Chapter Text
The car ride home was atrociously awkward. Everyone sat in silence, keeping to themselves - besides Jonathan and Argyle, who were very noticeably intoxicated, babbling complete nonsense to each other.
The moment they entered the house, they were met with Joyce and, for some odd reason, Murray.
They all gather at the table for dinner, Mike and Will on either side of El with Jonathan and Argyle across from them, shoving food into their mouths as if they've never eaten a homecooked meal.
Joyce makes conversation, explaining Murray's random appearance. Will isn't listening though. He can't listen; his mind is clouded with memories of today. Everything he could've done to prevent any of this.
He could've stood up for El and made Angela back off. He could've looked harder, searched deeper for his sister. He could've written Mike months ago, could've told him about the mean girls at school. And Mike would have stood up for her because that's who he is. That's what he does.
Will tries to pull himself into the conversation, he really does, but all he can think about is who's at fault. And it always leads back to him.
Every bad thing that happens always seems to come back to him, his presence, his actions, his wrongdoings. No matter what he does, he can't seem to save the ones he loves the same way they have saved him.
And that's the problem.
All he's become in the past years of his life is a burden. Someone who can't keep himself safe. The only thing he brings to the table is weakness and vulnerability. They even moved away from his hometown just because of him. Everything that happened back in Hawkins was on him. And the guilt eats at him every single day. It's inescapable.
Why does he have to lack in strength? Why can't he be the one to push away the bullies, to stand in the face of danger, to carry everyone's pain on his spine like a backpack. He wants to call it unfair and curse the universe for making him this way, but truth be told, that too is only his fault.
His weakness is the sheer root of every bad thing in his and everybody else's lives. They'd be much better off without him.
Will zones back in once he catches something his mom says.
"Right, that business trip."
Business trip? What telemarketing job requires a business trip?
"Business trip? What business trip?" He prompts.
Joyce eyes Murray for a split second before speaking again, "Oh my gosh, I almost forgot to tell you guys."
"This thing came up for work last minute, so I have to go to a conference tomorrow, in Alaska." She forces a smile as she speaks.
It feels like he's reading a book with how easily he notices how off his mom is acting. Her eyes aren't curling with her smile as nervous, airy laughs leaving her lips.
Will leans forward, "Alaska?"
"Tomorrow?" Mike spits out at the same time.
"Crazy right?" Murray comments, more naturally than his mother.
"That's where they're based, the..." her words trail as she looks to the bearded man again, "Britannica's. Uh, Joan and Brian Britannica."
There's no way. She's definitely full of shit. Why would she lie about going on a business trip? And to Alaska of all the places.
Maybe it's an excuse to get away from Will for once. To finally lay down her motherly duties. He doesn't blame her, how could he? He wishes he could escape himself sometimes too.
Will is about to speak again, but Argyle decides to take the mic, "so do Eskimos still live in igloos? Or do they like, live in the, uh, live in the suburbs now?"
Silences captures the table.
"Who is this?"
And Will is gone again.
She's definitely abandoning him. She deserves to live a life rid of anxiety and fear and trauma. And Will doesn't see a problem with her living her life to the fullest, but he doesn't think he's ready to move on without his mom.
He is aware that this is highly unrealistic. She would never leave him alone. Right? No, of course not. Especially with Jonathan who'd have to bear the weight of bills, food, rent, and taking care of two other human beings, now that Hopper isn't around.
That would be cruel, and his mother is all but cruel. Joyce is an angel, hoisted down straight from the pearly gates. Will doesn't think she has a bad bone in her body. So, why would he think his dear mother would do such a thing? He is the cruel one for believing for even a second that his mom would leave Jonathan with all these responsibilities. She would never just up and leave like that.
You're disgusting. Your mother carries the sweetest soul ever. Truly, what is wrong with you?
"This girl got schmacked in the head today at the roller rink," Will's eyes dart up, sending Argyle a glare.
"Schmacked?"
"Yeah, it was one of those vicious skate attacks." Vicious? Will wants to lean across the table and tell Argyle to shut the fuck up, force him out of the house for even bringing up such a thing.
It's pretty clear that Jane is very much distraught. Her lack of speech says it all. Why the hell would he say that?
Murray raises his brows, "skate attacks?"
