Chapter Text
How do you save a magical teenager from the great beyond?
When Hopper leaves for the day, Will stands in the middle of the empty cabin, restless with anxiety. He’s got to figure out a way to create enough static, make enough white noise to make his voice clear when he’s reaching out to her. Maybe if he does everything Jane used to do in order to tap into the void, she’d be able to use it, to find him—to pull him into the dark with her and tell him where she is, how to save her.
Will remembers the summer they were thirteen. All gangly and awkward, clumsily growing into their legs and out of their old clothes. He remembers Jane in her favorite colorful suspenders, trying to find the Mindflayer in the Wheelers’ basement. The party’s quiet whispering, Max dabbing at Jane’s nose with a damp rag. Lucas biting his nails. Mike crying out because I love her and I can’t lose her again!
He shakes his head free of that memory. Before he can refocus on the task at hand, another one bullies its way into Will’s head: I loved her. But I don’t think I was in love with her.
Will takes a deep breath to slow his anxious heart. What was he doing?
Static, right.
Will collects everything he thinks he’ll need and hauls it into Jane’s room. His walkie-talkie, the pastel orange radio. Hop’s radio from the kitchen table. He hauls the old TV set from the living room, too, snaking the cord around the corner and under the door. He arranges everything in a semi-circle on Jane’s bedroom floor and sits cross-legged on her soft pink rug.
The midmorning light from the window is diffused gently through her white lacy curtains. Will remembers them from the evenings he used to spend laying with Jane on her bed talking softly while their parents and Jonathan laughed at something on the TV from the living room. Back when the brothers were living in the Wheelers’ basement—the first time—they’d come over for weekly family dinners. The Byers-Hopper clan, his mom used to call them. She made these curtains. Will embroidered little flowers on the lacy edges. He hid a ladybug in there too, and a little butterfly. After he’d left for the Wheelers that night, Jane had called him on the walkie-talkie when she found them and thanked him profusely.
Now, the gauzy white fabric turns the sunlight dream-like and surreal. Will fiddles with the radios, the TV, flicks them all to a channel that plays static. He takes a deep breath, then another.
Will closes his eyes. He picks up the navy bandana he pilfered from Jane’s closet and ties it around his head with shaky fingers, adjusting the way it falls over the bridge of his nose when it still lets in light.
Finally—darkness. Static. Will’s tempted to dig his fingers into the plush rug to ground himself, before remembering that the whole point of this is sensory deprivation. Inside, he tries to regulate his wild heartbeat.
Then, he reaches out.
Jane, Will thinks as hard as he can, trying to picture the void as she once described it to him. Jane. Are you there? It’s me. Will. I’m here. I’m coming to save you. Are you there?
Nothing. Will concentrates harder, squeezing his eyes shut beneath the makeshift blindfold. He pictures the endless blackness, the rippling of water beneath his feet, the taste of frost in the air. He tries to imagine Jane as he saw her last: the wind whipping the hair out of her low ponytail, her wetsuit torn and bloodied—but that shatters Will’s concentration. How could that Jane, weeping and desolate, dressed as a machine or a superhero, exist in the relative safety of the void?
Will shakes his head. Jane, are you there?
Instead, he reaches for a different memory—Jane in the maw of the Mindflayer, watching with tears in her eyes as their mom hacked off Vecna’s head with an axe. He recalls the devastated relief in the slump of her shoulders, the sick gratitude that it was over, that the man who’d hurt them, tortured them, haunted them for years was finally gone.
But even that memory is too upsetting to be right. Jane, it’s me. It’s Will. Your brother.
Will thinks again of that summer. Of Jane laughing with Max, ice cream on their noses. The deep purple romper she bought with her allowance, patterned like the arcade floor, which still hangs in her closet, too small now to be anything other than a good memory. Their mom could cut it up for her, turn it into a shirt or something, make a scrunchie out of the extra fabric, if Jane would just come back.
Come back. Will reaches for the walkie talkie, clicks the push-to-talk button repeatedly. Static hisses over static.
. __ __ __ / . __ / __ . / .
J-A-N-E.
Her name is Jane. He pictures her not as a superhero, but as a girl. His sister.
__ . __ . / __ __ __ / __ __/ . / __ . . . / . __ / __ . __ . / __ . __
C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K.
He remembers meeting Jane at school for lunch, sitting with her and the other party members at their regular table, walking her to the ESL classroom when it was time to part ways. Mike complaining that they couldn’t be in the same classes, despite how good she was at math and science. Dustin bickering with him, barging in between them and slinging an arm around Jane’s shoulders and making her laugh in that loud, unabashed way she always did, her head thrown back, hair flying.
