even though Will hadn’t truly belonged there (did he really belong anywhere?). It was marginally more progressive, and Will was slightly less afraid there. 

He could have moved to San Francisco without even so much as a raised eyebrow from the people around him. "It’s the nearest big city", he would have told people. Jonathan would understand, of course. His mother probably would too, deep down. She would worry about it, maybe tell Will to ‘be safe’ without letting on exactly what she means. But Will would know what she meant.

Gays in the city get ill, and they die.

But Will would take that chance. He just needed out.

He would buy a little apartment near the Castro district, find a roommate, and sell paintings on the sidewalk. He would glance at another boy on the street and feel him gaze back, secure in knowing that a rejection wouldn’t end his life.

Maybe he’d fall in love with somebody who wasn’t Mike Wheeler, somebody who didn’t resemble him one bit. Somebody who could make him forget about a decade of useless pining, and replace every dream he’d had of black hair and dark eyes with one of a stranger.

Somebody handsome and tanned, with a thicker build and a softer jawline. Solid and tactile and real.

Not something made of fool’s gold, fake and hopeful. But somebody he could bite into and feel them cave beneath his teeth. Somebody who could love him back, in the ways he needed to be loved.

Will imagined this mystery man, while staring absentmindedly out of the window, the end of a paintbrush nestled between his teeth. 

A boy who would cup his face with both hands and press his lips to Will’s in a kiss, gentle at first. Then he would open up and allow him to lean deeper, searching and chasing. A strong hand would move down to his waist and slide under the fabric of his shirt. Pale and thin, grasping at him fervently. He would break away and look at him, with those godforsaken brown eyes, almost black in the darkness. Blown wide and looking for confirmation. And Will would trace the freckles dotted along that wonderful face of his and would nod back in approval, a little dazed.

And Mike would smile back.

Yeah. Will was fucked. Will was fucked because even the stranger in his dreams had morphed into Mike Wheeler.

Mike was the roommate he lived with in San Francisco. He was the boy who looked back at him on the street, and he was the man who engulfed Will in a frenzied kiss and smiled like an idiot at him afterwards.

That wasn’t fine at all.

Mike was kind, and stupid, and so very clever. He spoke without thinking, every conversation spilling out in a rush of unfiltered thought- no premeditation. Mike: brilliant, sharp, always at the top of their English class. A natural writer. Somebody who could read the very same book as Will and return the next week with an interpretation so much deeper, so much more eloquent. Somebody whom Will looked upon in equal parts awe and fondness.

Mike, who wasn’t always gentle. His wit could cut without warning, a careless insult tossed out without thought, a pointed look directed toward a friend, a grimace, and a grumble. Never deliberate, never cruel intentioned, but still sharp enough to sting.

But never with Will.

With Will, his voice softened, hushed and careful, threaded with warmth. A hand on his shoulder, steady and grounding, his gaze fixed and intentional. It was as though he could read Will’s thoughts the moment they surfaced, standing beside him always, in silent understanding of whatever ailed him that day.

Known and knowing. Knowing and known. That's how it had always been. Mike understood him, in a way no one else could, and Will liked to think he knew Mike better than anyone.

Even when they clashed, Mike had never looked at him with disdain. He’d seen fear in his eyes, and hurt, and confusion...but those moments were behind them now, days of arguing and misunderstanding each other. They'd left it all in Lenora. Both of them had been 'off' in California, and now, in hindsight, Will concluded that Mike was acting far more strangely than he had.

Even Jonathan had commented on it at the time. Mentioned briefly to Will how odd Mike had been during his visit. But Will brushed him off, mumbling something about trouble in paradise. 

He wasn’t wrong, though. Mike had been weird when they were in Lenora. Skittish. Like he was pulling away with all his might. Trying desperately to look anywhere but at Will.

He wondered if Mike knew then. Wonders if he still knows now.

That must’ve been the reason for it. Because Mike was always the first to catch on to anything Will thought. It was like his very being became transparent under those watchful eyes.

Perhaps it had made him uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t it? That your best friend felt such things for you. 

Even if he hadn’t caught on to that part, the part where Will loved him, maybe just knowing that your best friend is attracted to men is… uncomfortable.

Maybe all those moments as children had recontextualised. Innocent hand-holding, sharing the same tent, sitting, and cuddling on the couch. Something that hadn’t meant anything at the time, but could, if Mike decided it did. But to Will, there was nothing dirty or unclean about it. Because, despite what the Washington Post decided to write columns on, Gays did not come out of the womb thinking of sex.

But he had loved Mike back then, even though he didn’t have the right words for it. He hadn’t known it as an attraction, hadn’t thought it was anything but an intense feeling of brotherhood, kinship. It was different from Dustin and Lucas, but at the time, that made sense, because Mike was his best friend, and of course, that would feel different to anything else.

But it wasn’t just kinship. It was so much more than kinship. Will came to that damning realization at age twelve, and it had polluted the purity of everything that preceded it.

It ruined everything. It ruined the way Will had been glued to Mike’s side for all of their childhood and a decent chunk of their adolescence.

It had made those caring gestures feel filthy, like he was using Mike. His friend, a person who only stroked Will’s back to calm him down from a panic attack. Because he was kind. Not because there was anything else to it.

So Mike had distanced himself for a while, so what? He had come back eventually, returned to the Mike he knew (and loved).

It had been two years now, and Mike was…well, he was Mike again.

After Hawkins fell apart, so did Mike and Eleven—not abruptly, but in that slow, quiet way that things unravel when no one’s really holding them together. Will had tried so hard to keep them intact, convinced they were meant to be; they had to be. 

He’d pushed his own feelings down, sealed them tight, and handed over that damn painting like a sacrifice. All so Mike could tell El whatever it was she needed to hear.

Mike had never brought it up with Will. Not once, which again was infuriating. He’d just shrugged and said, “I don’t know, man, we’re just not in love anymore.”

Either Mike was lying through his teeth—or he really was as emotionally stunted as Max had once accused him of being.

Because that? That wasn’t an explanation. That wasn’t anything.

Eleven was better; she had said a little more than a sentence. She seemed, what’s the word? Accepting of the whole break-up (which led Will to believe she was the one who brought it on). Not subdued or angry or resentful of anything. But just…nonchalant? Like she’d processed everything already and was done with it. Neatly disposed of, a crumbling relationship that fizzled into nothing.

He didn’t get to see her much anymore, which royally sucked. She was living out at Hopper’s cabin again, hidden away from the world, since both of them were technically still presumed dead. Will tried to sneak visits when he could, usually armed with a box of Eggos and a backpack full of VHS tapes.

Those afternoons were nothing special. Just quiet, safe. They’d sit cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by screwed up chocolate wrappers and covered with an old electric blanket, while he introduced her to every genre he could get his hands on.

She didn’t enjoy horror, which made sense, given her past. But she adored romance, especially soap operas. He didn’t have many of those on tape, so he elected to instead rent out ‘The Princess Bride’ as soon as it came out of cinemas. They watched it together the same night, bundled in that old electric blanket, snow tapping softly against the cabin windows. Eleven sat utterly transfixed, barely blinking. And when the credits rolled, she turned to him, her face unmoving and serious, and declared it the best film of all time.

So every time he came from then on, they watched The Princess Bride.

He preferred the Labyrinth.

During one of those movie nights, Eleven paused the film and led him to her room. She sat him down and told him that they’d broken up. 

Mike had already told him at that point, but since he’d been so discreet about the reasoning, he asked her. He asked why.

El smiled, and it wasn’t a sad smile, but it wasn’t particularly cheery either, “He couldn’t tell me he loved me, until he thought I needed to hear it.”

Will looked at her, mouth agape, before realising, “Oh, do you mean the-”

She nodded, “-the pizza place. He said it then, and it felt like a lie. So I told Mike to love me when I’m safe. Not dying. But, he couldn’t...he just couldn't say it. He couldn’t tell me he loved me when I was safe. And I think it is because...he didn’t love me.”

Will couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe he had gotten Mike to lie to Eleven. He had thought, maybe, if Mike confessed his feelings to her. That she’d be able to fight harder, win. 

She hadn’t lost by any means. But she certainly hadn’t won against Vecna. The blow struck harder now. Now Will knew Mike wasn’t being truthful. Will had needed to hear those words from him, even though it was painful. He had selfishly wanted Mike to tell Eleven how much he adored her, so that he could move on. So that he could sit in the back of the car on the drive back to Hawkins, somewhat content in knowing that he’d successfully closed the book and done the right thing.

But Mike was lying the whole time.

