Chapter Text
HAWKINS, INDIANA
NOVEMBER 6TH, 1989
10:05 AM
The air presses hard against Will's lungs, heavy with cloud-like spores and the aftertaste of cordite. He swallows around a wet cough, his breath snagging as pain flares beneath his ribcage.
A forearm drives into the base of his neck, tendons flexing under the stretch of dark skin as the lieutenant pins him back against the truck's bullet-pocked doorframe. The aluminum edge bites into his lower abdomen, the impression of handle grooves stamping into the strip of bare flesh where his shirt has ridden up above his navel.
A hand fists through Will’s damp hair and yanks. His head jerks back, fingernails scraping across his scalp.
His face slams forward into tempered glass, his chin driven toward his collarbone as his vision fuzzes out in patchy white blotches. Salt stings at the corner of his eyes. He blinks fast, jaw locked tight enough that his molars begin to ache, and he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep the sound in. His nostrils flare.
Holy shit.
“Stop resisting, kid,” a gruff voice hisses beside Will’s ear, puffs of stale air fanning hot against his temple. Spit flicks from his tongue and splatters onto the bridge of Will’s nose, hitting his cupid’s bow. The heady scent of cigar smoke lingers on the lieutenant’s breath. “Gonna be a real fuckin’ shame to have to mess up that pretty face, yeah?”
Condensation smears across his flushed cheekbone, moisture collecting at the chapped corner of his mouth. He sucks in a shaky inhale through his nose—a stuttering rasp that scours his throat raw and leaves him hollowed out. Fog spreads across the windowpane where his upper lip touches the glass.
Beside him, Dustin is bent sideways over the trunk, his arms pinned behind him at the base of his spine. His cheek is squished against the divots in the flatbed, flakes of dried leaves and dirt stuck to the side of his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, darting fast across the MAC-Z compound.
"This is insane!" Dustin chokes out, face pinching as he jams the heel of his sneaker into the soldier's kneecap. "This is completely insane, get your fucking hands off—"
The soldier snarls between clenched teeth and grips the back of Dustin's neck, fingers splaying just below the base of his skull, bashing his forehead into the lip of the trunk. He goes still for a second. When Dustin lifts his chin again, blood drips off the edge of his jawline and soaks into his collar.
The soldier rolls saliva between his teeth, cheeks hollowing before he spits it out onto the asphalt. The clump hits the ground with a wet smack. A sticky splatter streaks tacky across the scuffed toe of Dustin's sneakers before collecting along the seam. "Best not to talk back, boy."
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Steve shouts from across the compound, struggling against the soldiers bracketing him. "Real tough—he's just a kid, dickhead!"
"You gotta big mouth on 'ya. S'not gonna do you real good."
"Yeah, I do—what're you gonna do, dipshit, call the goddamn—"
Will scrunches his nose, eyes squeezing shut, as a loud backhanded slap echoes across the compound. He hears a sharp intake of breath, followed by a spit-sodden wheeze, then knees dropping hard against the pavement.
Blobs dance across the back of his eyelids, static dense and pulsing in tune with the steady pounding at the base of his head. The bitter taste of bile rises up his throat and settles on the back of his tongue; Will swallows, the putrid scent of his own vomit stinging his nose.
Will hears shoes scuffling and then a panicked: "Mike!”
His head lolls sideways, eyes blind-seeking through the haze that blankets his vision. The world tilts into a dizzying blur of people-shaped forms and smeared, flickering color. Sound is muffled—like it’s being dragged underwater before it ever reaches him. His hands twitch at his side. Will can't tell which direction anything is coming from anymore.
At the base of the steps outside Hawkins Public Library, Jane is flailing against Hopper's hold—nails scratching raised lines down his forearms, sneakers skidding against the pavement as she twists against him. Her lips are parted around a silent scream, the sound swallowed whole by the ringing in Will’s ears. Hopper locks both arms under her ribcage and hauls her backward toward the Radioshack, the rubber sole of his boots scraping across the concrete with each step. Jane’s head jerks to stare over the broad slope of his shoulder, brown eyes blown wide and fixed on something behind them.
"Let me go!" Jane pulls away hard enough that his grip nearly slips, but he tugs her back against his chest. "Hop—please!"
"El," Hopper rasps. "Stop fighting me."
A strangled sob tears from her throat. "Let me get to him—please let me get to him!"
Will winces as pain licks along the base of his neck, visions stuttering as tears pinprick behind his eyes. He swallows it down anyway, grimacing through the static hollowing him out. He follows the urgent line of her stare.
"Is that—"
"Holy shit," Lucas croaks, the fingers twisted in the back of his vest pressing him further against the chipped edge of the truck. "Don't—what is he doing?!"
Will feels his heart hammering against his chest, and he swears he can taste his own pulse where it flutters at the back of his throat. Goosebumps pebble across his skin, his stomach lurching as he swallows hard.
Will has always known fear. It utterly consumes him, blind-sought dissolution hollowing into his bones and soaking through his marrow until trepidation and flesh felt almost indistinguishable. A shudder tears through him; Will had never known agony, not quite like this.
Mike stands at the landing, silhouetted by the sickly glare leaking from the Upside Down. The gate stretches open behind him, while distant, animalistic screeches and the slow grind of sheet metal fills the air.
His left hand is raised just above his sternum, knuckles brushing the jagged teeth of his vest’s zipper. Clenched between his fingers is a handcrafted detonation remote, his thumb hovering over the red button. When Mike looks at Will, his pupils are blown impossibly wide—a thick ring of black eclipsing the brown completely.
"No," Will whispers, barely audible to himself. "Mike, please—"
Will chokes on a breath, his features breaking as an expression of devastation pulls at his face.
Mike looks so young.