"Yeah," Jonathan mumbles, "but it wasn't like an ice skate, it was like a- it was a plastic skate."
"Nah, it was rubber." Argyle corrects.
"Yeah, rubber." Maybe Jonathan could leave with him, just for tonight until he screws his head back on right.
Argyle repeats it again. They are both acting like total idiots.
"Anyway, she looked like she was going to be fine."
"She didn't look fine." Mike butts in, eyes directed at his plate, fork poking at the food beneath it.
Will glares at Mike now too, because he had the audacity to even speak like that. With such spite and attitude. Completely unlike himself. Unlike the Mike that would usually turn to console her, rubbing her shoulder as he assured Jane that Angela did in fact, look fine.
Jane quietly scoffs, dropping her utensils and pushing out of her seat, stomping off to her room.
What is going on tonight?
"What is going on, you guys?" Joyce vocalizes his thoughts.
Will shoves his head into his hand as his own fork dances around the food.
Murray clears his throat, "Okay. I sense tension."
He can see Mike in his peripherals, eating as if nothing had happened. Will slowly turns to face the man, giving him a "no fucking shit?" look, eyes intense, which he ignores.
"So, it's the Risotto, everyone hates the Risotto?" He clicks his tongue.
"Absolutely not!" Jonathan disagrees cluelessly. Read the room, Will wanted to say.
This time, Will allows himself to fall into thought as he picks up his half-eaten plate to discard the food and make his way upstairs and to his room. Despite everything, he can feel the holes burning into his back as he does so.
Will falls back into his bed when the door shuts, sighing contently as he feels the release of tension in his shoulders and back. His back is glued to the bed, suddenly unable to move. At times like this, he wishes he could sink into the mattress and become one with it. Let his skin melt into the cushion and watch in slow motion as his flesh rots away to the bone. And even then, he won't allow his consciousness to seek a higher power or become a more complex form of being. He'll perpetually cling to this very spot, and he won't regret it.
A knock of disturbance creeps at his door causing Will to shoot into a sitting position, his plans ruined. "Come in."
The hinges creak as the door pushes open, revealing Mike's tall, skinny form. He shuts it behind him, then stands in front of it, like he doesn't know how to proceed.
"Oh, hey Mike."
"Hi," he exhales breathlessly into the stillness of the room. "I was just wondering if I could stay in here tonight..?" Mike's almost shaky voice asks.
Woah. Mike wants to stay in here? With him.
Mike seems to go uneasy at his friend's silence, "I was, uh, supposed to sleep in El's room, but I doubt she even wants to look at me right now. And I totally understand if you don't want to after earlier, but I just wanted to ask. It'd just be kind of awkward to sleep on the couch- I don't know." Mike spills what Will thought would be endless word vomit in the form of explanation.
"Mike, calm down," Will chuckles, "of course you can sleep in here."
The other boy is still for a moment, before nodding, "yeah... okay, cool."
Will nods, separating himself from his spot on the bed and walking over to his closet, rummaging through it in search of a comforter and pillow.
Be cool. He thinks, you guys have had sleepovers hundreds of times, what makes this any different?
Will was being quite generous, honestly. Considering the way he felt his heart being ripped out and stomped on earlier. And his passive-aggressiveness towards Jane earlier, which he still had no clue on why he would act that way, especially after he'd blamed him for ruining their day earlier.
"Okay, do you want the bed or the floor?" Will asks, turning back to the now relieved boy admiring a poster on his wall.
"I'm not stealing your bed, Will, I'll take the floor." Mike smiles softly at the boy's kindness.
Will frowns, "are you sure? The floor's not very comfortable." He adds, taking a few steps away from the closet, kicking it shut.
Mike comes closer, "I'm 100%." He takes the comforter and pillow from Will's grip, their fingers brushing in the process. Will feels his chest stutter at the contact.
Time freezes around them as their eyes lock. Mike's irises gleam, as if falling in a trance. Will feels one of Mike's fingers stroke his own before abruptly pulling away. His eyes turn down toward the ground, then to the spot next to Will's bed. He takes two corners of the large comforter and lies it down on the floor, tossing the pillow to the top once finished.
He turns to Will, "see? Perfect."
Mike settles atop the blanket. Luckily, it's big enough for him to wrap around himself even as he lies on it.
