Chapter Text
Will has never been normal. At least, not the kind of normal that society would expect.
He knows this because he has been made painfully aware of the fact by almost all of the people in his life. By the ones on the outside, such as the bullies at his middle school, and even moreso from the people at home— his father, mostly. That man haunts Will, and unlike the malicious kids at school, his looming figure is impossible to breeze right past. Will doesn’t have the option to shrink in on himself, keep his eyes fixed onto the porcelain floor, and just keep walking through the hallway until their jeering voices– along with the voices that ring in his own head– fade to nothing.
However, the voices in Will’s head never do truly fade. The voices that tell him there is something wrong with him for being the way he is. The ominious whispers that wrap around him like a dark cloud, fogging up his brain, bringing tears to his eyes and leaving a deep pit in his chest.
‘What they say about you is true, Will.’
‘You’re disgusting.’
‘There is something wrong with you, and you will never be normal.’
‘Liking him is…..’
The voices never stop, but sometimes they do get less noticeable in that they are shoved to the back burner of Will’s mind. This prominently happens when he is around the people who don’t make him feel like a mistake, people who don’t criticize his every move or spit nasty words at him. There are only a select few of people like that, but Will is honestly grateful that he has anyone at all who doesn’t view him in a negative light.
There’s his mother, Joyce, with the pretty long hair and the kind voice. Will admires his mom and hopes to be just like her someday.
Will doesn’t recall her ever yelling at him, not even once– much less doing anything else that might hurt him. And sure, she might get a bit overbearing at times. Protective and shielding, hellbent on sheltering him from a world that is so cruel to him. But Will is old enough now to know that she is coming from a good place. He absolutely adores that his mother cares for him so much. She always makes him smile when she ruffles his hair, gives him cool toys from Melvald’s or brings home brand new art supplies.
His mom supports his goals, his dreams, and his interests. She doesn’t ridicule him for wanting to play DnD all the time, or sit around and daydream while running through endless sheets of papers, inking down his own little masterpieces onto every one. At least, she makes him feel like they’re masterpieces.
Will’s older brother supports him too. Jonathan doesn’t get out much– Will has never seen him hanging out with people his age or going out on the weekends, and it makes him a little sad. He himself has a group of friends and he’s the younger brother, so why doesn’t Jonathan have one?
When Will asks this question, all Jonathan responds with is something along the lines of, “I’d rather hang out with you than anyone else. You’re my brother, but you’re also the best friend I could ever ask for.”
Will’s sister– his twin sister with the wild grown out curls and quiet, observant demeanor– is Jane. Will loves her more than anything in the world, and he couldn’t ask for a better twin. Sometimes, they draw together. Sometimes they cry together, and other times they laugh together– which is the most common occurence. Will has lately been trying to get Jane into some of the music he has acquired from Jonathan, but it isn’t going so well quite yet. Who knows, maybe she needs some time to find her own style and her own taste. Jonathan has encouraged her to do so, and when he brought her home a cassette tape for Fleetwood Mac, she was practically bouncing off the walls with how ecstatic she was.
Sometimes, Will looks in the mirror and is surprised by how much he looks like his twin sister. Only he doesn’t have curly hair, and he has moles scattered across his skin. Apart from that, the two of them are practically carbon copies of each other.
Will resembles his brother and his mom too. He resembles them in many ways, as a matter of fact. Will Byers feels that he is merely an amalgamation of each of his family members– that is how tightly knitted to them he is. He has gotten a lot of his personality traits from his mother Joyce, his taste in entertainment from Jonathan, and his physical traits from Jane.
He hasn’t taken anything after Lonnie. He doesn’t want to ever be like Lonnie, and his biggest fear is that he will grow up to be that way. He will do everything in his power to not let that happen however, because he would rather die than to let that man’s legacy live on.
So, Will’s father is the only exception. Lonnie resents Will for it, says he’ll never be a ‘real man.’ But that’s okay, because with each year that passes, Will’s resentment for his father grows bigger and bigger, like a festering wound that is quickly spiralling out of control.
But Will never says anything. He doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t snap back. He feels like he can’t. He isn’t intimidating, he’s soft-spoken and he always turns the other cheek when slapped. That’s one thing he certainly didn’t get from his mother, and he hates himself for it. Perhaps that is why Joyce takes it upon herself to defend him so heavily.
Will yearns for the day that he will be able to stand up for himself. He prays for it night and day. Prays to a God that he is sure doesn’t listen to him. Or at least he used to pray everyday, but since he was about 10 or so he has prayed less and less. Because you see, Will thinks God is real, he always has, he just is certain that he doesn’t care about him. God probably thinks Will is a filthy sinner. God doesn’t listen to sinners, or so Will has heard, so why would he listen to him?
At the end of the day, though, Will is thankful that he can count on a small group of people that really do listen to him. There’s some things that one just can’t talk to family about. Everyone needs some people to confide in that’s outside of their bloodline (including Jonathan, whether the reclusive teen wants to admit it or not. Will might have to help with that.)
For Will, those people are Dustin, Lucas, and… Mike.
Mike is Will’s favorite. He always has been, ever since they met on the swingset on the first day of Kindergarten. Will was all alone, his eyes downcast, swinging idly back and forth at a leisurely place, his legs dangling in the air– they weren’t nearly long enough for his feet to touch the ground quiet yet. Will was so small, he was so young. But he tried to make himself even smaller by sitting there, like he could block out this new and scary world if he just dissociated himself from reality.