10:22 AM
Will jolts awake with a gasp, his chest heaving as he chases after his breath. His pulse hammers his ribcage so hard he feels it in his teeth. The bedsheets are bunched at his waist, his Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars t-shirt drenched straight through with sweat. His hand trembles as he wipes at his face, his fingers coming away soaked with tears and snot. He's parched, his tongue thick and cotton-dry against the roof of his mouth.
Rainwater batters the roof shingles. On the windowpane, droplets slide downward in uneven rivulets, condensation blurring the forest beyond into a shifting smudge of green. Morning spills over the horizon, pale sunlight washing across his bedroom in slanted lines of apricot.
On the windowsill sits a collection of sketchbooks and a miniature Star Wars action figure toppled sideways. Next to the stack is a glazed honeypot holding a wilting bouquet of forget-me-nots and poppies; little teddy bears wearing overalls are finely carved across the varnish, the ceramic bathed in an outline of rust through the sunrise.
Will sinks back down, the mattress dipping under the shift of weight. He lolls his head to the side, face pressing into his pillowcase, his cheek squishing against the linen. It smells like the slipcover of his Ford Ranger pickup—vinyl and wintergreen air freshener. A cheap bottle of patchouli-scented cologne had once spilled across the passenger seat, soaking into the fabric that forever smells of dark chocolate.
He closes his eyes and breathes it in deep.
It smelt like summertime at the quarry, toes dipped into the sun-warmed lake while deft fingers smeared sunscreen across the plane of his back. Both hands pressed deep into his skin, thumbs meeting above the top notch of his spine. Mike's palms had been warm as he massaged the cream across his shoulders, along the expanse of his throat—a shiver working its way through him with each pass of calloused flesh against his skin.
Mike's fingertips had traced the cleft of his spine, the divot of his shoulder blades, then upwards again to circle the base of his neck. He'd pulled away for only a second, tipping Will forward to squirt additional sunblock onto the lower expanse of his back. His palms flattened, fingernails scratching his skin as his hands settled along the dip of Will's waistline. He'd squeezed slightly, then removed his hands as if he'd been burned.
"All done," Mike rasped against his ear, lips brushing the lobe. He'd smelled like chocolate, and Will had wanted to taste it for himself.
Mike had been so full of life back then; carefree in the way that left Will utterly breathless around him. "This summer is for us," he'd promised one night, the two of them splayed across the grass as the backspray from the oscillating sprinklers soaked into the cotton of their t-shirts. "No monsters, no worrying about crawls—just us." Will had looked at him, swallowing as the moonlight struck his face at such an angle that made him glow.
"And after the summer?" Will asked, biting back a grin.
Mike matched him with a stupid grin of his own, fingers brushing against Will's as he'd flopped onto his back. "After," he'd repeated, eyes drifting to the sea of constellations blanketed across the night sky. His arm had extended as his fingertip traced the outline of the Archer, squinting one eye. "Guess we'll have to find out together, right, Will?"
"Yeah," he'd whispered back, grass tickling his nose. "Together."
Will sits up and kicks his legs over the edge of the bed.
He rolls his head from side to side, groaning as the tension in his neck cracks.
He grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. He lets the damp fabric fall to the hardwood. Goosebumps form across his chest and down his arms, raised by the chill. His hair sticks up in tufts from the static, and he licks a stripe across his palm, smoothing it down.
Will pads across the bedroom to his desk, his bare feet pressing into the floorboards, toes curling against the bite of the cold. His University of Chicago Department of Visual Arts sweatshirt is halfway folded across his swivel chair and he tugs it on overhead. It's a size too large, the ribbed sleeves falling past his knuckles and brushing his fingertips. He brings the collar under his nose and breathes in the cheap lemon scent of communal laundry detergent.
His hand reaches blindly across the cluttered surface of the desk for the lamp switch. His fingers find the button and he flips it upward. The bulb flickers before catching, spilling warm yellow light across the laminate.
His fingers hook through the handle, tugging the shade cover to hover over the open notebook at the center of the table.
Will has been seeing a therapist consistently for the last eighteen months—a woman at a private practice two hours outside Indianapolis. When his nightmares began to feel less like dreams and more like a physical presence, and his grip on reality started to slip, Dr. Kennedy Bucknell suggested he keep a journal.
"Write everything down," she'd told him, slipping a composition notebook into his hands—painted seagulls are in an array mid-flight across the front cover. "You'll start to notice the difference between what actually happened and what your brain is telling you happened."
He flips to a blank page.
Date: 06 November 1989
TimeAwakened:
Will lifts his chin to stare up at the analog clock nailed to the floral wallpaper. The hands move slowly across the tick marks, the glare of the sunlight reflecting off of the smudged plastic lens cover.
Date: 06 November 1989
Time Awakened: 10:22 AM
Title of Dream: "Loss"
Description of Dream: November 1987. MAC-Z.
It's the same memory almost every night. I've written it down so many times I could probably recite it.
The soldiers have us pinned up against the truck bed. My body feels like it's made of molasses and I can't move. Everything smells like smoke, and every breath burns the same. "Stop resisting, kid,” the solider had said and I did as I was told.
I'm watching Dustin first. Blood is drying down the side of his face, crusted against his sweaty skin. He's screeching curses at the soldier behind him. I want to tell him to stop, that it'll only make it worse, but I'm choking on the words. Then I look at Jane.
Hopper has her pinned back against his chest. He's got both arms wrapped around her. She's kicking and screaming, throwing herself forward so hard I'm surprised she doesn't drag them both to the ground. Her voice gives out eventually, words hoarse as she continues to yell anyway. Tears are streaming down her face; I've never seen her look so scared.
I try to move to get to her, but my feet are stuck.