Will bumped El’s shoulder, “Friends don’t lie?”

Eleven laughed, wiping her face with her hands, “Boyfriends do - or did. He told me a few things, not everything I wanted him to. I still think he’s lying...”

Will raised his eyebrow, “About things?”

She sighed, “Yeah, about things.” El paused for a moment, looking Will directly in the eyes, making the moment all the more intimate, “He does love me, Will, just not like...boyfriends love girlfriends. He calls me a superhero. That is okay. But I wanted him to like me-

-I wanted him to like Jane. But I think...I think he only really liked Eleven.”

Will looked away; he was a little taken aback by how well she’d put that. It showed much better comprehension than he’d ever had. Eleven had figured Mike’s problem out much faster than Will ever could. It was odd to come to the realisation that Will was the one with the tinted glasses. That both El (and probably Mike) were so close to calling it quits...for over a year. And Will had missed it.

“That’s...you’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

She grinned and declared, “I think a lot more than Mike does.”

Will laughed, because it was true. Well, at least it seemed true at that moment, “I’m proud of you, El.”

“Hmm, because I dumped his ass?”, she replied, letting out a dry laugh.

“No, because, well…you’re growing up.”

Eleven stopped laughing, put a hand to Will’s shoulder, and said, “So are you.”

“Yeah.”

Under Pressure

David Bowie & Queen

1:52 ━━○───── 4:14
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“The first day back is always the hardest”, Joyce said, ruffling his hair and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Mhm, I’ll be fine”, Will mumbled, rubbing the morning sleep out of his eyes.

“It'll be good for you, sweetie. Unless—” her voice lowered to a whisper, “are you worried about those boys…giving you trouble again?”

He sighed, grabbed the coffee pot, and poured one for himself, spilling some on the counter in the process. He turned around slowly, coffee in hand, his tone slightly defensive, “No, Mom, I’m fine…really. Troy—those ‘boys’ haven’t talked to me since middle school.”

He neglected to mention the fact that he hadn’t even seen Troy and his ‘gang’ since they left for Lenora, so there was no way he could have bumped into them post-middle school. But he didn’t want to stress out the already-concerned Joyce by vocalising that.

“It’s just that. Well, Will. You haven’t been to a proper school for nearly two years. Not since we left California. I know you’ve been doing the day classes, but…”

She was a little off there; he hadn’t been in school for over two years, closing on three. But nobody had. Hawkins High School had been completely destroyed when the gates opened, crumbling down to dust. So students were made to take small classes in the library, right next to the pit of embers left by the ‘earthquake’.

“-I’m fine, Mom, I’ve been doing the work they give me. I'm getting decent grades. I think I’m going to do fine in everything but math.”

Those classes were much smaller, with only about 10 in each ‘room’. Nobody really talked. He’d managed to befriend the boy next to him, but they didn’t speak much either. Just helped each other sometimes. The guy next to him would help him solve a particularly hard math problem, and Will would proofread his essays. Nothing more than that. It was a little unfair that Dustin and Mike ended up in the same room, while Lucas, Will, and Max were alone.

He’d go in for 2 hours, three times a week, learn a small amount from whatever weary teacher was monitoring them that day (all of whom had lost their jobs after the ‘earthquake-hurricane disaster’, and none seemed all too pleased about it); then, they’d send the kids home with thick books filled with ‘self-study’ packets.

It was a way of taking away the responsibility they had to teach them, and it wasn't as if every bored teen who left that class would actually do the work. 

But Will had. Because Will needed to do well in high school, he needed to get into a college out of state, and it would be preferable if he didn’t have to pay. If he failed this year, he’d be stuck.

Will did not want to get stuck in Hawkins.

Joyce put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it lightly, “Oh, baby, that's not what I meant. You’re a clever boy, I know that very well. It’s just people. You understand? You haven’t been around other kids your age for a while, except for your friends, and that tiny classroom you barely need to go to. I’m just a silly old mom, that’s all", she laughed dryly, "I worry about you kids even when there’s nothing to worry about.”

Will would be fine with people. It wasn't like he had spent years of his life being ostracised by the peers around him, called names, harassed, and bullied. It wasn't like Lenora was the only school he’d been to where that didn’t happen. It wasn't like there was any reason that Will would be other-ed. 

He wasn’t a queer, he wasn’t possessed by a demon from another world, and he certainly didn’t spend a week of his life hiding in Castle Byers from some sort of eldritch horror.

If he could just go into the latter part of this year, pretending he wasn’t Will Byers at all, he’d be fine. 

‘Who’s that?’, he’d say, ‘not me!’

‘I’m just an unremarkable teenager from Hawkins, Indiana. The biggest decision in my day is worrying about what to wear on my first day back to school.'

Completely normal.

“Mom, I promise you. I am going to be fine.”

Joyce’s shoulders sagged, and Will couldn’t quite tell whether it was in relief or if she was disappointed.

Because her son had just lied to her.

“Okay, honey.”

Radio static sprang to life from the side of Will’s desk. 

He’d just finished messing his hair up, trying to make sure that it didn’t even closely resemble the bowl cut he had sported until his sixteenth birthday. He had begged on his hands and knees for Jonathan to help him cut it into any shape that wasn’t a mushroom, even a crew-cut would suffice.

Jonathan tried—tried his very best to snip away the sharp lines and flat hair. He had succeeded, kind of…because Will was left with a very messy, janky hairdo. It wasn’t perfect at all; his fringe was still a little bit too long, and the back of his hair was a little too short. But it was much better, so much better than it was before. The next time, Will got his mom to do it, who, despite being the one who gave him those awful bowl cuts before, actually did a pretty decent job at cutting his hair cleanly. Will had kept it that way since. And yeah, it was still basically a bowl-cut. But...at least it had a bit more shape.

“Will? Are you there?—over”

Will picked up the radio, coffee cup nestled in his other hand, “Yeah, I’m here, Mike—over”

He could hear a small laugh from the other line, “Okay, good—over”

Will rolled his eyes, “Is that all you had to say?—over”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you were awake. Picking you up in twenty—over”

Will nodded, even though Mike wasn’t actually there and would never see it, “I’m ready, don’t worry, who’s driving?—over”

There was a pause, and Will could practically hear the smart-ass grin that Mike was sporting as he replied, “Max—over.”

Max was blind. She had been blind for nearly three years. He was such an- “asshole—over”

Will threw on a bomber jacket over his t-shirt, combed his fingers through his hair once more for good measure, and looked into the mirror.

He looked…okay?

The jacket was a little frayed at the seams, navy blue (for the most part), except for the collar, which had little yellow stripes outlining the edges. The jeans he had on were a little tight, since he’d owned them for years. But they were a dusty blue color that he thought looked quite good on him, so he put them on.

Will hadn’t grown length-wise in a few years, so he could get away with wearing old jeans. But, to his dismay, he had to throw out all of his old checkered shirts, because his shoulders had broadened quite a bit.

Even his favorite polo shirt. Sucks.

His mom had gotten him a couple of new shirts, and they were pretty nice. But, admittedly, most of his closet was composed of Jonathan’s old clothes. New-wave band tees, which he loved, but were a little long on him, and an ample number of collared shirts in various hues of sad brown, which Will wouldn't be caught dead wearing...sue him, he liked color. Jonathan’s taste varied between a cool new-wave teenager and middle-aged suburban banker. Will knew which one he preferred.

Will heard a bang on the door and jumped at the sound.

“Will, come on!” Mike shouted.

He ran down the hall, trying his best not to look too closely at Mike and what he was wearing, because…wow.

It wasn’t something that was out of the ordinary for Mike, who, after hitting the age where one finally becomes a ‘proper’ teenager, began to dress in more...provocative clothing. A screw you to mom and dad that didn't really work all that much, because neither of them had payed enough attention to stop him. Well...until Mike mentioned liberty spikes, which, luckily, Nancy had managed to talk him out of. Anyhow, it was obvious Mike had tried to look good for his first day back, and in Will’s completely biased opinion, he had succeeded in that goal.

An oversized leather Jacket hanging over an ACDC shirt, a couple of silver rings on each hand, and some slightly baggy blue jeans that looked worn to all hell. Will wondered if the rings were Eddie's - the basketball gang definitely wouldn’t approve of that. Will certainly did, though.

He looked up to meet Mike’s eyes and noticed something- he’d cut his hair. And well...it looked good, really good. Don’t get Will wrong; he kind of liked it longer. But it just went to show- everything suited Mike. Will wondered what it would be like running his hands through the length, combing out kinks and tangles. Pulling it tight in his hands while they kissed, something to hold on to.