And even though this was so long ago, Will remembers it like it was yesterday.
The way a freckled boy with dark hair and even darker eyes slid into the swing next to him, a bright smile adorning his face. He was looking right at Will. Nobody else at recess that day saw him, but he immediately felt that Mike saw him. And not just in a physical sense.
“Do you wanna be friends?” The boy had asked.
Will didn’t say anything, he just nodded his head quickly and hoped Mike understood. When he did, he couldn’t help but to smile. He couldn’t help but to start swinging higher from the sudden burst of adrenaline he felt.
Will knew from the very first second he saw that boy that he would haunt him forever, even if he was five years old and didn’t quite understand what that meant just yet. He’s not sure if he knows yet, even now. The only thing he is sure of is that Mike is the most special person to him in the world. He’s his person. That’s enough to tell him everything he needs to know.
So, with all that being said, Will doesn’t mean to show favortism in this way, but he can’t help it. Mike really was his first friend. He was his only friend for a very long time. And as Will’s mom always tells him, honesty is the best policy. She has also told him that it’s normal to have a favorite person. When she told him that, however, Will could only smile faintly and go back to drawing.
So no, Will would never admit to anyone that Mike is his favorite person. He wouldn’t want anyone to feel left out or unloved– truly, he loves all of his friends and family– so that is a tidbit he keeps to himself.
Maybe he will tell Mike one day. Right now, he doesn’t think he has the courage, which is stupid. The prospect of telling your best friend how much he means to you shouldn’t send butterflies flittering in your stomach and your heart flipping like crazy behind your ribcage. However, for Will, it does. Maybe he’s just a shy kid and expressing his feelings through words is awkward. Surely, that’s what it is.
The thing is, Will always gets that weird feeling in his stomach when he’s around Mike. Every single time, without fail. It’s almost like he’s been stuffed with cotton, everything feels so fuzzy and warm and–
Yeah, he tries to ignore it. He’s been ignoring it all night. It’s almost like he has trained his body to not react to Mike’s presence.
It’s a bit hard to do when he’s currently in Mike’s basement. Though, it helps a lot that he is distracted. The ‘party,’ which is what the four boys have always called their friend group, has been working on a particular DnD campaign for quite some time now, and they are finally almost done. It is imperative that they win this thing tonight. Will is practically buzzing in his seat with every action his friends take.
He knows it will mean the most to Mike, given that he wrote the entire campaign, and that he always takes on the role of the Dungeon Master. Will is so proud of his friend for that, probably more than he should be. But he’s also proud of himself because he assists Mike with writing the campaigns, and he is practically next in rank in the party. Almost like his right-hand-man. It’s so cool, and it makes Will feel special, if he’s being completely honest.
All thoughts are pushed from his mind, however, when the last roll is up to him. He has to get a 20 to win, or the demogorgon will get them all, and they will lose the game. Will feels like he could throw up with the anticipation.
“Will the Wise,” Mike says, his eyes narrowing into slits, his voice low and ominous as he stares his friend down from across the table. “Your action.”
Will’s eyes get bigger, wide and doe-like, as he takes in the serious expression on Mike’s face. “Uu-um-” he stammers, taking the dice up with a tentative hand. His palms are sweating with how nervous he is. All eyes are on him, as he has been left with the most important roll in the entire campaign.
Why is it always up to him? Or Mike? Both of them, really. It seems like it’s always ultimately up to them.
Will squeezes his eyes shut, as if doing that will block out the intense stares that all of his friends are giving him. Even then, he can still feel their gazes that are practically burning holes into his skull. It’s more than a little nerve-wracking, so he tries to get this over with quickly.
He takes the dice in his small hands, giving it a good shake before throwing it onto the table. Time seems to stand still as he cracks a single eye open; everyone else’s eyes have snapped to the 20-sided dice that is now tumbling across the wooden table with a clatter of plastic. No one takes their eyes off of it, no one breathes, no one moves, until–
The outrage is immediate. A cacophony of voices erupt, and Will can’t even hear himself complaining and booing over the loud chaos the table has turned into.
“Oh, come on!!” Dustin yells, his voice cracking with the pitch of his voice.
“A 19?! Seriously?!” Lucas adds, gesturing wildly to the dice in the middle of the table, his face twisted into something ridiculous but clearly disappointed. “That’s crazy! We lost because we got one less number than we needed. What are the chances of rolling a 19?!”
And then there’s Mike, exaggerating as usual. He has slumped over in his seat, feigning death and utter defeat, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth. His theatrics never fail to make Will laugh, and right now he’s trying so hard not to, because they literally just lost this important game and it isn’t appropriate to laugh. He can’t laugh, no matter how funny Mike is. And truly, he is very upset that they lost…
He feels like it was his fault as well. He chews on his lip, immediately resorting to apologizing.
“I’m sorry–” Will starts, but everyone is quick to cut him off.
“Hey, man. Don’t do that,” Dustin says, his voice lowering considerably. Lucas is sitting next to him, scrubbing his face in his hands.
“Yeah, Will, I mean.. we all tried our best,” Lucas agrees, shrugging, though he does sound and looked bummed out. Will can understand that though, so he can’t be mad. He feels the same way. It makes him even more upset that he rolled a damn nineteen! All he would have needed was one more–
“Will, you tried your best and that’s all that really matters. Hey, we win almost every single campaign. We can’t win them all,” Mike adds, breaking his character of a damsel in distress and sitting up straight in his chair. That particular voice makes Will perk up, breaking his intense, petulant glare at the dice.
