Chapter Text
September 10th, 1992
The plane ride wasn't that long. The airport was just outside of Hawkins so it would only be a half-hour drive but he's nervous.
By the time he loads his bag into the car, his hands are already sweating.
The Squawk isn’t that far, but every mile closer to Hawkins makes his chest feel tighter. The radio is on static, but he doesn't bother changing it. He debates turning it to the squawk, maybe robin is there playing something for everyone.
It’s just a weekend. D&D, takeout, old friends. People who love him. People who asked him to come.
Still, his stomach twists.
As the road guides him to familiar territory, something shifts. It’s subtle at first—like pressure behind his eyes, his right eye to be specific. Will rolls his shoulders, trying to shake it off. He blames the meds. He blames nerves. But the feeling doesn’t fade. It settles in. the closer he gets, cold and quiet and wrong in a way he hasn’t felt in years.
The trees look the same. The sky is clear. Everything should be fine.
It isn’t.
By the time he pulls into the parking lot of the Squawk, his hands are shaking. He turns off the engine and just sits there, staring at the windshield. For a moment, he considers leaving. Driving past. Sending a text about getting sick or stuck or anything that would let him turn around.
Instead, he opens the door.
The building smells like old carpet and grease and something faintly sweet. It hits him all at once, the familiarity of it, and his throat tightens. Laughter echoes from inside, loud and unmistakable.
“Will!”
Dustin is the first one to see him. Of course he is. He barrels across the room like a missile, nearly knocking over a chair in the process, and crashes into Will with a hug that almost lifts him off his feet.
“You made it! I told them you would, I literally told them—”
“Hi, Dustin,” Will laughs, a little breathless, but real.
Lucas follows more calmly, grinning wide as he pulls Will into a quick, solid hug. “Look at you,” he says. “College guy.”
Max waves from where she’s sitting, her smile softer but no less genuine. “Hey, Byers.”
Max is wearing sunglasses. He knows that ever since the coma bright light had affected her. He knows she has a cane. The guilt hit him immediately. He left all his friends when they needed him too. He wasn't the only one suffering.
Steve raises a hand in greeting, already holding a pizza box. “About time,” he says. “We were about to start without you.”
Jonathan is there too, looking relieved in a way that makes Will’s chest ache. He squeezes Will’s shoulder, grounding and familiar. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
Will nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
And he almost believes it.
Everyone is smiling. Everyone is happy to see him. It should be enough.
Then he looks at Mike.
Mike stands near the table, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He doesn’t move forward. He doesn’t smile. He just nods once when their eyes meet, like Will is someone he knows instead of someone he missed.
The cold in Will’s chest sharpens.
“Hey,” Will says anyway.
“Hey,” Mike replies.
That’s it.
No hug. No joke. No awkward rambles. Just a single word, flat and distant.
Will looks away first. Mike hasn't even tried calling him in two whole years. He should be mad at him. For some reason he isn't. Not as he should be. He wants to hug him. Tell him he's sorry he didn't reach out as much and ask him if things can go back to the way they were. He doesn't.
Conversations go back to buzzing, voices overlapping as everyone talks at once. Dustin launches into a long explanation about the campaign he’s been planning, complete with hand gestures and interruptions from Lucas. Steve argues with Max about pizza toppings. Jonathan drifts toward the counter, unpacking bags.
“Okay, but I’m just saying,” Dustin insists, waving a hand, “if you split the party like that, it’s basically asking for a total wipeout.”
Lucas snorts. “No, it’s called strategy. You don’t send everyone into the dungeon at once.”
“That’s not strategy, that’s cowardice.”
“That’s surviving long enough to actually win.”
Steve looks between them. “Are you two arguing about real life or—”
“D&D,” they say at the same time.
Will smiles before he realizes he’s doing it.
“Wow,” he says. “I leave for a few years and nothing changes.”
Dustin grins at him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Lucas shrugs. “We’ve been right about this for, like, ten minutes already.”
“Wrong,” Dustin corrects. “You’ve been wrong for ten minutes.”
Will follows along, smiling when he needs to, nodding at the right moments. The room feels too bright. Too loud. His head starts to ache, a dull pressure that pulses behind his eyes.
He keeps catching Mike in his peripheral vision. standing just a little apart, He's not laughing with the others. Just standing there like he's waiting for someone to talk to him directly. He can see the glances. Every couple minutes Mike looks at him. He doesn't dare look back.
The feeling in his stomach gets worse.
Robin and Nancy are supposed to be on their way, someone mentions casually, Will seizes the opportunity to slip away.
“Hey,” he says, forcing his voice steady. “I’m gonna—uh—use the bathroom real quick.”
No one questions it. No one notices the way his hands shake as he turns away.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind him, and the world tilts.