‘Jesus Christ, take it down a notch',  he thought, shaking his head and greeting Mike, after realizing that he had probably been staring at him in silence for a little too long.

Mike's hair looked good. That was all.

“Hi”, Will said, a small smile on his face.

“Hey”, Mike replied, raking his eyes over Will’s body…probably to just check out his outfit. It was a little different from usual, he supposed.

Will blinked for a moment, processing, and then laughed, “I honestly ransacked my wardrobe trying to figure out what to wear.”

They opened the front door, walking out together, and Mike nodded, “Me too, honestly.”

They walked up to the car, Will peering in through the windows to see who was riding with them. The seats were empty. He paused, “Wait, where’s everyone else?”

Mike scratched the back of his neck, looking slightly bashful, “Oh, yeah,” he said, drawing out the end of the sentence, “the rest of the party bailed because Steve offered to take them. They said he’d pick us up, too, but honestly, I cannot imagine dealing with six of us in the same car. It's not like he has a minivan. Though I wouldn't be surprised at all if he got one.”

“Oh, so...Max isn’t driving?” Will supplied, his voice leaking with sarcasm.

Mike lifted both hands up, flinging them backwards with vigor, in a display of dramatics that was so very him, “Hey! That was a perfectly acceptable and totally non-offensive joke. Max would’ve laughed at it.”

“It’s true, she would have”, he thought, a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, “she would have found it hilarious.”

Instead of agreeing with Mike — and consequently losing — he rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

“Just get in the car, dingus”, Mike grumbled under his breath, putting his hand on Will’s back and nudging him forward towards the car door.

Will snorted, stumbling forward,  “Dingus?”

“Yup”, Mike replied, popping the ‘p’ sound deliberately, looking at Will from over his shoulder.

Will opened the car door and sat down. He waited a moment for Mike to join him, who slammed the door and tumbled into the driver’s seat like a bag of Legos. Will huffed, tugging at his shirt collar, “I’m sick of wearing my old kiddie clothes and Jonathan’s hand-me-downs; these jeans are like…way too small.”

Mike glanced at him from the side, a tiny smile playing on his lips, “I’m going to be honest, everything except my jeans is brand new. I’m a little anxious about going back”, he replied, stopping for a moment, then putting his hands to his face and pulling his skin back tightly, “god, I sound like a girl.”

Will giggled, “Yeah, a little. But at least you don’t look stupid, because I definitely do.”

Mike blinked, words pouring from his mouth like projectile vomit, fast and awkward, “No-no…you. Erm. You look-you look good.”

Will paused mid-breath, trying desperately to hide the blush that was creeping onto his face by putting a hand to his mouth, “Really?”

Mike nodded, deadly serious, “Trust me on this one. Girls are going to be foaming at the mouth when they see you.”

Will recoiled slightly, “I don’t think I like the sound of that. Foaming?”

Mike squinted, rethinking, “Oh yeah, it doesn’t sound good when you put it like that.”

“More like a seizure. They see me, and they instantly need medical attention.” 

Mike let out a dry laugh, “Doctor! Doctor! My friend’s outfit was so good that half of the school’s population instantly dropped dead.”

“Oh no! Mike, there’s no Doctor on staff! We had to fire her so we could fund a second basketball court!” Will shouted back, his voice shrill, in an awful attempt at emulating the school nurse (did she even work at Hawkins Middle School anymore?)

Mike deepened his voice, putting on a horrible ‘olde’ English accent, “Well, shit-I mean hockey sticks. The lord has forsaken us! We're doomed..." Mike paused for a moment, turning toward Will, "Can you do it then?”

Will looked at him, confused, “Do what?”

“Play Doctor”, Mike’s voice lowered, the words hanging between them just a second too long.

Jesus Christ.

Will’s eyes widened, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets in an attempt to seem somewhat casual, “Erm. Without-without medical experience? Yeah, I think they’re safer if we let them die.”

“That’s a shame", Mike chuckled, shrugging it off, "I would’ve liked to see you in uniform.”

What the fuck is going on?

“Erm, okay, weirdo”, Will mumbled, cheeks burning. Mike swore to himself quietly, turning to will, "forget-forget I said that", he said, foot biting down on the clutch...sending them flying down the street.

Will fell forward, his face nearly planting on the glove compartment. He would have, as well, if Mike hadn’t used his free hand to stop his body.

“Michael!" Will snapped, "You’re a terrible driver”

Mike smiled, “-and you didn’t put your seatbelt on.”

“Fair enough.”

Moonage Daydream

David Bowie

1:05 ━━○───── 4:40
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ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

The one good thing about major disasters, about the ground splitting into four and killing a hundred or so people (god, that sounded bad). Was that, people tend to forget about the little things.

Will’s absence from normal ‘school’ life was a blessing in disguise. Because when he finally stepped through the doors and walked into Hawkins High, he was pleasantly surprised to see that the halls were filled with mostly unfamiliar faces.

The ones he did recognize from middle school didn’t so much as spare him a second glance. As if they had forgotten about the whole ‘Zombie boy’ ordeal altogether.

He could have chalked it up to maturity. But from the time he had spent in Lenora and the letters he had read from Dustin, it didn't seem like anything had changed. He saw the way Angela treated Eleven, and the harsh way Mike described ‘the jocks’ upon his return, and...well, it didn’t seem like high schoolers were that mature at all.

The real reason was probably trauma, collective trauma. Everybody had suffered now. There was no rationality behind pointing at one kid and exclaiming, ‘Oh look, it’s the freak!’ Because, everybody was now, somewhat of a freak.

Family members and fellow students who didn’t make it out, houses ripped apart; kids who disappeared during the chaos and popped back up days later with cuts and bruises.

When something unexplainable like that happens to a place, people band together. Maybe not in solidarity, but for the need of having somebody else to cling to.

Desperate, and wanting to feel a little less alone.

There was no longer the need for a resident ‘Zombie boy’, because everybody who shuffled through these halls, from teacher to pupil, were all dead men walking. Living on borrowed time.

Though, of course, they didn’t know the extent of it. They didn't know about the danger Hawkins was in, not like Will did. Even so, there was still that looming feeling of dread. Calm foreboding the second storm.

And as horrible as it sounded, Will felt a little safer due to that. Because at least he wasn’t the only one who felt it anymore.

“Will!”

Will grinned, looking at the group ahead, “Dustin!”

Dustin ran in for a hug, pulling back, practically vibrating with energy. “Dude, it’s been ages!”

Will raised an eyebrow. “It’s been a week.”

Dustin threw his arms wide in mock horror. “Yeah, but the only time we ever get to see you is in Mike’s smelly basement. Once a week! Once a week! It’s a travesty of justice. Completely tragic.”

Mike snorted, “Well, now we get to see each other every day.”

Dustin pointed a finger between them accusingly, “like you guys weren’t doing that already. Lucas and I are feeling a little left out, guys.”

Will flushed and scratched at the back of his neck. “Yeah, erm, sorry about that.”

He meant it—sort of. But it wasn’t like he could help the way he gravitated toward Mike. Mike was comforting in a way none of the other party members were. He was everything, and just having him near him, in the same room, well…it felt like home. Will could be anywhere. He could be hundreds of miles away, selling those paintings on a street corner, or he could be a miserable office worker pulling in for an awful 9-to-5 that he despises. But if Mike was there, well, then, it wasn’t so awful at all.

Dustin waved it off with a grin. “All cool, man, all cool! I get it, you guys have that ‘special friendship’ Mike kept on going on to us about in sixth grade.”

Mike stiffened, his eyes widening like he’d been caught looking at a Playboy, “I did not do that.”

“Lies,” Dustin shot back, eyes teasing. “Lies and deceit.”

Will tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “Oh? Special?”

Dustin nodded eagerly. “Yeah, like really special. When you were in California, Mike had this whole brooding thing going on. Oh, woe is me! My very special buddy is gone! Sad face, puppy eyes— ”

Mike groaned, pressing his hands into his face, “ Dustin, please shut up. ”

“—And I was like, call him, you fool! But oh no, Mrs. Byers is always on the phone, and he can’t get through to you. My two star-crossed buddies, looking up at the night sky and wondering if they’re seeing the same thing—”

“DUSTIN!”

“Hey, hey, I’m just relaying the message,” Dustin said, feigning innocence, raising both hands in surrender.

Will blinked, the words sticking. “You… you tried to call me?”

Mike rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Yeah, erm, a few times.”

