Chapter Text
Will pushes the front door open, the familiar scent of Joyce's favorite vanilla candle entering his nostrils. El follows closely behind him, her usual bright smile filling her features. He wonders how she manages to be so optimistic when the last seven hours of her life consisted of judging stares and fake sympathy from her classmates. It's almost unfair in a way, sometimes he wonders why she gets to be happy while he has to see the glass half empty every given moment of every given day. Even on her bad days she still seems to lighten every room she walks into.
Maybe Will is cursed to forever be lost in a prolonged state off distress and despair. To eternally grasp at nirvana, knowing it's miles out of reach.
He slips his shoes off as Jonathan slips through the door, reeking of the plant that acts as his God. His mother calls from across the room, "hi guys! How was school?" Will ignores the question and El's answer as he makes his way to his room. Their conversation leaks through the cracks between the doorframe and door. "that's great, honey! Oh! And you got a letter from Mike."
Will almost rolls his eyes. He imagines her smile widening as she opens the letter and finds the paper filled front to back with Mike recollecting his day, stating how much he misses her, and declaring his ever-lasting love for her. It's exhausting to say the least, hearing about her new weekly letter while he hasn't heard a word from his best friend in months. It's like the phone was destined to ring for his mother and every piece of mail was reserved for Jane.
Not that he could blame Mike. Mike had sort of declared how he felt for Will last year beneath the cinematic rain.
"It's not my fault you don't like girls."
It's really upsetting watching the boy he tried so hard not to love forget about him like it was the easiest thing he'd ever been tasked with. Like it was natural, like everything was supposed to turn out this way in the end. If it was always supposed to end like this, then why is it so difficult for him to move on? Why does he have to love him and not just like him.
He's learned to block out the obnoxious cry of the phone and practically avoids the mailbox. It's pretty easy, in all honesty, considering he stays in his room most of his days, only leaving to use the bathroom, eat dinner, or go to school. Now that his room has a lock, unlike his house in Hawkins which was broken by Lonnie, he feels like he can finally be alone, have his privacy.
For the most part, he's thankful that his mother isn't constantly on his ass about his safety anymore, along with his brother, though he definitely wasn't as overbearing as Joyce. But a piece of him grieves his mother's attentiveness and the way she'd hold him, reassure him. The way his brother kept an eye on him and made an effort to understand him. He even felt bad for pushing El away when she tried to hang out with him.
But there's a certain kind of peace that comes from isolation, something he could only attempt to explain. Around people, it's as if all the energy is sucked from him, like a vacuum, unable to find it in him to speak even a singular word. Like the presence of other people grants an unseen force to stuff cotton down his throat to settle in his chest as a hand wraps around his neck and squeezes intensely with all its unearthly power. The minute he enters his room, the thickness in his chest dissolves and the hand pulls away, instead wrapping him in a warm blanket.
Even the walls of his room are thin though, allowing his thoughts to seep between the cracks because the moment his head hits the pillow, a stubborn nausea infiltrates his stomach. He plunges deep into thought on something, anything. The test he'd gotten a C on, the day the demogorgon swooped in and changed his life, last week when he'd been passive-aggressive with his mother, the last time Mike gazed at him with fondness.
He never really gets much of a say on where his mind travels. All he knows is that his brain is a dangerous place, something he should fear, despite the comfort of its relatability. Every thought will progressively get worse, spiraling into concerning contemplations and brutal revelations until he ends up on the floor with his back pressed against the wall, knees pushing into his chest.
Will turns away from the door and sits on his bed, opening his bag and searching for his godforsaken history homework. He can't bring himself to understand why his teacher believes history is important enough to hand him a printed questionnaire every. Single. Day. He understands the significance of history and that it most certainly should not be repeated in many cases, but is it really necessary for him to prove it by answering questions about Karl Marx?
After finding the paper, he unwillingly moves to his desk, preparing to let Communism steal the next fifteen minutes of his life. However, he seems to be too intrigued by the photograph hanging in front of him, level with his face. Him and the Party smiling eagerly in their costumes for the Halloween of '83. That year, they'd decided to go as their Dungeons and Dragons characters: Dustin as the Bard, Lucas as the Ranger, Mike as the Paladin, and Will as the Cleric. The squad crammed close together for the picture. Lucas wore a lighthearted slack-jawed smile, his top teeth shining from the camera's flash. Dustin had his arms in the air, making a silly face, trying to resist the curling of his lips, despite visibly failing. Mike smiled wide with his right arm thrown over Will's shoulders. Then, there was Will. He smiled like he would for any other picture, his eyes laced with pure innocence and excitement.
The boy feels a tug at his lips as he stares at the photo of him and his friends before they knew pain, or fear, or real evil. Evil used to be Mike presenting the Thessalhydra as they sat around the table in his cluttered basement in anticipation. Now, they understood real evil, real fear, and real pain in their deepest, rawest forms. And worst of all...
It's his fault. Everybody's pain and suffering are Will's fault. If only he skipped out on DND that day, or asked Mike if he could stay the night, or if he had simply called Jonathan and asked him for a ride home, none of this would've happened. The demogorgon would've missed its chance to capture Will and take his innocence with it. He can't remember his last genuine smile or the last time he got to run around with his friends as a carefree kid, zero worries or responsibilities.