"Alright, then." Will steps over his friend's body, climbing into his bed. He ends up on his back, competitively staring at his ceiling. He doesn't know if it would be more awkward if he talks or if he stays silent. He can already feel the heavy air weigh down his chest.
Thankfully, his question is answered when Mike speaks up, "Thanks again. For letting me stay in here- I mean."
Will huffs an airy chuckle, "don't thank me for subjecting you to the hardwood floor."
His cheeks burn upon hearing Mike's weary laugh from the floor, just feet away.
The curl of his lips falter slightly. "And you're like, 1000% sure you don't want the bed?"
"Goodnight, Will." He can practically hear the smile in the other boy's voice.
"Night, Mike." Will turns on his left side, facing the off-white wall.
And Will thinks, just for a second he thinks that maybe it was possible for the two of them to be normal again. For them to be MikeandWill.
With a sharp gasp, Will awakens in a sitting position. His knuckles are white against his pale-yellow bedsheets, fingers gripping tight enough that his nails might break through the soft material.
Will's lungs beg for air, chest rapidly rising and falling. Beads of sweat line his crown and drip down the side of his neck, yet he can't decide whether the burning in his eyes are from the sweat or salty tears. His head darts every which way, quick enough to get whiplash. He catches a glimpse of the boy on his floor and he stops.
Mike's on his front side, forehead resting on the arm beneath it. His back rises, slowly sucking in the oxygen around him, then it falls just as slowly. Peacefully. And after a moment, Will consciously becomes aware that he's calmed down. Sure, his shirt may be drenched and sticky, and his heart may be thumping against his chest and into his ears, but he must've figured out how to breathe again.
He blows out a deliberate breath, letting his face drop into his trembling hands. His wet palms slide to his forehead, fingers curling to yank at his own hair. He feels an unsettling nausea wash over him.
Not right now, please not right now. The universe decides to ignore his pleas, the shiver racking his body amplifying into intense shaking, his sight blurs, and he's choking back painful sobs that aren't afraid to fight the restraint.
You know how to fix this. Internal monologue welcomes itself into the forefront of his mind. There's only one way.
Fuck you, he wants to curse. Will can't do that, not when Mike is visiting. Not when things are already this bad for everyone around him.
His body subconsciously curls into itself, knees pushing into his chest, fingers tugging harder at his hair as he bites down roughly on his lip.
There's always an alternative though.
Will leans over to his nightstand, practically ripping it open. His hand dives into the drawer, in search of that Godforsaken sharpener. He expects a splinter with the speed his hand travels across the wood. Will's fingers come across that cold, delicate plastic, which he grabs speedily, shoving it roughly into his pocket.
He stands up fast. Despite the immediate dizziness, he carries on, quickly but carefully stepping over Mike, opening and shutting his door and migrating to the bathroom.
Flipping on the light switch, the door clicks behind him when it closes. He falls to his knees, instantly pushing his left sleeve to the crook of his elbow. The boy reaches into his pocket, pulling out the pencil sharpener. He fiddles with the screw and watches it clang on the floor in front of him. Will flips the blade into his right palm.
The blade shines against the dim yellow bathroom light. He takes it between his fingers, positioning it between two of his recent scabbing wounds. The sharp blade presses into his skin before he drags it across his arm. He started deeper than usual tonight. Usually, he'd graduate to the sight of white before red.
Will swipes the blade again beneath a different scabbing line. And again.
After the third one, it becomes a blur. Will is barely in touch with his senses. It's as if his brain has entered a whole new realm without realizing and it's completely wiped the memory of what he was previously doing. No sight, no thought, no movement, like he's reached a new state of existence that is inherently nothingness.
Eventually, Will does come back to. And when he does, he's met with his no longer pale white skin. It's covered with a thick deep scarlet, accessorized by wide, narrowly gaping cuts.
In spite of the gore decorating his forearm, Will doesn't feel much of anything in the moment. Even the expected burn usually in his arm is gone. He feels somewhat high, actually. Everything seems far away. Close enough to be semi-normal, far enough to question his current conscious state. It's like he's not really there, like he's a part of the audience to a humorless sitcom.