“A few times?” Dustin scoffed. “Try every day. Dude, how much was Joyce on the phone?”

Will chuckled, his heart thudding at the realization, “I don’t think I ever saw her off it, actually.”

The thought of Mike calling, more than once, sent a warm rush through Will’s chest. He’d imagined Mike forgetting him, moving on with Dungeons & Dragons and someone else. But he hadn’t. Not entirely, anyway.

Max and Lucas walked up to them from the lockers they were lingering on, Lucas holding Max’s arm, directing her towards Will’s side. Max, who now had the most unnerving sixth sense (or did she always have that? He hadn’t really known her that well before…), immediately locked onto Dustin’s theatrics.

“Dustin, could you stop harassing them?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Dustin bowed dramatically. “Whatever you say, my lady.”

Max wrinkled her nose. “Ew. Your knightly brand of flirting is repulsive.”

“Flirting?” Dustin gasped. “I’ll have you know I’m already promised to another.”

Max shook her head and wrapped a hand around Will’s shoulders. “Poor girl. Whatever. Anyways, hi Will!”

Will smiled. “Hi, Max.”

Mike coughed loudly. Very loudly.

Max didn’t miss a beat. “Mike.”

Mike moved towards her, staring pointedly at the arm she had around Will’s shoulder, his tone a little bitter. “Why does Will get the friendly greeting?”

“Because Will is a lovely human being who has never once shouted at me,” she said sweetly. “And you—you were a dick to me for two years.”

Mike held up his hands, eyes still lingering on the touch, “touché.”

Dustin grinned. “It’s because he was so very sad about Wi—”

Lucas slapped a hand over Dustin’s mouth. Dustin promptly licked it.

“Gross, dude,” Lucas groaned, yanking his hand away and wiping the spit across Dustin’s sleeve.

“Completely natural,” Dustin responded, way too proud of himself.

Lucas narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? Natural?” He spat into his hand with exaggerated flair. “Let’s see how natural it feels on your face.”

He lunged, shouting, “Come on, Mike, Will—help me out!”

Mike, clearly still annoyed at him for spilling his ‘secret’, grinned wickedly and grabbed Dustin from behind. “You asked for it, man.”

“No-no—dude! I take it back! I take it back!” Dustin squealed as Lucas shoved his spit-coated hand toward him.

Max stood beside Will, listening to the chaos unfold with a flat expression. “Men are disgusting.”

Will gave a quiet, unsure laugh.

He wondered (not for the first time) if she meant him, too. But then she glanced over and gave him a small, knowing smile, like he was somehow exempt. The look settled something in his chest, even as it stirred something else.

It was a relief—proof that she saw he wasn’t like the others. But it also scared him a little. Because what if she understood why? What if she saw through every careful silence, every look that lingered a little too long?

What if she knew exactly what Will was?

“They are,” Will said, eyes drifting toward Mike. He was mid-laugh, his head tipped back, mouth wide open. The corridor’s dim overhead lights caught the curve of his cheek, highlighting every freckle, lashes casting tiny shadows beneath his eyes.

Will’s stomach twisted in a way he’d grown too familiar with. He looked down, away, hoping the heat in his face wasn’t too obvious.

“Yeah...” he added, a little weaker. “They really are gross.”

Mike looked wonderful when he laughed. Will wanted to paint it.

Smalltown Boy

Bronski Beat

1:35 ━━○───── 5:04
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Mike was fucked.

Like, truly, desperately, comically fucked.

The little mental box he’d been shoving every questionable, unplatonic thought into for years had finally fallen—no, crashed onto the floor of his brain, gracelessly spilling over like a garbage can of repressed longing, probably knocking over a few brain cells in the process.

Being around Will turned Mike into an awkward, bumbling mess. Not suave, not ‘hip’. Whatever the polar opposite of blasé was, that was Mike Wheeler. 

Today, he’d tried so hard to play it cool. Tried so hard to be the kind of guy who casually pulls off nonchalance, the kind of guy who can look his friend in the eyes and not fold over like a book with a broken spine.

It was a fucking disaster, that's what it was.

The short hair was a dud; his oversized leather jacket made his pigeon legs look longer and gawkier than they were. The distress in his jeans screamed poverty louder than punk.

Somewhere, Mike was sure Eddie Munson was watching him flail, manically laughing his ass off from above. Shouting down from the skies, probably something along the lines of, "Wheeler, you tragic little man."

Probably in good nature, Eddie definitely had a vibe to him that even Mike had picked up on. Maybe they could sense each other, you know? Maybe that’s the reason Eddie had peeled his scrawny little ass off the bathroom floor and shoved him into the D&D club. Leading the lost little lambs, noticing the one black sheep, and making sure it found a flock that at least marginally accepted it.

It wasn't that Mike was gay. Because he wasn’t. He happened to thoroughly enjoy girls. Pretty and soft, all curves and long eyelashes. Girls were great, he’d kissed a few, done a little more than kissing with some, and they were all great.

So he couldn’t be gay. That didn’t compute.

Unfortunately for Mike (and he assumed a large chunk of the male population), it just so happened that boys could have long eyelashes too, boys could be soft, and boys could certainly be pretty.

Will was pretty.

But a lot of guys felt like that sometimes. It wasn’t weird at all. Eddie just happened to be a little more forthcoming about those proclivities, those desires, and Mike just so happened to be a little more obvious that he felt that way, too. It was like David Bowie.

Yeah, Bowie probably bumped uglies with Mick Jagger for a while, took a few guys back home. But you know? In the end, he got married to a woman (even if it ended badly). Because his feelings for men were purely driven by sexual desire, not anything romantic.

That’s how it was for a lot of people. People like Eddie and Mike. That didn’t mean they were queers. Just equal opportunity when it came to gawking at good-looking people.

Mike rubbed his eyes, staring up at the clock on the wall, barely listening to whatever drivel his physics teacher was parroting off about. He looked down at the textbook before him, which he hadn’t even read, beginning to flip through, looking at the highlighted sections as if the neatness would rearrange his thoughts into something normal. Something manageable.

Will was so pretty.

He tried so hard not to dwell on that simple statement, but it wouldn’t leave. It would sit there, heavy and uncomfortable. Like a thorn bolted to the bottom of his Doc Martens, a stab he could feel but never find the root of. The kind of thing you try to ignore, try to position yourself away from, walking on tiptoes. Until you finally realise—you’ve been limping for miles.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not with Will.

Because Will was…Well, Will was his best friend, his oldest, closest friend. Somebody he had tried to get back, tried to shield, neglected as they grew into themselves, and then came waddling back to (thorn in foot) like he had never left in the first place.

Will wasn’t somebody he was meant to notice in that way.

It didn’t help that Will looked good this morning (the way he always looked good ), leaning against the window of the passenger seat, crossed arms and a smile on his face. 

The navy blue bomber jacket he had on, the one that was a little too big. Those jeans that were definitely too tight, leaving barely anything to the imagination—not that Mike had been looking, or imagining (he had). The part where he smiled and said, ‘Hi’, like it didn’t matter at all, like Mike wasn’t on the verge of a full-body shutdown every time they ended up alone.

Mike was being weird about it. He knew he was being weird about it. But what he didn’t know was how to stop.

He didn’t really like Will that way. He didn’t. It was just a mix-up of dumb teenage hormones brewing within his head. Puberty was a cruel beast. Mike had woken up numerous times to sticky boxers, the faint memory of Will brushing against his woken state. Dreams where Mike had him pinned, watched him squirm under his touch, become pliable under his gaze. A world where Mike could tell Will how wonderful he was and praise him for every little thing. Where Will would whine, Mike’s name falling from those pink lips of his, and unravel into the sheets of his bed.

The worst ones were when there was an after. When the dream didn’t end as the sex did. When Will lays his head on Mike’s chest, strokes his hair, and confesses. When Mike tells Will he loves him, or walks into the kitchen to find Will making pancakes on the stove. When Mike wraps his arms around Will’s waist, leans down into his hair, just to smell him. Something so domestic and raw.

He much preferred viewing his feelings as a sexual thing. But when he woke up from those dreams, smiling, it was harder to kid himself.

What was even worse was that, recently, he’d been catching himself staring, without meaning to, of course. Mentally cataloguing the little changes. The jawline that was sharper now, the way his shoulders had broadened, how his voice had settled into something low and warm. Still familiar, but different. Older.

Will had thrust forward in time without him. Growing into something Mike couldn’t quite touch, but had to look at.

What was he supposed to do with that? What was he supposed to call it?