I know what's coming next. That's the worst part, I guess. I know exactly what's going to happen, and I still can't stop it. Every time I close my eyes, part of me thinks it might be different. But it never is.
I’m still standing there doing nothing.
Dr. Bucknell would probably say I’m conflating trauma—comparing the MAC-Z to the Upside Down, like they belonged in the same place in my head. But both places suffocated me exactly the same way.
My bruised ribs are on fire. Every breath feels like inhaling concrete dust. My throat burns and my mouth is so dry I can barely swallow. The spores keep filling my lungs completely and I can't seem to suck down enough air no matter how hard I try to.
Jane's staring straight past me, bloodshot eyes blown wide with panic, pleading with Hopper to let her go.
Our eyes meet for only a second.She's fighting him so hard his boots are digging trenches into the dirt, and the noise echoes throughout the compound. I’m half‑convinced he’ll lose his grip.Then, she's screaming it: "Let me get to him!"
Who is 'him?'
I look up and
Will pushes back from the desk edge with a hitch of breath, his hip clipping the armrest of the chair as he stands. He crouches down on his heels, ankles flexing as he steadies his balance, and rummages through the front pocket of his backpack. His fingers slide past gum wrappers and pencil shavings, pulling out a metal lighter and a crumpled pack of filtered Camel Straights.
He paces the length of his bedroom, the soles of his feet leaving sweat impressions across the hardwood. He bites the tip of the cigarette between his teeth, jaw cinching, cupping the flame with his other hand as he flicks the lighter beneath the filter. He takes in a long drag, then tilts his head back, exhaling toward the ceiling fan.
Will sinks down on the edge of the bed, the fleece throw scratching the underside of his thighs. He pulls open the bedside drawer and reaches beneath movie ticket clippings and pharmacy receipts for a manila folder buried at the bottom. His thumbnail catches the tie closure looped around the eyelet, snapping it open.
Newspaper articles and overexposed polaroids spill out onto his lap.
Michael Wheeler, sixth teenager linked to a string of deaths over the last four years. Authorities suspect a possible serial killer at large in Indiana
HAWKINS TEEN DIES IN LIBRARY COLLAPSE; OFFICIALS CITE "MECHANICAL FAILURE"
THE HAWKINS POST
November 7th, 1987
HAWKINS, IND. — Michael Wheeler, sixteen, a Junior at Hawkins High School, was killed late Tuesday night following an accident at the Hawkins Public Library at Town Center, according to local authorities.
Military personnel said Wheeler was inside the building when part of the roof structure collapsed during what authorities described as an unexpected "catastrophic mechanical failure" of the building's aging air-handling system. Scaffolding supporting the recent interior repairs had collapsed to the main floor under the impact, trapping Wheeler beneath several tons of brick. Emergency services arrived at the scene shortly before midnight.
According to Fire Chief Earl "Big Dog" Thompson, the building - a three-story brick library and subsequent community center, established in 1917 - had been "structurally unsound for many years," citing outdated ductwork and electrical issues. Efforts were made previously to raise enough funds - * see Hawkins Homemade Cherry Pie Festival and Car Wash Fundraiser, May 15th 1986 - for a total reconstruction project, but recent events circulating Hawkins led to those efforts being abandoned. "It was only a matter of time before something gave," the Chief continued.
Several eye witnesses told authorities they heard a "loud crack," and a, "massive banging noise," moments before the northern most wall gave away. A local resident claims: "Whatever the [redacted] thing was felt like a [redacted] earthquake. Shook my [redacted] whole living room halfway through Jeopardy!"
Wheeler was pinned under the debris for nearly forty minutes before the rescue crews could reach him. He was pronounced dead at Hawkins Memorial Hospital at 01:14 AM. An investigation into the collapse and Clear Sky Heating and Air/Cooling is on-going.
Born April 7th, 1971 at Hawkins Memorial Hospital to Edward and Karen Wheeler, Michael is remembered as
Will smokes down until the filter burns his lips, then crushes the cigarette butt into the ashtray. The nicotine hums under the stretch of his skin, his fingers twitching against his upper thigh. It's fucking bullshit; the police never even looked for his body.
He rips the article from the newspaper—a jagged line between Mike's black-and-white school photo and a Stanley Steemer ad promising, "Spring cleaning, three-room special, for only $75.95!" He presses the clipping onto the page, taping the edges down. When his thumb drags across the newsprint, touches Mike's name, he can feel how worn the ink is—his fingers have rubbed it nearly blank.
"Oh, Mike," Will whispers, chin dimpling as his lower lip trembles. "You'd hate that they used this picture."
Mike had been sick on picture day, so Karen had pulled him into the kitchen and cut his hair choppy with kitchen shears, right over the edge of the sink basin. She’d buttoned him up in one of Ted’s smaller golfing polos, slicked his hair into a stiff side part, and took a photo against the living room wall with the disposable camera. He’d been mid-blink.
When the yearbook came out with his mid-blink photo printed in the class section, Mike marched himself and Will to the second floor photography studio and demanded a redo. The student director only snorted, eyes never lifting from her Seventeen centerfold. “Open your eyes next time,” she’d told him.
Will always meant to ask Karen for a copy he could keep.
I look up and
I see Mike standing there
Fuck, Mike, why you'd go away
I manage to look up and I see Mike at the library. Everything's moving so slow, like a scene from a film, and I almost want to laugh. I tell myself to blink, to breathe, and when I open my eyes again Mike will be beside me.
I blink. My eyes open again, but Mike is still there.
I can never really remember what color he was wearing, just that it looked wrong on him. Too baggy, like it belonged to someone else and Mike was just playing dress-up in it. I try to imagine him in something more familiar, but the scene never changes.
