Chapter Text
Well, so Will’s life kind of goes like this.
There’s a point in which he…wants something, let’s say. Like any human being of his kind, he has…erm, how does he say this, desires. Dreams. Actual prospects, you know? For example, let’s say Will wants to get into…art school- no, um, more…short term, okay. So…
Will wants to be a teenager.
Of course, being a teenager is…in principle, a very cry-able, very sad and pitiful situation that in general should be considered torture. But, by that, Will means that he wants…he wants- he wants to go out with his friends to the arcade. Or he wants to- he wants to laugh like a hyena until he’s about to throw up. He wants to jump fences, paint walls, he wants to break the law and be a criminal-
Right. That escalated quickly. Well.
So, in general, you got the point. Will wants to be…
Happy. Let’s put it like that. Will wants to be happy. Not even like…persistently, giggling-the-shit-out-of-life-happy. He just wants to be genuinely happy for once in his life.
That’s all he’s asking for.
And life, well, life….what it does, you see, is that…wait. Are you ready? Okay, here we go:
Life, what it does, is trample and shit and rub his dreams on his face until they’re soaked to the brim with his tears and Will is saying stuff like ‘I- I give up, I give up, please’ while he’s being…erm, waterboarded and life says something like:
“Get the fuck away from me, weirdo-” the booth operator says, with his little earphones and his sunglasses up in his hair, sounding more terrified than disgusted, “what’s wrong with you- what- what-“
Will’s head still spinning a bit, but much better without any music. He belatedly realizes that he’s just freed a demogorgon into the wild. Which…welp. More bullshit, what’s new. But actually, what Will didn’t tell you, is that actually, Will isn’t complaining at all about his situation. Yes, he does complain and cry a lot, he is aware. Thank you. But, really, does it even matter?
Will has learned that nothing- ha, nothing he ever does changes anything. No matter how much he struggles, no matter how much he fights it or tries to stop things. Every time he tries to help- everytime- he- he’d tried to lead the demodogs away from Bob and he’d ended up dead.
So, it’s pretty clear, right?
“There’s- there’s cameras. Don’t you think you’re getting away with this, dude.” The DJ says, Will is getting tired of his blond, clearly-bleached hair. He isn’t one to judge people by the cover, but this guy probably the shittiest heart too.
And now Will has some footage to destroy, great. Hey, at least he is making one of his dreams come true, if he doesn’t end up in juvie and no one finds out about his sexuality he might not get beaten to death in the first week. Which is honestly better than having 13-year-olds with very detailed torture fantasies about him.
Will considers it, for a moment, saying something congruent with the last thing he said, something like, ‘um, our eyes must be playing tricks on us, um- sorry, I need to-
“Sorry, I can’t hear you, dude.” He says.
Will’s already turning away and walking towards the other side before he can see the guy’s infuriated face or die. Of embarrassment. Ears ringing a bit. He considers if he should even walk and look for Mike at all. He wonders if it’s really all his fucking fault, if he only moved quicker pulled El away, stopped being a stupid piece of useless shit that shouldn’t be alive- okay, alright. There’s nothing you can do now. Nothing.
Your life or your happiness don’t matter, Jane’s matters. Go help h e r-
Oh fuck, he’s gonna pass out. He’s going to be sick. Shit. Fuck.
Will stops for a bit to lean on a table. He is seeing blurry, in some spots, and taking another step feels like a monumental effort. He spots a stray napkin on an abandoned booth, hopefully as clean as it can be, and he wipes his mouth and his nose. He must smell like vomit. What’s new, really.
You need to keep going, you stupid piece of shit. It doesn’t matter if you’re bleeding out in the sidewalk, it doesn’t matter if you got run over by a tank, you need to help El-
Suddenly, Will’s ears pick up on a door slamming and as he turns that way he sees an unmistakable blob of yellow and purple stomping away towards the opposite hall. Mike momentarily turns towards him, and then immediately keeps going. Glancing away.
It hurts. It fucking hurts. But Will is nothing, ha, what did he even expect?
Nothing he ever does matters.