He liked girls. He still liked girls. Melissa Q had made out with him a few months ago, and it was awesome. Katie B had shown him her tits after a walk in the woods, and he wasn’t repulsed by it (the word was kind of gross though, tits- ew). And he’d loved El, hadn’t he? When he was younger, more innocent, and a far better person. He’d said it. Tried to believe it. Meant it, even, in a way. That fluttery kind of love you think was the whole world when you’re thirteen. That safe kind. Storybook kind.

But this? This was different. This was… not fluttery.

This was weighing on his chest. Pressure in his throat. Static in his hands.

This was Will.

Mike blinked, putting his head onto the desk.

How in the hell had he gone from “Will is my best friend” to “Will is… kind of hot” in record time? There wasn’t even a single lightning bolt moment. No big romantic realization. Just a slow, horrible drip of noticing. Moment to moment. Maybe he had always felt like this, and he was finally old enough to put it into words.

He’d really outed himself in that car ride up, ‘play doctor?’ was that what he had said? What kind of sad porno nonsense was that? Will had turned beet red after hearing it, heated up, probably completely disgusted by the idea.

There was just no way to have his cake and eat it too.

He had tried to pull away from Will, in hopes that upon his return, the feelings would have fizzled. But all that did was make the fantasies worse, tearing out a gaping Will-shaped hole in his chest; miserable, and hiding a pile of letters addressed to him under the frame of his bed. Hundreds of phone calls that instantly went to voicemail.

Then, he saw Will. In that awful roller rink, looking the best Mike had ever seen him. Hopeful eyes, a smile that could cure illness; slightly taller, a hell of a lot broader, and so, so pretty. 

And he had been awful. Ignoring him, trying desperately to prioritise Eleven while trying to catch a glimpse of Will whenever he could. Eyes rolling, sarcastic, and obviously upset with him. The expression on Will’s face when Mike went in for a half hug, well…he wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.

The night after Eleven and Mike fought, he had seldom thought about her. He’d thought about Will, and how devastated he looked.

From that moment, Mike had resolved to never ignore Will again. Even if it meant having to deal with the way Will made him feel.

He leaned back in. He needed Will in his life, weird feelings be damned. He had once, before Lenora, been hopeful that coming face-to-face with the real Will, his actual best friend, would allow the walls to crumble. That the twisted narrative he had constructed would be crushed by reality. That Will wasn’t as perfect as he was in Mike’s head.

But he was so wrong about that.

The bell rang.

Mike scrambled out of the classroom, walking down the halls with an awkward, quickened stride. Mike hit the dining hall, scanning the room for the familiar faces of his friends.

He felt a tap on the shoulder and turned towards the culprit. Doe-eyed, messy hair, his puffer jacket shed, revealing a T Shirt with Robert Smith’s face printed in black on the front. Slightly too long, reaching past the belt on Will’s jeans.

“Hi.”

He smiled, trying to feign indifference. “Hey.”

“The rest of the party is over there,” Will said, pointing toward a table at the back.

Mike hummed, nervously shifting his weight between his legs before following him, “cool.”

Will’s shoulder brushed his as they walked. Mike slyly tried to lean into it, inching closer in a way that could be written off as accidental. It felt right.

They’d always been like this, physically close. Something that happened unconsciously. A hand resting on his shoulder, legs intertwined while watching a movie, side by side: walking so close it became obstructive. Being his clingy, awful self, Mike was usually the one to initiate contact. So when Will did it, purposefully or not, Mike could never find it within himself to pull away. He’d always follow him.

As they got close enough to the table, a loud yelp broke through the cafeteria buzz, making Will jump, the proximity between them widening. Mike bit the inside of his cheek, a little irritated by whoever had broken the moment. 

Will was always a little skittish. Lonnie’s A+ parenting and a week running away from the Demogorgon had made sure of that. Mike wished he could just throw his calm into Will, sharing energy, get rid of everything that had ever hurt him, burning it all to the ground. He shook his head, squinting his eyes, trying to find the perpetrator. 

It was Dustin. Obviously. Who was currently glaring accusatively at Max.

“Max, stop throwing food! It’s all over my shirt!”

Max grinned impishly, circling her fork around mashed potatoes, which were bright yellow and stodgy, the kind of consistency that would stick. “I’m blind, Dustin,” Max said flatly. “I just keep missing my mouth.”

Dustin lifted his arms up and threw them over his head in defence, trying to evade any future attacks. “It’s convenient that every time you miss, it just so happens to fling into my face,” he cried.

“Yeah, I guess that is weird,” Max teased, sounding anything but sorry.

Dustin slumped forward, hands raised slightly in surrender. “You’re evil.”

“Hey! Guys!” Mike said, tapping the table since no one had noticed them arrive.

Max frowned. “Wheeler,” she said in mock seriousness.

“Max,” Mike replied, matching her tone without missing a beat.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, in silence. Well, Mike was staring. Max was instead looking in his general direction. She cracked a smile, and they both promptly burst into laughter, falling into that oddly specific rhythm they always seemed to find nowadays. 

Mike had hated Max at one point (she later admitted the same sentiment). But, you know ? They were dealing with their own shit at the time. They still were—dealing with it (just better than before).

An apology between them wasn’t really verbalised. It just happened. Max had talked about Billy, and Mike had told her about Will’s disappearance and all the trauma that came from it. They had both cried a little, and as cruel as it sounds, Mike was glad she couldn’t see him.

After that, they became friends. Proper friends. Not just ‘friend’ by proxy of the people they hung out with. Once, completely genuine insults were now friendly and laden with layers of sarcasm. Words and expressions that denoted hate were now teasing, a mockery of their once rocky relationship.

Everything they did now seemed like a pantomime of the original play. A satire of a time when they were less grown.

“Come sit here,” Max offered, patting the bench beside her innocently.

“Absolutely not,” Mike said, veering away. “I’m hiding behind Will. I saw the way you were flinging those mashed potatoes. Pointed attacks!”

“Why me?” Will whispered, voice soft and easy in a way that made something in Mike’s chest tighten.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It was pretty obvious why. Max wouldn't throw anything Will’s way. It would be like kicking a bunny rabbit.

Instead, he glanced at Will—just for a second—but the look lingered a beat too long. Will’s hair was longer at the back now, curling slightly where the ends met the top of his neck. He had a mole on his top lip, which Mike could have sworn got lighter. Or maybe it was always like that. Now that he’d taken his jacket off, it was obvious that his shirt was a little too big, sleeves falling almost to his elbows. He looked... older. Different. Better?

Mike dragged his eyes away, heart thudding once, annoyed with himself and hoping nobody had noticed. It didn’t seem like they had.

“See! Mike agrees with me. She’s doing it on purpose,” Dustin huffed, gesturing dramatically. “Why won’t you?”

Lucas shrugged, crushing a can of ‘New Coke’ (ew) and throwing it into the bin under their table. “She’s blind, man, I don’t know what to say.”

“This isn’t fair,” Dustin grumbled, gnawing at his PB&J like it owed him something. “You’re her boyfriend, so your opinion is totally invalid. She’s got you on a leash.”

“I do not!” Max said, affronted.

“Yeah,” Lucas added, cracking a grin. “She doesn’t.”

“See!” Dustin gestured wildly between them. “Never get a girlfriend, gents”, he declared, “Live the bachelor life!”

Will and Mike laughed at that, looking at each other for a moment. Lucas wasn’t having it, though. “What about Suzie?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

Dustin straightened, smug. “Suzie can only command me over the phone. That’s way better.” He pointed to Mike and Will. “Heed my warning, dudes. No girls.”

Mike laughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, I think I already figured that one out myself.”

“Yeah, yeah, you dog, we know…But Will hasn’t!” Dustin said, nudging him. “He’s the wise one, staying away from it all.”

Mike heard Will laugh, but it was short, almost rehearsed. He always got a little stiff when this kind of stuff came up. Mike had assumed it was just nerves. Maybe it still was.

“Yeah,” Will said, his tone clipped and tight.

“But dude, come on,” Lucas said. “Didn’t you find anybody at all in Lenora? I mean, not to be biased,” he added, looking toward Max, “but California girls are way better than Hawkins ones.”

“No. I mean—” Will hesitated. “There was this girl—”

“—Wait, no way!” Dustin cut in, instantly jumping on it. “What was her name? What was she like?”

Mike blinked. There was a girl?

He felt his face tighten instinctively, something curling in his gut. Jealousy—raw and stupid. He didn’t even want to look at Will, but he couldn’t not.

“When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?” Mike asked, trying (and failing) to sound casual.