__ . __ . / __ __ __ / __ __/ . / __ . . . / . __ / __ . __ . / __ . __
C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K.
Jane at the lake, in a new green bathing suit. Lucas teaching her how to backstroke. Hop coming down to check on them around sunset, Jane forcing her dad into the water with them all, Hop splashing her and guffawing, uniform wet up to the knee. Will and Mike had helped Mrs. Wheeler cut up a watermelon and pack it into her cooler, and Jane had loved it, ate thick slices and giggled when the juice dripped down her chin, spat the seeds as far as she could.
__ . __ . / __ __ __ / __ __/ . / __ . . . / . __ / __ . __ . / __ . __
C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K.
Jane carving pumpkins in the fall, layered in Jonathan’s sweaters and their mom’s old flannels. Her first taste of pumpkin pie. Halloween when they dressed up as Luke and Leia, and their mom kissed them both on the cheek and called them her wonder twins. Curling into each other on the Wheelers’ floor, their stomachs aching from too much candy. Jane’s subsequent first cavity, her first visit to the dentist, the way she’d kept a death grip on Will’s hand and demanded he stay with her when she saw the shiny metal tools they were going to use to fill it.
__ . __ . / __ __ __ / __ __/ . / __ . . . / . __ / __ . __ . / __ . __
C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K.
Jane in the winter, snowflakes in her dark hair. Their mom’s wonky knitted hat on her head, frayed blue yarn. Building her first snowman, nailing Mike in the face during their snowball fight, sticking her ice-cold fingers under Will’s shirt later, laughing when he screamed. Holding him tight, even later, when she found him sobbing and hyperventilating in the bathroom, reminded of the Mindflayer, apologizing profusely and kissing his hair. Her palms on his cheeks, pressing their foreheads together, making Will laugh instead of cry when she pouted so hard she looked like a fish. Christmas movies at the Wheelers, sneaking spiked eggnog at the cabin, falling asleep tipsy on the couch.
__ . __ . / __ __ __ / __ __/ . / __ . . . / . __ / __ . __ . / __ . __
C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K.
Jane in the spring, her hair finally long enough to put in braids, sitting impatiently as Will threaded daisies into her locks. Sketching her in charcoal, trying to get the shape of her nose right while she laid on her back in the soft grass reading the latest Wonder Woman comic. The strawberry ice cream that gave her brain freeze. Jane on the swingset at Holly’s school, waiting outside with Will while Mike went in to get his sister, laughing and weightless. The blue ballpoint pen she’d taken to her Converse sneakers to be just like Rockin’ Robin, her heels reading THE BUCK STOMPS HERE!
. __ __ __ / . __ / __ . / .
J-A-N-E.
. __ __ . / . __ . . / . / . __ / . . . / .
P-L-E-A-S-E.
Will tries to summon up any leftover power in him, tries to channel the anger he felt at the Mac-Z, the urge to reclaim, to protect. He feels himself lift his arm, stretching, extending his free hand out to something beyond his reach, groaning with the exertion.
Jane’s face flashes through his mind. Laughing and screeching when Hopper kissed her on the cheek, his beard scratchy on her skin. Nodding off at Max’s hospital bedside. Yelling at Will, genuinely upset, when he ate the last of her Eggos.
__ . __ . / __ __ __ / __ __/ . / __ . . . / . __ / __ . __ . / __ . __
C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K.
Crying into her popcorn while watching A Room With A View. Cringing nervously while Joyce carefully trimmed her split ends, begging her not to cut too much. Panting on the couch, exhausted after training.
__ . __ . / __ __ __ / __ __/ . / __ . . . / . __ / __ . __ . / __ . __
C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K.
Somersaulting through an obstacle course. Laughing in the rain. Hiking up a mountain, a waterfall in the distance—
Wait.
That’s not right.
Will focuses on the image of her surprised face. She looks tired. Her hair is longer than Will remembers. He doesn’t recognize her pink blouse or her denim jacket.
This isn’t a memory. Will is seeing something else.
“Jane,” he whispers. The not-memory of her—the mirage—flinches as though struck. Her eyes are huge.
“Will?” she breathes, like she can’t believe it. She reaches out a hand, as though to touch him. Will’s hand shakes where it’s outstretched, palm up like he’s dragging the power into him, into his blood. His head is throbbing. He groans when the mirage flickers, then strengthens. He swears he can feel Jane’s hand on his face.
“Jane!” he cries, “Jane!”
The mirage gasps. The static builds to a terrible high pitched screech. Somewhere behind him, the bedroom window shatters.