He walks towards him, not because he wants to get any sort of- any sort of something but rather because he would feel like more of a useless piece of shit if he didn’t help his sister who practically comforted Will through his nightmares. It’s hard to walk, the bright lights feel like his brain is being repeatedly plunged with a spear over and over.
“Mike.” Will says. Mike is a good meter away, he speeds walk a bit. His head is about to fucking explode. Fuck. He can’t believe he is even doing this. God, why is he even doing this. “Did you find her?”
“What do you think.” Mike says plainly. Deadpan. Cutting and fucking dry like he’s pushing Will away. Wow, a year was enough time for him to grow out of you. That’s why he didn’t even write. He probably realized how great life is without fucking Will with his ptsd and fucking episodes. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Tell you what?” Will says, something bubbling up his throat. Like a sob, a fucking furious scream but he can’t do that right now. He’s so tired.
“That El was having trouble! You should have told me, she’s my girlfriend, Will.” Mike snaps, like Will is stupid. Like he is impatient, and oh-
“Because she’s been lying to you, Mike! And I don’t even blame her, she was trying to- god, impress you. Did you- did you really expect me to just out my sister out of nowhere like a freaking douchebag?”
Mike shrugs.
“Oh, so you also have been lying to me, is- is that why you’re being such a jerk?” Mike snarks, without even looking at him. Like he doesn’t even deserve that and Will fucking snaps.
“A jerk?” He hisses lowly.
Mike finally turns towards him. Finally looks at him for the first time ever since he got down from that fucking plane. It looks like it pains him, to do that. And, oh, he knew he was not pleasant to look at but ah-
“Yeah! Yeah! Actually-” his voice gets like an octave higher, he starts flailing his arms around, getting loud, “you haven’t said a single thing- a-and you have this- this-”
Mike makes a stuttering gesture with his hand, referring to his whole face, “annoyed look on your face like you are- like you’re having the worst day ever, Will!” Mike suddenly starts counting with his fingers. “You’re just moping and dragging your feet around like-like- I don’t know!”
C’mon. Lonnie’s palm hits his upper back. Too harsh. It makes him stumble forwards in a way he’s not supposed to. Strong boys don’t stumble like that. Like a girl. Walk straight, won’t ya? And stop breathing like someone’s choking you- No. You know what? Just get out of my face. God, I don’t even wanna see you. It's not my fault you don’t like girls.
“And you were in the restroom for like an hour, Will, and-” Mike scowls. Another expression Will can’t discern. It hurts. He glances away again. The tone of his voice sounds foreign. Will is barely registering anything. The lights are too bright. The scene is too familiar. “Well. I don’t know. It was…weird- I- I couldn’t even enjoy skating. I mean- you practically sabotaged the whole day.”
Will’s ears ring.
You shouldn’t exist.
This. This. Yeah. This is exactly what Will was talking about. This, fine gentleman, is an example of how life- ha. Ha! Shit. Yeah, fuck this.
“Well, it’s my fucking-”
-birthday. Will’s about to say- aw, now you’re victimizing yourself, hoping he cares. Bring out your little pity party about how you wanted your birthday to at least be happy- give Will Byers a purple heart. Mike doesn’t give a shit about you. Mike doesn’t- mike-
What are you even going to say? It’s not like Mike’s your boyfriend.
“-fault. It’s my fault, Mike.” Will says. His voice is trembling. He hopes the cacophony of the rink dilutes it out just a bit. “Yeah, it’s my fault- uh,” he makes a half-assed gesture with his hands, a shrug, “sorry for ruining your date, I- I got, erm, ahead of myself. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I was trying to help El, honestly, see how that went. Ha.”
He let’s out a huff.
Mike doesn’t speak for a good second. The carpet on the floor has little Saturns, moons and suns and stars. Will can’t bear to look at Mike’s expression. He can’t bear to look at how he has changed. And he can’t bear himself for expecting things to be like when they were kids, because duh. Stupid!
He’s so fucking stupid. How could he- why did he even expect-
It feels like his ribcage is being torn open. It feels like collapsing. It feels like exploding and it feels like being alone and it fucking hurts. And he doesn’t know why he even expected anything different. Will thinks about it. About never opening up to anyone ever again.
What, did you want him to marry you?