The knocking at his door is almost dismissed as he sits, mourning the younger version of himself and the Party. He almost flinches when he hears the pattern thumping against his door again, and he turns, calling from his seat, "yeah?"
"Dinner's ready!" Jane's kind voice calls from outside the door. Will's eyebrows furrow. Why are they eating dinner so early, it's only three o'clock- he cuts off his own thoughts when his eyes lock on his wristwatch, which reads 5:23pm.
And he still hasn't sacrificed fifteen minutes to Karl Marx.
He's taken aback. He knows he sat down with his homework at three-thirty on the dot. Had he really been spaced out for that long?
"I'll be out in a second." He replies, lazily rising from his desk chair, reluctantly walking to his door. He inhales a breath of preparation as he swings it open and exits his safe haven.
His feet pad softly against the stairs. He enters the kitchen, smelling spaghetti instead of the warm, homey vanilla. He looks up from the ground to see Jonathan at the table eating, El plating her food, and Joyce washing a couple dishes. He walks forward, grabbing a plate, then scooping noodles and sauce onto it.
Finally, he sits at the table between his sister and brother, fork in hand and plate in front of him. Joyce speaks up, trying to make conversation, "so guys, are you looking forward to spring break?" His siblings nod and Will gets the gist, nodding along.
"Yes!" Jane exclaims, "I cannot wait for Mike to come and visit us!"
Will almost chokes on a noodle. What.
Mike is visiting? His head shoots up to gauge everybody's reactions. Joyce just smiles while Jonathan is too busy chewing to notice anything wrong. Definitely munchies.
"Mike's visiting?" Will questions, eyes opened a little wider than usual as he stares at his sister.
"Yes, did you not know?" She asks, seemingly confused.
He shakes his head, "no, I didn't. When is he coming?" Will interrogates further.
Jonathan finally pipes in, "Argyle and I are driving you two to the airport to pick him up tomorrow."
"What? I... why didn't I know about this sooner?"
Joyce frowns, "I thought you did know, I assumed he would've told you."
"Me too." El chimes in.
"Hm, he didn't." Will shrugs, despite the dreadful heat spinning in his stomach.
Why wouldn't Mike call? Or at least send a damn letter? Does he not want Will to come with them to pick him up? Does he not want to see Will at all? Why would he hide this from him?
He feels a pang in his chest. Mike must really not like him anymore. Maybe it wasn't all in his head and his suspicions were true. Mike does hate him or have something against him. What did he do wrong? He must've been too annoying. He knew Lucas and Mike were fed up with his pleads to play DND, but Lucas has sent a dozen more letters than him. And Mike is his best friend!
Or so he thought.
Stupid, he thinks to himself, chewing the inside of his cheek instead of the perfectly fine spaghetti on his plate. You truly thought Mike still wanted anything to do with you? He said it himself, "we're not kids anymore," he obviously thinks you're childish. But you couldn't stop yourself from bitching over a stupid game, could you? So fucking selfish.
Fuck, he was thinking too much. In his room this is fine, but now is not the time for this. Usually, it was easy to push everything out of his mind around people. Every once in a while, he'd find his thoughts manifesting into something greater, much more sinister in public. Much to his dismay.
You're so inconsiderate. Did you ever think about how Mike felt during that time when El had literally broken up with him and all you cared about was your stupid game? No, apparently not because this wouldn't have happened if you weren't so self-centered.
Will shoves a forkful of pasta into his mouth, desperately hoping to distract himself from the internal berating.
Why would he want someone like you? You're disgusting. How could you treat your friend like that? No, wonder he hasn't reached out to you, you don't deserve it. Selfish people don't deserve friends.
People like you don't deserve to live.
With that, he realizes he has to flee. Before tears start to fall or - worst case scenario - he has a panic attack. Which honestly just seems pretty dumb to him. Why is he acting like this over no communication? It's stupid, it's immature.
Abruptly, he stands, picking up his half-eaten plate of food. Joyce startles at the chair scraping. So much for wanting to act normal.
"You're done already? Is the food not good? I was worried I overdid it with the onion powder." His mother frowns again.
Great, now your mom's upset. How cruel can you be?
"No, no, it's great, I swear. I'm just not very hungry right now. I'm saving it for later." He quickly walks away from the table after his mom's face brightens again. He pulls tupperware from the cabinet, speedily pouring the leftover pasta into the bowl as his toe steadily beats against the floor. He seals the lid and places his food on the top shelf of the fridge before beelining back to his room, not forgetting to thank her for the delicious food. It did taste good, it really did, but he knows he'll get sick if he eats anymore.
As the door clicks shut behind him, he drops to his knees in front of his nightstand, swiftly yanking the drawer open. His fingers glide through the drawer, pushing past loose papers filled with sketches and doodles, stray graphite pencils, and charcoal that darkens the pads of his fingers as they try to dance around it. His movements slow when he finds it. That plastic teal pencil sharpener. The screw sat loosely in its hole, creating the illusion that all is well, normal.
