Chapter Text
Misunderstanding is its own kind of beginning.
Sunday nights in Hawkins were always harmless.
But November 6, 1983, arrived quietly. Too quietly for what it carried with it.
The air was cold enough to sting bare hands, the sky already dark by the time dinner plates were cleared. On the outskirts of town, a boy pedaled faster than he should have, his breath fogging in frantic bursts. By morning, Will Byers would be missing, and nothing in Hawkins would ever feel uncomplicated again.
Monday morning came like it always did at Hawkins High, with lockers slamming, fluorescent lights buzzing, alive with rumor and routine, unaware it stood on the edge of something rotten.
The halls smelled like floor cleaner and damp wool sweaters, the kind of smell that settled into your clothes and stayed there all day. Vivianne Clarke noticed it the way she noticed most things, automatically, without thinking, and filed it away with the routine of the day.
She adjusted the strap of her soccer bag on her shoulder as she walked, cleats knocking faintly against the books inside. She strode through the cramped hallways with ease. She was built for motion, with her long legs and broad shoulders that came from years of sports. Her long, dark, curly hair was pulled back the way it always was, out of her face and out of the way.
She sighed, her mind drifting to all she had to look forward to that day: Practice after school. A quiz she hadn’t studied enough for.
And the fact that Jonathan Byers hadn’t shown up yet, which was already unusual.
Viv was never late. Jonathan was never late.
Every day, for as long as she could remember, they always met up in the lot before school. Jonathan was quiet, and kept to himself a lot, but Viv had managed to break through that wall when they were back in elementary school. If he was going to be late, or miss entirely, he’d always called her before.
It was nice. It was Jonathan.
His absence, more than anything, made her slow.
She paused by the trophy case, scanning the hallway. Nancy Wheeler and Barbara Holland sat near the windows, heads bent together, whispering like they always did. Viv noticed it without interest. Nancy was nice enough, but they orbited different worlds. Nancy floated through the center of Hawkins High. Viv preferred the edges.
She turned just as the girls’ bathroom door opened.
Steve Harrington came out like he owned the hallway.
Viv stopped short.
Of course.
He was grinning. That lazy, satisfied grin he wore when he thought he was the king of Hawkins High. Hair perfect, jacket slung over his shoulder like an accessory instead of warmth. He didn’t even notice her at first, too busy basking in whatever moment he’d just had.
Viv stared at him for half a second longer than necessary, annoyance sparking sharp and immediate.
“Wow,” she said. “Bold move.”
Steve blinked, then looked down at her like he was mildly surprised she’d spoken, his hazel eyes meeting her amber ones. “You got something to say, Clarke?”
Viv shifted her weight, leveling a look at him, unimpressed. “Girls’ bathroom before first period. You ever think about branching out? Or is ‘predictable’ kind of your whole thing?”
His brows shot up, “You been waiting outside to critique my life choices?”
She snorted, “Trust me, I have better things to do. I just didn’t realize Hawkins High was lowering its standards.”
He stepped closer, invading her space without invitation. “You jealous?”
Viv laughed, short and humorless, “Of what? Your personality? Or your reputation? Or your lack of either?”
His smile sharpened, defensive now, “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Oh, I know enough.” Her eyes flicked over him, like she could read everything about him in just that look alone. “You date girls you don’t listen to. You talk louder than you think. And you definitely think you’re more charming than you are.”
Steve stared at her, incredulous, “God, you’re stuck-up.”
“And you’re exhausting,” she shot back. “Must be hard, carrying around that ego all day.”
The bell rang, slicing through the tension.
Viv brushed past him without another word, irritation buzzing under her skin. She didn’t look back.
Behind her, Steve scoffed. “Priss,” he muttered.
Viv rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt.
Jonathan still wasn’t in first period.
By lunch, it was obvious something was wrong.
She was just about to sneak out, with every intention of going to his house to find him and make sure he was okay.
She didn’t have to go far.
Viv found him outside, sitting on the low brick wall by the bike racks, camera resting forgotten beside him. His shoulders were hunched, like he was bracing against something invisible.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Jonathan looked up, eyes red-rimmed, “Hey.”
She didn’t ask what was wrong. Not yet. She just sat beside him, close enough that their elbows touched. It was something they’d fallen into naturally over the years: quiet companionship, no pressure to perform.
“Will didn’t come home last night,” Jonathan said eventually.