“We should go.”
“Will, you’re- you can’t-
He glances up to see Mike’s expression. Almost out of accident while he’s walking away. He would rather not see it, god, he swears he would rather not see it at all.
It’s like he bit on a lemon.
“Fuck.” Will whispers. He tries to stifle his sobs, biting down on his shirt to keep from screaming. It hurts so fucking much and he can’t bear it. He’d decided to lock himself up in the bathroom to sob the fuck out of his feelings as soon as they got home. Cold marble floor. Patterned tiles.
Oh, he’s going to die. He’s going to die- he’s going to die, because he’s going to kill himself, tonight.
Oh, there you go. You’re being ridiculous again. And you know why? You really want to know why? Because you’re fucking princes. You’re a tremendously dramatic piece of shit that makes a tremendous deal about everything like a fucking princess. And you know what’s the worst? Mike was right! You do sabotage everything. Your family. Your life. Your friends. Yourself.
Will let’s out a long, dragged-out wheeze of a cry. Squeezing his eyes shut so tight it feels like he might just explode. Keep it inside. Keep it inside. God, keep it under.
Aw. Look at the little baby. What did you expect, really? That he was never going to get a girlfriend. Did you expect Mike to kiss you? To hold you like he did back then? To take you home. And you have the nerve to wallow in your own pity-party. Why don’t you stop this tantrum and get your ass back to the dining table, fag.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fu-ck.” Will mutters, voice wobbling. He digs his nails into his palms, wishing he could hurt himself, wishing that someone worries about him even though the thought feels so unbearable he could peel his skin off just to avoid being seen.
You have the nerve to expect someone to love you. And you have the nerve to say that you’re lonely. To ask things like when is it happening to me? Never. It’s never happening to you. You’re never going to lay next to someone with the lights off. You’re never to giggle and hold hands in the theater while you whisper stupid shit. You’re never going to lend a book and get the notes on your margins answered to. You’re never getting nice notes inside your locker. No.
You’re never going to love someone, and feel their love back. Like a sweater.
You’re dying like that.
“That’s it.” Will says. It takes him effort to stand up. He wishes he could stay there. Curled up in a ball. Waiting for death. For something, for anything to take him away from this.
Waiting for the hole inside his chest, the void to consume him. Until he can’t recognize himself. Until he becomes a husk, something completely different. Until he’s drunk, from morning to night, am to pm. Monday to Sunday. Until he blacks out. Just so he doesn’t have to feel anything ever again. Just so he can’t think about anything. Just so he doesn’t have to hurt like this.
It’s his birthday today.
“I need- I need-” a drink, he needs to drink- he needs to anything to quell this. Anything. Anything. “I- ha, ha-”
The medicine box is obviously not in the guest’s bathroom. Because Will- Will just had to go and lock himself in here and not in the- not in his bathroom. Or Jonathan’s. Or-or anything. It’s just his luck. Just his luck. Alright. Think. Think. What else, what else does he have? He can’t possibly get drunk with soap. He could sneak to his room but all of the bottles are empty like the fucking alcoholic he is. He can- he can-
He kneels down next to the cabinet under the sink. Hastily looking for something. Anything. Cleaning supplies. Toilet paper. A plunger. Bleach. He can’t- El still needs someone to sit with at lunch.
Fuck, fuck!
Nothing. He can do nothing. He’s stranded.
The liquor cabinet is in the kitchen. Next to the dining room. Where everyone is currently sitting.
Will laughs. Hysteric.
He would have to experience this.
Sober.
The lightbulb above him dies.
˙uoᴉsnlɔuoɔ ɐ uɐɥʇ ɹǝɥʇɐɹ 'ǝƃuɐɥɔ ǝldɯᴉs ɐ sᴉ ƃuᴉʎp ˙uoᴉʇɐɹǝʇlɐ uɐ ʎlǝɹǝɯ 'ʇɔɐɟ uᴉ 'sᴉ uoᴉʇɐɹǝʇᴉlqO
“And suddenly- bam- it hits me!” Murray slams his hand against the table, which makes everyone except Jonathan and Argyle, who are clearly stoned, flinch like the traumatized children they are. “Didn’t the Byers move here?”