He knew very little about normalcy though.
He retrieved the weak plastic, easily tugging out the screw, letting the silver metal drop into his left palm. He brings it between the index finger and thumb of his right hand. Slowly, he pushes up his sleeve until it sits in the crook of his elbow. His eyes rest upon the damage of previous sessions. The skin of his forearm was no longer smooth. It was bumpy, filled with scars of many colors, most white, some brown, few a deep purple. Some overlapped others and some were raised, easily noticeable. But some were only scabbed over or just beginning to heal, skin taking place of the wounds.
They started at his wrist and ended an inch or two before his elbow. In hindsight, this is highly concerning and Will knows it. What he also knows is the hurt of yesterday, the hurt of today, and the hurt that is to come over Spring Break. Out of the few options of escapism he has, this was the easiest and most effective. He likes it the best.
The cold point of the blade meets his wrist, and he would flinch if the feeling wasn't so familiar. At this point, cutting might as well be a hobby. It had only gotten easier to hide it, like a teenager who's gotten comfortable hiding cigarettes from his mom, or like how easily it became for Jonathan to hide his intoxication from Joyce. His bottom lip catches between his teeth as he pushes and swipes the sharp metal just beneath the veins of his wrist.
And in comes the sting, the sting that no longer brought him pain. The feeling has become euphoric, if anything, a daily craving that no longer scared him. He feels himself start to smile, as sick as it sounds.
Blood starts to reach the surface in small bubbles, and Will takes it as his cue to move the blade lower. This time he pushes a bit harder and drags it harshly across his arm, feeling the skin tear beneath the honed metal.
Subconsciously, his mind starts to wander to every mistake he's made. To the very reason he'd decided to shed blood tonight. Mike.
He selfishly wishes Mike were here, kneeling front of him. He imagines the concern in Mike's eyes as he wipes the blood away with a spare tissue, pulling the boy into a tight hug. Sometimes he wishes Mike would just up and tell him that he hates him though. That the only reason they stayed friends was to save the world from its untimely demise, or to prevent an awkward atmosphere during group hang outs. It'd make life ten times easier.
Why can't life be easy like that? Everybody just says what they truly mean and feel and the receiving end responds with whatever makes the most sense and both sides of the story move on with their lives.
Obviously, it's highly unrealistic (and Will would prefer to lie about most things going on in his life right now, anyway), but it'd definitely make things a whole lot less complicated.
Will's activities are interrupted by a knock at his door and he habitually shoved his sleeve down. His head snaps to the right, having a stare-down with the wood.
"Will?" It's Jane.
Oh shit. It's Jane.
"Can I come in?" The doorknob starts to twist.
"Wait, wait, wait!" He basically shouts, "I'm- uh... naked..."
He hears a soft oh from the other side.
"Sorry, just... give me a minute."
He doesn't listen for a response, finally looking back down, uncovering his arm to assess the damage.
Eleven gashes.
The first few were shallow, but the rest got progressively deeper. Blood dripped down and off the side of his arm, a small pool resting on the floor in front of him, the sleeve of his shirt now drenched in a beautifully dismal crimson.
"Shit." he mutters before pulling his shirt over his head, setting it on the small pool, allowing his arm to drip on it. He snatches a box of tissues from under the bed, patting and piling them against his arm, so they stick. Eventually, he rustles through his dresser to find a hoodie and sweatpants to change into.
Kicking the tissue box back underneath the bed with the bloodied shirt, he opens the door. "Sorry, I was changing. I didn't mean to yell at you like that."
She flashes an understanding grin, "it is fine. I was just bored. What are you doing?"
"I was just... about to start my history homework." Truthfully, his history homework had been long forgotten, but what else was he supposed to say?
She nods, glancing down at his fidgeting fingers before pursing her lips. She picks up his hand and turns it over, revealing dry blood on the tips of his fingers. "Why are you bleeding? Are you okay?" Her voice is a bit higher, exuding alarm.
Will blinks a couple times, almost at a loss for what to say. There's a pulsing in his ears as his mind races, in search of a lie.
"I'm okay, El. I just pulled a hangnail." The words fall easily from his tongue. He must have mastered chronically lying by now, even if he did have to sulk in the guilt of it afterward. If it wasn't for that, he'd probably feel like a genius.
"Hang-nail?" She considers, lost on the term. Will catches on, "Yeah. A hangnail is a piece of skin that's like, partially torn off around your nail, that some people rip off. Sometimes they just hurt, but sometimes they bleed." He explains to the best of his abilities.
"Okay. Hangnail." Jane repeats, as if testing out its flavor. Will's lips display a doting smile. He enjoys helping her learn new words or explain things she hadn't previously been taught under Dr. Brenner's watchful eye.
"Well, would you to hang out later? After your homework?" Jane wonders.
Who would he be to turn her down for the third time this week? "Sure. Just give me like 20 minutes, okay?"
She nods, a beautiful smile coloring her face.
No wonder Mike loves her. Who wouldn't?
When El turns and walks back to her room, Will closes the door with a small sigh. Tomorrow is going to be rough.