I can't remember if the soldier let me go, or if I managed to break free. All I know is the mechanical instinct kicked in—my legs moving before my brain caught up. I'm running across the compound, screaming Mike's name until my throat is raw.
Mike looks at me and I reach a single hand out toward him, my shoes touching the base of the stairs.
He mouths something I can't read, then his thumb presses down on the button.
What did you say, Mike?
I’m drowning under the weight of the nightmare. But I don’t think I want it to end if it means losing the last place he still exists.I can feel the heat of the explosion scorching my face.
I think I always will.
Will bites the pen cap between his teeth, the metal clip scraping against his tongue. He reads over the journal entry twice, his handwriting blurring into a smear of ink blots as tears overfill his waterline. They drip off the bridge of his nose and splatter across the page, soaking straight through to the back.
He runs his tongue along the underside of his teeth, then traces it over the trembling seam of his lower lip. The residual taste of burley leaf still coats the lining of his throat, bitter as he swallows hard against it. His eyes drift to the window where the rain hadn't let up, humidity fogging the glass completely. Daylight is blocked by dense storm clouds; it's been forever since Will has last seen the sun.
I think I always will.
Will flips to the next page.
Emotions During Dream: Anxiety, confusion, fear
Emotions Upon Waking: Sorrow
Intensity of Emotions:Like hell8.8/10
Physical Sensations During Dream: Pain, heat, hands everywhere on my body. Smell of blood and smoke. NauseaImportant Symbols/Images:
Camo?I can't remember
Recent Events/Concerns: Recent break-up (will discuss during next session), first year finals, Mom and Hopper moving to Montauk
Possible Associations: November 6th, being back in Hawkins, recent increased dosage of BenzodiazepinesFrequency of Dream: Every night for the last eight months. They went away when I was put on 80mg of Prozac, then came back when the dosage dropped to 20mg
Reflection of Dream: I can't help but wonder if I'm reliving this for the hell of it, or if I'm supposed to open my eyes and see something different happen. It's like being a kid again and sleeping without a nightlight for the first time, but it's every
damnnight for me. Misery loves company, but closure doesn't seem to exist. I'm stuck somewhere sorting between what's real, and what's made up in my head.Overall Time Asleep: Two hours, thirty-six minutes
Overall Sleep Cycle: Getting worse (possible new medication discussed at next session?)Questions for Next Session:
Will this ever end?
11:23 AM
INCOMING CALL
DURATION: 05:15
NANCY: Hey, Will. It's Nancy.
WILL: Oh, hi.
NANCY: I tried reaching your dorm phone and got your roommate instead. He said you're already back in Hawkins?
[there’s a short pause]
WILL: Yeah, I—I came back a couple weeks early. I'm only here for a few days and then back to Chicago. Probably by the end of the week [a small intake of breath] How's it going?
NANCY: You're back in Hawkins for…?
WILL: [shuffle of feet, clothing rustling] Um [he tips his chin to the side and coughs] I have to be in Indianapolis tomorrow (ten o'clock in the morning; an impromptu session with Dr. Bucknell—the drive is around two hours between Hawkins and Indianapolis, sans traffic from the early work crowd)
[silence, followed by the crackle of landline static]
NANCY: [hums] Got it.
WILL: Yeah [laughter bubbles from between his lips] S'that all you called about…?
NANCY: Not really.
WILL: Oh?
NANCY: [her voice softens] It's last minute, but I didn't know you'd be back today [she pauses] It's—well. November sixth. Mike's memorial is today. Over at the library. It's happening around lunch, so there'll be a potluck after.
WILL: [he releases a breathy sigh] Oh.
NANCY: Mom won't make you… say a speech, or anything if you don't want to, but I think it'd mean a lot if you came. To him. You're his best friend, Will.
(to him)
[there’s a long, drawn-out pause]
NANCY: Will? Are you still there?
WILL: Yeah. Yeah I'm still here.
NANCY: [hesitant] I—It's been hard. It's been hell, honestly. For everyone [she pauses, as if searching for the right words] I know the memorial seems a bit much for the second year, I tried telling Mom that, but you know her—
WILL: I’ll go.
NANCY: Listen, Will, don't do something that'll make you uncomfortable [talking faster, voice still gentle] No one is going to think any different of you if you can't come. Mom understood why you couldn't come last year. Everyone handles grief differently.
WILL: I’m fine, Nance. I promise [he sucks in a deep breath] I'll be there.
[silence stretches]
NANCY: Okay.
WILL: Just okay?
NANCY: Yes, just okay [soft laughter] I'll see you there. Bye, Will.
WILL: Bye, Nancy.
[click. dial tone]
01:46 PM
The forecast hadn't called for rain, but it came anyway.
Will lets the engine idle, air from the front vents cooling his flushed cheeks, then twists the key and removes it from the ignition. He sucks in a breath, hesitating as he watches the community plaza outside of the Hawkins Public Library slowly fill with townspeople. He wipes his sweaty palms against his jeans and steps outside, shoes squelching through a growing puddle of muddy water. The pickup truck rattles under the force of the driver's side door slamming shut.
He shoulders his way through the crowd, sidestepping around old classmates and teachers from grade school—they all carry a folded cardstock pamphlet between their fingers, Mike's yearbook portrait printed in black-and-white across the cover. The chill sends shivers licking up his spine, and he pulls the windbreaker tight across his torso. November was always the coldest month.
"Will!" He tenses at the call of his name and pivots on his heel. Nancy walks fast toward him, the memorial pamphlets in a leaning stack against her chest. The smallest hint of a smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. "I'm glad you could make it." She glances between Will and the stack, then offers him the top booklet. "You're right on time—Mom's just about to give her speech."