“Small world, isn’t it?” Joyce says.
Will awkwardly walks back to the dinner table, trying to avoid looking anywhere near Mike. He doesn’t think he could bear it. He doesn’t think he can even bear the thought of him. It makes him nauseous.
As he sits down, his eyes zero on the wine bottle. Next to Murray. Open.
Open.
He thinks just the slight smell of it is making him have cravings.
Anything, anything can work. Will’s stomach feels hot with shame and guilt. But whatever, he is- he is Will Byers. Fuck. What did you expect? Did you expect him to go through a black hole eating away at his heart while sober? He doesn’t want to feel this. Any of this. He doesn’t want to sit in this goddamn chair surrounded by people yet feeling so alone to the point it feels physically painful.
There’s no reason not to.
Not anymore. Mike was the last raggedy string holding his- his- him. If he could have someone to talk to. He didn’t care how he had Mike as long as he had him. It was enough. It was fucking-
He wants to sink into a lake of nothing so deep he can’t even find himself again. Until he feels completely numb.
The conversation around him becomes a smudge of words. Background radio. But it’s not like Will is even capable of processing anything at this point. Jane sits there with her clean clothes, still upset. He wishes he could talk her out of it, but he also understands is Mike’s job- because you have to finally stop poking your disgusting fiend hands into normal, good relationships like theirs.
“Ah, Will and Mike, you both,” Joyce smartly gestures to the both of them, it makes Will anxious. “What about you share Will’s room for tonight-” fuck him, “I have a sleeping bag-”
“No boys and girls sleeping in the same room-!” Murray interrupts, which makes Will cringe with second-hand awkwardness-
Mom gives him a pointed, tight smile. Like she was dancing around the topic. “Aand because Murray is sleeping in the guest room! And you guys must feel pretty cozy. When you were little, you always had sleepovers.”
Something heavy pokes at Will’s throat.
It’s not like it matters. The only thing that matters is Jane’s and Mike’s relationship. He has to bear this. Yeah, he has to bear this bullshit- no, this pain. He needs to bear this just like bears everything else. He needs to get worse so he has yet a reason to destroy himself. Stop thinking about Mike. At all.
Like forever.
You’re so fucking dramatic.
Will doesn’t say anything.
Mike doesn’t say anything either.
“This is some really good risotto.” Jonathan says, out of a sudden. This situation is so fucking funny. It makes Will want to die a little more.
“Can’t I sleep in the living room?” Mike says from his side. Next to El. His whole tone is a wince.
Right. It hurts, for some reason. He should’ve learned by now but he’s so terribly bad at learning.
“You can sleep in my room. I don’t mind.” Will says blankly.
“Uh.” Mike says. Will can’t discern what he’s feeling. He pins his eyes to the bottle of the wine. River Oaks. “No, it’s-”
Mom looks at Mike, empathetic. “Um, Mike, I get that you want to have a sleep over with your girlf-”
“No, I don’t wanna sleep in her room either.” Mike blurts out. In a too loud, too annoyed and too definitive tone that makes the whole table go into awkward, awkward silence. “I mean- I- I do, but-”
El stands up from the dinning with a slam, pushing back her chair with a loud screech. Will’s eyes follow her as she makes her way upstairs. Will knows better than to follow her. She might need some alone time. And he knows it’s Mike. It’s Mike who’s supposed to do this. Not him. Stop getting your evil hands in everything good in this world, William Byers.
Mike’s eyes don’t even follow her.
Argyle makes a sizzling sound with his teeth.
Mom looks torn. Then she smiles awkwardly. “There’s a sleeping back in the closet of Will’s room.” She says, “and you can’t sleep in the living room, sweetie. There’s spiders on the carpet.”
Will stands up, grabs his dishes and leaves.
So, Will’s life sort of goes like this. He’s exhausted. He thinks he wants to curl up under his bed and stay there, forever. Let paleontologists find him fossilized and very much dead. And of course, of fucking course Mike has to sleep in his room. Because- because the universe fucking hates him- yes, it hates him and he’s complaining about it like the little bitch he is.
That’s just the way Will Byer’s life goes.
