Work Text:
Will makes it back to the Wheeler house without incident, the wheels of his bike whirring over the smooth cement of their long, curved driveway. All the cars are gone for the day and the house sits empty. Still, Will rides right into the garage door and leans his bike against the interior wall, so it's out of sight from the road.
He knows that eventually the school will call his mom, that they'll tell her he got into a fight, that he skipped the rest of the day and they don't know where he is. He knows she'll come screeching tires back to the house to hunt him down. And he gets it, really. He’d be worried too. But since he left school the exhaustion has crept ever closer, a looming weight hanging over his head like a ton of bricks, waiting impatiently for him to find the nearest soft surface to collapse on.
Will hurries to get his spare key in the door and wiggles it open, stepping through. The house is quiet in an empty way, the complete lack of movement or breathing or even the hum of electronics running in some other room. Ted is at work, Karen must be out running errands, Holly is at school along with Mike, and Joyce and Jon are both most likely over at Hop’s with El. He's alone.
Will debates his planned lie in his own head for a few quick beats before he sets his jaw in determination. He darts into the hallway bathroom and grabs the cough syrup, tucking it under his arm as he whirls to descend the creaky steps down into the basement. Beside his designated couch, he kicks off his shoes and pulls his belt off, setting the medicine onto the coffee table conspicuously, adjusting it minutely to be just perfect- perfectly noticeable for when Joyce storms down here like a parole officer.
Satisfied, Will snatches Jon’s blanket as well and layers it with his own, collapsing onto his side on the cushions of his couch. He tucks the blankets in tight around his arms and legs, practically cocooning himself, and snuggles down into the softness, his hands under the blankets moving to rest directly over his favorite bruises- one hand over the palm print Henry left on his hip, the other cupping the front of his throat over his new marks from today.
He knows he shouldn't like it so much, that the way Henry is so willing and eager to leave these brutal designs on his body is a sign of something. But Will has seen abuse, been the victim of it plenty. He remembers the way his mom used to cake concealer over her eye when Lonnie got a little too drunk and forgot he shouldn't leave marks on her face. He knows his mom never asked for that. He knows it's different. Henry would never hit him, not unless Will asked, and even then he knows Henry would ask him to explain his desire before he ever truly struck him. He would handle it with care, he'd make sure before, during, and after that Will was still enjoying it, still delighting in the attention. This isn't abuse. He doesn't know the word for it, not yet, but he knows it isn't that- not when he likes it so much.
Will drifts off within the count of three softly sighed breaths, imagining what Henry could want to discuss tonight, strategizing how to duck the military patrols on his way to the lab, and hoping that the fallout from his fight at school won't be as nuclear as he fears.
He's still asleep when Joyce gets home, the tires of her Pinto screeching hot against the driveway when she slams on the brakes outside. She hardly remembers to slam the door shut behind her when she launches herself out of the car and straight over to the garage door. Joyce stops short with a near-sob of relief when she notices Will’s bike leaned politely up against the wall, next to the neglected baskets of years worth of kid’s bats and rackets and balls. Toys their kids haven’t been interested in playing with in years- not since their lives were overtaken by a fight they shouldn’t have had to handle.
She pushes through the door to the rest of the house, noting that it’s unlocked, and scans her eyes around.
“Will?” She calls, loud and unsure, knowing none of the others are home to be bothered. “Will?!”
Joyce does a frantic pass through of the kitchen, the living and dining rooms, the ground floor bathrooms and doesn’t find him, her heart pounding even harder in her chest. She sucks in a shaky breath, almost wishing she had let Hop come with her as he had tried to insist. But he can’t get caught by the military patrols, and she couldn’t risk putting him in danger, not until she knows for sure something is wrong.
The school had called Karen, who had called Nancy when she didn’t know how to contact Joyce, and Nancy had radioed Jonathan right around the same time that the boys had radioed Jane. Through the absolute chaos that had ensued, they all learned what had happened. Will had been in a fight at school, a fight that he won, and then he’d disappeared. The boys had shouted over each other on their end of the line until Hop had snapped at them to speak one at a time. Mike had taken over, breathlessly explaining that they had heard about the fight right after sixth period- the story being that some little prick named Lewis had shoved her son into the lockers in a crowded hallway and called him names. Mike didn’t say the names but they can all guess, they all know what was said. The thought of her boy, her baby being called that name, being ridiculed for who he is, makes her sick to her stomach.
Then he told them what the people who had witnessed the fight were saying. That her gentle, sensitive son had snapped, he’d struck out, dropped the older kid to the floor with one blow but didn’t stop there. He struck again, and again. Then he ran. Mike said they had tried to look for him as soon as they heard about it, but by the time they got out of their next classes, Will must’ve already been gone. Hop had tried to hide the pride on his face but failed, even Jon getting a gleam in his eye that was a mix of worry and something deeply proud of his little brother. Joyce was proud too, just… just worried in the way only a mother can be.
Now, she tries to settle the nauseous panic that’s bubbling up with every second that passes without knowing exactly where her boy is. She’s trying not to collapse into terror when she rounds the entryway again and spots the half-open basement door. Instinct screams and she knows he’s down there. She follows her feet as they move her over to the door and down, down the wooden steps that shift and pop quietly underneath her as she descends.
And there her boy is, the sight of him sending such joy through her body it's like the first time she ever saw him. It's like when they handed her that tiny pink baby swaddled in blue, not screaming, just quiet and watchful the way he's always been. She remembers looking into his big newborn-dark eyes and just crying- crying and crying and smiling until Lonnie had told her to knock it off and get it together.
“It's just a baby,” he had said, his eyes on the small TV cart in the corner of the room, focused on the baseball game rather than on his wife who had just given birth or the newborn son of his that she held.
Will has never been just anything to her, not for one moment. Now, Joyce walks over to the couch pushed up against the wall on shaky legs, relief flooding her system like a damn breaking as she takes in his sleeping form under the layers of blankets he has buried himself in. She goes to sit on the edge of the coffee table, and nearly knocks over the bottle of cold medicine there. Oh, her darling boy. That must be why his throat had gone, why he was acting strange. He hadn't had a fever this morning but it could've developed in the first few hours of school. And then the fight on top of it.