“Yeah, I mean– I guess,” Will mumbles in response, trying his hardest to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He’s Will the Wise. He’s supposed to be the wisest of them all, the smartest of them all, except for maybe Mike. So how could he let down such a huge campaign? After all this work? After all of Mike’s work?
“Looks like the demogorgon got me again,” Will says with a little sigh, quickly falling back against his seat– a habit he has taken on when he is frustrated or sad. Right now, he’s feeling a good mixture of both emotions swirling inside him.
“Yup,” Lucas says, popping the ‘p.’ “It got all of us, man,” he adds, shaking his head slowly as he stares at the ruined disarray of the table.
Dustin proceeds to slap his hands down onto said table, which sends the pieces on the board vibrating and a startled jolt through Will’s body. He doesn’t like loud noises at all, they scare him. Which isn’t really convenient for him, given that Dustin is always obnoxiously loud.
“Well, I should be getting home,” the curly-haired boy declares, as if that wasn’t already obvious. “Will, you riding with us?”
Will’s eyes dart between Mike, Lucas, and Dustin— who are all three staring at him with that anticipatory gaze. Waiting for him to answer. Only Mike looks like he’s on the verge of blurting something out, his brows furrowing in thought and his fingers fidgeting on the table.
“Ye—“
“Wait,” Mike speaks up, cutting Will off mid-reply. “I was actually thinking— I ride with you guys?”
The party shifts their gaze over to Mike quickly, with the exception of Will. He was already looking at Mike with a hopeful glint in his eye, trying to read that expression on his face. Maybe Mike wants to come over? It is a weekend after all…
“Let me guess, you want to stay the night at Will’s house,” Lucas clocks it immediately, folding his arms over his chest with a deliberate, exaggerated movement. His eyes narrow scrutinizingly as he stares the freckled boy down.
Will blushes a little at how fast Lucas is to make that assumption. He really tries not to get so red when he’s embarrassed, but he supposes he can’t really stop the blood flowing rapidly to his face. Will does make an attempt to hide it though, diverting his eyes to the table and dipping his head down a bit.
“Yeah, and I bet I know why, too,” Dustin unhelpfully adds, flashing his growing pearly whites at the both of them with a big smile that makes his eyes crinkle up.
“Guys, would you please stop? It really isn’t like that,” Mike huffs out, sounding rather annoyed as he gestures to them with a firm hand with his next words for emphasis. “I don’t like her like that, okay? Really, I’m just going for W-”
“Don’t bullshit us, Mike. We see how Jane always gawks at you like you’re the greatest person in the world. I think even my baby sister could notice it!”
Dustin slowly shifts his gaze to Lucas, his eyebrows furrowed in absolute criticism. “Erica isn’t a baby.”
Lucas scoffs, irritated, as he gives Dustin’s arm a good swat. “You get the point, my god. Can you please stop contradicting every little thing I say? It doesn’t make you smarter, it just makes you annoying!”
Dustin and Lucas have now went into their own little bubble of bickering and hitting each other over the most stupid things, which is quite normal for the two of them. Will himself doesn’t quite understand it. He supposes it’s because the two of them are practically best friends, and best friends definitely have their moments of fights and banter more than anyone else.
But Mike is Will’s best friend, yet he has made no attempt to fight with Will, much less hit him. In fact, Mike is very gentle with Will all the time. No matter the situation.
Maybe the relationship between the two of them is just different, but it can’t be a bad thing, right?
Only when Will can’t stand the overlapped words and constant arguing any longer does he roll his eyes with a loud, heaving sigh. He stands up from his chair, letting it scrape against the floor, and starts making his way over to the telephone that’s hooked to the brown, panelled wall adjacent to the DnD table with tired steps.
Will is unusually tired today, and he thinks his stomach hurts. Then again, he wouldn’t know, given how he puts so much effort into shutting off all feelings in his stomach when he’s around Mike– for example, just moments ago, he ignored the nausea pooling in his gut when his friends accused Mike of having a crush on his sister, Jane.
It’s a possibility. It’s terrifying, but it also could very much be real, which makes it even more terrifying to Will.
“Will, whatcha doing?” Mike asks, his voice low and soft as he stands from his chair as well, following curiously after Will. That tone is like music to Will’s ears after being subjected to listen to Dustin and Lucas fighting like a bunch of wild cats for the past few minutes. Thankfully, the two of them have calmed down considerably, and now that gentle voice is the only thing invading Will’s senses.
“Uhm,” Will mutters, his eyes darting to Mike, roving over his face in silent question. “You wanted to.. have a sleepover, right?”
“I mean, yeah!” Mike replies, a smile stretching across his pale face as he leans against one panel of the wall by a shoulder. “Definitely, if it’s okay with you.”
“It’s okay with me,” Will replies, mirroring Mike’s smile with a faint one of his own as his hand hovers over the black phone. “I just need to call my mom to make sure.”
“Oh, yeah. Right, makes sense,” Mike says, nodding casually. His eyes don’t leave Will though, and it makes Will incredibly nervous. He gulps down a lump in his throat, willing his hand to stop trembling as he picks up the phone.
“You guys can go on home,” Mike turns to face Lucas and Dustin, who are zipping up their bags and standing there like they’re itching to get going. Will feels like he can finally breathe again once he doesn’t feel that dark gaze on him. “I’ll just ride with Will if his mom says yes.”
When their two friends both heed easily, muttering an ‘okay’ simultaneously, Will can’t help but feel a little flutter of excitement. He and Mike will be riding home not only together, but also all alone.