Mike had left to wash his teeth or something. Set up the sleeping bag. He’s in the kitchen trying not to throw up. Trying to swallow down a scream. There’s nothing, nothing in the world he likes more than washing dishes while everything feels like it’s collapsing around him.
It will pass.
But for now, Will needs to make it pass.
“There ya go.” Jonathan closes the fridge, which clutters. The recorked wine bottle inside. Will’s sole attention on it.
“Doesn’t Murray or mom want more of that wine?” Will says. He tries to sound casual. Yeah. So fucking casual. Oh my god, please fucking work. Murray and Jonathan, please “You shouldn’t put it away then.”
“Uh…what did you say?”
God bless weed. One witness discarded. “Uh, I said that if Murray wanted more of that uh, wine, you shouldn’t- erm, put it away then.” Will says, sweating. Wow, if he only had this level of dedication to his grades or- or the bible or something instead of getting intoxicated until he can’t see straight because the godawful burn in his chest-
“Uh- nah, they went to- uh, sleep early.” His brother says, he looks so out of it. Will wonders if he looks like that while drunk. Great. Just great. “For the…trip…to the Britannica, or some’”
“Ah, yeah. Wait, where?”
“Alaska for, uh, work trip or something.”
Pfft. Alaska? How much weed did Jonathan take this time?
“Oh. Right.” He mutters.
Will spares a glance over at the dining room, empty. He wants to jump out of fucking joy. Finally, something good happens. It’s probably because what he’s about to do makes him like 50% more prone to having liver cancer.
“Uh, are you done?” He asks, almost urgent. Why do these things always happen with Jonathan.
“Yup.” He pops the p.
“I can clean the rest, don’t worry.” Will mentions as if he hasn’t been washing the same plate for ten minutes waiting for Jonathan to leave.
“Sure?” Bleary eyes vaguely focus on him. Jonathan was practically his dad and -and everything since Joyce worked such long shifts at Melvald’s. Jonathan raised him.
It makes the guilt in his gut burn even colder.
“Sure.” Will smiles, reassuringly. Begging.
“Kay, then.”
White wine is surprisingly nice. If he wasn’t practically vibrating off his body with anxiety and fear and adrenaline going through the roof. What Will Byers does is that he- ha, he wants to laugh, he served himself half a cup of orange juice, half a cup of wine. If someone walked on him then-
Will doesn’t think he’s sane anymore.
Fuck, this wine ain’t shit. He thinks as he finishes yet another cup. It makes sense, though. Rum was 40%. This wine is 12%. It’s quite the difference. God, you’re heading down a road you won’t come back from. You’re heading down hell, Will Byers. And you were already going to hell, for your sexuality, for thinking about Mike like that.
He’s going to ultra-hell. No, they’re creating a tenth ring of hell. Just for you.
Will giggles. He notices his head is starting to feel a bit like cotton. The wine has only a bit left. He’d just almost finished an entire bottle.
Don’t do this, Will. Some part of his mind hollers in the back. Like the self-preservation instinct that has been almost bullied off Will’s brain. Like, Will, you’re going too far. Will, please. Don’t do this. Tell someone, tell your mom, tell Jonathan. Hell, even El. Even- even Mike. They will help you-
It’s just that he’s Will Byers.
He feels shame at the prospect of someone- anyone finding out about this. And he’s- ha, he’s getting so careless. It’s like he’s not even- it feels like he’s at the edge of breaking. But not quite. You see, Will Byers doesn’t break. He doesn’t want his family to see this side of him. The side that isn’t quite a victim, the side that isn’t an innocent child.
The part that is his father.
Will knows just how to keep people from suspecting. He’s done it for…what? Four years now? Ooooh, fuck-
He’s starting to feel it. Great. Just fucking great. He closes the fridge, puts the glass away. Takes the wine bottle with him, along with a package of cold sausages. Hands feeling uncoordinated and numb. Eyelids heavy. Will sighs.
He drank too fast. Will recognizes, the symptoms.
Then it hits him.
Fuck.
He makes his way over to the dinner on unsteady feet. Nausea hot, hot on his fucking gut. Oh, fuck. He’s gonna fucking throw the fuck up right over the fucking countertop and die. Yeah, die. Oh, shiiiit.
