Chapter Text
When It's Cold I'd Like To Die
November 13th 1983
The world is cold, dark, and smells like rot. Will is suspended in the air, his body held tight against the pulsing, slimy wall by thick black vines. Every time he tries to shift, the thorns dig deeper into his skin.
This is worse than Lonnie.
Lonnie’s punishments were loud and filled with slamming doors and stinging words, but this is silent and heavy. It feels like the world is trying to swallow him whole.
Is this because of what he called me?
The word fag echoes in his mind, louder than the wet squelching of the woods around him. Lonnie always said he was weak. Lonnie said he wasn't a man because he liked to draw, because he played games, and because he didn't want to hunt. Will had tried. He had run to the shed. He had grabbed the gun. He had loaded the shells with shaking hands, trying to be the man his father demanded him to be.
But he is just a boy.
I just want to see my brother. I want to go home and finish my drawing. I don't want to be a man. I just want to be Will.
He hears it then—a muffled, distorted sound. It’s his mother. She is screaming his name, her voice vibrating through the very air he breathes, yet she feels miles away. She sounds like she is right behind the wall, but when he reaches out, there is only slime.
Mom? Mom, I'm here. Please. I’m right here.
He is so tired. His body feels sick, his skin turning a greyish blue. Then, something moves. A thick, wet tentacle slides over his chin and forces its way past his lips. He tries to gag, to scream, but it shoves down his throat, deep into his chest. He can feel it pulsing, pumping something cold and oily into his stomach.
His vision begins to fail. His eyes roll back, turning a flat, dull white as the vines creep upward. They wrap around his head, covering his ears, sealing him into a tomb of black growth and his own racing thoughts.
Have I sinned? Is that why I’m in hell?
His mind drifts to the basement. To the smell of snacks and the sound of dice hitting the table.
I lied to Mike. I told him I’d see him tomorrow. I told him I’d see him at school.
I’m sorry, Mike. I’m so sorry.
The vines tighten. There is only the sound of his mother’s distant, fading scream and the rhythmic thumping of the thing inside his throat.
His body is frozen against the wall of pulsing veins, suspended in a time that doesn't move. Everything is cold. It’s a deep, bone-deep frost that makes his skin feel like it’s cracking, covered in a layer of something wet and gross that he can’t wipe away.
He can’t open his eyes. He is trapped in the dark, held together by the vines that feel like heavy, suffocating limbs.
I'm so cold. Why is it so cold?
Then, a sensation that makes his blood turn to ice. A clawed hand, sharp and inhuman, scrapes slowly across his cheek. The touch is agonizingly light, tracing the line of his jaw like a predator admiring its catch.
"William..." a voice hisses. It isn't his mother’s. It isn't human. It’s a rasping sound that feels like it’s coming from inside his own head.
No. No, don’t call me that.
Only Lonnie called him William when he was angry. Only people who wanted to hurt him used that name. He wants to scream, to tell the thing to stop, but the thing in his throat keeps him silent—his heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.
Mom? Mom, mom, mom, where are you?
He tries to reach for her in his mind. He pictures the yellow light of the kitchen, the smell of her perfume, the way she tucks his hair behind his ear. He tries to call out to anyone—Jonathan, Mike, Dustin, Lucas—but he is buried under the black growth.
Please, anyone. Please help me. I’m scared. I don't want to die in hell, Mom. I don't want to stay here.
A single tear manages to escape his closed, white eyes, cutting a clean path through the grime on his face. He feels so small. He feels like a mistake that the world is finally throwing away.
I’m sorry for being weak. I’m sorry I couldn't be a man. Just please... don't leave me here alone.
But there is no answer—just the scrape of the claws and the endless, freezing dark.
The sound of heavy footsteps thuds against the wet, rotting ground. Hopper and Joyce are running, their voices raw as they scream his name into the dark.
"Will! Will!"
They reach the center of the library. They stop. In the dim, flickering light, they see him. He is pinned high against the wall, tangled in thick, black vines that look like veins.
Joyce screams, a jagged sound that rips through her throat. She sees his pale skin, the grime, and the way his small body hangs limp. That is my little boy, she thinks, her heart shattering. My baby. My boy.
They run to him. Hopper reaches out and grabs the thick, wet tentacle protruding from Will’s mouth. He grips it tight and pulls. The tube slides out of Will’s throat with a wet, squelching sound and hits the floor. Hopper then pulls at the vines around Will’s chest and arms. The growth snaps and tears away.
Will’s body falls forward. Hopper catches him, his arms wrapping around the boy’s slight frame, and carries him quickly to a clear patch on the floor. He lays Will down flat on his back.
Joyce drops to her knees beside them, her hands shaking as she reaches for Will’s face. His skin is freezing. His eyes are closed.