Joyce sighs and leans forward to run her palm over his forehead, her brow pinching when she meets cool, dry flesh rather than the fevered clamminess she had expected. The medicine must have really worked, she thinks as she brushes his bangs out of his face. She’s been realizing it slowly over the last year or two, that he doesn’t look like her little boy anymore. He’s lost most of the baby fat in his cheeks, lost the high pitch to his voice, lost the wide-eyed innocence that had somehow clung to him even after everything that had happened in ‘83.
Will snuffles softly into the edge of the blanket where it’s been pulled up over his chin, so Joyce reaches over to draw it back some to make sure he’s getting enough air, when her hands still. Joyce stares and stares and stares at the length of pale, narrow throat that’s revealed to her. Then she stumbles over to the lamp at the side of the couch and flicks it on, returning to her perch on the coffee table, and stares some more. Mike didn’t say anything about… about choking. He never said the other boy, the older one that Will had fought, had choked her son- but there are the marks clear as day. Faint and red, splotchy with burst blood vessels in spots, but there like the negative imprint of a wide span of fingers, wrapped upon the front and sides of her son’s throat.
Joyce feels like she’s being choked herself, feels herself be thrown back years and years, to the last night Lonnie ever laid a hand on her, the last night he ever laid a hand on her sons. He’d struck Will, right across the face, for asking something innocent and childlike, not knowing why it would make his father so angry. He’d struck Will and Joyce had snapped, had lost her mind at him, even as Jon sprinted over to grab Will, to pull him from the house to run to the spot in the woods they felt safest in. That was the worst fight she and Lonnie ever had, their voices so loud that the neighbors a quarter mile away had heard them, called the cops. By the time Hopper had shown up, his gun drawn and his voice booming, Lonnie was just dropping Joyce to the floor, his handprints wrapped red around her neck like evidence. Hopper told him to go. To never come back. So Lonnie left. And only came back when he thought Will was dead, when he thought he’d be able to cash out on the lawsuit he was planning against the quarry.
She tries to breathe through the rush of memories, the rush of guilt she feels for not having done something sooner, for not tossing Lonnie out on his good-for-nothing ass years before he ever raised a hand to her sweet boy. Now her son is laid on this couch in the basement of the Wheelers, curled up tight against himself, his doe eyes closed and twitching back and forth behind his lids. And his throat is red like evidence. He looks so much like her in this moment that Joyce has to stand again, to pace around the room as she stifles her tears behind her fist, unsure of what to do. She wants to march up the stairs and tear off to the school, to demand that the boy have charges pressed against him immediately but Will is more like her than either of them care to admit- he’d never press charges. And after striking back in public, drawing the boy’s blood, he’d be just as at risk of having charges drawn as well. It’s too risky. They can’t take the chance of the military catching wind of Will doing anything out of line.
So, Joyce returns for the third time to collapse onto the edge of the table, to stare down at her boy and try to keep her cries quiet. Will wiggles under the blankets, a soft sound falling from his half open lips, shuffling his arms around, one of them falling out from beneath the blanket to dangle over the space between the couch and the table, as if he’s reaching out to Joyce instinctually. Joyce glances down at his hand, reaching up softly to take it into her own, turning it to gaze at the swelling in his knuckles, the faintly purpling cloud of bruise that he’s earned from defending himself.
She decides to ask Mike in private, later when he gets home, when she can corner him in private- to ask him about the fight. What he heard, what he saw, anything that might help her better understand what’s going on in her son’s life. She’s been too focused on Hopper and El lately, she realizes, too neglectful of her boy, of what he’s been going through. She’ll change that. Tonight.
Joyce gently tucks his hand back under the blankets, straightening them out over top of him, smiling as he snuggles down into the cushions harder, nuzzling his face against the lumpy pillow he hasn’t complained about once, even though no one would blame him if he did. He suffers in silence. He always has. So she’ll go further, she’ll dig if she has to, just to learn what he needs, what he doesn’t talk to them about.
She feels steadier when she stands, now that she has a plan. Flicking the lamp back off, she leaves the medicine on the table in case he needs another dose when he wakes, and runs upstairs to grab him a glass of water and some crackers, depositing them on the table as well. She’ll let him sleep as long as possible, let him get the rest he needs, and she’ll talk to Mike tonight, sometime after dinner. She sighs and heads back upstairs to radio Hop and let him know Will is safe and at home, knowing he’s probably pacing a hole into the floor of the cabin, ready to come guns-blazing to their aid unnecessarily.
When Will finally wakes, he can tell it’s late. The basement is dark, lit only by the weak flood of moonlight through the little window at the top of the wall and the orange glow seeping from under the door at the top of the stairs. He blinks the fog of sleep from his eyes and sits up, the blankets falling to his waist. He can just make out the outline of the medicine bottle on the table in front of him, noticing the addition of a glass of water and a few packs of crackers that his mom must have left him when she inevitably came home in a panic. He’s grateful that she didn’t wake him, that she didn’t hover. Glancing down at his watch, he taps the little button on the side to light up the screen, the dull green light flaring to life, wincing at the time. 10:30 pm on the dot, the little colon blinking up at him like the rabbit tapping its watch to Alice, warning him that he’s about to be late. Will groans as he levers himself up from the sinking cushions, every part of his body smarting from the bruises and having laid still for so long.
He carefully maneuvers through the dark to the duffel bag he’s been using as a dresser and grabs it by the strap, carrying it over to the bathroom with him. Inside, he flips the lights on, briefly shutting his eyes against the flare of brightness. Once he’s not blinded by the light, he strips and pulls on a clean pair of boxer briefs, forcing himself not to think too hard about why he grabs the tight black ones that hug his ass, then follows them with his only pair of black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. If he’s going to manage dodging the military patrols that rove through town all night, the black will help him hide, blend him into the shadows. The long moments he takes at the mirror fussing with his hair has nothing to do with blending in; it's just… he wants to look good. It's a ridiculous notion given thatHenry has seen him at his worst, but it matters to Will, he realizes. This is… It's his first date, he realizes with a jolt and a breathless laugh.
His very first date and it's him sneaking out to meet up with a nearly middle-aged man at midnight. The very same man that had technically kidnapped him when he was twelve… How romantic, he thinks with a roll of his eyes, fully acknowledging how ridiculous his life has become. Again, he’s so fucked up.