Oh.
Oh shit.
She swallowed, “What do you need?”
Jonathan hesitated, then exhaled. “I don’t know.”
“My uncle’s got radios,” she said, already thinking through logistics. “Walkies, ham stuff. He’s the AV guy at the middle school - you’ve met him.”
“Mr. Clarke,” Jonathan said faintly.
“Yeah. He won’t say no.” She nudged Jonathan’s shoulder with hers. “And I can help look. If you want.”
Jonathan’s throat bobbed, “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” Viv said. “I want to.”
That was the difference between them and most people at Hawkins High. Viv didn’t flinch from the uncomfortable. She leaned into it.
That afternoon, she saw Steve Harrington again.
He was laughing too loud near his car, Tommy and Carol orbiting him like satellites. Viv ignored them, and waited near the bike rack for Jonathan, until Steve’s voice cut through the air.
“You gonna glare at me all day, Clarke, or is that a one-time thing?”
She straightened slowly, turning to face him, tilting her head, “You talk to everyone like that, or am I special?”
He smirked, “Depends. You always this grumpy?”
“You always this full of yourself?”
Tommy snorted. Steve shot him a look.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” Steve said, irritation creeping into his voice now. “But you don’t get to just—”
“I get to do whatever I want,” Viv cut in coolly. “Same as you.”
They stared at each other, two stubborn lines drawn in opposite directions.
Jonathan appeared at Viv’s side, quiet but solid.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, “Yeah.”
Steve glanced between them, frown deepening. “You hanging out with Byers now?”
Viv’s mouth twitched, “What’s it to you?”
“Just saying,” Steve said. “Didn’t think you were the type.”
She stepped closer, eyes sharp, “You don’t know my type.”
God, if he could only take his head out of his ass for half a second, he would have known that she’d been friends with Jonathan for years. She didn’t even like or care for Steve or who he hung out with, but she still knew who his general circle of friends included.
What an arrogant douche.
She noticed Jonathan shift uncomfortably beside her as she and Steve glared at each other. She decided she no longer wanted to give him anymore of her attention, so Viv nudged Jonathan and said, “C’mon, J. Let’s get out of here.”
She walked off with Jonathan, pulse still racing and blood boiling.
Behind her, Steve Harrington watched them go, jaw tight.
When they arrived at the Byers’ house, Viv noticed how much smaller the space felt. Constricting, almost, with the way fear and anxiety curled in the hallways.
Vivianne sat beside Jonathan on the couch, eyes flicking up to watch Joyce pace. The movement was frantic, almost rhythmic - back and forth, back and forth, as if stopping might make the truth settle in. Cigarette smoke clung to the ceiling, to the curtains, to Viv’s jacket. It burned her eyes, but she didn’t mind. It felt wrong to complain about anything in this house right now.
Joyce had the phone clutched tight in her hand, knuckles white.
“Who is this?” Joyce snapped. “Cynthia? This is Joyce—Joyce, Lonnie’s ex-wife. I need to speak to him. This is an emergency—no, not later, now—”
The line went dead.
Joyce stared at the receiver for half a second before fury surged up and broke free.
“Bitch!”
Viv flinched, not at the word, but at the sound of it tearing out of Joyce’s throat, raw and desperate. She kept her hands steady, the marker in her hand gliding across the missing person poster Jonathan asked for help with.
You have better handwriting, he’d said.
She continued to write the small blurb Jonathan suggested: Have You Seen Me? Will Byers. Aged 12. 4’9”. Brown Hair, Brown Eyes, 73lbs. Last Seen Wearing: Jeans, Blue Plaid Shirt, White T-Shirt, Red Down Vest With Tan Stripe. Carrying Black Canvas Bag. Any Information Call Joyce Byers.
Jonathan looked up from Viv’s writing at his mom's outburst, and spoke quietly, “Mom.”
Joyce whirled, “What?”
“You need to stay calm.”
Joyce laughed once, sharp and humorless, “I am calm.”
She wasn’t. They all knew it.
She slammed the phone back onto the receiver and immediately dialed again. This time it rang longer. Too long. Then—
Hey, you’ve reached Lonnie. I’m not here at the moment but—
Joyce surged forward like she could force her voice through the line.
“Lonnie,” she said, words tumbling over each other now. “Some teenager just hung up on me. Will is missing. I don’t know where he is. I just need you to call me back. Please. Please just call—”
The answering machine beeped.