Will thumbs the pamphlet, flicking through each of the pages. His throat tightens at the centerfold spread showcasing one of Mike's childhood photos. He's smiling mid-laugh at the camera, one of his front teeth missing, the tooth held out in front of him and pinched between his fingers. His eyes are scrunched as he stares up at the photographer, the freckles across the bridge of his nose stark against his pale skin. Karen's neat handwriting is printed just below it: Mike Wheeler, six years old. Waiting for the tooth fairy.
Mike had gone to school the next day with a hole in his gums and a twenty dollar bill brandished high above his head on the playground. He'd puffed out his chest as he slid it across the desk to Will. "Look! We can get so many milkshakes now, Will! All of them!" He'd shouted, his words caught in a lisp, all hissy. Then, a little quieter for just the two of them to hear: "But just the vanilla ones, 'cause they're your favorites." They'd sat on the swings during recess with sticky fingers and cream smeared across their noses. The memory forever smells of vanilla.
His breath fogs in front of his face as he releases a shaky exhale.
Will tucks the pamphlet into his back pocket, just behind a folded envelope.
"The rain's about to start up again." Nancy tips her chin towards the library, palm held upwards towards the overcast sky. "There's space under the awning."
"Okay," Will mutters. "Let's go."
Karen Wheeler stands at the library landing, Ted Wheeler just behind her with an umbrella raised above their heads. Her fingers tremble around a stack of index cards clutched between her hands. The library’s double doors stand propped open, revealing foldout tables draped in checkered linen, the cloth weighted down with crockpots and plastic-wrapped casseroles.
To the right of the entrance, Mike’s memorial poster rests on an easel. He’s grinning wide in the photograph, eyes crinkled at the corners, a faint dimple pressed into one cheek. It was taken in the middle of summertime; his freckles stand out stark against his sunburnt skin.
The reality of it hits Will all at once, stealing the air from his lungs—
Mike will forever be sixteen.
The stairs are covered in forget-me-nots, handmade signs, miniature action figurines, and polaroids. Crayon drawings of a stick figure with dark hair are soaked through with rainwater, the pages curling inward at the margins and molding to the stone base of the steps.
A mini picture frame lies face-down in a puddle near Will's shoes.
He bends at the waist and picks it up, muddy droplets of water falling from the ornamented edge and wetting the sleeve of his windbreaker.
Inside is an overexposed polaroid tucked behind glass, yellowing at the corners with Mike's handwriting scrawled across the bottom border: Paladin costume fitting, '85. Halloween. Will is matching! His face in pinched in the picture, eyes mid-roll as Nancy holds measuring tape under his outstretched arms. Will can see it, though, the faint excitement pulling at his lips.
Will tucks it into the inside pocket of his windbreaker. His fingertips linger against the outline of the frame, then fall away to his side.
Karen clears her throat. "I have a few words to say about Mike, and then we'll open the floor to anyone else who'd like to share." She taps the stack of index cards into alignment against the podium, then pulls one from the middle to sit on top. Ted shifts his weight beside her, the umbrella tilting slightly.
"Everyone's welcome to the food inside afterward," she continues. "Please, take whatever you'd like. There's more than enough."
The smaller version of Will associated Karen with love. The way she folded his laundry in with the rest. The extra serving of spaghetti she'd scoop onto his plate. The kisses she'd press against Mike's cheek, then to Will's temple. His whole life, she'd been the brightest star he's ever seen.
Now she's right there, floral blouse wrinkled and lipstick smudging at the corner of her mouth. Her hair is thinner than he remembers. Will watches as the weight of the world sags her shoulders and hunches her spine; her light's dimmed, and somehow he can see himself reflecting back in her eyes.
Karen looks over at Will.
The chill is a bone-deep ache, as if the warmth had been stolen from inside of him completely. Goosebumps rise across his skin.
“Mike didn’t like the crust on his peanut butter sandwiches, and he'd only eat pancakes if they were shaped like Mickey Mouse,” Karen manages to let out, her words hitching on a wet laugh. “He hated the idea of going to school so much, until one day he didn’t. He’d made a friend.”
I knew nobody. I had no friends, and I just felt so alone and so scared…but I saw you on the swings, and you were alone, too. And I just walked up to you, and I asked. I asked if you wanted to be my friend.
Will's breath comes apart through the frigid air, a fog of white dissipating through the light sprinkle of rain as a sob tears from between his lips.
And you said yes. You said yes. It was the best thing I’ve ever done.
Karen grips the note cards so hard that her knuckles have gone pale. "Mike cared fiercely, and loved just as hard. H-he kept a Star Wars nightlight in his room until he was twelve. I'd tease him about it, and he'd always say the same thing: 'Mom, I'm not scared. Paladins aren't scared of anything.' But I knew he was scared. He was terrified of so many things.” Her lower lip quivers. “And he was brave anyway."
She lets the cards fall to the podium and brings a hand to her chest, fingers splaying wide across her sternum. She sighs, tipping her chin towards the sky as she blinks fast.
"He was—is the bravest little boy I've ever known."
Fuck.
Will can't be here right now. He needs to leave.
"Excuse me," he rasps, stumbling past Nancy. He mutters apologies under his breath as he pushes through the crowd and out of the square toward the parking lot. One hand braces against the lip of the truck bed, the other covering his mouth as he swallows back the bitter taste of bile crawling up his throat.
The rainwater drums against his scalp, runs down his face in rivets, mixes with the taste of menthol still coating his tongue.
Will fumbles with the keys, then slides into the front seat.
He tips his forehead against the steering wheel and lets the tears fall.
02:27 PM
Mike spent the months Will was away in Lenora rebuilding Castle Byers.
He’d picked up part-time shifts as a cashier at Melvald’s, penny-pinching every paycheck into stacks of timber planks and a secondhand nail gun. He’d devoted weeks alone in the woods piecing the fort back together again.