Will likes being alone with Mike more than almost anything else in the world. Almost as much as he loves drawing. Because just like drawing, or being in his safe haven in his backyard– Castle Byers– being with Mike with absolutely no distractions makes him feel calm. At peace. It distracts him from the raging storm and the buildup of false hopes that is his life.
The ringtone trills to life as Will brings the speaker up to his ear, fidgeting with the coily line of the telephone. The only thing he can hear is Dustin and Lucas’s footsteps trudging up the steps and the creaks of wood they produce, but he can also feel Mike’s gaze on him again.
Someone answers the phone. Will is happy about that until he hears who it is.
“Hey, this Will? Where the hell are you at, boy. It’s damn near 9:00 at night.”
Will almost recoils in a physical reaction to hearing that familiar, daunting voice. He has to adjust his grip on the phone so he doesn’t drop it, his breath hitching as he hears the telltale sound of a beer can clinking down onto a table through the speaker.
It’s Lonnie. And he’s drunk. And when he answers the phone, that typically means that his mother isn’t home or that she’s been beaten to the point of passing out. This is not good at all.
“Um- I’m sorry, I’m at Mike’s, uh- w-we were just playing a board game. Took longer than we thought, I’m sorry– where’s mom? Is she home? Can I talk to mom?”
Will tries so hard to keep the urgency out of his voice; the shakiness, the evidence of the pure and unbridled fear that he feels.
Mike is scared too. Will hates how easily Mike catches on to his body language. The way he begins tugging at the phone cord so quickly it might snap in his anxiety, the way his eyes get bigger and dart around the room, the way the phone is beginning to slide out of his hand because of the buildup of sweat.
Mike notices, and it sends alarm bells ringing in his head immediately. “Will, what’s wrong?” He whispers, trying to lean a bit closer. His thick brows are furrowed deeply, an equally as deep frown on his face.
Will raises a shaky hand in a signal for Mike to not come any closer. He doesn’t want him to hear this conversation. That would be so humiliating…
“Your mommy’s just sleeping,” Lonnie says, his voice gruff, but Will can hear the undertones of mockery in his voice; the sneer he speaks with. “You should be too, boy. Come home right now or you’re getting the belt, you hear me?”
“But wait– can I bring Mike with me?”
As soon as those impulsive words tumble from Will’s lips, he wishes he could just somehow swallow them back in. He already knows the answer, and worse than that, he already knows the intensity of the answer will shut down all hopes of Mike ever staying the night ever again. So, he squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the bashing he knows is coming.
“Over my dead body you’re bringing that boy to my house after you’ve been stuck up his ass all day long. Get your ass home right fucking now, Will, I mean it, or I’ll–”
Will doesn’t answer. He just slams the phone back into its place, cutting his father off mid-rant and hanging up the conversation. He can’t bear to listen to it anymore. With a shaky, overwhelmed exhale of breath, he makes an attempt to step away and retrieve his things without saying a word. He already knows Mike won’t let him.
“Will–” Mike says, just as Will expected, his voice laced with concern as he steps a bit closer, placing a gentle hand on his flannel-clad shoulder. “What happened? Hey–”
Will shuffles his shoulder, forcing Mike’s hand to fall away. “If you want Jane to stay the night, call and ask her to come over. I’m sure my dad won’t care,” Will says, his voice dripping with bitterness. He can’t hold it back anymore, not when he’s already this upset. All of his emotions are bleeding out all at once before he can even get a chance to just– stop and take some deep breaths to rationalize himself.
Mike is frozen in place, standing by the wall like a solid statue, unable to move a muscle or look at Will with anything but confusion. “What? Jane? Will, this isn’t about– wait? Your dad? Will, what are you talking ab–”
“Yes, Mike,” Will hisses, low and laced with venom as he stomps over to the table, bending to get his bag and sling it over his shoulder. “That was my dad. He doesn’t want me hanging out with you. We’ve talked about this before. Like I said, if you want to see my sister, invite her over.”
What Will doesn’t say is that his father doesn’t want him around Mike because of any bad influence from the latter. Rather, Lonnie is under the assumption that Will is a queer. A fairy. That he is corrupting a perfectly good Christian-raised boy from a conservative family.
It’s not Mike that’s the problem. It never will be, because he’s perfect. Will wishes he was as perfect as him, as normal as him. And if he really does like Jane in that way, more power to him. That’s fine. It hurts like hell, but it’s fine, because it’s normal.
Will is a boy. Mike is a boy. But Jane is a girl. No matter how much Will looks like Jane, he can’t ever be a girl.
If Mike likes her, that’s fine. This is just how things operate. For normal people, at least.
“Will, please, talk to me,” Mike says with a clear tone of desperation, finally pushing off the wall and making his way over to Will with large steps.
“Sorry, Mike. I have to go home,” Will chokes out as he swiftly turns away from Mike.
He has to run off quickly before Mike can touch him again. Once he feels the soothing brush of his hand, or those big brown eyes that make him look like a kicked puppy, the pained furrow of his dark brow– Will might just cave and start sobbing in his arms. How ridiculous would that be? How incredibly weak?
Boys don’t cry in the arms of other boys. Boys don’t cry at all. Or at least, they shouldn’t.
Every step Will takes makes him feel like a lamb being lead away from the safety of the pastures and straight to the slaughter. He might be ascending the stairs, but inwardly, his entire body is sinking. Especially his very fragile heart.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
Will bikes home. All alone, in the dark, in the slight chill of the September night. He can hear owls hooting, crickets chirping, the ghostly breeze blowing through the trees. The cacophony of sounds invades his already addled brain, leaving him on edge and spooked at the slightest of noise.