Joyce slammed the phone down, hands shaking, “Dammit! Dammit!”
Jonathan stood, “Mom.”
“What?”
But he wasn’t looking at her.
Viv followed his gaze to the front window just as blue lights washed across the walls, turning everything cold and unreal.
“Cops,” Jonathan said.
The house quickly filled with uniforms and questions and the sound of boots on old linoleum. Hopper moved through the rooms like he was trying not to spook something fragile, his voice was low, eyes always watching.
Viv stayed close to Jonathan, not hovering but present. Her hand brushing his sleeve when his shoulders locked up, a quiet anchor in a room that felt like it was coming apart. She’d known Jonathan since elementary school, since the year kids started deciding who was worth noticing and who wasn’t. They’d bonded in that quiet way that came from sitting next to each other when no one else wanted to.
She wasn’t going to leave him alone in this.
When Hopper brought out Will’s bike from the back of his cruiser, when Joyce’s voice cracked asking about blood, Viv felt a pressure build behind her ribs. This wasn’t a mystery. It wasn’t an adventure. It was a kid gone missing, and a family unraveling in real time.
When the officers finally stepped outside to coordinate, Joyce collapsed onto the couch like her bones had given out. Jonathan stood there for a moment, fists clenched, then turned to Viv.
“I need to do something,” he said.
She didn’t ask what. She just nodded, “Okay.”
They slipped out into the evening air, the sky already darkening into that deep Indiana blue that felt endless when you looked up too long.
They didn’t go straight to the search for Will.
Instead, Jonathan turned the car toward Hawkins Middle.
Viv glanced at him, surprised, then understanding bloomed.
“My uncle still has the keys,” she said. “He’ll be there.”
Mr. Clarke’s classroom lights were on, the familiar hum of electronics spilling into the hallway when they stepped inside. Radios sat in neat rows on the tables—science fair leftovers, spare equipment, tools meant for teaching kids about waves and signals and possibility.
Mr. Clarke looked up when they entered, concern immediately creasing his face.
“Viv?” he said. “Jonathan? What’s going on?”
Will’s name explained everything.
Mr. Clarke didn’t hesitate. He unlocked the cabinet, began handing over radios two at a time.
“These have decent range,” he said. “If you keep them on channel six, you should—”
“Thank you,” Jonathan said, voice thick.
Mr. Clarke rested a hand briefly on Viv’s shoulder, grounding. “Be careful.”
They were back in the car moments later, radios rattling in the backseat.
“You didn’t have to come,” Jonathan said quietly.
Viv kept her eyes on the road. “Yeah,” she replied. “I did.”
By the time they reached the search area, flashlights dotted the woods like fireflies.
Viv handed out radios, calling out instructions the way she did on the soccer field - clear, calm, no wasted words. Jonathan watched her with something like gratitude or relief. Or both.
She moved through the crowd, confident and steady, looking every bit the opposite of how Jonathan felt. His hands shook, his mind raced, anxiety and fear coursed through his veins like his blood was made of it. He’d never been more grateful for Viv than he did in this moment.
Particularly when she sidled up beside him again, her arm brushing his as they walked side by side, calling Will’s name until it felt carved into their lungs.
At one point, Jonathan stopped and stared at the trees, eyes glassy.
“What if—” he started, then swallowed. “What if he’s scared?”
Viv didn’t sugarcoat it. She also didn’t let him spiral.
“Then we find him,” she said. “And until we don’t, we keep looking.”
He nodded, once.
Hours later, when their voices were hoarse and the woods felt impossibly large, Viv glanced toward the road.
Steve Harrington’s car wasn’t there.
She wasn’t surprised.
She hadn’t expected him to be.
The thought flickered then, unwanted and sharp. Steve Harrington had always been like that. Present when it was easy. Absent when things got messy. They’d known each other too long for her not to see the pattern.
Elementary school assemblies. Middle school hallways. High school bleachers.
He’d laughed once when she’d shoved past him in sixth grade, cleats slung over her shoulder, mud on her jeans. Watch it, Clarke, he’d said, like she was the one in his way. Like she didn’t belong.
She pushed the memory away and shone her flashlight forward.
Jonathan was still searching.
So was she.
And somewhere, in the quiet spaces between now and later, the shape of something bitter and unresolved waited, patient, familiar, and unfinished.