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“You can’t pretend forever, William. They will find out. They will find out, and your only option will be to join me. How do you think they would feel, knowing that you’re taking advantage of their love for you? You’re nothing but a disgusting, perverted creep. Mike will never love you. He’s not a freak like you.”
He squirms against the pole he’s tied up on, but the vines only seem to squeeze around his arms and legs tighter. He gasps as he feels a slimy tendril make its way around his neck, restricting his air flow as hot tears tread down his cheeks.
Freak, creep, fairy, zombie boy-
He awakes in a cold sweat, shooting up from his bed with a gasp and a choked sob. He wipes his face of his tears and reaches for a tissue. When he brings it back down, something dark catches his eye. He expected to see snot, seeing as he was sobbing uncontrollably. He was used to having nightmares of the Upside Down—and although they still had him anxious and unable to fall asleep no matter how tired he was—this particular monologue chosen seemed to have hit a nerve.
Although what he isn’t expecting to see is a slick patch of blood coating the tissue. He’s not prone to nosebleeds, although some kids are, he knows this. There was a boy in his seventh grade math, who was seemingly always rushing to the bathroom with a nosebleed, it was honestly weird. Will wasn’t that type of kid. In fact, he doesn’t recall ever having a nosebleed, besides that one time he fell off of his bike on the way to school and smacked his face on the concrete. As cruel as it sounds, it reminds him of that prissy blonde girl, Angela, after El had smashed her face in with a roller skate.
Ouch.
His face scrunches up in confusion, nightmare temporarily forgotten, as he stands up from his bed. He checks his digital clock, reading five fifty-two before leaving his room, tiptoeing quietly through the hall to the bathroom. He tosses the tissue in the trash, before lifting his head and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
His hair is sweaty and knotted, his cheeks are flushed, eyes glossy with unshed tears while dried ones run down his face in prominent lines. Underneath his nose is smudged with the coppery red liquid, some drying on his upper lip.
He grabs a washcloth from the cabinet underneath the sink and brings it up to the tap, twisting it on and soaking a small section of it with warm water. He brings it up to wipe his dried tear tracks away, the sweat off of his face, and then scrubs away the drying blood above his upper lip.
He throws the piece of fabric in the hamper and leaves the bathroom, padding toward the kitchen. He grabs a glass from the cabinet and holds it underneath the kitchen tap, filling it halfway with water before bringing it to his lips and downing it in one go. He wipes his lips and sets the cup down before making his way back to his room. He brings out a sketchbook and his crayons, unused and collecting dust as he grows farther into his teenage years. He’s becoming more interested in supplies like paint and colored pencils. He flips to a clean page before sketching out the image from his dream.
He uses a dark red for the background. Maroon spores floating in the air, slimy tendrils snaking their way throughout the otherworldly atmosphere and wrapping themselves snugly around grimy objects. Will pays special attention to the pole he found himself tied up on, recreating the mental image of his own body restrained against it.
He dog ears the filled out page and closes the sketchbook. He stands back up and walks to his closet to fish out an outfit. He picks an old band tee and some sweatpants, and he’s grateful that it’s a Saturday. He rummages through his drawer that he’s long since dedicated as his art drawer to pull out some paint brushes and a few colors.
He squeezes some paint onto his stained palette and struggles a little with the second one, being three quarters empty, and returns quietly to the kitchen for some water. Will groans internally, knowing he was already in the kitchen and could have gotten his water for his painting then.
He grabs an old mug and inspects it. It’s a souvenir mug from an amusement park the Byers had visited in their time living in California. He smiles softly before returning to the task at hand.
He walks back to his room and sets the mug down next to his paint palette. He swirls the brush in the water, getting it wet, before dipping it lightly into his paint.
He spends the next few hours painting, thinking, and listening to stuffy guitarists and lyrics on his walkman before he hears a soft knock on his door, followed by the telltale sound of El’s voice.
“Will? Joyce is making breakfast. She says to join us in fifteen minutes.” She announces articulately, an accomplished smile on her face. He smiles warmly at her, proud of her improving English skills. She takes that as a sign that he understands, and smiles again before stepping out, leaving the door open three inches. An old habit, he supposes.