He doesn’t like this, being all alone in the dark. He doesn’t like the dark at all, actually. But if Mike were here with him, it would make things a whole lot easier. He wouldn’t feel like he has to remain on guard or constantly be looking over his shoulder, because his friend would be here to do that for him. That’s just the way it is.
He makes it home, though, after about 10 minutes of cautious strolling through the paved streets of Hawkins. His house is tiny, nestled right at the edge of the woods, away from downtown or the rich areas of the town. Sometimes, Will likes living here, and other times he does not.
Mike’s house is so much bigger. It’s nicer too. Way nicer, and it isn’t falling apart at the seams. Sometimes he wishes he lived in a place like that, a place that doesn’t need a ton of work done on it. Sometimes he wishes his family had enough money to afford the things they need, or the things he needs.
But of course, he doesn’t ask for anything. He’s learned to be completely content with everything he has, and to stay quiet about what he wants. Will has learned to stay quiet about everything.
Though, he is a bit embarrased sometimes. When he goes to school, he is often mercilessly bullied– not only because of the.. allegations surrounding him, but also because he is clearly not as high class as some of the other children. His shoes are worn, some of his clothes fit too snugly on his frame, others hang off of it excessively.
But one thing that never fails to make Will feel better is that Mike has never made him feel different for the clothes he wears, the house he lives in, or.. anything, really. He’s always made him fit right in, no matter where the two of them go together. When Will goes to his house, he especially feels right at home.
Will has no reason to push Mike away. He doesn’t know why he does. Or maybe he knows why, but he’s just too scared to admit the truth. Because if he faced his fears, if he accepted that the horrible things his dad spits at him when drunk, or the vile names that the kids at school call him are actually all true.. what would that mean for him? How would he even go from there? Would he just have to accept it and keep it bottled up inside for the rest of his life? He doesn’t want to do that. It would be far too painful.
Ignoring it is so much easier. Just in the same way Will is going to ignore his father’s tantrum when he steps foot into the house. He already knows it’s coming, so as he puts away his bike, propping it up on the porch, he braces himself for the chaos he knows he is about to walk into.
The door is old, wooden, the paint on it is chipped. Lonnie has been saying that he’s going to buy a new door, because this one is, for lack of a better word, shitty. Winter is approaching, and if the Byers learned anything from last year, they should know that the door does little to keep the frigid air out of the house. But of course, Lonnie has yet to keep his word. He’s too busy drinking and smoking his life away. Literally. Will is sure his father is going to drink himself to an early grave, and if he’s being honest– he really doesn’t care that much. Gosh, that’s a horrible thing to admit, isn’t it?
Who cares. The things his father has done to him are even more horrible. Even recalling some of the worst incidents sends a violent shiver through Will’s body– the horrible, icky shiver. The one that makes him feel like he’s dirty, or that bugs are crawling all over him. So, he tries so hard to not think about it.
Will steps into the house, trying his best to be quiet. He already knows his father will be mad enough as it is and that he doesn’t need to make a racket. Will being noisy always makes the man even more enraged, for whatever reason. Perhaps that is why Will has trained himself so diligently to not speak.
The house is rancid, reeking of alcohol and the hazy fog of cigarette smoke that is swirling through the house, deadly but softly. But it’s fine. Once Will is in here for a while, he won’t be able to smell it anymore. He’s immune to it, but he can still notice the odor when he first enters– much to his dismay.
Will takes a few more steps, cautious and slow, as his eyes dart around. The house is messy, but it’s dark, so Will has to be careful where he steps. There is, however, a glow from the tv that illuminates the idle, worn couch, and it’s still playing some late-night ballgame. The faint sound is the only thing Will can hear apart from the sound of his heart beating quickly in his chest. There are a few empty beer cans on the coffee table, which only assures Will’s suspicions of his dad drinking tonight. Of course. That only makes Will get more nervous.
“Mom?” He calls out, but it’s not very loud. It’s more of a question than anything, a small attempt at waking his family up before he has to face Lonnie’s drunken rage. “Jonatha–”
Will nearly jumps out of his skin when his dad approaches him by the side, evidently having been in the bathroom or something like that. Either way, Will doesn’t care because he’s here now. Mom and Jonathan aren’t.
Lonnie stands over him, his figure dark and looming in the poor lighting of the house. Will can barely even see his face. He doesn’t know what kind of expression is etched there now, and that only makes this entire interaction more nerve-wracking.
Will gulps, looking up at him before snapping his eyes away, looking beyond the intimidating form and into the hallway. He considers flying right past him and locking himself in his room. The prospect of getting away, of freedom, is so temping.. but he can’t. He isn’t big enough, he isn’t fast enough, and his beating and chastisement would only be a million times worse if Lonnie were to catch him. And Will certainly isn’t strong enough to escape from Lonnie’s cold, rough hands. Will wishes he was stronger.
“Me and you, boy,” Lonnie shakes a finger at him, using his other hand to brace his staggering body against the blunt edge of the wall. “We need to have a talk.”
Will feels all the blood drain from his face. He doesn’t want to look at his dad, but he knows what makes the man tick, and he also knows that not making eye contact is one of them. So, he forces himself to meet his gaze head-on. “Look, I’m sorry for–”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You know I’ve told you over and over that I don’t want you out so goddamn late. But do you listen to me? No! You never listen to me, that’s your fucking problem,” Lonnie spits out, and Will feels himself shrinking back quickly.
