Chapter Text
San Francisco, November 1997
“When’s your flight tomorrow?”
Will turned his head, taking the joint out of Kim’s hand. They were laying on their living room rug, staring up at the ceiling. The fan spun above them, doing very little to disperse the thick smoke that hung in the air.
“Ten something,” he said. He took a hit and exhaled, tapping the joint on the edge of the ashtray between them. “I should double check.”
“Have you packed yet?” she asked, taking the joint back out of Will’s hand.
He glanced at her sideways. “You know I haven’t packed yet.”
She smiled, a wisp of smoke ghosting out of her lips. “Is it really gonna be that bad?”
“Yes,” Will said flatly. He watched the ceiling fan spin. “I don’t even know why I’m going.”
“You know why you’re going,” Kim said. Will sighed. She was right, even though she didn’t know the half of it. He couldn’t not go. For Hopper’s sake, if nothing else.
“It’s gonna be a shitshow,” Will said.
“Maybe it won’t,” Kim offered. She passed the joint back his way. “Maybe it’ll be nice. Or cathartic, at least.”
Will smiled ruefully. There was no catharsis to be found; El had killed herself for no reason. But Kim didn’t know that. Like all of Will’s other friends, she thought his step-sister died in a car accident.
He took another hit. His limbs were getting heavy.
“It’s just that I haven’t seen anyone in—ages.” A flake of ash drifted down onto his shirt. “I mean, Mike, especially… it’s gonna be so weird.”
Kim hummed sympathetically. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Will said. He handed her the joint and rolled onto his side. “It’s, like—I don’t know how to explain it. We used to be—I mean—I used to be… he was everything. I couldn’t see beyond him, like…” He let out a little laugh. “I don’t know. I feel like seeing him again will be like relapsing, or something.”
Kim smiled. “You need, like, a safety plan,” she said. “If you think you’re gonna relapse on Mike, you call me.”
Will laughed. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Deal.”
Hawkins, November 1988
When everyone woke up in the Wheeler basement on the morning of the 6th, Mike was nowhere to be found.
It took them a while to realize it. Will assumed he was upstairs at first, getting food or going to the bathroom. He could hear faint voices above them in the kitchen, the scrape of chairs. His watch blinked 8:23 AM; it was way too early, and that should’ve been the first red flag. But he was exhausted, that day of all days. He rolled over in his sleeping bag and dozed back off.
When he woke up again two hours later, the rest of the party was coming to. Max was sitting upright on the couch, whispering with a yawning Lucas; Dustin was stirring, squinting around the room. Will turned to his left. The sleeping bag beside his was still empty, rumpled and cold. He frowned.
“Has anyone seen Mike?”
It started with a half hour of fruitless scanning through different frequencies on the walkie. By noon, it was a full blown search party. Mike’s car was in the driveway, but his bike was gone. They checked the memorial, the library, the Squawk, the woods behind the school. The lake, the ruins of Castle Byers, Skull Rock. Hopper even drove over to Hawkins Lab. Dustin eventually suggested the quarry, and that’s where they found him at half past two—sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the cliff, staring into space.
Max slapped him. Full-on slapped him across the face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Leave me alone,” Mike said, rubbing his stinging cheek. He brushed dust off his pants and picked his bike up off the ground. His nose was running. He was shivering in his jacket.
“We’re not gonna leave you alone, man,” Lucas said. “Put your bike in Max’s car, we’ll—”
“Just fucking leave me alone.” Mike got on his bike, stubborn, pale fingers clenching the handlebars.
Will had been sick with worry all day—now anger spiked in his gut, sudden and all-consuming.
“Mike,” he said, voice hard, stepping in his path. “We’re all grieving. Don’t act like—”
“It’s not the same!” Mike was half-shouting. He twisted the handlebars, trying to steer out of the way. Will just sidestepped and blocked him again. “You guys don’t—you’re not the ones—”
“Mike, we know it’s not the same,” Dustin started, but Max cut him off, furious.
“No, fuck that. You’re not special. You don’t get to just pull this stunt and expect—”
“Max, come on,” Lucas said, touching her arm. She shook him off.
“No, fine. Jump off the cliff, for all I care. Fuck you, Wheeler.” She stalked off back toward the car.
It was dead quiet for a second. Mike swallowed, staring at the ground, face set. Will reached out and tried to pry his fingers off the handlebars. They were ice cold.
“Mike, just—”
Mike yanked his hand back like Will’s touch had burned. “Whatever,” he said, kicking his foot against the pedal, swerving around him. “I’m going home.”
Hawkins, November 1997
The WELCOME TO HAWKINS sign mocked Will as he rolled down Route 37 in his rental car. He fiddled with the radio, muscle memory reminding him which stations were the best around here—not that any of them were especially good. The trees were half-bare; the sky was overcast, threatening to snow. It was exactly as he remembered it.