He remembers last summer, a hazy memory of Mike rambling about how Hopper was being too overprotective of El, and that he made her keep the door open three inches. Will found that to be something odd to get upset over, but he listened intently, attempting to be a good friend anyway.
Speaking of Mike.
It’s probably just Will’s tendency to overthink everything, but it feels strangely like Mike’s been avoiding him, and why is what he doesn’t know.
As previously mentioned, he knows—or, he thinks he knows— that this is just overthinking. Mike probably just… didn’t have time for Will anymore. And while yes, it did make the bitterness inside of him grow in Mike’s favor, he understands. Or, he tries to.
He tries to justify the unanswered calls, the unsent letters, tries harder to understand the amount of time his best friend—if that’s what they are anymore— spends to call El, to write her letters, to send her gifts with sweet notes.
Will doesn’t expect that much, as his feelings are, unfortunately for him, unrequited, and the last bullet of that list is most definitely a couple-y thing. He tries to ignore it, though. Mike is happy with El, and vice versa. And Will wants nothing more than happiness for his honorary sister, whom he has grown to understand and love better than anyone.
After a reasonable amount of time has passed since El’s appearance in Will’s bedroom, he collects his things before pulling them away and leaving his room, strolling lightly down the hall toward the kitchen again, only this time, with his family there. He mutters a quick, ‘good morning’ in response to his mother’s kind greeting, before making his way to the coffee machine, beginning to brew a new cup.
He continues to wander around, hovering absentmindedly throughout the downstairs, listening to the morning news through the radio, before his mother’s voice cuts through his thoughts.
“Karen called,” she recalls, speaking pointedly to Will and El. He perks up at that, most of the hope for speaking to Mike diminished, however a small spark remains and grows brighter at the mention of his best friend—former best friend, his brain supplies.
“She did?” He asks incredulously, eyes widening slightly as El’s curiosity peaks in his periphery.
Joyce nods, a grin creeping up her face at her children’s sudden mood booster, silently noting Will’s nervous expression hiding behind his initial hope.
“She says that Mike will be visiting for summer break. Your school schedules line up with Mike’s back at Hawkins High.” She exclaims, excited for her children. El squeals in delight, a rather childish reaction, though no one comments on her tendencies to act as though she were a small child due to her extreme lack of a real childhood.
He smiles at El, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He knows he should be excited, and he is, he really is. But it’s hard to be excited when it’s become painfully obvious that Mike isn’t coming for Will, he’s coming to visit El, and maybe share some small talk with Will.
He feigns enthusiasm the rest of the morning, unable to eat much of his breakfast as the weight of his worries seem to take the place of food, settled deep in his stomach and dissipating his appetite.
Will’s train of thought interrupted by his sister’s voice. “Will, aren’t you hungry?” She whispers from next to him, gesturing to the eggos on his plate. He appreciates her concern—well, at first,— before quickly realizing that she is one hundred percent going to eat them if he doesn’t. Her devotion for the frozen pastries inspire him, honestly. He chuckles quietly, pushing his uneaten food onto El’s plate, standing up with his mug and plate in hand before placing them in the sink.
When El, his mom, and Jonathan are done with their breakfast, they excuse themselves as well, neatly placing their dishes in the sink alongside Will’s. He decides to take it upon himself to wash the dishes, as it isn’t uncommon of him to do so, and the sticky residue of syrup makes him sick enough to push himself to rid it from sight.
He returns to his room not long after, electing to finish up his painting and to do some tidying up around his room. He picks up no more than some clothes and crumpled sketchbook papers, reorganizing his art supplies and considering calling the Wheeler’s. It’s routine, for Will, as hard as the truth may be. Mike doesn’t care about Will’s attempts at long-distance friendship, and that’s okay. He shrugs off the idea, knowing that Mike will simply ask to speak to El if he even picks up.
When Will is done picking up his lightly scattered bedroom, he leaves the room, padding out to the mailbox. He finds scraps of junk mail, his mom’s work mail, and a small stack of letters. Each one is addressed to either Will, El, or Jonathan, though his brother only has one, presumably from Nancy.