“I won’t do it again, please, just let me go to sleep,” Will begs, his eyes welling with tears. He quickly blinks said tears away– if he cries, it’ll all be over. Lonnie loves to hurt Will, but Lonnie hates when Will cries because of it. How does that make any sense at all.
“No, you’re going to listen to me when I’m speaking to you this time,” Lonnie hisses, his accusing hand flying down to take hold of Will by the chin. “I don’t want you seeing that boy anymore. You hear me? You’re spending far too much time with him and I don’t fucking like it at all. If I see him around here again, or if I catch you going to his house, I’ll beat the shit out of you and I mean it.”
Will whimpers, tears spilling over, slipping down his pale, drained cheeks and pooling on his father’s hand, wetting it with the evidence of his pain. Lonnie pulls his hand away abruptly, wiping it off on his pantleg. The old checkered pajama pants that are scattered with cigarette burns and stains.
“Gross,” Lonnie says, his voice slurred from the alcohol, but the disgust and vemon lacing it is so painfully obvious that it can only make Will cry harder. “Fucking fag. Crying all the time, whining when you don’t get your way. You’ll never survive in this world if you can’t learn to man up, buddy.”
“Please, don’t call me–”
That was a mistake. Talking back is always a horrible, horrible mistake, and Will has learned that the hard way. That is why he cut himself off before he could finish that sentence.
Will feels the full effect of his protest. A fist in his stomach, plunging into the fragile flesh right over his vital organs, and it knocks the wind right out of him. It hurts, it hurts so bad that Will really can’t ignore it this time.
“Ow!—“ Will wheezes out, falling to the floor and panting heavily. His eyes are squeezed shut, his arms clutched tightly over his abused stomach as his body is wracked with the tremors from the painful blow. They radiate through his entire small form, making him shake and rock back and forth as he tries to get some oxygen back into his lungs.
When Will tries to take a breath though, he immediately seizes and does something expected. He starts coughing. A normal reaction to getting the literal breath punched out of you. But what Will didn’t expect is that these coughs would be violent and forceful, making his throat feel like it’s being ripped apart; his lungs and the very bones of his ribcage ache. He doesn’t know what the hell is happening.
His dad’s cruel voice whirls around in his mind, barely audible over the sound of his aggressive hacking.
“Come on, get up, go to your room. I didn’t hurt you that bad, Jesus Christ.”
Will doesn’t think that’s true. Something is really, seriously, irrefutably wrong. He’s only ever heard one person cough like this, and that’s the man in front of him. And that’s because he smokes like a sailor. Will definitely doesn’t smoke at all, and he doesn’t think he has a cold, so why–
Will’s gag reflex kicks in because of the force of his coughs, and he heaves over the floor. The only thing that comes up is blood, or at least at first that’s all he notices through the tears blurring his visions. The drops of red spatter onto the carpet, staining a small cluster of the carpeted floor a deep crimson color.
Will cracks his eyes open and takes a better look, his chest rising and falling quickly. When the bloody scene in front of him comes into focus, he notices that…. there’s a twinge of blue too? It’s faint, almost delicate, contrasting starkly against the backdrop of dark red liquid. It’s some mysterious object with a light, sky blue hue, like that of a flower, and it takes Will a moment to register that in his traumatized state.
Will stares down at the foreign object that he just retched up, his brows furrowing. And then that’s when he realizes that not only does this look like a flower, it is a flower.
He doesn’t touch it. Will’s always been grossed out by blood, and he’s even more grossed out from blood that evidently came from his lungs. Or his stomach, he’s not sure. Everything hurts, the entire expanse of his torso, all of his insides. He can’t quite figure out exactly where the pain is coming from.
“Mom—“
It’s the last cry for help that Will can manage, but he’s deterred once again. He is broken out of his puzzled stare, and his words, by his father’s harsh scoff. “I knew you picked flowers, but I didn’t know you ate them too. Damn fairy, go to your room before you piss me off again.”
Will knows better than to disobey again. He’s in too much pain, physically and emotionally, and he’s exhausted in every sense of the word. He has no intentions on adding to his own misfortune. He just wants, more than anything else in the world, to curl up into a ball on his bed and cry himself to sleep.
He wishes Mike was here, or that he was still at Mike’s. The only thing better than comforting himself with his own embrace is Mike’s embrace.
Right now, though, Will’s safest option– his only option– is to suck it up, lock himself in his room and wait for his father’s drunken outrage to pass, just as this dreadful night will. His legs are shaky when he straightens himself up, but he perseveres, managing to stand up and stabilize his legs enough to slip right into the space between his father and the stained plaster of the wall.
Will doesn’t look back. He doesn’t make an attempt to to run and cry to his mother, or his brother, or his sister. He doesn’t want to worry them. He’s getting older now, he’s a whopping thirteen– he’ll be fourteen in March, a whole high-schooler. He needs to start dealing with issues on his own, as they are thrown at him, instead of running for help like a pitiful, wounded animal.
Then again, he isn’t an animal, he’s a human being. Sometimes, however, his dad makes him feel… not so human. It’s an uncomparable, utterly demeaning thing when one feels that their very humanity has been stripped from them. Will feels like that often.
The brunette stealths through the hall like a shadow, an invisible trail of humiliation and shame in tow with his steps. He hangs his head low as he disappears into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, wincing when it creaks on its hinges. He really hopes he doesn’t wake anyone up with all of this clamor.