“What? No.” Will shook his head. “What I was trying to say was—there were a few girls who asked me on dates in Lenora, but I didn’t like any of them.”

“Total brag, dude,” Dustin muttered.

“It’s not bragging—it’s just the truth!” Will spluttered.

Lucas gave Will a friendly pat on the shoulder. “No, man, we believe you. Like, there are a lot—and I mean a lot, of girls in Hawkins who like you like that.” He paused, pulling his hand back. “But to deny all of them? That’s cold.”

Mike let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, allowing himself to smile. Okay. Good. Will still didn’t seem to care about any of that. That made something inside him settle again, like a weight shifting off his chest.

“I can’t imagine Will being a dick about it,” he said.

Will gave a grateful sigh. “I was nice about it. They just weren’t my type.”

“Still a brag”, Dustin mouthed, shaking his head.

“Hey,” Lucas said, changing gears. “Mike over here saw plenty of action last summer. What even happened with Katie Billings?”

Mike groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. Not now. Not in front of Will. He only saw her tits, he didn't even-Jesus, why did everyone assume?

“I’m still not telling. If I did, that’d make me no better than the meatheads at table D.”

He paused, moving his head in their direction. From where they were, they could see two jocks, Brian McKenna and Robert Randall, clashing their heads against each other, pushing, punching, and fighting for the last piece of pizza on the table. It caused Mike to wonder. 

First, ‘where had they gotten the pizza?’  

And second, 'how were their skulls that thick?’

Max grinned. “That’s the first good thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth.”

Mike shot her a look, but couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks, Max.”

“It was barely a compliment"

Lucas chuckled, then looked back at Will. “So how’s El doing?”

“She’s still with Hopper,” Will said. “At a location that I still cannot give you.”

The table groaned in unison.

Will smiled faintly. “But yeah, she’s good. She’s been getting into bedazzling things lately. Hopper got her one of those glue guns. She managed to get to his police badge while he wasn’t looking. He was not happy about it.”

Max smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s my girl. I miss her.”

“She’ll be back. I promise,” Will reassured. “She misses you all, too. It’s just... those government guys still think she’s trying to destroy the world.”

“That’s so stupid,” Mike said, his voice suddenly sharp. “She literally saved the world.”

Dustin leaned forward, lowering his voice. “And her powers—”

“—still back.” Will nodded. “It’s pretty cool. She can get us premium cable.”

Lucas perked up, eyebrows high. “Shit. When she’s back, can she do that to my TV?”

Max wrinkled her nose. “You’re disgusting, Lucas.”

“What? No!” Lucas looked horrified. “I just want NBA access. My mom won’t pay for it!”

“Sure, buddy,” Dustin said, smirking. “I’m sure whatever Erica found under your bed was basketball-related .”

“She told you ?” Lucas yelled, panicked. A few nearby heads turned.

Mike snorted. “No. You did. Just then.”

Lucas groaned and sank his head into the table. The whole party laughed, Max putting a hand on Lucas’s hair and pulling him back up- his face still fronting an expression of complete embarrassment.

It was nice. It was really nice. To see the whole group back together (bar Eleven).

They still hung out. D&D campaigns in Mike’s basement, trips to the arcade, random excursions with Steve Harrington. But there was always somebody who was busy, off-sick, or just didn’t feel like it that day.

They were all recovering from what had happened two years ago. Lucas still had checkups for his nose. They didn’t realise until after Max woke up that he had fully broken it. It didn’t set fast enough, so it had healed weirdly, his breathing a little wonky. Will would faint sometimes; people couldn’t figure out why, but they had assumed it was something to do with the Upside Down. Max was blind, obviously, and she had bad days where she got frustrated and refused to navigate the world outside her house - places weren’t that accommodating toward people who couldn't see.

Dustin was the one hit hardest by Eddie’s death, sometimes barely sending so much as a radio message. He had also done his back in during the ‘battle of the bats’, and sat uncomfortably on hard chairs. Concerningly, it seemed like as soon as Dustin had spotted Jason's old posse, he'd instantly began to antagonise them. Maybe it was just for today. He understood. First days were difficult, and they were all coping in their own ways.

Mike was the only one who didn’t have any long-term issues. Just a couple of scars from years ago, and a looming dread for what would come next. He hadn’t been there, in any capacity, when everything went down. He still felt a little guilty about that. Because—what if he had stayed in Hawkins? Eleven hadn’t even needed him. Jonathan drove, Argyle had the car and the pizza place, Will had the words…

What did Mike have?

A shitty excuse for a speech and a penchant for rolling his eyes.

Will had joked once that with all their injuries, the party should be renamed to ‘the retirement gang’. Mike had smiled sadly, suggesting, ‘the pensioners’.

It sucked knowing that every person had suffered, except for him. They all had evidence of their branding, while Mike walked around, his body mostly free from the horrors of their past. Nothing from the inside showed out. Hidden and completely unnoticed.

Max had added that the threat wasn’t over, so they certainly weren’t retired, just at a standstill.

The room had gone quiet after that.

Somehow, waiting for the bad thing was much scarier than experiencing it.

Let's go to bed

The Cure

1:10 ━━○───── 3:37
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The first few weeks back had gone much better than Will could have ever imagined.

His art class was full of interesting people, people he had never seen before—mostly 'Super' Seniors. Which weren't really, people had been held back. Nearly everyone. Will had moved up a grade in art, even though he should be a senior now, nevertheless, he was so glad about it. The art class was pretty quiet—calm. The windows open, sun piercing through, beams of light scattering in small spots. The room adorned in plants, artworks and crafts; paintings hanging proudly against the sunny, yellow wall.

It was one of the only rooms in this place that had character, some sort of life breathed into it. Sterile halls and garish green and orange paint slapped in lines across most classrooms. Drawn blinds and closed windows. But here, here was one of the few places in School that didn’t feel suffocating. A 2B pencil in his hand, a graphite smudge across his cheek, looking at art while others tended to their own schedules, all content in working without much chatter.

It helped that the comments he had gotten on his work, were wholly positive. Kind, constructive—something that made Will feel like his work mattered. 

Art was a way for Will to bear his own soul, without being direct. Creating things that could be interpreted any which way. But for those with eyes, who had seen what he’d seen, or felt what he had, they’d get it.

The teacher who taught on Tuesdays didn’t get it. Her name was Mrs Stein. She was strangely stern for an artist, thin and pasty. A woman with a thin upper lip, which she tended to jut out in distaste whenever she looked at Will’s work. He didn’t take offense, since she did that with everyone. She had a hatred for any work outside of the Renaissance. Even high-contrast chiaroscuro would cause her to look affronted. No, all that was acceptable was pastel daydreams and half-naked men. Ironic, considering her prudish nature.

The main art teacher was not like that at all. She was a hippie, for all intents and purposes, looking like she had floated right out of a commune. Gliding into class in flowy shirts with colorful, psychedelic patterns. In their first class, she waved when she entered the classroom, the kind of wave where you use your whole arm, and she introduced herself, “I’m Miss Kingley, but you can call me Sera”.

Sera (the name short for Seraphim, which caused Will to believe she did indeed belong to some sort of hippie cult) was kind to every type of art, with a love for anything textile. She loved tactile art, things you could feel. She had actually prompted Will to begin thickening his paint, layering it on until you could see parts bulging from the page. He hadn’t finished it yet (since it had only been a few weeks). But he was excited, excited because it meant that Max could feel it. Thick scales and hard rock. He had scattered soil from behind his house onto the bottom, gluing it on and painting it until it looked right.

But that was what he worked on every other day of the week. On Tuesdays, he wrote, trying to avoid showing any of his work to Mrs Stein.

Right now, he was working on an ‘inspired by’ section, writing in the margins of his sketchbook next to a crooked, glued-in picture of the artist. He had tried to make it look somewhat nice, with a watercolor wash on the page. But the paper had buckled under the intrusion, making the whole thing feel off-kilter.

“Who are you writing about?”, the boy next to him asked. They had never talked before, but Will had noticed him. Since...well, he presented himself in a way Will didn’t see often. His hair was bleach blonde, and messy—in a way you could tell was totally intentional. Hiked up in gel, forming imperfect, short spikes. He wore a denim jacket, slightly distressed and sun-stained at the edges, covered in patches and paint. Every time they left the classroom, he would have a new paint, oil pastel, or pencil mark adorning his jacket like a badge of honour. Something which would still be there upon his return. It was as if he had washed it by hand, and purposefully avoided those areas.

“Keith Haring”, Will replied, adding, “I like the colors he uses.”