Will picks up the stack once again and makes his way to Jonathan’s room, knocking lightly, rolling his eyes at the sound of panicked shuffling and the window opening and closing. He knows, by now, that he’s trying to clear the prosperous air carrying the smell of weed from his room. His foot taps against the floor as he waits for his brother to open the door.
When Jonathan is at the door, opening it for Will, the efforts to hide the smell of weed are almost fruitless, due to the fact that Will can see very clearly that his older brother is high off his ass. His eyes are rimmed red and he looks spooked, like he didn’t expect anyone to knock on his door.
(He lives with three other people, what did Jonathan expect, really?)
He offers a forced smile before handing Jonathan the letter, furrowing his brows before walking off to El’s room. Will takes notice in the fact that she has one more letter than he does, and his nose burns and his eyes sting at the prospect. He takes a deep breath before knocking on her door, before pushing it open slightly due to it not being latched to the doorframe, being left open three inches.
She bounds over to him from where she’s working on a scrapbook page, a new way to express her thoughts, learned from Joyce’s motherly love for El, and with it comes the urge to teach her new things.
He smiles at her encouragingly, showing his fondness at her being able to express herself in new ways.
“Mail,” he mutters spontaneously, watching the way her face lights up and plucks the letters held in his outreaching hand.
“Thanks!” She replies enthusiastically. He nods before returning back to his room with a pile of letters, five envelopes lighter than before. He sets them down on his desk, plopping down into his swivel chair. He rips open the first one carefully, the name on the back of the small paper reading ‘Max’.
Dear, Will
Hey, Will! How’s Cali? Sucks, right? I mean, it sucked when I lived there.
Sorry, that’s probably not the best way to greet your friend through a letter. Anyways, how is California, genuinely? Hawkins hasn’t been much better since you and El left. We miss you, you know? I know you can be insecure sometimes, not that that’s—you know, a bad thing—but I know that sometimes you think we say that we miss you because we miss El, and so its kind of just like ‘hey, we miss you guys!’
Anyways, what I’m getting at is I miss you individually, not just because you’re El’s brother. I mean, I knew you before I knew her, so that wouldn’t make sense, would it?
Lucas is fine. He’s been clingy, in a ‘wants to win me back’ kind of way. I like him, don’t get me wrong, but it’s overwhelming, sometimes. I will admit, I am in the wrong, too. I’ve been pushing them away, all of them, and I really don’t know why. It’s just easier to be alone and to deal with my own shit than to drag them into it. They put me with a social worker, too. I like her, too, but she’s too pushy. I haven’t told her anything much, I don’t trust her.
Dustin is fine, too. There’s this guy, Eddie. You might know him from him and Mike’s letters, but he’s this senior who’s been held back for the past three years, (what the fuck?) and he runs a DND club. He’s in a band, too, and he has this long, curly, black hair that I think is pretty cool. I’ve never talked to him, but I’ve seen him enough.
When Will writes his responding letter, he knows he won’t have the heart to tell her that Mike can’t possibly miss him that much, because he treats Will like he doesn’t exist. Almost as if he forgot he was able to communicate with both him and El, left to choose between the two. Maybe he just doesn’t feel like it, maybe Will’s just too much for him.
Mike—well, Mike is alright, I guess. He’s been a lot more bitchy since you guys moved, (shocking, right?) but I think he misses you a lot, too. I mean, I know he does, but I’m just saying, I think he misses you so much that he just hasn’t been himself.
Obviously, you didn’t know me until after you had gone missing and everything, but Dustin and Lucas—they say he’s been acting the same way he did during that week.
I’m worried for him, you know? But, he says he won’t be able to spend summer break with the Party because he’s going to see you and El. At least there’s that, right? Maybe you can straighten him out for me. Haha.
Love, Max <3
He grins at the signature. One thing he loves about his and Max’s friendship is their ease to express their platonic love for one another. Sometimes, he thinks Max can see right through him, can see that he’s different in the sense that he doesn’t love her like that because he doesn’t love any girl like that, and probably never will. He doesn’t think he would mind if she knew.
He makes his way through the next two letters, hopeful for the last one to read ‘Mike’, although he is proven wrong once again. He fights back tears as he flips to a new page in his notebook and picks up a dull pencil, scribbling pathetic and desperate-sounding sentences onto the baby blue lines along the sheet.