Will gives up on fixing his hair, knowing that the trek to the lab will just ruin it anyway, and swallows his nerves. He flicks the light off before he opens the door to the bathroom, then creeps back out into the basement. The duffel bag gets set back in its usual spot, and he pulls his shoes and belt back on with hands that he refuses to let shake, leaning over to steal Jon’s black denim jacket off the back of the arm chair and drawing it on last. His own bookbag is back inside his locker at the school, so he grabs one of Mike’s old bags from a shelf over the worktable on the other side of the room, tossing a flashlight, compass, and one of his spare sketchbooks inside, zipping it shut and throwing it over one shoulder as he steps silently over to the bottom of the steps. The house above him is quiet, softly shifting and creaking with faint movement, the not-quite-sounds of people readying for bed. He should be good to go. Jonathan is most likely sleeping up in Nancy’s room tonight, as he typically does on Friday nights, and Joyce should be tucked into bed in the guest bedroom two floors up, right next to Mike’s room.
Will glances around the room one last time, trying to think if he’s forgetting anything, if there’s anything he should grab before he goes out for the night. With a sharp hum, he darts over to the workbench and spots an old but still relatively sharp hunting knife, the one he and the rest of the Party used to pretend was a broadsword during campaigns until Mrs. Wheeler caught them once and absolutely flipped her lid, forcing Ted to hide it up on one of the highest shelves. Now that Will is grown, he can ease up onto his tip toes and grab at it, pulling it down and tucking it into the bag on his back right next to the flashlight.
With something to defend himself if the worst should happen, Will feels much more prepared for the night. He creeps over to the door at the corner of the basement that leads out to the backyard and grabs the handle, pressing his hip against the wood and lifting as he draws it open to keep it from creaking, the way they all learned to do by the time they were thirteen. Stepping outside into the chilled night air, into the silvery moonlit darkness, makes it all feel more real.
His heartbeat picks up as he eases the door shut silently behind him and scans his eyes out over the Wheeler’s backyard, the rusted metal playset that they haven’t swung at in years, the big oak that Ted hired someone to cut all the lowest limbs off of to keep them from climbing after Mike got stuck when they were ten, both clung to by shadows. Will huffs a calming breath and forces himself to focus.
“Henry’s waiting,” he whispers to himself, just the sound of the older man’s name helping to steel his nerves, sending a thrill down his spine. He’s going to meet his lover, the very thing he thought he’d never have. It warms him from the inside.
Will creeps around the side of the house and up the small hill that raises him back to the ground floor, peeking his head around the corner of the carport, noting that the front porch light has already been flipped off, the front of the house dark save for the little faux-candlesticks that Mrs. Wheeler has put in the center of all of the windows. He ducks into the open front of the carport and maneuvers his bike out onto the drive as quietly as possible, jumping astride and pedaling hard off into the dark street.
He avoids streetlamps at all costs, using the watery light of the moon as it peeks out from behind thin grey clouds to navigate his way down the road, taking every shortcut he knows, pausing in alleys when he sees the pass of the harsh headlights of the patrolling military jeeps. Cutting south onto Western Ave, he follows the edge of the thin woods the entire way down to the junction, easing his handlebars to the right to steer onto Cornwallis. Eventually, the houses become further and further apart, the trees get taller, the forest more dense, as he leaves the town proper behind. His tires whir softly over the damp blacktop, the sound of crickets echoing out from the trees, their song bouncing back and forth across the road, pausing as he passes by and picking up once he’s gone. A dog barks in warning somewhere far off, on the other side of the patch of woods that separates him from the trailer park where one of the rifts stretches, where it ripped a jagged line straight through the Munson trailer.
Just after the intersection with Kerley, he has a sudden flash of memory rip through him, nearly sending him sprawling to the wet grass and decaying clumps of fall leaves on the side of the road. This is where he lost his bike all those years ago, when he barely stood taller than the handlebars, that night in November. When the Demogorgon got him.
But this isn’t that night, and he’s a different person now, near-grown and more sure in himself than he’s been in… in his entire life. He’s not broken, he’s not wrong for who he loves, no matter what anyone says. He pushes on.
A few miles down the road, Will slows to a much smoother stop, his tires crunching over rough gravel when he turns off the blacktop. He stares at it, lit up like a charcoal study in the moonlight, the windows dark, broken in places where rocks have been thrown through. His old house. They’d put it up for sale when they left for California but no one wanted to buy it- no one wanted the haunted house, the one where the boy that died came back to life, where strange things happened year after year. So it sat empty, becoming legend, the weeds growing over the lip of the front porch, ivy creeping up the walls to lick at the sagging roof. It had never seemed so small before, so dingy and rundown, when he was a kid. Back then it was just home. It was where his mom was waiting for him in the kitchen, dinner on the stove and Jonathan’s music echoing down the hall from his bedroom.
Will stands there astride his bike for as long as he dares, listening to the wind whistle through the trees, the ebb and flow of cricket song, the hoot of a barn owl off in the backyard. He stares at the house, into the yawning blackness beyond the broken glass of the windows until he can finally tear himself away.
It’s not goodbye, he promises himself. Someday he’ll pry the graffitied boards off the front door, he’ll step back inside that house and wander down the hall, his footsteps creaking over the dusty floor, and lay down in the center of his old room, where his old bed used to rest. He’ll lay there among the cobwebs and scraps of broken crayon and then he’ll say goodbye, when he has the time to do it right.
For now, he turns away from the house and steers his bike back onto the cracked, pot-holed road and pushes hard for the turn off to the lab.
His legs are burning and his lungs ache when he finally makes it there, clouds of steam wisping out of his mouth into the cool November air with every breath. Avoiding the main security hut at the entrance gate that's been sealed over with countless sheets of steel-reinforced plywood, Will walks his bike through the woods along the edge of the tall barbed wire fence that rings the grounds of the lab. A few hundred feet into the dark forest, Will spots what he's been searching for, his eyes straining in the dim moonlight, trying not to stumble over tree roots.
A hole in the fence, small and hardly noticeable, down against the ground, bent back just far enough for something small to crawl through, possibly made by animals searching for food. All at once he doesn't hate his stature, knowing he'd have to keep searching for a way in if he was any bigger. He lays his bike down in the damp leaves and haphazardly covers the shiny metal parts with bits of stray branches and loose dead grass, just in case, throwing some handfuls of the slimy brown leaves over top for added coverage.
He isn't sure if there's still any type of security system running so he takes a longer stick that he finds nestled among the detritus and kneels down into the dirt to carefully poke it through the hole in the fence, waving it around, waiting for any kind of alarm or shouting, feeling like an idiot the entire time. When a long minute rolls by with no reaction, Will withdraws the stick and shakily removes his bag, gingerly nudging it through the hole to await him on the other side.
