Chapter Text
Will sat at the kitchen table, absently pushing his food around his plate until the colors blurred together into something barely recognizable. Carrots smeared into mashed potatoes. Green beans bent and broke beneath the edge of his fork. He wasn’t really hungry, but he hadn’t been hungry in days, and Joyce worried when he skipped meals entirely.
Across the room, Joyce and Hopper talked in low voices—something about El, about training schedules, phone calls, and things Will didn’t have the energy to track. Their words blended into background noise, a steady hum that filled the silence without asking anything of him.
Will focused on his plate instead.
Most days, he stayed in his room, emerging only when school forced him to. The rest of the world felt too loud, too heavy. Even the things he used to love—drawing, D&D, hanging out with the party—felt exhausting, like obligations instead of comfort. It took too much effort to smile. Too much effort to pretend he was okay.
When he finally glanced up from his food, he caught Jonathan watching him.
His brother sat across the table, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on Will with open concern. It seemed like that was the only expression Jonathan wore anymore. Will couldn’t blame him. The dark circles under Will’s eyes had deepened, his skin pale enough that even Will noticed it when he caught his reflection in mirrors. He looked… thinner. Smaller somehow.
Will dropped his gaze immediately, heat crawling up his neck. Being seen like that made his chest tighten.
He debated whether it would be worse to sit there any longer or to draw attention to himself by leaving.
Eventually, he pushed his chair back anyway.
“Will,” Joyce said gently, setting her fork down, “you barely touched your food. Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” His voice came out hoarse and cracked, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. Will winced, then added more quietly, “Just not hungry.”
Joyce hesitated, eyes searching his face for something he couldn’t give her. “Okay,” she said finally. “We’ll save it for later, then. Why don’t you go lie down for a bit? You seem like you might be coming down with something.”
Will nodded, grateful for the excuse, and slipped down the hallway before anyone could say anything else.
He knew he wasn’t sick.
He was tired—exhausted in a way sleep never seemed to fix. Sad in a way that pressed against his ribs and made it hard to breathe. Hollow, like something important had been scooped out of him and never put back.
But not sick.
His room greeted him with a rush of cold air as he pushed the door open. The window was drafty, something he kept meaning to fix before winter fully set in. Not tonight, though. Tonight, he didn’t have the energy to care.
It was mid-October in Hawkins, which meant cold days and even colder nights. The sun dipped below the horizon before dinner, and with the moon came bitter wind that rattled the trees outside. If the house was quiet enough, Will could hear branches scraping together, the sound sharp and lonely in the dark.
He turned slowly, taking in his bedroom under the soft glow of his desk lamp.
It felt empty.
Emptier even than the house in California—and nothing like the old place just a few streets away.
The walls were bare, stripped of the drawings and posters that had once covered every inch. Where there used to be scuffed paint and stained carpet, there was only dust—settled and undisturbed.
Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat at his desk and drawn simply because he wanted to.
What was missing most, though, weren’t the decorations.
It was the memories.
In the old house, they still lingered in the air. He could close his eyes and see the party sprawled across the floor. Sleepovers with Mike, whispered conversations long after everyone else had fallen asleep. Early mornings with Jonathan. Movie nights with his mom, curled together on the couch.
Even the house in California had held warmth—crafting with El at the table, laughter echoing down the hall, something that had almost felt like peace.
Here, there was nothing but quiet.
Loneliness pressed in on him, heavy and suffocating. This house wasn’t just empty.
He was.
Weeks had passed since he’d last hung out with the party. Longer since he’d spent time with his best friend, Mike. El was always out with Joyce and Hopper, and Jonathan was rarely home, either working or with Nancy. The phone never rang for Will anymore. His walkie stayed silent, shoved into a drawer like a forgotten toy.
He was so alone.
Without really thinking about it, Will crossed the room and pulled open his desk drawer. He lifted out his sketchbook, the cover cool beneath his fingers. Dust clung to his skin when he brushed his thumb over it.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the book like it might open itself.
Mike had given it to him on his twelfth birthday.
Will remembered the way Mike had shoved it into his hands, awkward and grinning, like he hadn’t been sure Will would like it. Will loved it immediately. Since then, the sketchbook had followed him everywhere—through moves, through fights, through everything Hawkins had thrown at them.
Nearly four years of thoughts and feelings lived inside it now.
Some of them scared him.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Will opened the book.
The first page held a drawing of the party in their D&D costumes. The lines were messy, the proportions off, but it was unmistakably his. As Will flipped through the pages, something in his chest loosened. A small smile tugged at his lips—the first one in what felt like weeks.
There were drawings of his friends, half-finished comics, and doodles made during class. His art grew more confident as the pages went on. He could see himself changing, improving, becoming someone new without realizing it.
He laughed softly when he reached another drawing of the party—this one better, cleaner, full of movement. They were crammed together, making stupid faces. Will remembered Karen taking the picture, remembered Mike handing it to him afterward.
He’d stayed up all night recreating it, too excited to sleep.
Then he turned the page.
A portrait of Mike stared back at him.
Heat rushed to Will’s face, his ears burning. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. He flipped the page quickly, refusing to linger, pretending the ache in his chest wasn’t there.
But the joy was gone now.
The drawings blurred together as he kept turning pages, his earlier smile fading. And then he saw it.
The rough draft of the painting.
Will’s mouth went dry.
There was Mike as the paladin, standing at the front, leading the party forward. His coat of arms—a heart—was in the middle of his shield. The symbol pulled him backward in time, straight into the van, into the words he’d spoken.
Without heart, the party wouldn’t function.
The truth of it still ached.
What Will had said wasn’t a lie. Mike was the heart of the party. But it hadn’t been the whole truth, either. The real truth sat tangled beneath it, unspoken and heavy.
That conversation had been one of the last real talks they’d had.
Will had hidden behind El, behind her relationship with Mike, instead of saying what he actually meant. God, he wished he’d told the truth. Told Mike how he actually felt about their friendship. Talked about what could've been. Told Mike how much he mattered.
Maybe he would have—if he’d known it would be one of his last chances.
His vision blurred.
A sob tore from his throat, raw and desperate. Tears splashed onto the page, smudging the pencil lines until the image warped. Will snapped the sketchbook shut and shoved it onto the nightstand like it had burned him.
He collapsed onto his bed, curling into himself as the tears kept coming.
All he could think about was his best friend. If he could even still call him that. What had he done to make Mike so distant? Why hadn’t he just told the truth? What made Will so easy to leave behind?
The sobs only grew stronger.
Will wasn’t even sure he could be Mike’s friend again. Not with the way his heart twisted whenever he thought of him. He felt stupid. Embarrassed. Crying this hard over someone who didn’t want to be his friend anymore, let alone anything more.
“Why?” he whispered into the dark.
He lay there for a long time, tears soaking into his pillow and sheets. He didn’t hear his family moving through the hallway. He didn’t hear the bathroom sink running. He didn’t hear Jonathan pause outside his door, listening helplessly to the sound of his little brother falling apart on the other side of the wall.
When the crying finally stopped, the house was silent.
Will turned off the lamp and sank back into bed. His eyes were swollen, his cheeks damp, his chest aching with everything he hadn’t said.
Sleep came slowly, reluctantly.
And when it did, it brought nothing but the things he’d been avoiding—waiting for him in the morning.