Chapter Text
Mike’s basement had always been their sanctuary, the one place in Hawkins that felt entirely theirs. Even with the unexplainable stain on the carpet (Will always suspected grape soda), the barely-working space heater, and the endless stacks of Dungeons & Dragons campaign binders, it had a lived-in, holy energy. On this Friday night, the world outside was cold and untrustworthy, but in here, cocooned by wood-paneled walls, Mike, Will, and Dustin were gods.
Dustin was the first to arrive, breathless and pink-faced from the bike ride, his jacket crusted with what looked like dried mud and possibly actual pizza cheese. Will came next, clutching a battered notebook and a handful of colored pencils. Mike greeted both with a gruff, “You’re late,” even though he’d been tracking their approach through the rain-lashed basement windows for the past fifteen minutes.
They assembled around the makeshift table, an overkill spread of Doritos, Twizzlers, and three cans of off-brand cola arrayed between them. Mike had positioned a cassette player on the back shelf, tape deck whirring with a Joy Division album. The sound was tinny and grim, the perfect backdrop to a night meant for not thinking abut monsters, hell dimensions, or anything other than rolling dice and eating their collective bodyweight in sodium.
Dustin fidgeted, eyes darting between the snacks and the backpack at his feet. He waited for the tape to get past “Atmosphere” before clearing his throat with more gravitas than he’d ever mustered in homeroom.
“So, I brought something,” Dustin said. “Something… epic.”
“Is it more of those knockoff Fireballs?” Will asked.
Dustin grinned. “Nope. Way better.” He unzipped his backpack with theatrical slowness and pulled out a prescription bottle with the label half-scratched off, and then, with a flourish, a plastic baggie with a compressed tangle of green. “Ta-da!”
For a second, no one said anything. Mike blinked at the bag like it was some ancient artifact. Will’s face flushed from ghostly to radiant in half a heartbeat.
“Dude, is that—” Mike started.
“Yeah,” Dustin said, grinning, “My cousin’s friend scored it from her older brother. It’s like, super mild. Good for first-timers.”
Will laughed, a little too shrill. “You’re gonna get us all arrested,” he said, but didn’t sound remotely opposed.
Mike’s mouth hung open, then snapped shut. He glanced at Will, at the weed, then back to Dustin. “You brought weed to my house,” he hissed.
“You’re the one whose parents are out of town,” Dustin said. “And let’s be real. After the whole Vecna thing, what’s a little recreational drug use?”
Dustin was already rolling, tongue stuck out in concentration, the process delicate and reverent. He’d practiced, clearly, and even Will had to admit, “That’s actually kind of impressive.”
“Thanks,” Dustin said, smug.
They opened the tiny, warped window behind the couch and huddled beneath it. Dustin struck the lighter, the flame blue and trembling. He sparked the end of the joint, inhaled, and immediately coughed out a wet, rasping bark.
“Shit,” he wheezed, passing it to Mike. “It’s more intense than I thought.”
Mike took it, hands shaking just a little. He’d imagined this going differently, maybe with some bad-boy music and a cheerleader girlfriend and a lot of posturing. Instead he had Will and Dustin, the three of them huddled like foxes in a den, sharing their first criminal act in the least glamorous setting imaginable. He sucked in, felt the burn, and then hacked out an embarrassingly loud series of coughs.
Will waved the smoke away, face pinched. “You okay?”
Mike nodded, face red, eyes streaming. “Yeah,” he said, voice strangled. “It’s good. Totally normal. It’s supposed to feel like you’re dying.”
Dustin snorted, took the joint, and offered it to Will. Will hesitated—really hesitated—but after a second he reached out, pinched it like he was handling radioactive waste, and took the faintest puff. The smoke tickled his nose and he sneezed, almost dropping it.
“You’re such a lightweight,” Dustin teased, but there was no malice in it, only that desperate warmth that had glued the three of them together since second grade.
Will grinned, wiped his nose, and tried again. “Is it supposed to taste like burnt plastic?” he asked.
“It’s supposed to taste like freedom,” Mike said, and immediately regretted it, but Dustin laughed so hard he nearly lost balance and toppled off the milk crate.
They passed it around in awkward, reverent turns, each hit building in confidence and stupidity. Will started giggling at nothing, even the music sounding warped and hilarious. Dustin told a story about the time he convinced Suzie that he was allergic to cheese, just to avoid her mom’s lasagna, but got caught when she made him eat a slice of Kraft single on a dare. Mike could barely keep up, his own mind drifting, the edges of the room softening like a bad photograph.
Then, somewhere between the story about the haunted vending machine and the debate over whether cats or dogs would survive better in the Upside Down, Dustin went quiet. He slumped, elbows on his knees, eyes glassy.
“You good?” Mike asked.
Dustin nodded, then shook his head, then made a face like he might sneeze or cry or both. “Just… lightheaded,” he mumbled.
Will was watching him closely, concern blooming. “Maybe get some air?”
“I’m fine,” Dustin said, but his skin had gone a pale, alarming shade. He blinked, then abruptly put his hand over his mouth and shot up from the table, tripping over the blanket they’d all been sharing.
The first retch echoed from the stairwell.
“Shit!” Mike and Will both scrambled to their feet, but Dustin was already halfway up the stairs, his boots clapping against the narrow steps, the sound followed by another, more desperate heave.
They stood, rooted, for a moment. The smoke drifted up from the dying joint on the table. On the tape player, “Love Will Tear Us Apart” reached the chorus and then warbled, slowed by the dying batteries.
“Should we—” Will started.
“He’s fine,” Mike said, but not with conviction. “He does this. Remember Halloween ‘85?
Will nodded, but the image of Dustin slumped over the curb, face pale as milk, wasn’t exactly comforting.
They heard the bathroom door slam, and after a moment, the gurgle of water pipes. Mike sank onto the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. Will hovered, unsure what to do with his own limbs.
“Was this a bad idea?” Will asked, voice soft.
“No,” Mike said, “it’s a great idea. Just, maybe, next time… less weed. Or like, some actual food first.” He gestured at the snack table, which was more empty than full now, the Doritos bag crumpled and defeated.
Will smiled, then sat beside Mike on the lumpy couch. The room was still spinning, but slower now, less threatening.
Dustin’s retching finally subsided, replaced by the distant sound of him washing his mouth at the bathroom sink. When he emerged, he looked green but alive, hair a mess and glasses fogged from the sudden temperature change.
“Hey,” he said, voice thin, “I think I’m gonna head home. My mom’s… she’s making this like, special casserole thing tonight, and I think it’s not mixing well with my stomach.”
Mike nodded, doing his best not to smirk. “You sure you don’t want to stay? We could watch The Thing.”
Dustin shook his head, managed a brave smile. “I’ll take a rain check. Sorry, guys.” He grabbed his backpack, wobbled toward the door, and then paused, turning back. “This was fun, though. Let’s do it again. Just, you know. Maybe with less of the… herb.”
Will gave him a thumbs up. “Get home safe, okay?”
“Always,” Dustin called, already halfway up the stairs. A second later, the front door banged shut.