Will can almost see it: Mike hefting lumber onto his shoulder, sweat stains dampening the backs of his ratty hairband t-shirts—the cotton clinging to the hollow of his spine, the fabric stretched taut across his chest when he pauses to suck in a breath. Blisters split his palms, then harden into callouses beneath the rubber grip of the hammer. Will can smell the sun-soaked lemonade, pictures Mike tipping the bottle back, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist as droplets slide sticky down his chin and disappear beneath his collar.
He’d repurposed much of the original structure into makeshift shelves and a proper frame for the air mattress. Inside, Mike had ripped full spreads out of his comic book collection, taping the pages across the walls, interspersed with thumbtacked campaign sketches and watercolor finger paintings that Will had gifted him over the years. The roof dips slightly on one side, and the tarp sags between clothespins, but it stands just the same.
Will drags his thumb across the surface of the doorway board, his fingernail snagging beneath a lifting flake of the peeling paint. The wood is splintering and scored with pitted cracks around the overlapping staples. The block lettering—HOME OF WILL THE WISEST: ALL FRIENDS WELCOME—is almost illegible now, Mike’s handwriting streaked through by months of rainwater.
In the lower-left corner, Mike had whittled a miniature stick figure version of his paladin and Will's capeless cleric deep into the grain; the brave paladin brandishing a sword and a heart-emblazoned shield, the wise cleric surrounded by stars and swirls of magic. W and M etched beneath their feet.
They'd left their bikes at the edge of Mirkwood, and Mike had pulled him by his wrist along the damp footpath through the forest. Will still remembers the slide of his sneakers against the wet grass, dew soaking through the canvas and into his socks, mud spattering his calves as he stumbled trying to keep up. They’d both stripped down to swimming shorts and t-shirts sodden with lake water, sinking deeper into a heat-drunk stupor as they giggled through the woods. It was early June.
Will had closed his eyes and breathed in the evergreen pine.
"Almost there," Mike promised, a stupid grin pulling at his mouth. His sweaty palm slipped further down Will's wrist, knuckles brushing his skin as Mike linked their pinkies.
Will shivered despite the heat. "Where are we going?"
"You'll just have to wait and see."
"Mike, you know I hate surprises."
"I know you do." Mike chuckled. "I think you'll really like this one, though."
Mike walked him backwards through the hickories and dogwoods, leaves crunching under their sneakers and sunlight filtering through the treetop canopies. He’d caught Will’s stare and winked, then flipped him around suddenly, a hand covering his eyes. “No peeking,” he’d whisper beside Will’s ear, breath warm against his neck.
He'd lifted their joined hands, curling Will's fingers into a loose fist, and rapt his knuckles three times against the outermost edge of the timber column.
"Do you remember the password?"
"Radagast," Will breathes out. Radagast the Brown.
He pinches the flannel bedsheet between his fingers. The cotton is drenched with rainwater, muddy rivulets dripping from his knuckles and trailing down his wrist in thin lines of dirt. He lifts it overhead and ducks beneath the beam suspended at the makeshift doorway.
The air mattress has a slow leak and sags under the bunched blankets at its middle. Will pushes them aside and sits cross-legged; air whistles out through a puncture as his weight settles. His knees fold nearly to his chest. The walls seem to press inward, and suddenly he’s thirteen again—the bone-deep ache of limbs growing faster than the rest of him, hand-me-down clothes that never fit him right, and the wrongness of wanting his best friend in a way a best friend shouldn’t.
An overturned milk crate retrofitted as a table sits across from him, photographs and miniature action figures cluttered across its surface. Will reaches into his windbreaker's inner pocket and pulls out the framed picture of Mike. He sets it down with the rest, thumb pressing onto the glass.
"Hi, Mike," Will says, sucking in a breath. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
He lifts his hip off the mattress, reaching behind himself to grab the folded envelope from his back pocket. "I, um," he laughs nervously, fingernail flicking open the flap. The notebook paper is creased, the binding edge halfway torn apart. It's covered in scratched out false starts, the tip of the pen pressed deep enough against the sheet that its left a jagged hole onto the other side. He grips it tight enough that his hand begins to cramp. "I wrote you a letter."
Will hesitates for a moment, then clears his throat.
"Dear Mike," he starts, then looks up at his picture. The eyes staring back at him aren't the right shade of brown; they're too dark, overexposed flecks of red clouding the pupil. Will has never seen his eyes that dark before.
"I've never really been any good at this—writing letters, I mean. Talking to you in person was always so easy." Will's voice cracks, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. "You were the writer, Mike."
Will looks down at the scuffed toe of his Converse, the mud streaked across the once white laces, and feels so stupid for expecting a ghost to speak back. He feels pressure building behind his eyes. The fingers of his free hand find the blanket closest to him and he fidgets with the thread pulling loose at the seam.
"I've stared at the same blank page for two years trying to find the words."
He blows out a slow, shaky breath. "I guess I'll start with hello." The smallest hint of a smile pulls at his mouth. "We graduated a few months ago, isn't that weird? You always joked that we'd never make it there," Will chuckles dryly. "I believed you, because you were always right, Mike." His knee bumps against a low-hanging paper airplane as he shifts, tucking his leg under him. "Total shocker! Dustin Henderson was our Valedictorian. He mentioned you in his speech, y'know. Something about how 'royally fucked' the system is and how you should've been standing up there with us."
Will can almost see it: Mike walking across the stage, shaking hands with their principal, biting back a smile as he pretends he's too cool for any of this. Will knows, with utmost certainty, like how the sky is blue and vanilla is the best flavor of ice cream, that Mike would take one step off that stage and come running over to Will. "We did it!" He'd shout, brows lifted high and his eyes blown wide. "We really fucking did it, Will!" Will would be crushed against his chest, giggling like a little kid as he'd whisper back, "Yeah. Yeah we really did."