With a bracing puff of air, Will stiffens his jaw and wiggles closer to the fence, dropping down to his belly to arm-crawl through, grateful once again for the drills Hop has had them running a few times a month. A few pieces of chain link scrape at the denim jacket covering his back but he makes it through fairly easily, pausing there for a moment to listen for the sounds of anything or anyone. The only sound for miles is his own stifled panting and the cricket song that's been his soundtrack the entire night.
Will raises himself to his feet but stays crouched low and slings his bag back over his shoulders, brushing twigs and pine needles and wet clumps of rich dirt from his front. He gazes over the wide grassy knoll of the lab grounds to the building itself, its towering cross-shaped structure catching the moonlight. That's where it all started… where Jane spent her childhood trapped underground, where Henry was banished to the Upside Down when she opened the first rift. It's where Will spent hours and hours every Thursday during ‘84, talking with Doctor Owens about his dreams and fears, being ignored until it was too late and he was already possessed. It's where Bob died.
He swallows back the wave of guilt that rises in his throat, Jane and Mike's voices blending together in his head in memory, both of them saying, “It's not your fault, Will. You couldn't control it.”
It's never really made him feel better, but he's learned to let the words numb the guilt, rather than remove it.
Will forces himself out of his memories and starts to follow the fence line as it curves to the north, avoiding the south where the parking lot and long winding drive lay- too exposed to risk taking the easy way. After a while, he scans his head around again and decides he's made it to the point where the corner of the lab is closest to the fence line, his least exposed option for bolting across the overgrown field to duck against the towering building. He stops just before he reaches the edge of the steel-plate covered rift, where the military has rebuilt and reinforced a new section of fence over the rift, and then moves.
He bolts from the fence, following the jagged edge of the rift as a guide, sprinting hard and fast for the wall, his thudding footsteps muffled by the thick dead grass. His black clothes lend to his stealth and he flits through the dark like a shadow, unnoticed and silent. His adrenaline is high, flooding his body with a cool calm even as his fingers twitch. He throws his hands out to catch himself against the hard cement wall, not wanting to slow down before he has coverage.
There, he kneels down behind one of the thick concrete pillars that stands right at the edge of the covered rift, and checks his watch. 11:59. He couldn't have possibly timed it better, a thrill wooshing through his stomach.
Before he can even pause to think of what he should be looking for, a hot red glow flares to life, peeking out from under the edge of the closest steel plate. It lifts further, a black tendril creeping out to brace itself against the ground, leaving a gap just big enough for Will to crawl through. He stares at it, sudden fear coiling in his gut, sucking the moisture from his mouth. Under the plate is the writhing red membrane that keeps their realms separated, flickers of lightning flashing underneath the fleshy surface.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn't suddenly terrified, that the memories of being stolen here as a child weren't flooding back into his mind like a mudslide, grabbing and ripping at the roots of his previous assurances as it goes. Maybe he's an idiot, maybe he's a manipulatable little fag so desperate for touch that he’s letting Vecna win by stealing him again-
His watch flicks over to midnight and emits one short, sharp beep in warning. Will is moving before he even thinks to, more determined to be a good boy for the man he loves, for Henry, than to sit frozen and stew in his fears and insecurity. Maybe he is an idiot, but he doesn't care anymore.
He drops to his belly at the edge of the rift and throws his arms in, ripping through the membrane with a wet squelch, grasping at the rocky ground on the other side. He lets himself fall through, feeling the strange shift of gravity once his head and shoulders slip in, his entire center of balance flipping over, and suddenly he's pulling himself up out of the rift. He grunts, shimmying his hips against the edge, his legs kicking out below to help him drag himself further out.
Strong, firm hands are suddenly there upon his arms, grabbing tight and lifting. Will squeaks as he's bodily lifted out of the gate, his eyes flashing up to lock onto- Oh.
It's Henry. And he's beautiful. There are traces of the monster still, patches of skin that still writhe with healing flesh, areas along exposed forearms where horrible burn scars shine red and hard. But he looks human, he looks mostly like himself. Handsome, sharp features, dominating brows and intense eyes. Blonde hair has grown back in, resting maybe just a touch longer than it does in his mental image, more messy than he allows it to look when he comes to Will in his dreams. He's got a nose, Will thinks with a semi hysterical giggle that he bites his lip to stifle.
Henry gently sets him upon the cracked concrete ground, making sure Will is balanced before he moves to let him go. Will jerks forward instead, throwing his arms up around Henry's neck and pressing himself hard up against the older man's entire front, burying his face helplessly into the soft white button up covering his chest.
“William,” Henry breathes, pressing his face down into the boy’s hair, winding his own arms around his narrow ribs. It feels different for both of them, more real, more satisfying, to be holding each other tight in real life, in person for the first time.
“You're beautiful,” Will sighs against Henry’s chest, wiggling happily into the cage of his arms, turning his head straight and resting his chin on Henry's collarbone to stare up at him in wide eyed delight. A flicker of jagged crimson lightning reflects in his eyes, lighting up the hazel irises like the most gorgeous field of spring grass, sending a bolt of something hot through Henry's being. This boy, he thinks helplessly, this beautiful sweet boy.
Henry huffs and tries to hum some kind of response but finds he can’t, not when Will is gazing up at him like that. Unable to help himself any longer, Henry swoops down to draw Will in as tight as possible, smashing their lips together hard, swallowing the high moan that rips its way up and out of his boy’s ruined throat. They lose themselves in the feeling of their bodies shifting and sliding against each other, their belts catching when Will tries to shimmy his way up further, finally breaking them out of it enough to let go.
“I need to show you something,” Henry murmurs against Will’s soft, kiss-swollen lips, the boy humming dazedly in response. Will blinks back into his body as Henry pulls away to stand straight again, big hands remaining firmly upon Will’s ribs until he knows the boy isn’t going to topple over. Will nods and takes a small step back, finally able to glance around and take in the Upside Down for the first time since he was twelve.
The air is just as cold as he remembers, still clouded with little fluttering scraps of particulate, the sky still roiling with never-ending black thunderclouds, blanketing the earth, only broken by the harsh flickers of spidering lightning. He glances up at the lab to their left, the towering building looking much the same as it does Rightside Up, just decrepit, crumbling in places, tall cracks creeping up the cement facade. But he doesn’t feel the same fear he did that first time, not with Henry here next to him, smoothing a hand down the sleeve of his denim jacket to grasp his smaller hand. He’s not alone here anymore.