He stands by the door for a couple of long seconds, panting softly. He’s taking a moment to ensure that no footsteps will succeed him to his bedroom. If that happens, he’ll have to explain himself. And if he explains himself, whoever it is that he spoke to will start a discourse with his father. If that happens, whoever in his family that is so unlucky to feel the wrath of Lonnie will be screwed. Will doesn’t want his siblings or his mom to get seriously hurt just because he’s a crybaby who can’t even handle a measly little punch.
When the coast is clear, Will exhales one, big shaky breath of relief, his eyes drooping a little. He twists the lock on his door, making his way over to the full-sized bed in the middle wall of his room with heavy steps.
He plops himself down, the mattress dipping with his entire seventy-three pounds of weight. He hasn’t necessarily gained any meat on his bones since last year. The heaviest he got was eighty pounds, a couple of months ago, but he quickly shed it off again. His weight now fluctuates in the low-to-mid seventies. Will doesn’t have many ideas as to why he can’t be stable in at least one aspect of his life, but he is sure this particular one has to do with the fact that he disdains eating when he’s upset. He’s upset a lot. But when he’s around Mike, he practically gets spoon-fed. Not literally, but Mike might as well spoon-feed him with how persistent he is in getting Will to eat.
Will doesn’t think he’s going to be eating for a bit. He’s far too stressed. It’s evident in the way he draws his knees up to his chest, the way he loops his arms around his legs, the defeat in his shallow breaths when he buries his face into his thighs. He rocks back and forth as a sort of self-soothing motion, something he has found is really helpful in these situations. So many times has he rocked himself to sleep when his dad was finished hurting him, when he’d finally had enough of seeing his tears.
But if Will really thinks about it, his dad will never stop. He’ll never get enough. And suddenly rocking idly doesn’t help him so much anymore, and the tears spill over his waterline all over again, his lower lip trembling.
He needs someone here with him. As much as he hates to admit it, he could use someone to wipe his tears away, to hold him, to rock him to sleep– No. He’s not a baby. Stop thinking like that, Will–
And then there’s the flower. Beneath all of his hurt, he feels that spark of curiousity somewhere nestled deep inside his conscious. He wishes someone could explain to him why exactly that happened out of nowhere, reassure him that it was nothing more than a trick of the eye–
No. No, no, no. Will coughed up a blue flower. He’s sure of it; he isn’t going blind. What he can’t figure out is why he coughed up a flower, and it confuses him to no end. Along with that, his stomach is still twisted in painful knots, his chest is tight, and he feels like his organs hurt. It’s so eerie, extremely unsettling to say that, but there’s no better way to word it. Hell, he isn’t sure how to even explain that kind of feeling to anyone, so he doesn’t think he’ll say anything at all.
Even though the rocking does nothing to help his emotional state, it seems to distract him from the pain radiating from his middle. So, he keeps it up, keeling over and pressing his stomach tightly to his legs in hopes of feelings enough pressure for the pain to dissipate, even if just a little. It doesn’t do much, however.
Just when Will squeezes his eyes shut, his ears pick up on a strange clink against his window. He perks up right away, not used to hearing such noises in his room at all. Typically the only things he can hear in his room at night are the same things he hears on his late-night bike rides– chirping of crickets, hooting of owls, whistling of wind. Not an unexplained clatter on his window.
He’s intrigued. Despite all of his instincts, he truly is intrigued. He knits his eyebrows as he slips out of bed. He’s sniffling, swiftly swiping away tears with the back of his hand in an attempt to get himself together.
Will approaches the window, standing there in a moment of hesitation. He’s sure it was nothing. Maybe it was just the wind..? Still, he has to make sure there’s no one.. watching him or something. He’s paranoid about that. For good reason, because he’s experienced that. He doesn’t want to experience that again.
The only way to be sure is to pull open the curtains. So he does, albeit a bit tentatively. He peeks through, his eyes darting around before locking onto a figure. A very familiar figure, at that.
The sight he’s met with is better than he could have ever expected, akin to a beacon of light on the shore to a man lost at sea.
It’s Mike. He’s straddling his bike idly, his feet on the ground to keep himself upright, his gaze fixed onto the bedroom window. He looks a little cold, clad only in his blue jeans he was wearing earlier that night and a lightweight grey jacket. His dark hair is tousled, no doubt from the steady breeze of the outoors, the fringe of it falling over his forehead in a boyish way that makes Will’s breath hitch despite everything.
Will can only stare for a moment, his mouth agape and his eyes wide with surprise. He’s more than a little caught off guard to be seeing his best friend here, at this time of night, especially after being caught up in his own bubble of misery for the past hour.
Will only takes action when Mike gestures upwards rapidly in a clear signal for Will to open the window. He looks behind him quickly, staring at his bedroom door for a solid three seconds as a precaution, before whipping his head back in Mike’s direction. Before he can convince himself to stay rational, he flicks open the rusty locks of his window and raises it, slow and steady as to not make a sound.
“Mike,” he hisses, bracing his hands on the window frame as he pokes his head out. “What are you doing here?”
Mike looks down at his dirtied converse, seemingly taking a moment to gather his own thoughts, before peering back up at Will. “You left in a hurry. You seemed upset with me. I didn’t want you to, I dunno... Go to sleep angry with me,” he mumbles, clearly repentant.
Will pulls a stunned expression, his hands going limp on the frame. He can’t help but lean outside a bit further, just a bit closer to Mike. His misaligned bowl cut sweeps around his face gently in a sudden pick-up of the wind.