His face was long. Not in a bad way. Attractive—he wore it well. He had a sharp, straight nose and cupid’s bow lips. Blue eyes and a nice tan to his skin. His jawline was a little soft, face framed with freckles, which looked like they’d been painted on with makeup. On closer inspection, Will came to the conclusion that they were not god-given, that perhaps, he just liked having them.

The boy beside him nods, “yeah, I like him too. He doesn’t seem like he’s close to your style, though.”

There was something…queer about him. Will had always felt that. He could be wrong, however, since Will had never really met somebody like him in person before.

Will shrugged, looking at the other boy, “I’m branching out.”

“That’s cool”, the boy said, leaning back in his seat in a way that reeked of calm confidence, “I mean—I did my project last year on Warhol, and they were pretty close friends. So I looked into him.”

Will smiled, shoulders easing a little, “I like Warhol more than Haring. But, we’ve already learnt about him. So…”

“Right, yeah”, the boy said, nodding. Then he leaned a little closer, his eyes fixed Will’s page, “I like the way they kind of say fuck you—to what people expect of them I mean. Like look at these bright colors”, he said, leaning over Will’s shoulder, “—they scream open-ness—open-ness for people who are expected to be hidden and ashamed. And Haring, well, he sprays it on buildings, on places where people can’t ignore it, places where they can't turn the other way.”

Will felt his breath hitch, just slightly. The way he said it—it felt like he was talking about more than just graffiti, “Yeah. I’m gonna write that down.”

“I wouldn’t recommend putting exactly what I said” the boy replied with a crooked smile. “This teacher doesn’t like bright and loud- if you know what I mean.”

Will tilted his head, his tone light and teasing, “Oh? But, you were talking about liking how he said ‘fuck you’, how he was open.”

“Yeah”, the boy chuckles, and Will could feel the air coming from his lips, goosebumps swelling from the back of his neck, “and that’s fine, for New York or San Francisco. But here? I’d recommend not pushing. Just get out.”

The boy pulled away, going back to lounging on his chair. Will looked at him more closely then. The curve of his smile was easy, but knowing. He was sitting with one leg tucked under the other, his arm stained faintly with charcoal dust. There was a little safety pin on the hem of his jeans, and a streak of blue paint across the back of his hand. He was definitely gay. Whatever was being said between them was just a guised metaphor for it. But, he didn’t seem scared, so he must somehow know that Will was too.

“Trust me”, Will whispered quietly, “I plan to. I love it here, I do. But-”

“-it’s not safe for people like you and me.”

Will blinked, not expecting for the other boy to be so upfront. He looked at him again, heart skipping.

“You?”, he asked, treading carefully.

He smirked, “Thought that much was obvious.”

“Am I obvious?”, he asked before he could stop himself.

The boy shook his head slowly, “No, no. Only for people who are looking.”

Will swallowed, a cheeky smile playing on his lips, “Huh. So you were looking?”

The boy’s grin widened, taking the bait, “How could I not?”

“This is weird”, he thought to himself. It was so very weird.

“What is?”

He’d said that out loud. Fuck, real fucking cool of you Will! Open mouth—insert foot.

He stuttered over his explanation, keeping his tone low, “I can’t—I didn’t—I don’t think I’ve ever talked to somebody like me before.”

The boy was quiet for a second, then said, “You probably have, but, you know? Everyone’s hiding.”

“I wish we could just, I don’t know? Hide together?”

Then the boy smiled, wide and genuine, “We do, in Mr Rinchell’s room, at 4 pm today. Every Tuesday.”

He was offering him an olive branch. Into a place where people like him existed. People like him existed. People like him in Hawkins existed.

“Really?”

The boy snorted, “Yeah, it’s ‘board game club’, or something like that. You should come.”

“And bring a board game?”, Will asked, dumbly.

The boy looked him up and down, gaze trailing across his figure, “Nah, just yourself.” It made Will feel things. He had felt things like that before—mainly with Mike. But now, here, he had space to not feel ashamed about it. Because, well…whoever this boy was, he was like him, and he was definitely—flirting.

Will hesitated, hoping he wouldn’t hear a familiar name, “Who’s there?”

The boy grinned, “Guess you’ll have to find out, erm…name?”

“Will.”

The boy held out his hand and shook it, “Tyler.”

Train in Vain

The Clash

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He had thought about it all day. All day.

Since that early morning class, Will couldn’t shake off the anticipation from his shoulders. It was trepidation, excitement, and anxiety. It was the feeling you get before you do something incredibly brave, like jumping off a plane with a parachute. You know it’s probably going to be fine—because logically, more people die from being trampled by rogue cows. You know it’s going to be an experience, that it might change you. But you still worry, deep down, you worry about whether the parachute will work. Because there’s the smallest chance of hitting the ground.

Being in a room full of people like him was safe. They’d understand him, maybe even relate to his struggles. But he did worry about whether any of it was real.

What if he just turned the corner to an empty room? What if it was all a setup to get Will to disclose something that would make him a direct target of every hateful person in Hawkins?

It wasn’t, it wasn’t. No logic could get Will to actually believe in that worst-case scenario. Mainly because, well...Tyler did seem gay. Whatever 'seeming' gay meant. Did it mean well-dressed? Softer in cadence? Somebody with a jacket full of pins, painted nails, and a bright, lovely smile?

Maybe it did. Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

Mike had noticed the tension in Will's body, his furrowed brows, the way his eyes were glazed over and lost in thought. He had taken Will aside during break and asked him if he was okay, using that quiet, soft voice that was reserved only for him. Will smiled and nodded. Because, well, he was okay. He was just waiting.

Mike looked convinced enough; he had always managed to sense when Will was lying, when he was actually in a bad place. But he wasn’t right now, and Mike realized that.

It was funny. Mike Wheeler was one of the most imperceptive people he had ever met. Somebody who wouldn’t realise he’d angered somebody until they threw the first punch. And Will was an expert at lying— God even his brother now believed him when he mumbled some shitty half-truth.

But Mike. Beautiful, wonderful, usually obvious, Mike. Could always tell. He’d notice even the smallest differences in Will’s expression, in Will’s tone, and he’d know—he’d know, exactly how Will was feeling in that moment. Though he couldn’t always figure out why.

Lunchtime passed pretty quickly, but classes dragged. Will wanted to be anywhere else than in Biology, looking at some awful diagram of a tiny molecule. Some covalent bond that was invisible to the naked eye. He thought it was stupid to learn about things like that. Stupid for him anyway. He had no desire to figure out how the world built itself, how it formed, and where the grains of sand got their pieces from. Why the sky was so blue, and what caused the green in plants.

All he wanted to do was enjoy it. Wanted to lay his feet in the riverbed and watch the water flow over him. Observe the fish before him, leaping down the stream, and not have to wonder why they exist.

There was no magic in thinking of humans as machines with working parts. To think of his friends as biological robots, walking about in skin suits to protect their vitals. To think of an illness as an unthinking needle that just so happened to bury itself into your body.

That wasn’t the kind of ‘inside’ he cared for. The logic, the explanation. He much preferred the real deal, the humanity. The issues, the wants, the desires. He wanted the subtleties of a person, the meaning behind words, and the beauty in having an abundant amount.

A single answer wasn’t one Will would look for. A field where one definitive equation could explain something. A place where nothing else had any merit.

He liked it when there was no single correct solution. Where wrong answers were laden deep in nuance, and what-ifs? Not yes and no.

That probably explained why he was so awful at maths. Or at least explained why he despised it so.

The bell rang, and Will thanked whatever God above. A God that was apparently, incredibly unscientific. Not to say he believed in one, but he didn’t like the idea of not believing in something. After seeing a world that quite literally, was the stuff of nightmares. After watching a girl levitate waffles from the oven directly into her mouth. Yeah, well, it was pretty hard to believe in science. To believe everything made sense.

Because it really, really didn’t.

Will had flown down the corridor, working on complete autopilot. Until he reached the entrance to Mr Rinchell’s room. It was wedged slightly open, and Will could hear something playing from the inside. He put his hand to the door, debating whether he was brave enough to open it and face whatever was on the other side.

But he hadn’t needed to. Because it swung open. Will’s arm moved forward with it, causing him to almost lose his balance.

On the other side, a girl with short dyed hair, it was a shade of warm purple, had two pieces tucked behind her ears. She smiled, seemingly sunny in disposition. Her top was hiked up, showing a belly button piercing. It was tied like that, obviously so that she could quickly pull it down if a teacher were to arrive. Her nose was pierced in the center, the earring (nose-ring?) silver and plain. She wore thick eyeliner, smudged under her green eyes, which caused them to stand out against her light complexion.