“Come,” Henry softly orders, and Will follows. Hand in hand, he lets Henry lead him to a side door of the lab, the locks long broken from creeping vines and decay. He nods his head and the door creaks open on its own, a casual display of the power he holds, the ease of it sending a spark of want through Will’s belly. Henry is powerful, more so here in this realm than he is in their shared dreams.
They enter the lab, pausing just inside the door when Will whines softly without thinking and pulls his hand free of Henry’s grasp, the older man whirling to send him a confused look. Will just raises one pale finger and dips to his knee to dig through his bookbag before he slings it back over his shoulder and clicks his flashlight to life, lighting up the long length of rotting hallway ahead of them. Henry stifles a chuckle and reaches over to ruffle Will’s hair, the boy trying to duck his hand and hide his quick flush.
“Smart boy,” Henry praises. “Afraid of the dark?” He doesn’t mean to tease, but the blush just rests so prettily across Will’s high cheekbones, over the bridge of his sharp nose, the way he bites at his plush bottom lip in frustration so enticing. He looks lovely in the blue-grey light of this realm, looks at home, his pale flesh reflecting the light back. The red marks Henry left on his throat earlier ring his neck like jewelry, sparking a thought in the back of his mind that he tables for now, in favor of watching Will roll his eyes.
“No,” Will snarks, brushing past Henry’s shoulder with a little huff. Henry has to bite back his fond grin, and wanders quickly off after William, taking a gentle hold on the boy’s shoulder to guide him in the direction they need to go.
They make their way down the long stretch of ruined hallway until coming upon an entrance to the inner stairwell, the door hanging off its hinges and ensnared by a layer of creeping vine. Henry guides Will in and they begin their descent.
“Oh…” Will trails off, scratchy voice catching in his throat before he clears it. “I've never- I only ever went up when I came here.” Henry looks over and notices the slight nerves that Will tries to hide by stiffening his jaw.
“When you came for your appointments?” He asks the boy, sliding his hand down the length of his arm to his hand, lacing their fingers together to make Will feel safer.
He watches Will nod in the reflected light of the flashlight beam off the walls of the stairwell. Henry knows the vague details of what Will endured that year, when his Master was enacting its second attempt at dominating the living plain through using Will as a host. Now that he's been free of its whispering influence for a few months, the thought of William being led down any of these halls by a lab-coated scientist makes him sick with anger. The thought of Brenner ever laying a single finger on his boy has Henry clenching his free hand into such a tight fist that it aches.
“Yeah,” Will continues, as they round another landing and keep moving downward, the boy stepping gingerly over the vines. “I used to come here every Thursday for an appointment with Doctor Owens. He was alright, honestly. Mom said he- he really tried to help. And Hopper obviously liked him, even if he says he didn't.”
“He didn't make it?” Henry surmises from Will’s use of the past tense. Will unconsciously squeezes Henry’s hand as he nods.
“He died last year. When we rescued Jane- Eleven- from a training bunker in Nevada…” Will lets himself fall silent there, unsure of how much information Henry might already know and how much Will should be telling him. He loves Henry but he loves his Party too, and he finds himself unwilling to betray either of them. It's a very thin rope to walk, he's realizing. There is one thing he knows he can freely divulge though.
“Doctor Brenner died there as well,” Will informs Henry, just as they reach the very bottom of the stairs, coming to rest together next to a small pile of rubble from where the vines have tunneled their way through one of the walls. “He was shot. Jane was…. Happy-sad, about it. She said she hated him but he… had shown her the truth.”
“The truth?” Henry asks, breathing as steadily as he can through the elation and vindication knowing that horrible man is dead, while regretting that he didn't get the chance to do it himself.
Will seems to chew on his words a moment before answering, “Jane thought she was the monster. That she killed the other kids in the lab… That she created the Upside Down and let the Demogorgons out. She thought… that it was her fault I was taken.”
Henry squeezes his eyes shut and just breathes. Will glances back and his mouth falls open in shock, trying to think of something to say, anything to comfort the man struggling before him. Instead of speaking, Will just takes Henry’s arms and wraps them around himself, his own hands coming up to grasp at the sides of Henry’s face gently. He presses himself as firmly as he can to the older man’s front, and just holds him while he gathers himself. After a few moments, Henry’s hands twitch and the hold becomes more solid, squeezing Will to him and nuzzling his face into the boy’s soft hair.
“She was never the monster,” he breathes out, knowing that even as Will stays silent, he’s listening. “It was always me. I murdered my family. I murdered that room full of children- convinced myself that I was freeing them, that I was protecting Eleven- Jane. I was-” He sniffles, ashamed that the tears are welling from his eyes, dampening the chestnut hair under his face, even as Will wiggles to hold him tighter, to squeeze him back. “I was so blind- I was the monster, Will. The entire time.”
“No, Henry,” Will insists, pulling back just enough to thread both of his trembling hands into the blonde hair at the back of Henry’s head, gazing up at him with his own wet eyes. “You were never the monster. You were just a kid, like me- You were taken advantage of by the Mind Flayer, just like I was. I gave him everything he wanted to know, I led soldiers to their deaths in those tunnels, I’m the reason Bob died, and so many other people died, too.”
“William, no-”
“If it’s not my fault, then it's not yours either!” Will’s hard, scratchy voice rings out around them, echoed by a deep roll of thunder from somewhere far off outside, stilling the both of them. Will has never raised his voice at Henry in anything other than ecstasy and his tone shocks them both, now. Their shared heavy breathing mingles in the space between them.
Henry breaks first. His knees buckle and he finds himself suddenly kneeling upon the ruined floor at Will’s feet, his hands desperately grasping at Will’s sides as he buries his face into the boy’s chest and cries- truly cries- for the first time in what feels like centuries.
“It’s not your fault,” Henry insists against the fabric of Will’s dark shirt, and for the first time in a very, very long time, it sounds like ‘It’s not my fault.’ It means everything to him, but so little in the face of every atrocity that his hands and mind committed against his will. But Will is his light, his guide, the thing he never knew he needed that appeared like a pale angel at his darkest hour to lead him back into his humanity. If the horrors that Will was forced to facilitate weren’t his fault- and Henry would never, ever put blame on Will for those things- then his angel is forcing him to face the same truth for himself too. Henry can- He chokes on a sob that he buries into Will’s belly- he can listen. He’ll listen to Will and believe him, because his angel says so.