He feels the first slip of tears as they spill down his cheeks. "We were supposed to go to Chicago together."
The letter crinkles under his thumb, his wrist trembling so violently he almost loses his grip.
"I'm studying studio art. I've considered dropping it a few times—I haven't been inspired enough to make anything new, besides a few sketches." Will wipes a hand down his face, his fingertips coming away wet. "I found a few of your short stories last month. Remember, the ones we talked about making a comic from together?"
"Major Honeycat is a long-range Rogue," Mike had said, talking fast with his hands. "A sharpshooter with a penchant for vengeance." Will had only rolled his eyes, already sketching a rough outline of the character.
"Honeycat isn't a very intimidating name, Mike. She sounds … cute?" Mike had grinned stupid, clawing his hands as he crouched next to him. "Nothing cute about her when she …" He'd leaned forward suddenly, fingers tickling along Will's abdomen. "Pounces!" Will had laughed himself hoarse, tears streaming down his face as he'd weakly pushed Mike off of him.
"The next time I visit you, I'll bring your stories—" Will chokes, his chin dimpling as his lower lip quivers. "Not all of them, though. I—um—I read them to help me fall asleep sometimes. Not that they're boring. God, no, Mike, you're so damn talented." Will had always believed that his writing would reach the rest of the world.
"Y'know, I stopped six times on the way to Hawkins to write this," Will sniffles, his breath hitching in his throat. He'd left near midnight from Chicago, driving the four hours straight to Indiana through the pouring rain. He missed the first two exits, pulling over to the shoulder of the highway and pressing the paper against the steering wheel, hands shaking as he wrote.
"It's like my soul knew I was coming back to you, somehow. For the first time in months, it felt like the—the fog in my head finally cleared up and I could see for the first time again."
The rain drums overhead, dripping inside from a tiny hole in the tarp.
"I never really noticed how much it rained before now."
Will tips his head back and lets the water fall onto his face.
"It's been so damn cloudy ever since you went away, Mike. I used to think I'd miss them more than anything else," Will continues, eyes meeting the ones he's spent each night searching for. "Now I only miss the sun."
A fresh spout of tears overfills his waterline, and he blinks them away. "The letter ends there, and I know it's stupid and you deserve something better." His leg has started to feel numb, and he presses his hand against his ankle, thumb slipping beneath his sock to massage the skin around the bone. "I've thought about what I'd say to you if I got the chance to see you again. If I'd be afraid like I was in that damn pizza van and give away my feelings to someone else."
Will pauses, carding his fingers through his damp hair.
"I know we were younger and—fuck—Mike, I always thought you must've known. You could always read me better than anyone else, the way you looked at me I—I guess I got confused sometimes. Did you, though? Did you know?" Will swallows hard, heart hammering behind his ribcage. "I loved—love you, in the only way I knew how to. But it was real and it meant something to me."
Will presses his fingers to his mouth.
"I guess I'd always held out the hope that you'd love me back the same."
Laughter bubbles out of his chest and he hiccups around it, fingers struggling to find purchase as the weight of his blind devotion pulls him down under and drowns him. “I wonder if I’ll ever be free of you, Mike,” he whispers as his entire body shudders. He folds the letter and props it between the picture and a tiny Yoda figurine, a dizzying headrush of heat flushing his face pink as he pulls back. He smiles, breathless, as the tears fall freely from his face and drip onto the frame. "Love, Will."
Will collapses back against the air mattress. It deflates further under his weight, his spine bowed across the hard ground beneath him. He tugs the blankets around his body and curls inward, squeezing his eyes shut.
03:38 PM
Will tears across the MAC-Z compound, every footfall jolting up through his bones and muscles, teeth clattering in his skull. His sneakers skid the damp pavement as he vaults over a fallen soldier, the momentum pitching him forward. He can taste the salt from his skin where it stings the split seam of his mouth. His chest rises and falls in desperate gasps of air, spores scraping his lungs raw. His vision tunnels to a single point ahead—the gate. To Mike.
"Will, stop—stop running!" Jonathan has a hand wrapped around Will's forearm, tugging him backwards away from the library. Fingers twist into the cotton of his jacket. He casts a sidelong glance over Jonathan's shoulders and watches as Steve and Robin sprint over, soldiers fast approaching at their heels, shouting something he can't hear through the pounding behind his ears. Everything is a distorted muffle of white noise around him.
He knows that if they reach him, he'll never make it to him in time.
"I'm so sorry," Will rasps, wrenching his arm free from Jonathan's grip and pushing him down against a pile of sandbags. The unguarded look of hurt in his brother's brown eyes makes his stomach clench. He turns his head away. "I can't let him die."
"Will!"
"I'm sorry, Jon—fuck—!"
A hand clips the back of his neck and he nearly loses his balance.
He pivots on his heel, arms flailing.
Will dodges a sweeping right hook of a nearby soldier, biting into the inside of his cheek as he stumbles over his laces, bracing both palms against the rusted edge of a bolted mailbox. The soldier comes at him again, spitting profanities as his nails drag down the back of Will's vest. The fist aimed for his face comes sluggish, as if time itself dragged to a halt. The space between them stretches impossibly wide. The soldier makes contact instead with empty air.
Glass crunches under his sneakers as he takes off again, the compound reduced to a smear of blurred color as he runs. The adrenaline vibrates under his skin. His breath is ragged in his throat and he feels so damn frustrated when the distance between him and Mike seems to only lengthen.
"Mike!" Will manages to scream, though his voice sounds so far away to his own ears. Sweat gathers at the base of his neck, soaking into his hair and dripping down his temples. Flakes of ash dust his eyelashes, mixing thin lines of dirt into the tears falling down his face. Every lungful of the smog feels like swallowing still-lit embers.
