Chapter Text
This time it wasn't Vecna but Henry's hands at his throat, blue eyes bloodshot and shining like ice. This time Henry doesn't rage or spit at him. Instead, his shoulders slump and he sucks in a ragged breath, lip quivering, a look crossing over his face like he'd just realized everything he had done.
Everything he had ruined.
Will struggled against him, but his limbs would not work, his voice could not be heard. He was trapped between twisting vines of the Upside Down and the heavy weight of Henry's body. He cried out a silent plea when Henry's grip shifted, tightening on the back of his neck as he pulled him closer, cheek brushing his like a lover as he whispered in his ear.
"Mine is gone too," Henry breathed raggedly, a tear dripping onto Will's neck. "We are the same, William. Don't you see?" He pulled back, his brows raising as if what he was going to say was as obvious as a blue sky on a sunny day.
"You killed her.”
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Philadelphia, 2003
Will awakes with a start, Henry's deep voice still in his ear and his heart pounding in his chest. Another bad dream. They still haunt him more than he'd like to admit. Even now, over a decade later. He groans, scraping his hand roughly across his sweaty face. He's on his belly, fully clothed and above the covers.
Will blindly feels his back pocket where it's tight and uncomfortable. His wallet is still there, from when he braved slipping out into the storm to the corner store (not bodegas, as his kindly old neighbor had informed him) for a shitty cup of coffee and a pack of smokes.
He pulls the wallet from his jeans and throws it onto the bedside table next to his opened pack of Camels, his keys, and the rest of his mess; an impressive collection of anxiety and depression pills, sleep aids, the muscle relaxers he never finished when he tweaked his back carrying a dresser up his new apartment stairwell. And then there's the lovely gift he received just in time for his thirtieth birthday last March, a bottle of high blood pressure medicine.
He sits up, stretching and groaning into the sullen room. The rain is still pounding at his window, the plain bedroom he hasn't had a chance to unpack his life into yet, still smothered in gray.
His stomach growls, and he sleepily makes his way to the small kitchen. The fridge rattles when he pulls it open revealing a pitiful display of food: an expired carton of milk, a bag of wilted grapes, an old pizza box, and a tin of leftovers he made for a terrible date when he first arrived in Philly a few weeks ago. He has no interest in opening that to even attempt washing it. Will bites his lip, debating on whether he should just throw the entire thing in the trash can when he notices the answering machine blinking on the counter.
Six messages. He pouts. Weird.
Before Will can reach out to press the play button, the phone rings again. The shrill clamor startles him so badly he jumps.
"Jesus," he hisses, heart clamoring in his chest. He picks it up after one ring.
"Hello?"
"Hey, kid."
Will's heart sinks the moment he hears Hopper's gravelly voice. He blinks and holds his breath.
"Me and Jonathan have been trying to call you."
Will swallows, throat already blocked with a painful knot.
"I was sleeping," he says, his sleep-roughened voice breaking. He twists the wire around his wrist, turning to lean against the counter to ground him. He wants to pace, but he can't because he’s stuck attached to the phone.
Hopper hums. "It's your mom," he says, like he's catching his breath.
"Yeah?" Will rasps, pulling at the skin of his forearm till it hurts to brace himself.
"Well…she died, kid."
All the air leaves Will's lungs instantly, and Hopper makes a noise on the other line like he's being smothered.
Panic pummels him right over the head.
"How?" Will asks desperately, a sob already escaping his chest.
There's a long pause and then Hopper sighs, his breath making a distorted crackling sound through the receiver. "Heart attack," he chokes out.
"What!" Will hisses, face contorting. He can't for the life of him comprehend what his step-dad is saying. "What do you mean?"
"It was sudden, Will. She was cooking dinner, listening to that sappy Motown stuff she loves. She was talking to me about something, I can't remember, and then she got dizzy and thought she was going to throw up. Then her back was hurting bad and she just—-collapsed."
Hopper's voice fully breaks. "I tried, kid, I promise. I gave her CPR forever until the ambulance came. But she just—-she just didn't wake up. I'm really sorry, Will. I'm so, so sorry—-,"
A sob tears through the other line, something ugly and frantic that Will has never heard come out of Hopper's mouth before. Not even when….
"Okay," Will says through his tears. A harsh cry bursts out of him, thoughts rushing through him like a river raging over a cliff. "I have—I have to get off the phone now, Hopper. I gotta—-."
Will turns. He slams the phone down and his knees buckle, falling against the cabinets. His entire body is wrecked by punishing sobs that tear viciously out of his chest. He sobs and sobs, unable to see through snot and tears. His mind fights to make even an ounce of sense of what Hopper has just told him.
Heart attack? But that can't be right. She was fine. She had just called him last week talking about the trip they were planning to see him in his new place. He was excited to take her to the art museum.
Will sucks in breath after breath, crying uncontrollably, until he feels like he can't breathe. Then, all of the sudden, holy shit, he needs to get up.
He's going to puke.
He's going to puke!
Will forces himself to stand, bolting towards the bathroom. The door knob hits the tile with a slam when he shoves it open and he collapses in front of the toilet, retching violently.
It's a mess of bile and spit, and he can't stop crying as he gags. There's a strange stain on the old tile, hidden in between the sink and the toilet. He never noticed it till now. It's ugly.
When he finally stops, Will falls backwards onto his backside, head hitting the drywall with an inelegant thud. Time passes, but he isn't sure how long. Could be minutes, hours, all night. He has no idea. He can't get up. It's like there's a boulder pressing against his chest, snatching the air from his lungs and his ability to move along with it.
Because his mom is dead. His mom is dead and he hadn't even got to say goodbye. He hadn't called her this week yet. He usually called her on Wednesdays and it was Monday.
And now he can't.
A rush of tears overwhelm him again and Will drops his head between his knees and sobs more, tears dripping onto the tile. Suddenly, Henry's words are in his ear again.
"You killed her."
"Oh God!" he wails wretchedly, shaking. Henry was right. It's all his fault, isn't it? Years of stress and danger and so much worry and it was all because of him, wasn't it?
You killed her. You killed her. You killed her.
Will beats at his head with his fists, keening, but he can't drown Henry out.
You killed her. You killed her. You killed her.