It’s not their fault. It will take him a long, long time to really believe that he can ever be absolved of the things his body did, but for now, it's a start. Henry rubs his face into the soft flesh of Will’s stomach, his hands squeezing and squeezing, running up and down his sides, over the ridges of his ribs. Will whines, desperate and sad and wanting Henry to be okay, to feel better, his own arms coming to cage around Henry’s head, holding him close as the older man falls apart and rebuilds himself from the ground up.
“Henry,” Will cries softly, hands dragging up to the sharp planes of his love’s face to pry it away from his middle, to gaze down into those shimmering blue eyes. “I love you.”
Everything stills. Henry’s tears freeze upon his cheeks, his breath halts in his lungs. A sweet song like morning birds echoes in his ears, Will’s voice repeating and repeating through his mind as he tries to wrap his head around the beautiful truth his boy has just revealed to him. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him.
“Come here,” Henry growls, so low in his throat that it hurts. He pushes off of his knees so fast he hardly feels the rise, barreling into Will to lift the smaller man up into his arms. Will squawks in surprise and instinctively wraps his long leg around Henry’s waist, his arms around his neck. Henry forces their lips together with the hand he buries into Will’s hair, uncaring of how hard he’s gripping, knowing the perfection held within his arms will delight in the pain. His free arm wraps firmly around Will’s waist, palm cupped against his back, grinding their hips together roughly without another thought.
“Henry!” Will cries into his mouth, the older man swallowing it down as he strides sightlessly out of the stairwell and down the darkened hallway, Will’s flashlight abandoned behind them on the ground with a clatter, the light flickering with every press and pull of their lips. Henry doesn’t need to look ahead to know where he’s going, the path so familiar from his life before that he could make it blindfolded.
Step after step, he walks closer to where he’s going to lay his boy down and show him how much he loves him in return. Will squirms in his hold, canting his hips softly forward and back, grinding his hard length against Henry’s firm stomach- small, whining breaths and desperate pleas falling from his red lips, noises that Henry happily devours.
Henry turns to use his back to nudge open the door, striding into the rainbow room with his boy held firm in his arms. A small change of fate could have had Will trapped in this room all those years ago, shaved-headed and pale from a complete lack of sunlight, forced to battle the other children in mind games Brenner never bothered to teach them how to win. One small pluck on the web of destiny could have had Will named a Number and offered up to Henry earlier, easier to mold, but no less willing to listen to everything he says. He shakes the thoughts from his head without pause, happier to have the young man up against him as he is, his own person, a childhood that was… Happy-sad, like he said before, instead of just sad. He thanks a God he doesn't believe in that Martin Brenner never got ahold of Will.
Henry walks them over to the corner on the far side of the room, where the utilitarian couches rest bolted into the walls and floor, the cushions long rotted and crawling with vines. He lays Will down upon that bed of black tendrils and devours him. Their lips catch and tug and pull, teeth snatching at soft flesh, panting cries echoing out into the blue air around them.
“Say it again,” Henry commands when he allows Will to pull away to drag in great, suffocating lungfuls of air, immediately shifting down the boy’s body to focus his attention on that exquisite stretch of pale, heaving throat. Will whines wordlessly, arching his body up to meet Henry's, their hips grinding into each other harshly.
“Say it!” Henry demands, teeth snapping, latching onto the marked flesh before him, adding a brutal bite mark to the necklace of burst blood vessels from earlier. Will muffles a scream into Henry’s shoulder, hands clenching down upon the older man’s arms as he writhes through the pain, keening high in his ruined throat.
“I love you!”
“Again.”
“I love you!”
Henry rewards his lovely boy with a wave of soothing kisses over the sore bite mark, lapping his tongue over the spots where lazy droplets of blood are seeping out. His hands grasp and claw at the clothing hiding Will’s lithe body, leaning back just enough to tear the fabric over Will’s head, tossing it to the side and leaving the boy’s hair a fluffy mess. The sight of him drives a red-hot iron into Henry’s gut, his cock straining against the zipper of his slacks. Will’s ribs rise and fall with his sharp little breaths, his belly flat and smooth, so pale in the dim lighting, his eyes wide and wet with desire, locked onto Henry’s as the older man reaches down and rips the button of his jeans open.
“I love you, William. I love you, too.” The words, spoken in Henry's deeply smooth voice, like whiskey over ice, dig deep into Will’s core, hollowing him out and filling him with fire. Before he can think, before Henry can stop him, Will is throwing the bigger man off of him, canting his hips up and flipping them. Henry lands upon the ruined cushion with a whoosh of air from his lungs, blue eyes wide with shock and unbidden desire. God, this boy.
“Henry, please,” Will begs, even as his hands rip at the buttons of Henry’s shirt, tearing it open with a raining clatter of buttons across the room. His hips drive down relentlessly, humping himself over Henry’s thighs like an animal in heat, like he simply can’t control himself. Henry laughs from somewhere deep inside, joy like the brightest beam of sunlight flooding through him as he reaches down to help, to assist his boy in removing their pants. He helps Will raise up just enough to kick his shoes, jeans, and underwear off, leaving his socks simply to not waste the time in removing them. Will’s hands yank at the button and fly of Henry's pants, dragging them down just enough to free his cock.
Will swallows the drool that’s been building inside his mouth, wriggling his way up Henry’s body to sit just above his dick, wiggling his bare ass down upon the hot length, leaning down to crash their lips together once more. He doesn’t want prep, he doesn’t want to waste the time, but he knows Henry won’t go in dry, even if he begs, at least not tonight. So he shoves his own fingers in his mouth and sucks them wet, immediately reaching back behind himself to sink one finger inside his aching hole, biting his lip to keep from squealing at the agonizing mix of pleasure and pain.
“Careful, angel,” Henry tries to caution, watching in wonder as Will squeezes his eyes shut and whimpers, watching the way his arm flexes and shifts as he frantically fingers himself open for Henry’s cock. It’s the most amazing thing he’s ever seen, the most intoxicating sight. He wants to steal control back, wants to grab Will by the wrist and force him to slow down, to be more careful with his precious body- but he’s just as desperate, just as eager to get inside.
“I don’t care,” Will pants, adding a second finger, scissoring the digits to spread his hole, the stretch burning hot up into his core. “I don’t care. Break me, fill me, please, Henry! I love you so fucking much, please-” Will is completely losing it, hot tears dragging paths down his cheeks and dripping onto Henry’s face.