She giggled at his look of shock, grabbed him by the hand, and walked him inside.

The room was small, comfortable. It wasn’t colorful like his art classroom, or barren like most other rooms. The walls were white; a few corkboards were pinned on top, with diagrams and classwork stuck to them. The curtains were partially closed, just enough light coming through them to keep the room at a decent brightness.

On the table, there were board games. Unopened, strung across the desks like an afterthought. Leaning against said table was Tyler, who, upon hearing the door shut behind them, turned his head around, his lips coming up in a grin.

The girl dropped Will’s arm, apparently satisfied with her work. She cleared her throat and said, “Is this the new guy you were talking about, Tyler?”

Tyler slowly unhitched himself from the desk, unfolding his limbs like a cat stretching after a nap. He slid towards Will—that same relaxed confidence from art class radiating off him, “Hi Will”, he said, dragging his eyes down and back up. Screw subtlety, I guess. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

Will felt a little frozen. There were others in the room, and they were all looking at him. Staring, trying to take in his every movement, studying him like they could read something in his walk, in the way he held his arms, in the hesitation behind his smile. He felt a little awkward, using his jeans to wipe the anxiety off his palms, “Don’t lie, you knew.”

Tyler laughed at that, “Yeah, I did.”

“So…are you not going to introduce us?” another girl said from behind. She was blonde, tall, wearing a wife-beater and a cap. She looked like she’d play some sort of sport.

Tyler rolled his eyes, letting his head fall back dramatically, “Yeah, yeah, okay. So this is Cathy.” He gestured lazily toward her.

Then he nodded toward the plum-haired girl who’d brought Will in. She gave a cheeky two-finger salute.

“That’s Rachel.”

There was a boy with brown hair standing in the corner of the room. Holding his arms crossed and sporting a mopey expression. He was really tall—and Will meant really tall, freak of nature tall. All spindly legs and wiry frame. Tyler jerked a thumb towards him, “James.”

There was another boy there too, probably an inch or two taller than Will, and a hell of a lot broader. His hair was in a buzz cut, light blonde (though it didn’t look tampered with like Tyler’s hair did). He looked like he was some sort of rugby player, albeit one far more friendly than he’d ever come across. He smiled, giving Will a wave, “That’s Scott.”

“Chris and Amy are MIA right now.” Tyler went on. “Probably because they care about ‘their finals’ or something”

Rachel shot Tyler a look. “Education is important.”

Tyler grinned and shook his head, “Yeah, not to me. I’m gonna be a photographer, drive down to NYC and give 'em hell.”

The tall boy, James, stepped forward, arms still crossed, and gave Tyler a sceptical once-over, “Who’s gonna hire you if you fail?”

Tyler winked, pulling a chair out and sitting on it backwards, “I'll do something else then. What can I say? I'm flexible.”

Cathy laughed, turned toward Will, and asked, “So, Will, what do you want to do?”

Shit. Somehow, Will had forgotten that he existed. The whole group seemed so far from him, so distant. Like they were living in different realities. That a world where they could talk about tomorrow, and not have to worry about whether or not they’d live to see it.

What did he want to do?

Will had been living moment to moment. Sometimes stuck in the past. The rest of the party had too, in their own ways. Taking each day as it came, marching forward into whatever came next—never stopping to ask what that might be.

Who did he want to be?

Will had thought about an ‘after’. But he had never vocalised it. Because talking about that felt stupid. It felt like he would jinx himself. What was there to do but prepare for the end? In whatever way that ending came. His life, all of their lives, had turned into a play the moment the Demogorgon took him. Flipping through the pages of an unfinished story, waiting for the climax. Because books don’t end at seniority, they don’t end in hospice or in a bed with your lover after 50 years of marriage. They end when the threat does. So it had always felt like Will would end when his suffering did. 

Will would cease to exist, cease to be himself, the day he was severed from the hivemind. Walk away (or die trying) as a new person, dissimilar to anything he had been before. He would shed his life, leave everything behind him, and walk out into a new one. A reincarnation without the need to die.

The connections and ties he had formed. With his brother, his mother, and his Mike, they would leave with it. Die and crumble, and everyone would forget that there was ever a boy called Will Byers. They would forget that he had disappeared those years ago, and he would forget about them in turn. No longer having to suffer the guilt he felt for having destroyed their lives. No longer having to carry the love he had for somebody who could never return it the way he so desired.

Selfish. That want was so selfish. To want to just walk away after all of this, unburdened by the person he was–or is.

If Will wasn’t a liar, that would have been his reply. He would have looked at that small group in that small room, and he would have said it. ‘I wish I could be anybody else.’

But Will wasn’t about to be truthful now. Friends do lie —especially when it makes their lives easier to explain. So he said, “I don’t know,” and paused for a moment, thinking of what he would do if he weren’t himself. “I always wanted to be a painter. Move somewhere warm. San Francisco, maybe. Sell art out of a little studio. I know it’s dumb—”

“Sounds like a plan.” Tyler cut in.

Will looked at him, surprised, but Tyler just gave a half-shrug, like it was obvious. There was a brief pause, then Will glanced around the room. Everyone seemed so settled. A sense of comfort nested into the room; it felt as though he had been around these people for longer than just a few minutes. Maybe it was because Will didn’t have to lie about himself anymore. Well, he did. But not about his sexuality. He carried that on him, that secret. He hadn't truly known the weight of it until it had toppled off his shoulders. He hadn't realized how light he could be.

“So… how did you all, erm... know?” he asked, voice low.

Tyler was the first to respond, sitting up and smiling at the question, “I think I always did. I used to live in New York—moved here a few years ago. I never liked the typical boy stuff, you know? Except for the obvious,” he added with a grin.

Will didn’t ask what that meant. They all knew.

“There are a lot of fairies in New York,” Tyler said lightly. “I think that’s why I figured it out so fast. My parents figured it out, too. Didn’t go over great. They packed us up and shipped me out to the middle of nowhere.” His smile faded just slightly. “Probably hoping it’d straighten me out. Joke’s on them.”

“I’m going back, though,” he added, a little quieter.

“Jesus, Tye,” Cathy said, rolling her eyes. “Will didn’t ask for your entire life story.”

Then, with a grin, she gave her own answer, “Anyways—eighth grade. I was on the softball team. This girl fell on top of me during practice. That pretty much confirmed it.”

James played with his hands awkwardly, “I’m not erm- fully gay. So it took me a while. But there was this guy, once- he laughed at one of my dumb jokes during lunch. And something just... clicked.”

“Same,” Rachel said, adding in. “I like both. I don’t think I had a big moment or anything. It was just... slow. Like the fog had cleared. One day I realized I wasn’t scared to say it out loud anymore.”

Then they all looked at Will.

James shuffled in his seat, “And you?”

Will looked down at the floor for a moment. Then up again.

“I think I always knew. I just...didn’t have a name for it.” His voice tightened slightly. “I fell in love with someone I shouldn’t have. Somebody I really, really shouldn’t have. I was always… more sensitive, I guess. My dad hated that. Still does.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Cathy started to laugh, a slow, quiet clap emanating from the corner of the room, “I hate my dad too."

Will smiled, sat down at the table, and, surprisingly, they played Monopoly. Talking about everything he had never been able to speak about. Small things, big things. Celebrity crushes, gay teen heartbreaks, experiences…

As it turns out, there are a lot of people who are willing to sleep with someone of the same sex. They just don’t tend to call afterwards. Or even look at you when you pass them in the street.

He left that day feeling seen. Seen in a way he hadn’t been before. Because, well, of course, they didn’t really know him. They didn’t know what his favorite superhero was, or the way he took his coffee in the morning, or that he had been possessed as a child. They didn’t know that he feared that this was a prolonging of the end times, that there were things much greater a threat to his life than being caught loving a boy.

But it was nice. To sink into a world that felt so much smaller than the one he inhabited. But, at the same time, so much bigger. Extending further out than the curse of Hawkins, to Los Angeles, to Florida, passing Canada and Mexico, leaking into Europe. A world that was beyond him, so far away, so vast. With people like him, homosexuals. Where they lived in the open, and didn’t care about the consequences.

Because, here, he wasn’t quite Will Byers. He was what he wanted to be. Who he wanted to project onto the earth. Unburdened by the knowledge of his past-or the knowledge of who he really was. A place where he could construct the narrative, his story, framing it the way he so desired.

It was another lie. But maybe, one day, it wouldn't be.