Right, get to fucking business. Get to fucking business, William Stupid Byers. You can’t do anything fucking right, you moron. Stand up straighter. Stop walking like a fucking fag. Shit, you deserve to die, you useless good for nothing prick.
Will groans.
His vision is spinning a bit. But it’s different. More than anything. His whole body is begging him to throw up. His mouth is bitter and he’s salivating like crazy, and he might die, he might actually die.
You deserve it. Bear it. Yeah, you fucking sabotaged the whole day thinking you even have a chance at being loved! William Byers, the freak show, loved! Come get your fucking ticket, he throws up slugs, makes his friends feel bad!
Oh, William, you are such a fool. Will laughs a bit. It’s funny really. It’s really fucking- fu- oh he almost tripped. Shit, shit.
He makes his way towards the backyard in mid darkness, palpating the walls and trying for god’s sake not to trip straight on his face. Luckily and clearly some deity above him adores him enough to not make him stumble.
The mindflayer, probably.
After all, Will needs to keep pumping out those babies, right guys? Be a good incubating machine for some other worldly deity and die. His life purpose.
Will lets out a sob and then he breaks down into hysteric giggles. Nauseous at the thought of something evil he can’t control growing inside him without consent. He starts crying, oh how his mind can make him cry. Some require punches, but heck no, Will can make himself fucking sick with just his head. He’s just- ha- he’s just on another fucking level. He’s untouchable. Touche.
His vision starts getting blurry the closest he gets to the shed. Like even the scarce light of the dark night is too much. Right, dilated pupils, and he’s crying. And he’s drunk.
Will’s life is just so nice.
The door of the shed creaks open, clattering hardly. He pulls away some black plastic bags, he’d put on top of the tub to grant some darkness. And humidity. Will tries not to fall as he leans down.
The Children are oddly quiet.
‘Pups?’ He pries, in a curious tone. The shared consciousness barely gives him any signal. Other than an empty, cold feeling. A pit grows in his stomach. Apprehension. He’d fucked up ‘I brought food-‘
Maybe it’s because I’m dru-
“Aaagh! Aw- fuck!” That hurts, that hurts make it stop- make it stop- Will drops from his crouching position into the ground on his side. Grabbing both sides of his head in what he can describe one of the most unbearable pains he’s ever FUCK-
“Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop-make it stop, please!” Will begs frantically- the pain- all over, pulling- touching- splitting- “fuck, ple-ase.”
Then, all of a sudden, it’s gone. Off, like a switch. Leaving Will trembling and hyperventilating and curled up into a ball and on the hard, dirty floor of the shed. Barely conscious. Barely-barely-
Weateitweateitweatewewerehungrytherewasnowayoutitwasdarkwewerehungryandweateher
Will manages to sit, hardly. His breath still trembles. His head still throbs. He thinks he saw the light. There’s a layer of numbness set over everything around him. But also fear. Will didn’t- Will didn’t know they could do that.
“What the fuck.” He lets out. Slurred voice. The layer of numbness washing over him. He can’t- he can’t-
He glances over to the tub, realizing immediately what had happened.
“Ooh, fuck.”
Will stares at the mauled corpse of the developing Creature. Clearly torn to pieces. By bites.
His Children had resorted. To cannibalism.
I’m sorry. Will sends out. What can he possibly say to make his utter lack of responsibility better? Will needs to be a good caregiver- a good- a good-, he needs to provide, he needs to feed, he needs to protect. He is insufficient. Will is not a good caretaker. Or nurturer. His Children need to arrive to adulthood healthy, strong. Will failed.
His heart breaks.
I didn’t mean to.
Momweateher
Wewerehungryscaredyouweren’tthereandweateherbecausewewerehungryI’msorryIdidn’tmeanto
YouliedyoustarveusyoustarveusIloveYouIloveYouIloveyouIloveyoumomdon’tleaveiloveyou
He feels a quiet, pulling warmth filling up his chest. Pulling at his chest and tightening his ribcage until Will almost can’t breathe.