“Shhh, angel, I’ve got you,” Henry coos, struck by the sight of the most gorgeous creature that’s ever existed writhing down into his lap. Perhaps all those horrors really weren't his fault, if something out there has seen fit to reward him with a squirming, sobbing, dripping wet William Byers in his lap.
It's Will’s eyes that break the last of his control- hazel irises nearly hidden behind his half-liffed eyes, long fanning eyelashes obscuring the view, his dark brows arching down in that distinctly pathetic way, open vulnerability and utter desperation writ clear across his face.
He reaches back and grabs at Will’s thin wrist, pulling his fingers free by force. With his other hand, he reaches up to swipe at the weeping teeth marks on the side of Will’s neck, hot blood painting his fingers, then spits to add more slick, reaching behind Will and using the mix to shove his fingers inside. Will groans brokenly, dropping his head down to rest his forehead against Henry’s chin, hips twitching and jumping, humping desperately between the hard cock against his own and the fingers wiggling deep into his ass.
“Henry, Henry, Henry!” His boy whines, voice muffled in the crook of the older man’s neck, hips bouncing down onto his fingers. Will can’t take it, can’t take the stretch and pull and push of the digits inside of him, can’t take the roiling staticky heat building up into a supernova in his belly, leaking out through the head of his cock smushed between their stomachs.
“That’s it, my love, shh, I’ll-”
“No! Henry, now! Please, now, put it in now, please, I need it!” Will demands, breaking apart on top of his love. He sits up straight and reaches back defiantly, snatching Henry’s hand and yanking it away, tossing it aside without a pause, his deft fingers grasping at the hard length of Henry’s cock underneath him and guiding it inside, bearing down against the length. Will tosses his head back, panting to the ceiling, slowly but steadily dropping his entire weight down onto Henry’s hips, relishing in the too-tight stretch of his hole around the perfect cock burying itself inside of him. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. They love each other.
“Fuck, William, that’s it-” Henry growls, hands grasping at the boy’s hips, thumbs digging deep into the hollows of his sharp hip bones, ruthlessly digging into the already existing bruises of his own handprints. “My good boy, my perfect boy. So good.”
Will rides him, his thighs burning, his hips canting, his cock leaking, smearing wetness into the space between their bodies. They aren’t going to last long, either of them. It’s too much, too strong, too real. Will groans and cries and sobs atop Henry, feeling the length of his cock stretching him deep within, hitting that perfect spot relentlessly. Stars crackle and pop within him, a brush of warmth against the wall of his mind that he realizes with a gasp is Henry. He’s touching him inside and out and everywhere, filling Will to the brim, entering him, penetrating every open avenue, devouring him. Consuming him.
“Mm’a good boy,” Will slurs deliriously, his arms collapsing, dropping his chest down to Henry’s, the sudden friction over his nipples sending a jagged bolt of pleasure straight down into the root of his cock that has him mewling, drooling onto the hot, sweat-damp skin of Henry’s throat. “Tell me, please, tell me- I’m your good boy.” His voice breaks, vocal chords pushed beyond their limits, sobbing gasps falling from his lips like the sweetest dripping honey. Henry surges forward to lap it all up, planting his dress shoes upon the vines to thrust up. His arms wrap tight around William’s beautiful little body, and he fucks up into that tight inferno, chanting nonsense into the boy’s ear.
“My good boy- Perfect, so perfect. The best boy, William, you’re so, so good. Perfect, perfect, perfect. I love you- Tell me, tell me again, pretty thing.” Henry is lost in ecstasy, lost in the feeling of Will’s body held against his own, the sound of their hips colliding and their shared noises echoing around the room. The only thing he needs or wants to hear forever, for the rest of his life is those three words spilling from his boy’s lips. Henry slithers a hand up the arch of Will’s back, over the ridges of his shoulder blades, along the graceful curve of his neck, and locks it tight into the soft, sweaty strands of his hair. One last push of strength- he locks his other arm around Will’s waist and bounces the boy upon his length.
“I love you! I love you! I love youIloveyouIloveyou-” Will’s words become unintelligible, muffled and slurring as his boy bites him back. His teeth sink into Henry's neck, the older man tossing his head back with a roar, feeling Will’s walls clamp and flutter down around his cock as the boy starts to cum.
That's when Henry feels the little tap of Will’s consciousness against the impenetrable barrier of his mind. It's perfect, it's everything, it's the truth laid out plainly for them both to see. Henry opens up. Will screams into his neck as their minds wrap around each other, hesitant and running on instinct from the boy- assured and experienced from Henry.
Will doesn't know where they are anymore, barely knows who he is as Henry continues to fuck up into his physical body, all while the Technicolor stars of his consciousness pop and fizz and blur together, circling him, caging him, consuming his pleasure like some ancient starving beast.
Henry floods Will with a feedback loop of pleasure, letting him feel exactly what Henry feels, feeling Will’s in return. Their shared orgasm is like an explosion, a nuclear reaction that triggers itself into a never ending cycle of death and rebirth. They writhe as one, scream as one, hold each other so tight they bruise as one. Will’s cock jumps with every hot pulse of cum that he paints between their stomachs, while Henry spills rope after rope of rich white fluid into his boy's sweet hole.
His angel of death sobs atop him and Henry silently vows to worship him for the rest of his life.
It takes a long, long while for them to finally separate, and Henry makes sure it happens in increments. First, he works to untangle their minds, drawing back slowly but steadily, ensuring that Will is stable, that he's not spiraling. The boy’s mind is quivering but not in danger of breaking- no, he's much too strong for that. He offers up the unwavering walls of his own consciousness, his intangible being, for Will to lean on as they become two again.
When they're both back in their own bodies, Will can finally start to think about what it all meant, and starts to realize what it means that he was able to do that. As he thinks of the impossible truth, he feels something warm and wet drip over his lip. With a trembling hand, he reaches up and knuckles the warmth away, lifting his head just enough to look down at what he knows he'll find. Blood.
“Wha…” Will licks the mix of his own and Henry’s blood from his lips, a jolt of heat running up into his core from the root of his softening cock at the taste, twitching bodily on top of the older man, his hole clenching with an embarrassingly wet sound. “How did I- How can I do that? I'm not- I'm not like you and Jane, I don't-”
“Shh,” Henry soothes him calmly, even as his own aftershocks ripple up from his cock, the little twitches of Will's hole around him serving as the most divine torture. He keeps a tight grip on Will, running his hands up and down every available inch of soft pale flesh before him, grounding the boy back into reality.