He stopped at the gas station after the turn-off to buy cigarettes. His breath fogged in the air as he got out of the car. Will had forgotten how cold it got here—he’d been out to Montauk almost every December for the holidays, but it had been ages since he had to suffer through the anniversary without even a pebbly Northern California beach to ease the pain. He grabbed his jacket before he shut the door, shrugging it on as he walked into the mini-mart.
The pimply, stoned-looking teenager at the register glanced up at Will when the bell over the door jingled. Will rubbed the back of his neck, an old nervous habit he thought he’d kicked, but being here seemed to draw it out of him again. The last time he was in Hawkins he’d been about this guy’s age. He still had a bowl cut and he’d never kissed a boy. His ear wasn’t pierced; he dressed straight out of a J.C. Penny catalog. And he was still hopelessly in love with Mike Wheeler.
“Pack of Camels,” Will said, digging his wallet out of his pocket as he approached the counter. “Actually, two. Please.”
The teenager nodded, reaching behind him. Will pulled out a $5 bill and was surprised when the guy started making change; everything was cheaper in Indiana.
“The new Super 8 Motel—it’s up near where Starcourt used to be, right?” Will asked, shoving the coins into his pocket.
“What?” The teenager asked, brows furrowed.
“Starcourt? The mall?” The cashier just blinked at him. “It burned down in the 80s?” Nothing. Admittedly, this guy was probably six years old back then. “Okay, thanks,” Will said after a moment, eyebrows raised. He swiped his cigarettes off the counter and headed back out to the car.
He spotted Hopper right away as he pulled into the motel parking lot fifteen minutes later, grabbing something out of the trunk of his car. He waved and parked beside him, and Hopper smiled as Will got out, pulling him into a brief, tight hug.
“Hey, kid,” he said. “How was the flight?”
“Fine,” Will shrugged, “how was yours?”
“Fine,” Hopper echoed. “Your mom’s inside, we were just—”
The door of the motel room opened and Joyce came out, beaming when she saw Will. She hurried over to hug him, and Will breathed in the familiar scent of her shampoo, relaxed into her embrace. Thank god he didn’t have to do this weekend without his mom.
“Hi, honey,” she said, pulling back and looking at him, holding him by the arms. “How are you? Getting enough to eat?”
“Yeah,” Will said, a bold-faced lie. “How’s Daisy?”
They’d adopted a three-year-old Golden Retriever last month, a puppy mill rescue. As far as he’d heard, she’d been peeing inside the house left and right, but was otherwise a complete ray of sunshine. Will couldn’t wait to meet her at Christmas. If he wasn’t on the road so often for comic conventions, he’d have a dog of his own.
“She’s a terror,” Hopper said, deadpan. “Ate half my belt last week.”
“She’s an angel,” Joyce said. “It was only a few bites.”
Will laughed. He popped the trunk of his rental and pulled out his duffel bag, slinging it onto his shoulder. “Did Jonathan get in yet?”
Joyce nodded. “About an hour ago. He’s over at Steve’s now.” She fished a motel room key out of her pocket and handed it to Will; they’d generously paid for both the boys to stay here for the weekend, which Will half resented, because it made it even more impossible to say no to the whole plan in the first place. “We were just about to grab some dinner, but if you have other plans…?”
Will shook his head. “No plans.”
Joyce cast Hopper an unsubtle look before turning back to Will. “You’re not meeting up with your friends?”
“I’ll see them tomorrow,” Will said evasively. “I’m just… tired.”
Joyce squeezed his arm. “Okay, sweetheart.” She walked with him towards the motel, pointing out the room next to theirs. “We were thinking Enzo’s tonight, for old time’s sake.”
“You guys should go without me,” Will said as he unlocked his door. “I’m not actually that hungry—time zone and everything, you know.”
Joyce frowned. “Are you sure? We can bring something back for you.”
“Thanks, mom. I’m good, really.”
She looked skeptical, but she didn’t push it. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us,” she said.
“Yeah,” Will said. “I’ll see you later.”
He waved at them as they got in the car, and then shut the door with his back, closing his eyes. The room was chilly; it smelled like new construction and cleaning chemicals. The back of his neck prickled. He needed a cigarette.
Will had already lit up and taken a drag before he caught sight of the NO SMOKING sign near the bathroom. Sighing, he pulled the door back open and stood outside on the concrete, exhaling into the cold air. The sky was getting dark. His stomach was a black hole. It felt right, to be so empty here. It was how he felt at twelve, trapped in a hellscape he couldn’t understand, completely alone. It was how he felt at fourteen, watching all his friends fall in love. It was how he felt at sixteen, watching his sister die, and at seventeen, watching everyone forget that November was his before it was hers. It was how he still felt, sometimes—having cigarettes for breakfast, waiting in line at the clinic after a night out he couldn’t quite remember.
At least now, he chose it. Being empty was fine when you could see it coming. Sometimes it even felt good.