The nausea hits fast and hard, like a wave he doesn’t have time to brace for. He barely makes it to the sink before he’s gagging, his body folding in on itself. He grips the edge of the counter, knuckles white, as everything comes up in a burning rush.
His eyes water. His throat aches. He coughs, spits, wipes his mouth with shaking hands.
“Great,” he mutters to his reflection.
He looks awful. Pale. Sweat beading at his hairline. His pupils look uneven, the right slightly larger than the left. His expression is distant, like he’s not fully there. He splashes cold water on his face, hoping it will help steady him. It doesn’t.
The room feels colder than it should. The light flickers once, just for a second.
Will freezes. Did he do that?
He brushes it off.
It’s nothing, he tells himself. Old wiring. Bad bulbs. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, the way Mrs. Rodney taught him. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
When he opens his eyes again, the room looks normal.
He straightens, rinses his mouth, and sees himself in the mirror. His bullcut it mostly grown out, he has one small silver hoop earring on his right side, he's wearing a black and grey striped long sleeve shirt with a dark red one on top. He still has his old necklace on. The locket one Carlton gave him before they broke up. He meant to take it off but they were dating for at least a year, I guess he thought they would get back together. That he would forget about the cheating, and the lies and they could be happy again. But deep down Will knew there was only one person that could make him truly happy.
Will takes a step out of the bathroom and almost runs straight into Mike.
“Oh—” Will stumbles back, heart leaping into his throat.
Mike grabs his arm instinctively, steadying him. His hand is warm. Real. Will feels it all the way up his spine.
“Sorry,” Mike says quickly. Then he hesitates. He looks at Will’s face more closely, his brows knitting together. “Are you okay?”
It’s the first full sentence Mike’s said to him all night.
His hand is still touching him, it's all he can think about.
Will swallows. “Yeah,” he lies. “Just–meds. Side effects.”Mike doesn’t let go right away. His grip tightens slightly, like he doesn’t quite trust Will to stay upright on his own.
“You threw up,” he states, not a question.
Will exhales. “Yeah.”
They stand there for a moment, the noise from the other room muffled by the door between them. Mike looks conflicted, like he wants to say something else and doesn’t know how.
“Do you want to sit down?” Mike asks finally.
“I’m okay.” Will says again, softer this time.
Mike studies him for another second, then nods. He drops his hand, but the space where it was feels suddenly cold.
“Okay,” he says. “Just… Let me know if you need anything.”
Will watches him leave, his stomach tight in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.
When Will returns to the group, no one mentions the bathroom. No one asks if he’s okay. Conversation flows around him, easy and familiar. Robin and Nancy arrive a few minutes later, bringing more noise, more laughter, more warmth.
Will tries to let it carry him.
But the feeling doesn’t go away.
As the night settles in, it lingers beneath everything, quiet, patient, like something waiting for him, to screw up. He feels like something is watching him.
It reminds him of Lonnie. He remembers when he was younger he felt like Lonnie was always watching him, waiting for him to say something he didn't like. He remembered once when he was five years old he was with his dad watching Super Friends when he mentioned that he thought that he thought superman looked really cool. Lets just say he never talked about superman in front of his dad again.
Everyone around him starts to really unpack, taking out sleeping bags, changing into more comfy clothes and such. Will didn't. Not yet.
He felt too wrong.
“Are you okay?”
Those words jumped Will out of his own thoughts.
It was Mike. He stood next to him with his hand reached out, inches away from Will. Oh how he desperately wanted Mike to reach out and touch him. His face was filled with concern, genuine concern. Not pity.
“Are you going to throw up again?” Mike asked.
“No, no, I'm fine. Just… got lost in thought I guess.” Will responded looking down. Refusing to make eye contact with the taller boy in front of him.
“Alright… let me know if you need anything. Like anything at all, I'm here.”
“Yea.. okay.”
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Will walked out of the Squawk. The door closing behind him. The parking lot was filled with his friend’s cars, most he recognised and some unfamiliar. Then again it has been two years.
He unlocks his car and opens the trunk, reaching for his bag. That’s when he hears it—a sound just beyond the trees. Not a voice exactly, more like a breath shaped into words. Soft. Familiar. Like someone whispering his name and waiting for him to answer.
Will grips his bag tighter. The air feels heavier, colder, and his feet itch to move even as fear curls in his stomach. He takes one half-step toward the treeline before he realizes what he’s doing.
“Will!”
He flinches as arms wrap around him from behind. Robin presses into his side in a quick, warm hug, already steering him back toward the door. “There you are,” she says brightly. “Nancy was about to start a headcount like we’re on a field trip or something.”
Robin doesn’t notice. She’s already talking, already pulling him inside, and Will lets himself be guided away, telling himself it was just the wind—even as the feeling lingers, cold and patient, waiting.
Waiting for that next second of vulnerability.
Waiting to strike.