Will cries out in pain, and the mirage disappears. He rips off the blindfold, shuts off the screaming electronics with shaking fingers. All of a sudden, all that’s left is the sound of Will’s heavy breathing, the wind coming in through the broken glass.
Will stares at the space where the mirage just stood in front of him, eyes wide. Something wet drips down his upper lip. When he swipes at it with a fist, his fingers come away red. Blood.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. It worked. It worked.
Jane’s alive. She’s out there. And she can hear him.
*
He can’t tell his parents, or even the party—not yet. Will justifies his choice to keep it a secret by convincing himself it’s for the best, that they don’t deserve the added heartbreak if he’s wrong, if he isn’t able to actually bring her back.
But Will knows he’s lying to himself. The real reason he can’t tell anyone—this is his mistake to fix. He should’ve saved Jane in the first place. This is his wrong to right.
After the mirage disappears, Will tries again, and again, and again. Each time, the feeling of drawing power into his veins gets weaker, his head throbs harder, and his nose gushes more and more blood. Fuel. He needs fuel. But Will doesn’t feel refreshed by the granola bars and orange juice he scarfs down, just tired.
He tries other things, too—moving the walkie-talkie with his mind, crushing an empty Coke can by picturing its destruction. Nothing works. The book he tries to summon doesn’t move an inch. The granola bar doesn’t budge. Jane’s stuffed elephant looks at him ruefully with his button eyes, as though to say, sorry, kid.
Will slumps against Jane’s bed, a small pile of bloodied tissues and empty granola bar wrappers next to him on the floor. There’s a smear of blood on his t-shirt. His head is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his temples.
He’s failed.
It takes Will a minute to realize that the pounding isn’t just coming from inside his own head—someone’s banging on the door. Will’s heart leaps to his throat.
“Uh—one second!” he calls, scrambling to his feet. He snaps off the electronics and looks at the mess he’s made—the mussed rug, the blood. There’s no time to fix everything up right now. He just closes the bedroom door on the disaster and rushes to the front door, wiping his nose on his hand again just to make sure there’s no visible blood.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Will says, breathless, to the person who’s rudely pounding the door down. When he finally flicks the lock and yanks it open, he ends up face to face with—“Mike.”
“Will,” says Mike. His face is pinched in that familiar worried look he always gets when he thinks there’s something wrong with Will, which, all things considered, is fairly often. “I’ve been looking for you all day. Where’ve you been?”
Despite how tense the moment is, Will can’t help but flush a little at seeing him here, his bike discarded in the tall grass, his hair messy and stuck to his temples with sweat. The sun is beginning to set, and it’s making Mike look all soft and heroic in the rose gold light, a real prince charming in his dark jeans and goofy Keith Haring t-shirt. Will’s stomach flips. He can’t help it. It’s Mike. He’s always had a soft spot for those big brown eyes and wild hair.
“I thought we were going to meet at my house today? Everyone’s there right now. Dustin brought over these movies… Hey, are you okay? You look really pale. Are you sick? Have you eaten anything?”
“Mike,” Will breathes. What else can he even say? He can’t tell anyone the truth, but he’s never been able to keep more than one secret from Mike at a time. He shouldn’t, but—it’s Mike.
“Hey,” Mike says suddenly, his voice going impossibly softer, “What—What happened to your hand?”
Mike’s long fingers close around Will’s, and he tilts it to see the smear of blood left on the skin there. His eyes go even wider at that, the worry deepening the frown line between his brows. Will splutters.
“It’s—I’m—It’s fine, it’s not what you think—”
“Oh my god, your nose—” And Mike’s free hand is on his face, tilting him backwards to inspect him, and Will knows the blush on his face must be unmistakable.
“Mike, Mike,” he protests, gently dislodging his hands, “I’m okay. I’m just… It’s hard to explain.”
“What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
“No, no, just—Come inside.” Will steps aside to let Mike in, closes the door on the beautiful Hawkins evening behind them. Mike’s standing in the middle of the living room awkwardly, all gangly limbs and giant feet and big hair he doesn’t know what to do with. Will notices him notice the TV cord guided under the door to Jane’s room.
“Wow, I haven’t been back here since… Wow. Are you having a movie marathon by yourself?”
“Not quite.” Will gently pushes past him towards the bedroom.
“Oh wow, do I get to see your room finally? I haven’t seen it since you moved in, have you redecorated? How have you…” Will closes the door behind Mike, who stands there with his mouth slightly open like a fish. He scrambles to shove his discarded tissues and granola bar wrappers in the trash, suddenly embarrassed.