“You're more like us than you realize, William,” Henry informs his boy, gently lifting him and shuffling out from underneath him. He lays Will out on his back upon the cushions and directs the vines to take over the petting, using his own hands to peel his sweat-damp shirt from his shoulders. While he smooths the shirt over Will’s body, swiping up sweat and cum and blood, he gathers his thoughts and waits for Will’s breathing to settle.
Eventually, once Will is blinking up at him more cognizantly, Henry continues, “That's why I asked you to come here tonight… I suspected you might be like me. Because of your encounter with my Mast- with the Mind Flayer.” He can't help but smile back as his boy grins at his annoyance at using their made up names. In fond retaliation, he directs two of the slithering vines to wrap around Will’s thighs just above his knees and pry his legs up and apart, presenting the boy’s dripping hole to him.
He tries not to let it show how much the sight affects him- the smooth, swollen, quivering hole, the plush little balls that hang above, the spent, flushed cock that slowly softens to rest against them, a droplet of clear after fluid oozing down from the tip. Certainly he looks like a lovestruck fool anyway, all thoughts momentarily evacuating his mind as he blinks dumbly down at the sight of perfection before him.
“Fuck!” Will squeaks, body twitching as he attempts to squeeze his knees closed unsuccessfully, his brows arching vulnerably. Henry just chuckles and forces himself to stop staring for his boy’s sake, using the last clean section of shirt to gently wipe away most of the cum from between his cheeks. The rest he pushes back inside with two fingers, breathing in the soft, pathetic sounds that Will emits.
“There you go, my love. Nice and full, hm?” He knows he's being evil, knows he's on the verge of pushing Will past spent and right back into horny exuberance, but he just can't help himself.
Will tosses his head back to squeeze his eyes shut at the ceiling, legs twitching against the vines' firm hold, muttering between his teeth, “I take it back; you are a monster.”
Henry laughs, loud and happy and free, a warm feeling spreading through his chest as he gazes down at his angel. He gently withdraws his fingers and gives Will a pat on his ass, ordering the vines to finally release him, the fleshy black lengths slithering back down to the cushions after a few more lingering swipes across his flesh, as if they too are reluctant to stop touching him.
Will's legs drop down to rest on either side of Henry's knees, the boy releasing his own breathy giggles at his words. Henry leans over to grab Will’s discarded clothing from the floor, shaking it all out to free it of stray particles and dirt before he slowly redresses his pliant boy. Underwear then jeans, before he gently eases both of his scuffed sneakers back over his feet, feeling silly and smitten and ridiculous for thinking about the story of Cinderella and her Prince Charming as he does.
“Sit up for me, angel,” he orders, and Will immediately obeys, his good boy, his softly shaking arms lifting him into a sitting position, wincing at the soreness between his legs. Henry guides the dark shirt over Will’s head, his arms through the sleeves, and straightens it out over his belly, petting as he goes. He’s not surprised that he was right, that Will does indeed share the same powers that flow through Henry’s blood. They are so very similar and yet so, so different. This boy is his other half, he thinks, leaning in close and drawing Will in by the chin to plant a sweet, lingering, lazy kiss upon his plush lips.
They still have so much to discuss, and as much as Henry would like to keep Will here with him, crown him in vines and raise him to something like Godhood within this greyscale realm, his boy would never agree. He loves too deeply, too purely. He loves his family and his friends and even loves the hateful town that does not see the beauty of the creature he truly is. Before, when he was… the Other, he would have stolen Will anyway, would have called the vines back to pin his sweet body down and keep him whether Will wanted to stay or not. That’s the beauty of Will’s power, though… Henry is no longer that thing. Will reached down inside of him without even trying and scooped the rot out, his love like a burning light, cauterizing the wounds left behind, healing him. So Henry won’t keep Will here beyond the time he needs to explain it all.
“How are you feeling?” He tests, rising to his own feet, watching as Will’s hazel eyes track the shift and pull of the muscles in his abdomen helplessly. Will swallows before he can answer.
“Good- I mean, sore… But amazing, kind of.” Will shifts around on the couch and takes Henry’s offered hands to pull himself up to standing as well, wincing at the shift of the cum still pooled inside him, the twinge of his sore hole and hips. One pale hand comes up to cup over the scabbing bite wound on his throat, his other raising to mirror the position over the matching wound on the column of Henry’s throat.
“Sorry for that,” he winces, soft apology in his doe eyes. Henry chuckles and shakes his head, ruffling the hair on Will’s head in that way that never fails to bring such a pretty flush onto his face.
“Don’t be,” Henry insists. “I like it. We match.” Will ducks his chin shyly, hiding his face against Henry’s chest. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing. You have people you’ll need to hide that from, unless you want to explain to them how you got it?” Henry dips down to look teasingly into his boy’s embarrassed face, watching as Will scoffs and sputters for a response.
“I’m sure I’ll figure something out!” He squeaks.
“You will,” Henry soothes, pressing a kiss to Will’s brow. “Now, I have something I want to show you- hopefully without getting distracted this time.” He punctuates his sentence with a roving grope of Will’s ass, just because he can, because of the sharp gasp of surprise that he gets to drink from his lips. Will recovers rapidly and jerks back a step, slapping Henry’s hands away from his body cattily, his delightful brattiness slipping out more and more the more comfortable they become with each other. Henry raises his hands in surrender and takes a few steps back, watching as Will settles and glances around, eyes finally taking in the room they’ve been occupying.
White walls and floors broken up by the chipped paint of the rainbow motif, crumpling sections of rubble where vines have pillaged through to spread, sprawling over almost every available surface. Discarded, broken children’s toys, molded picture-books scattered in front of short, collapsing bookshelves. A huge cracked glass observation mirror that stretches the length of the far wall, missing sections revealing the dark room beyond where the scientists used to watch them from. He watches as realization breaks like a wave over Will’s face, his eyes wetting with grief.
“This… This is where El-”
“Where she banished me, yes. Where I killed those poor kids. Where it all started,” Henry tells him. He swallows the dryness from his throat, unsure of where to really start, how to explain this all to the lovely boy before him. Will watches his face and sees something that Henry can’t decipher. His boy strides forward and takes Henry’s hands into his own, presses close and just breathes against his chest, grounding him. Waits for him to begin.
Henry takes a deep, shaky breath… and starts from the beginning.