As he stands, he feels a rush in his head. He turns to the sink, flicking the knob to turn it on. He sticks his arm under the faucet. The water is dyed with his blood. He begins losing himself in its steady stream off his wrist, to the side of the sink, flowing into the drain.
When he blinks, he's back in his room, tucking himself into his blankets. Will pauses. Then he blinks a couple more times. He sits up and looks down the side of his bed. Mike's still asleep in his makeshift bed.
But when did I get here?
He lightly tugs his sleeve up to check his arm, and surely, he's still got rows of fresh wounds, and his arm is still damp. What the hell? Wasn't he in the bathroom seconds ago?
He sits in confusion for a minute before deciding that he's certainly just tired. He had an extremely long, emotionally draining day and he just woke up from a mortifying nightmare. That's probably the issue. Will turns back towards the wall.
Will closes his eyes. He feels himself relax and fall into sleep.
No sooner than he closes his eyes, he awakens to the morning sun shining through his window, burning his skin.
He groans, throwing his arm over his eyes. All he did was blink and suddenly it's morning. He doesn't feel well-rested, he feels like he didn't sleep at all.
All he knows is he's definitely not ready to face the day. And he hopes El is okay.
Will throws his legs off the side of the bed, looking down as he rises. He notices the comforter folded next to the bed; the pillow placed perfectly on top. He grins to himself, knowing Mike's chaotic nature. He wouldn't have cleaned up at home, or at Lucas' or Dustin's (while the claim does make Mike sound inconsiderate, it's only a blanket and pillow). In those cases, he would've shoved the bedding in a corner and eventually forget about it.
He pulls his door open and travels down the stairs. He's met with Jonathan at the front door speaking to someone. Will raises an eyebrow in confusion, taking a few steps closer. Two police officers come into view.
Oh shit.
"You may not be aware of an incident involving Jane at the Rink-O-Mania last night." The man in front says, voice firm though somewhat uninterested.
"But that was an accident." Will exclaims, face twisting in confusion.
"Well, I have a warrant here that says otherwise." The officer holds up a paper Will can only assume is a warrant from afar.
Jonathan scoffs, presenting a wry smile, "a warrant?" He chuckles nervously. "Come on, that's crazy. That doesn't need to happen."
As if on cue, El and Mike start taking cautious steps down the stairs.
This is the worst possible time they could've entered the room. They ignore Will's distinct expression indicating, get out of here, El decides to step into the view of the doorway.
"Hey there," the man interrogates, visually judging her.
Jane's head snaps up, Will's follows.
"Are you Jane Hopper?"
She stares for a moment, her eyes are wide, her mouth just barely agape. She glances at Jonathan, then at Will. Will holds her gaze for a moment as they exchange solemn shock.
Jane slowly turns back and nods even slower. "Okay, I need you to place your hands behind your back."
"You are under arrest."
Will can't hold himself back
"What?"
He began the protest, followed by Jonathan loudly objecting. Mike finally joins in, rushing forward as he yells profanities. The other officer walks forward, sending intimidating glares to the three, shutting them up.
The snap of the cuffs echo in the soundless room, filling Will's stomach with dread.
Arresting El? Was that really the best option? And Angela started the whole thing anyway. She'd been tormenting his sister for months and when El reaches her breaking point Angela becomes the victim. It isn't fair, it isn't right. Why does Angela always have to win?
Will grinds his teeth in noiseless rage, stepping to the side with Mike and Jonathan as the officer reads Jane her Miranda rights.
Jane can't go to jail. She can't. Especially after being held captive and under constant surveillance her entire life. She shouldn't have to be locked away with God knows who. She doesn't deserve to be alone.
He wants to get her out of this, he really does, but he can't help but stay silent. What is he supposed to say? They wouldn't listen if he tried. So, he just stands to the side holding a pitiful look.
His eyes glaze over as he mindlessly watches the cops guide her to the Police car. His mind has blanked, but at the same time it tries to suck him away with its words. Will does his best to stay fully aware of the situation, but he can't.
Mike walking along the side of the car, trying to get through to El is more of a distant memory than a current event.
"Has Mom's flight left yet?" Will asks, trying to stay grounded. He presses at the wounds beneath his sleeves, the dull sting working to bring him back. Jonathan runs back inside, in pursuit of their telephone. Will follows on impulse.
We'll get you back, Jane. He thinks to himself, I promise.