When he turns to Mike, he’s staring, that worried tilt to his eyebrows again—but not at Will. He’s looking around the room, taking it in. Will sees his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He realized, suddenly, how hard this must be for him, seeing all of Jane’s things again.
“I’m sorry—I should’ve warned you.”
“About what?”
Will shrugs. “I didn’t… I kept her things.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Will… I didn’t…”
“I didn’t want to get rid of anything. Just in case…”
“Will.” Mike looks utterly heartbroken. Will can’t bear to look him in the eye.
“But—That’s not what this is about. Mike. I… I saw her.”
“What are you talking about?” Will gestures to the radios and TV and walkie on the rug, kneels there to start fiddling with the buttons to find the staticky channels again.
“Jane. The first time was the other night—She was speaking to me through the lights, in Morse code! It was just like when I went missing, the way I spoke to my mom—And I tried to do the thing, you know? With the static? And I swear, Mike, I saw her. Her hair was different, and she was wearing different clothes, but it was her. She said my name. Mike.” Will feels breathless, wild. “She’s out there. She’s alive. Jane is alive.”
“Will…” Mike’s eyes are huge and glassy. He sinks to his knees next to Will, hands shaking where they reach out to still his, to turn off the static. Will knows what he’s going to say before he says it.
“Mike, I’m not going crazy. I promise. I just—”
“Okay, okay, okay, Will.” His voice is no more than a breath. “I believe you. I just…” His face twists. “I’m just worried about you.”
“Me? Mike—are you listening to me? Jane is out there. It’s up to us again.”
“I hear you, I do. I’m just…” Mike glances at the bed—still perfectly made, the wrinkles from Will’s disruption the night before carefully smoothed out, the stuffed animals replaced in their rightful order. “You haven’t been coming around as much lately. And this place looks… I don’t know, Will. Hopper told me… He told me that when he lost… Sara… He used to see her everywhere. That his grief made him believe in things that… that weren’t true, just because he wanted her back so badly.” Mike’s hand is warm and gentle when he reaches out the smooth down a wild lock of Will’s hair. “Will, I—I miss you.”
Will’s heart sinks. “You don’t believe me.”
“No, no—that’s not it.”
“Then what am I supposed to think, Mike?”
Mike blinks at him, lashes fluttering. It’s actually a little unfair how like a puppy he looks, Will thinks, how earnest and kind and devoted. It sort of makes him feel like a Gothic heroine—crazy and prone to swooning, Mike the devoted but doomed husband.
Will shakes his head sharply as though to dislodge the thoughts from his head.
“God, maybe I am going crazy.”
“Will—”
“Maybe you’re right. I sound insane.”
“Will, I don’t think you’re insane! I just think—” Mike sighs. “Listen. Come to my house. I’ll kick everyone else out, let’s just spend one evening together, just you and me. Let me make sure you eat and sleep. And then in the morning… You can try reaching Jane again.”
“You want me to prove it to you?”
“Yes!” Mike says, voice desperate, “I want you to try again when you’re fed and rested and for once not delirious with grief!”
Will flinches like he’s just been slapped in the face. Mike cringed at himself, presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets.
“I’m sorry. That made it sound—I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Mike…” Will sighs. “It’s okay. If I were you, I don’t know if I’d believe me, either.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Mike says, looking back up at Will, “I just want you to be okay.”
And, well, there’s nothing Will can really say to that.
“Okay,” he says, rubbing at his aching forehead, “Okay. I’ll show you tomorrow. I’m beat, anyways. I gotta…”
“Recharge your battery?”
“Yeah,” Will says, cracking a smile. “Jane hated when people said that about her.”
“I remember.” They sit in companionable silence for a long moment.
As frazzled as Will is, as distraught as he feels, he can’t help but look forward to spending some time alone with Mike. Mike’s always been his anchor amidst the storm. He’s the first person Will called for when he kept slipping into the Mindflayer’s possession as a kid, the name that came back to him easiest when his memories were scrambled. There’s a whole lot of himself Will couldn’t be without Mike.
The heaviness in his head and limbs makes Will brave. He slumps a little against Jane’s bed and leans over so his head is pressed against Mike’s arm.
Mike immediately shifts to wrap his arm around Will and pull him in close. He smells like sweat and lavender laundry detergent and the cologne his dad got him for his sixteenth birthday. He smells like summer and boy and childhood.
Like home.
“Hey,” Mike whispers into his hair, “Crazy together, remember?” Will heart lurches at that. Of course he remembers. How could he ever forget?
“Yeah,” he breathes, “Crazy together.”