Mike is finally looking at him. Only at him.
He's mouthing something, but his lips move too slow for Will to piece the message together. What is he saying? Will tries to yell again, but his throat is cinched so tight he's nearly dizzy from the lack of air. His feet stutter at the base of the stairs, and he looks up at Mike, lifting a hand between them.
"Mike—please," he breathes. "Please don't make this our last goodbye."
Will takes a step forward.
Mike closes his eyes and presses down on the detonation button.
The compound erupts into a scorching blast of heat. Will feels it everywhere, his skin burnt pink under the explosion. He's thrown back from the steps, his body suspended weightless in open air for only a moment until he drops down hard to the pavement. His head knocks back against the concrete, the impact stealing the breath from his lungs.
There's an incessant ringing behind his ears, and his mouth feels like cotton. Black blobs dance across the corners of his vision as he blinks them away. Will slowly lolls his neck to the side.
The gate is gone.
gone.
gone.
go—
There's brackish water wetting his palms. It's soaking into the windbreaker, the cotton sodden with salt and clinging along the cleft of his spine. His fingertips have pruned from it. When he scrunches his nose, it fills with the scent of the quarry at summertime—sunscreen and freshwater algae.
Will stirs to consciousness, his eyes squinting as they adjust to the blanket of near pitch black that surrounds him. His hand draped across his stomach falls to the ground, grimacing as tiny droplets from the backsplash flick onto his mouth. He lifts the collar of his undershirt to wipe at the dampness from his chin and cheekbones, the fabric scratching against his skin as it slips from between his fingers. His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, biting it back between his teeth as his head tilts to the side.
He blinks slow.
Will feels his heartbeat pounding behind his ribcage; he isn't alone.
There’s a body lying beside him. He’s bathed in a wash of pale spotlight that outlines the curve of his jawline, the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the slope of his ear. Damp black curls spill from beneath a ribbed beanie, dark coils clinging to the freckles at the nape of his neck. Will reaches for them with a trembling hand, winding a strand around his index finger before leaning forward.
His nose brushes against the notch at the top of his spine, lips parting as he breathes in deep the familiar scent of green apple shampoo. Will lets out a quiet groan as he scoots closer to him, fingers twisting into the back of his vest. He presses his forehead between the divot of his shoulder blades, blinking fast against the pinprick of tears behind his eyes.
The fabric smells like him—like a walk through a forest of pine trees after rainfall, shoes sinking into the mud as it soaks straight through into cotton socks. Like a sleepover under the night sky, fingers tracing the outline of the constellations under the backspray of faulty sprinklers, tugging damp grass between their fingers. Like syrup on scrambled eggs in the morning. Like the fresh box of a forty-eight count of crayons opened for the first time.
He smells like coming home.
"Mike," Will breathes, his voice hoarse.
It feels almost like a daydream to be able to touch him again. His fingers trail the length of his spine before his palm flattens just beneath Mike's shoulders. It's faint, but Will can feel the steady rhythm of Mike's heartbeat thrumming beneath his clothes. Will tips his chin and presses his cheek against his back; he counts each beat under his breath. He stutters around a gasp as hot tears slip from his waterline and trail down his face. Even in his wildest dreams, Mike has never felt this real before.
The shift of Will's weight is enough to make Mike stir. He releases a low grunt as he rolls over onto his back, clenching his teeth as he curls one arm around his ribcage. His face pinches.
Will jerks upright, too fast. The sudden movement sends a dizzying blood rush through his head, and he has to blink through the haze before he can focus again. Settling back on his heels, he inches closer to Mike, hands suspended over the lower half of his face.
Mike's eyes are blown wide when they snap open. They dart frantically through the darkness before locking onto Will's. His chapped lips part as though he's about to speak, but all that he manages is a spit-soaked wheeze. A violent cough wracks through his entire body, silent tears slipping down his cheeks as he swallows lungfuls of stale air. His chest heaves as his shoulders fall back flat against the saltwater. Mike presses his trembling fingers to his mouth, lip curling back over his teeth.
"Don't move too fast," Will says quietly, voice cracking. His thumb is rubbing light circles along the underside of Mike's wrist. "Are you—are you okay?"
Is this really a dream?
It must be, because Mike is staring at Will like he's a stranger.
"Your ribs." Will sucks in a shaky breath. "You're holding them like they hurt. I—" His voice hitches in his throat, eyes falling to where Mike's fingers have twisted into the cotton of his sweatshirt. "I've always hated seeing you in pain, Mike. You know that, right?"
He frowns, pulling his arm free from beneath Will's fingertips.
Oh.
"Mike?"
There’s a deep crease forming between his brows as he stares up at Will, the familiar warmth in his chocolate brown eyes nowhere to be found. Why are you looking at me like that? The words sit on the tip of his tongue, pushing against the back of his teeth, but he swallows them down.
Mike hisses as he props himself up on his elbows, the sleeves of his sweatshirt slipping once through the slick glide of the saltwater before he finds his balance. He huffs a breath and glances around them, frustration coloring his expression as the seemingly endless room only stretches. Mike lolls his head to the side, the tension in his neck cracking as his eyes rake over him. Will shivers; he looks so fucking devastating.
Please, Will pleads desperately. Don't look at me like that, Mike.
The silence stretches between them. Mike is searching his face, eyes flicking from where his hair brushes against his forehead, to the bridge of his nose, then lower, just past his mouth. Resignation falls from his lips as his shoulders sag, and then he's no longer looking at Will.
The bitter taste of bile sits heavy at the back of Will's throat.
"Did I do something wrong—"
"Who is 'Mike'?" Mike says finally, interrupting him. "And who are you?"