“And that’s why you biked all the way across town?” He asks, his tone probably coming across as a bit blunt. He doesn’t mean to word it that way, but seriously? Mike really pedalled all the way across Hawkins because they had a little spat? It can’t be true. That would be ridiculous. That would be insane. That would be so absolutely, undeniably, adorable—
“Mhm,” Mike hums in response, nodding his head steadily, surely. Like the two of them are conversing about something as simple and indisputable as the weather, or the fact that the sky is blue, or the grass is green, or that they met in 1976—
Will looks around, his eyes snapping nervously. His entire body is tense, on-edge, and he feels like he should absolutely not be talking to the boy his dad gave him direct orders to not associate with again. Right under his nose, at that.
“Mike,” Will says, his voice hoarse as he locks eyes with the ravenette again. He shakes his head slowly, deperately. “You shouldn’t be here. You should go home. My dad, he isn’t happy, and if he finds out about this..”
“Come with me,” Mike cuts him off abruptly, his dark irises glinting with something pleading. “Just… wait, Will? Have you been crying?”
“No,” Will responds, his voice a bit too harsh as he makes a last-ditch effort to lie through his teeth. He knows it’s no use. Knows that Mike can see right through that mask he wears, the facade that he hides behind. He is a master at it, really. He’s better than anyone else at getting Will’s walls, the ones he has built around himself for his own protection, to crumble to the ground and disappear.
“Yes, you have,” Mike corrects, his shoulders slumping with a sigh. “You don’t have to lie to me about it. That’s part of the reason I came too. Your dad really did sound upset, and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I don’t want him hurting you again.”
Will’s heart does an unhelpful flip-flop in his chest, the pain pooled in his stomach giving way to a pleasant flitter-flutter of butterflies. He adores that Mike cares so much, and if he’s being honest with himself, he wants to throw all caution to the wind and just.. go with him.
“He, uhm– he didn’t hurt me that bad,” Will mutters, picking at the bed of his nails in an anxious habit. He knows that what he just said is just another lie, it’s merely a parrot, an echo of the words his father sneered at him earlier. “I’m okay, Mike. Really.”
“But he still hurt you…?
It isn’t an accusation, rather, it’s a gentle question aced with pure, unadulterated care. However, the way Mike clocks it so quickly it nearly makes Will’s head spin.
“Mike, I–”
“Will, just come with me. Just for one night. I really did want to have a sleepover with you, and I definitely don’t want you in there with him,” Mike explains himself with a distressed, urging edge, his hands gesturing around for emphasis. “My parents won’t let him hurt you. Promise.”
It isn’t that Will doesn’t want to, he’s just scared. So damn terrified that if he takes off with Mike right now, his dad will come storming out and run them off the road in his car. On the less dull side, however, Lonnie is probably out cold on the couch from overdrinking by now.
Will looks back one last time into the darkness of his bedroom, giving his locked door a hopeful glance, before he turns back to meet Mike’s begging gaze.
“Okay,” Will says breathlessly. “Okay.”
Will repeats himself as a way to hype himself up, to reassure himself that this is fine. Nothing bad is going to happen. And this is what he wanted anyway, right? To hear Mike’s comforting words, to feel his soothing touch? For him to come rescue him like some kind of knight in shining armor..
No, Will. Cut that train of thought off right now. Boys don’t have those thoughts about other boys.
But, oh.. Mike. The boy that literally bikes across town to make sure Will’s safe. It’s hard to not view him in such a reverential light, to not have such positive thoughts about him. At the end of the day, Mike has always pulled through, has always kept his word, and Will can’t help but swoon over it.
Maybe swoon isn’t the right word. No, Will takes that back. That is the right word.
Will climbs through the window, expecting to have to do all the work himself, and he isn’t looking forward to the impact of hitting the hard ground. But then that’s when Mike hops off of his bike, propping it up against the side of the house and stepping over to Will, outstretching his hand to him. Just when Will thought his friend couldn’t get any sweeter, Mike proves him wrong once again.
Will’s wide eyes flick between Mike’s soft expression and his open hand as he dangles from the window, one leg in and one leg out. He ultimately decides to take the hand offered to him, and the jolt that zips up his arm is immediate.
“Thank you,” Will mumbles as he hops onto the ground, dusting himself off. He leaves his window open, taking one last glance as the curtains sway from the breeze, completely unbothered, as if time stands still in the house.
“No problem. Now come on, let’s go, yeah?” Mike encourages, gently tugging Will over to his bicycle by a gentle arm around his shoulder.
Will blushes deeply when he realizes that he and Mike will be sharing a bike, and he’s too flustered over that minor detail that he forgets to even respond to the other boy.
The only person Mike has ever shared a bike with is Jane, and that’s only been in recent weeks, in which Mike and Jane have been hanging out more and more. Will wasn’t so sure how he felt about it. But here? Now? Willl can’t help but to feel relief in the fact that Mike thinks that he is special enough to ride on the back of his bike. To loop his arms around his waist and have to do nothing more but hang on tight as he’s steered through town.
Maybe, just maybe, Will does mean as much to Mike as Jane does. And maybe Mike will believe Will when they have the much-needed, bizarre conversation regarding coughing up petals.
Will pushes that latter thought to the back burner of his mind for now in favor of letting the first thought run rampant in his mind. He decides it isn’t important and that it won’t be important until he feels the sharp stab of pain in his gut again, and he doesn’t know when that will be.