It’s the only way he’s known it. Love. And these Creatures love him unconditionally. Yet, he feels sick. Will actually-
Will Byers heaves, holding the urge to puke like he would push back a fucking avalanche. The steady stream of the hivemind continues filling and entering through his ears and leaving through the other. Overstimulating. Hysteric. Unbearable. I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’m sorry, he sends out. I’msorry.
He gasps. The Creatures pull him out of the trance of the Hive Mind. Clearly sensing his suffering and trying to put him out of it. It’s an- it’s an extremely weird sensation. Because Will can see them now. In the pale moonlight.
Squirming slugs half the size of his forearm, no growing notable claws. Staring at him expectantly, with no eyes. Adoringly. They had grown claws.
He feels terrified- he feels-
What the fuck am I doing? I need help- I need- I need to tell this to someone-
But he can’t. He’d dug himself too deep. If something happens, if that demogorgon he’d released, yes, released into the wild kills anyone, it would be Will’s fault. The blood of that person would be on his hands. Everyone would hate him. He’d spoken too late, out of being the insecure piece of shit he is.
Will- Will needs to get out of here. He thinks dazedly. His breath feels hot. Will wants to tear his intestines out and wash them with fucking detergent. I need to get out of here.
He needs to tell someone-
Only when things get out of hand.
Will has it under control- Will has it- he harshly tugs the tarp on top of the tup, tears the sausages apart to feed them- under control. Just-
“Shh, you’re okay.” He whispers. “I’m okay.”
Will mutters. It’s hard to believe. His voice is hardly stable. Trembling, wine breath and shaking hands and knees that buckle at his attempt of standing up.
“I’m okay.”
Will makes it back to the house, taking off his shoes and walking with socked feet (thanks dad) back to his bedroom. Apart from loudly saying fuck in the middle of the night after he stepped over a plastic piece of something. He’s pretty much done. He’s pretty much done, he just want to get to bed, please let him get to bed-
It’s so easy, pretending nothing happened. Everything is fine. Stepping on his house feels like changing sets of movies.
Except.
The door to his bedroom is ajar. But the lights are turned off.
Will makes his way inside the room. Closing the door behind him, uncoordinatedly, stupid, with a quiet click that might’ve just been as loud as a hydrogen bomb.
Mike is laying there. Wordless. On his sleeping bag. Rather than placing his head next to Will’s headboard, he’d placed it next to where Will’s feet on the bed are supposed to go. Nice. And Will can’t tell if his eyes are closed or open, he can barely see at all.
His brain automatically completes Mike’s face for him. On his head, he looks angry. It’s so hard to tell. Everything is just plain static. It’s so dark he can’t see his hand, in front of him.
Will’s still seeing blurry.
Will doesn’t say a word. He feels himself sway from side to side as he traverses the bedroom. He’s still so fucking drunk and dazed like a bastard but he can blame it on the pitch-black darkness. Moonlight-ty. A bit. From his window.
He sits on the bed. The rustling of clothes fills the silence. The thought of changing in front of Mike passes over his head, he doesn’t even feel like thinking. About anything.
A long-sleeved t-shirt gets clumsily put on. Mike is turned away, anyways. God, like it even matters. He really, for god’s sake, can’t bring himself to give more of a fuck.
He just feels cold.
Oh, I almost forgot.
He misses twice, aiming for a bottle of sleeping pills. Not good mixing pills with alcohol, Joyce had told Lonnie once. Will huffs, picks one out, swallows it without water, it goes grittily down his throat. Careless, you’re getting careless, Will Byers.
Will finally places his head atop the pillow. Admiring how the ceiling is still swinging a little bit. And how it seems like if he just closed his eyes, for a second, he would be teleported to another sort of dimension in which nothing of this happened. In which he was happy.
What a joke.
Will spares a glance at Mike’s back. He feels nothing. Other than emptiness. Longing. He pushes that to the deepest pits of his mind. Away.
A long, awkward silence.
Please say something. Anything.
He feels stupid. Like the child inside him who still has hopes and dreams and love still needs to be scolded down into smithereens.
And then-
“You were crying?” Mike says, from besides him, and Will can’t fucking do this anymore. He swears he can’t-
He swallows down a sob.