Hopper leans down. He puts two fingers against the side of Will’s neck, searching for a pulse. He waits. He moves his ear over Will’s mouth, looking at his chest to see if it rises.
Nothing moves. Will’s chest is still.
"He's not breathing," Hopper says, his voice tight.
"Hopper, do something!" Joyce screams. She grabs Hopper’s jacket, shaking him. "Do something!"
Hopper doesn't answer. He kneels over Will. He places the heel of one hand in the center of Will’s chest and locks his other hand over the top of it. He leans his weight forward and pushes down hard.
Thump.
The sound of the compression is heavy in the silent room. Hopper counts under his breath. He pushes again. And again. Will’s small ribs bend under the pressure.
"Come on, kid," Hopper grunts, pushing down with a rhythmic force.
He stops after ten compressions. He looks at Will’s chest. It stays flat.
Hopper immediately goes back to the chest compressions. He pushes down hard, his face sweating despite the cold. Joyce is sobbing, her hands hovering over Will’s feet, watching Hopper’s hands move up and down on her son's chest.
"Come on, Will! Breathe!" Hopper barks, hitting the boy’s chest with the heel of his hand again. He doesn't stop. He keeps pushing, forcing the heart to move, refusing to let the boy stay dead on the floor.
The dark library is silent except for the rhythmic, desperate thud of Hopper’s hands against Will’s ribs. With every shove, with every crack of bone against pavement, Will’s mind is a kaleidoscope of light, spinning backward. He is fading out, but as his heart is forced to beat, the memories of his thirteen years flicker like an old film reel behind his white eyes.
The first hit of Hopper’s palm brings a flash of bright, autumn sun.
Will is five years old. He is sitting alone on the elementary school swings, his small legs dangling, unable to reach the mulch below. He feels small. He feels invisible. The world is too big, and the other kids are too loud. He stares at his dirty sneakers, wishing he could just disappear into the woodchips.
Then, a shadow falls over him.
A boy with messy black hair and a gap-toothed grin sits in the swing next to him. He doesn't ask if the seat is taken. He just kicks his legs, looking at Will with wide, curious eyes.
"I’m Mike," the boy says. He holds out a hand, sticky with something sweet. "Do you want to be Friends?"
Will looks at the hand, then at the boy. He doesn't speak. He just nods, a small, shy movement, and kicks his feet in sync with Mike’s. They swing together, higher and higher, the squeak of the chains the only music they need.
Hopper’s second compression is harder. Will’s body jolts, and the memory shifts to the basement of the Wheeler house.
The room smells like laundry detergent and old carpet. Mike’s mom has just brought down a heavy cardboard box—Dungeons & Dragons. Will stares at the complex maps and the strange, polyhedral dice. He wants to play, but the words feel heavy in his mouth. Sometimes, the world is too much, and his voice gets stuck behind his teeth.
Mike doesn't care. He leans over the table, pointing to a character sheet.
"This is a Cleric," Mike says softly. He isn't frustrated. He’s patient. "Can you say it? Cle-ric."
Will watches Mike’s lips move. He tries to form the shape. "C...le...ric," he whispers.
Mike beams, a look of pure pride on his face. "Exactly! And he’s the wisest one. That’s you, Will. You’re the Cleric." He hands Will a d20. "Now, roll."
The third hit brings the smell of pine needles and damp earth.
He is in the woods with Jonathan. It’s raining, but they don't care. They are building a fortress out of scrap wood and tarps. Jonathan is hammering a nail into a crooked board, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Good job, buddy," Jonathan says, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Pass me those branches."
Will is too happy to sit still. He starts to dance, a clumsy, joyful wiggle in the mud while Jonathan laughs. It’s a deep, warm sound. Will laughs back, his lungs full of clean forest air, feeling completely safe. Here, in Castle Byers, Lonnie can’t find them. Here, he is just a kid with his big brother.
Hopper compresses into Will’s lungs. One. Two.
Will is sitting on Jonathan’s bed. The record player is spinning, and a jagged, electric guitar riff fills the room. It’s loud and messy and wonderful.
"You like it?" Jonathan asks, leaning back against the wall.
Will nods vigorously, his front bunny teeth poking out in a wide, goofy grin. He doesn't know the words, but he feels the beat in his chest. Should I stay or should I go? He feels like he could stay in this room forever.
Hopper’s hands hit again. Thump.
It’s his third birthday. There is a cardboard box in the middle of the living room. It’s shaking. Suddenly, a tiny, golden-brown puppy explodes out of the top, yapping and wagging its tail so hard its whole body wiggles.
The puppy lunges at Will, licking his face with a wet, sandpaper tongue. Will shrieks with laughter, falling backward onto the carpet.