“What?” He says through a laugh. It sounds more like a huff. Will can’t even form words.
Out of everything he expected Mike to say. Out of everything. Out of things like I’m sorry. Because he’d immediately apologized to him. Back in Hawkins. He even sounds annoyed out of all things.
He can’t do this anymore. He can’t keep fucking. Believing. This. All. Means. So. Much. More.
“When you came back from the bathroom.” Mike says, as if it was obvious.
He turns to look at the other boy. He’s now looking up at the ceiling. Though now Will can’t discern shit out of his expression.
“What do you want me to say, Mike?” He asks, through a smile. Bitter, bitter.
“The truth?” He says again, as if Will was joking. His sound isn’t amicable or anything he just sounds mad and Will does t- Will really can’t.
A tear falls down his face. The most dramatic shit ever. Ha. Haha. Oh, fuck.
Will snorts.
Mike stays still, at that sound, for a couple of seconds. And as he suddenly turns around, Will can see how his figure shrinks on itself, through half-lidded eyes. How his shoulders shift. Contract.
He feels it, something prying away at his insides. The need to say something. Is it better to fucking speak or die.
Don’t fucking do it.
“The truth is that I’ve got an army of demogorgons in the backyard shed.” Will says sarcastically. Another tear rolls down his face, and another. And another. His stomach feels hot from digesting all the alcohol. It’s all so familiar. “Oh, and I’m an alcoholic.”
His heart is beating so loudly.
At that, Mike sits. Will can vaguely see it, his stomach suddenly feeling a thousand degrees colder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck-
“Are you- are you mad at me?” Mike hisses out. Will is dumbfounded. The other boy sounds torn and Will can’t even tell if Mike’s annoyed at him- or- or- by the way he’s rushing things. “If I was the one that made you cry- then sorry, alright?”
Mike sounds desperate. And angry, and sad and confused. Like he was fighting. Over what? Will doesn’t- Will doesn’t think he wants to know. He’s had enough. He just wants all of this to be over. He doesn’t Mike to say anything remotely like that. Because then Will wouldn’t be able to help himself, and then Will would realize how much of creep he is while Mike is completely-
Normal.
“I was- I was just-” it’s clear that Mike wants to say something else, but he instead lets out a huff, great.
Will sighs. He feels so fucking done. Increasingly drowsy and increasingly empty.
“Mike, I appreciate that you’re trying to apologize.” Will says. “But it was just my allergies.”
“Can you stop lying to me?” Mike says. He takes a couple of frantic breaths. “You haven’t stopped lying to me ever since I got here- and- and what’s up with that demogorgon thing, it’s not funny.”
“Of- of fucking course it’s funny Mike, don’t you realize?” It’s my life. Will sniffs. It’s full-on raining on his pillow now. Fuck. A freaking monsoon. “You don’t have to apologize, or- or act nice. We’re not- we’re not those kids anymore. And I- and I’ve missed you so much. You have no idea.”
Every night I sank under the sheets and imagined you were here, reading comics under the covers with me again. With the lamplight.
Mike doesn’t say anything. Just staring at him. If only his face was not against the light of the window. Darkened. Unreadable.
Every lie makes Will feel colder and colder. Sink further down a well.
But you will never love me like I love you. And that fucking hurts and I want to get over it and- “So sorry for…ruining your date. I’ve just-” been going through a lot, please help me, please- “not been myself, lately. I mean, last time I tried to help I led an entire platoon of soldiers to their deaths.”
Will swallows. It feels like he is dying.
But it’s okay. It’s fine.
“Will- I’m really-” sorry. He knows that. God, he knows that. But it doesn’t matter. At all.
“You don’t have to say it.” Will snaps.
That shuts Mike off. That scares him.
Will settles down into his bed, when Mike doesn’t say anything. He looks away. Closes his eyes. Eventually, he hears Mike do the same. Will blinks a couple tears, out of existence.
He would say something poetic, like how the silvers of moonlight or the warmth of his pillow lulled him into dreamless sleep. But he feels so pathetic, stupid and-
It's just that Will Byers feels so fucking terrible and he also had wine and sleeping pills and-