"What are you gonna name him, baby?" Joyce asks, leaning over them with a camera in her hand.
Will grins, his face covered in puppy spit. "Chester," he says firmly. "His name is Chester."
The next compression is so deep it bruises.
Will is five. He is holding a piece of paper, the edges crinkled from his tight grip. He has spent hours drawing a rainbow-colored bird, using every crayon in the box until the tips were stubs. He walks into the kitchen and holds it up for Joyce.
Joyce stops what she’s doing. She gasps, her eyes lighting up. "Oh my god, baby! This looks so good! Did you do this all by yourself?"
She drops to her knees and pulls him into a hug. She kisses the top of his bowl-cut hair, smelling like home and cigarettes and love. Will leans into her, his heart swelling. He made her happy. He made something beautiful.
The final memory is soft.
He is sitting on the floor of the Wheeler kitchen. Nancy, much older and very serious, is sitting behind him. She is carefully parting his bowl-cut hair, pulling the sides into tiny, ridiculous pigtails with bright pink hair ties.
"Don't move, Will," she commands.
Will doesn't mind. He is too busy stuffing his face with Nancy’s leftover Halloween chocolate. Across from him, Mike is sitting at the table, trying to "read" a storybook to him, making up the words as he goes, his voice dramatic and loud. In the corner, Karen Wheeler—very pregnant and glowing—is taking a tray of warm chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.
"Who wants a snack?" she asks, smiling at the boys.
It is perfect. It is warm. It is life.
THUMP.
Hopper’s final, desperate blow hits Will’s sternum.
In that split second, the light in the library shifts. As Will’s heart finally gives a weak, fluttering kick, something happens that no one in the room can see. The boy’s soul—already thinned out by a week of terror and the leaching cold of the vines—doesn't just wake up. It fractures. Inside Will’s mind, a bright white light expands and then breaks into thousands of small, jagged pieces.
The part of Will that loves the smell of Joyce’s peppermint perfume and the feeling of the sun on his face is forced back into his body by Hopper’s sheer will. It latches onto the bone, the blood, and the raw instinct to breathe.
But as the heartbeat starts again, a second shape begins to rise out of Will’s skin. It is a pale, see-through version of his thirteen-year-old self. This shape is a faint, shimmering outline that looks like a shadow made of grey mist, tinged with the blue of a cold winter morning.
The physical Will stays on the floor. His lungs pull in air, and he lets out a violent, wet cough. A spray of black, oily fluid erupts from his throat and hits the floor. His body is solid, heavy, and anchored to the world by the pain in his ribs.
The translucent Will pulls upward until it is completely detached from the physical body. It floats a few inches above the ground, standing silently in the spot where he just died. This version of Will does not breathe. It does not have a pulse. It is a separate, silent copy of the boy—the part of him that felt the cold hand of death and realized Mike Wheeler might never find him. This is the fragment that stayed behind in the dark of 1983.
"Will! Oh, God, Will!" Joyce lunges forward, gathering the shaking, solid body into her lap.
The real Will’s back arches off the floor, his fingers clawing at the dirt as his lungs finally, painfully, drag in the air. His eyes are wide, darting around the red-pulsing dark of the library. He is shivering so hard his teeth click together. He looks at Joyce, but there is a hollowness there, a gap in his gaze that hadn't been there when he rode his bike away from Mike’s house a week ago.
"Mom?" he wheezes. His voice sounds thin, as if it is being broadcast from a long distance.
"I've got you, baby. I've got you," she sobs, pressing her face against his matted hair. She holds the solid boy, feeling the heat of his skin and the frantic beat of his heart.
Hopper sits back on his heels, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin. He looks at the boy—saved, breathing, and alive. He thinks he has done it. He thinks he has pulled him all the way back.
He does not see the translucent boy standing three feet away. Hopper and Joyce begin to move, lifting the physical Will to carry him toward the rift. As they walk, they pass right through the grey mist of the translucent boy's chest. There is no resistance. No warmth.
The see-through Will tries to follow. He takes a step, his feet making no sound on the muck. He reaches out a shimmering hand to grab his mother’s coat, but his fingers pass through the fabric and her skin as if she were made of smoke. He can see the books on the shelves through his own palms.
He stands in the center of the library, frozen, watching them carry his breathing self away. They are taking the breath, the heartbeat, and the body that can feel a mother's touch. But they are leaving the boy.
The light from the rift begins to fade as they move further away. The translucent Will is left alone in the cold, a ghost of a boy who was supposed to be saved, watching his own life walk away without him.
Will Byers is back in the world of the living, but he has left the best parts of himself behind in the dark. The boy in Joyce’s arms is a survivor, but the boy standing in the shadows is the one who remembers how to be happy.
And from this moment on, Will Byers will never truly be alone in his own head again.