Chapter Text
Day 4/7 of Chance’s training week: PART 2/2
The Mercedes-Benz pulled to a stop at the curb, the engine cutting out with a soft, mechanical sigh. The street was quiet, but the Alphas didn’t move yet. The Day 4 training was almost over, and now the real mission began: getting the precious jewel safely inside its sanctuary.
Boris was the first to react. He didn’t look at Will; he looked at the shadows. Being the silent pack leader he is, his eyes scanned every parked car, every dark porch, the line of trees across the street, and even the blind spots that looked like a good hideout. He was checking the perimeter, his instincts humming like a live wire, searching for any lingering “eyes"—whether it was a neighbor, a stranger, or the Vulture himself. Only when he was satisfied that the coast was clear did he give a sharp, nearly invisible nod to the others.
In the passenger seat, Mike acted as their steady anchor. He reached into the glove compartment, his movements precise and clinical. He pulled out the scent-blockers—small, dark vials of high-grade neutralizing spray. He meticulously prepared one for each of them, knowing that their Alphas’ scent was currently screaming after a day of being near Will. They had to be invisible. They knew they had to leave no trace that they had ever been there if they wanted to bond with Will more.
In the back, Richie was a precise sensor. He wasn’t just looking at Will; he was calculating everything. He analyzed the way Will’s neck was bent against the “Solnyshko" pillow, his back rising and falling, the way his fingers were tangled in the charcoal blanket, and the slight tension in his brow.
"His breathing is shallow, Big B,” Richie whispered, scared he might startle the sleeping beauty beside him. “If we move him now, we have to do it in one shift so he doesn’t startle."
Richie gently adjusted the edge of the cashmere sweater Mike had given Will earlier, making sure the wool didn’t bunch up and cause a "pressure point” against Will’s skin. Every move was about Will’s comfort, ensuring the Omega stayed in that safe, scent-drunk bubble they had built for him.
"Blockers on, everyone,” Mike commanded softly, handing the vials out.
Richie stared at the small, dark vial in his palm, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. He hated these kinds of things. To Mike, they were a tactical necessity; to Boris, they were a shield. But to Richie? The “Trashmouth” who never knew when to stop talking or how to hide his presence from the public—the spray felt like a muzzle.
It felt like he was “silencing” himself, erasing the very thing that made him, just to play the part of a ghost. He looked at Will, then back at the vial, a bitter taste in his mouth. He was still contemplating whether to put it on or just wait outside at the car, wallowing himself with jealousy and envy as the other two got to go inside. He didn’t want to be a ghost to Will. He wanted to be loud, real, and there.
But Mike’s steady gaze didn’t waver, he knew how Richie hated to be “silent.” But they had no choice, they had to hide their presence or else, at least for this day. “Richie. Now.”
With a sharp, frustrated exhale, Richie clicked the nozzle.
The hissing spray filled the car, killing the heavy musk of Cedarwood and Peppermint. It felt cold and clinical, stripping away the heat of their emotions. They were effectively "ghosts” now—invisible, scentless, and to Richie, it was yet painfully quiet.
Boris stepped out first, his large frame shielding the open door as he reached in for Will. There was no hesitation, no “lover boy" fumbling–just the practiced strength of a man who had carried Will through the woods a lifetime ago. He slid one arm under Will’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting him in a single, fluid motion—making the blanket slide over him.
He paused for a moment and looked at the sleeping Will, inhaling the sweet scent released by the Omega as if it were a painkiller for his aching heart.
Mike and Richie flanked him like a tactical detail as they moved up the driveway. They weren’t just walking; they were a wall of muscle and intent, escorting Will back to his own territory. As Will’s head slumped against Boris’s shoulder, he didn’t wake up to cause a scene. He just let out a tiny, soft sigh, his small hand clutching at Boris’s lapel. He didn’t need to know the logistics of the perimeter checks or the scent-blockers. He just needed to feel the steady, unmoving path they were clearing for him.
When they reached the front porch, nervousness suddenly crept up their necks. Their fears, hidden for years in the back of their minds, resurfaced as if they were always meant to reappear here, with a perfect timing that is. Suddenly, they weren’t just men; they returned to their younger selves again—with undeniably muddy shoes, different colors of striped socks, curly haircuts, and the matching trauma of an excruciating past.
The heavy atmosphere, a cousin breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Is it really okay for us to even get inside?” Mike said, gulping very loudly while looking at the tattered wooden door in front them.
“Well, M-Mikey. It would be fucked up if we let Princess go on his own like assholes.” Richie said, with a heavy sigh, trying to calm himself down, scared that they may enter a forbidden place that selected people can only go inside.
Unlike the two who were bickering back-and-forth, Boris held Will tighter in his arms, gesturing that he was protecting him from an unknown entity that might be inside the house. With a steady heart and soul that is currently preparing for what’s inside, he leaned down and brushes his nose against Will’s, hoping to gently wake him the way he used to.
“Rodnaya,” Boris whispered, the Russian endearment slipping out like a secret. “Will… wake up for a moment, little sun.”
Will whimpers from the sudden vibration against his face, his eyes slightly opened and even nuzzled deeper into the crook of Boris’s neck, his voice a tiny, sleepy thread. “Mm… Boris?”
“Da, it’s me,” Boris murmured, uneasiness in his voice lingered. “We are at your door, Will. Is anyone home? Parents? Siblings?”
Will’s head shook, his hazel eyes bleary and unfocused. He looked at the door, then back at the three Alphas standing like shadows on his porch. “No…no one,” he breathed, a small, sad smile touching his lips. “Late shifts. It’s just…me tonight…”
The heavy tension left their shoulders relieved. The other two had exhaled without any worry and returned to their relaxed selves.
“The keys, Will,” Mike stepped closer, his voice the steady anchor again, through his eyes were wide with a lingering fear of the house itself. “Where are they?"
"Satchel…” Will mumbled, his eyes already drifting shut again. “In the… pocket.”
Fortunately, the bag was still attached to Will’s shoulders. Richie reached out, his fingers nimble and careful as he slipped them into the hidden pocket of the satchel with a silver charm. He pulled out a keychain with a small, chipped “W" charm. He held it for a moment, his thumb tracing the letter. This was it. They’re finally about to unlock Will’s world.
Richie's hand hovered over the lock, cold sweat dripping at his neck down to his spine for a split second. The weight of the moment was suffocating–the realization that they were about to step into a life they have been exiled from for a decade, and his very own hands are the first to make a big step, their sanity depends on him. He felt Mike’s tense energy beside him and saw the white-knuckle grip Boris had on Will. The funny thing is, this does NOT help at all.
He needed a distraction. NOW.
"Right then," Richie whispered, his voice suddenly shifting into a high-pitched, exaggerated British accent. He squinted at the keyhole as if he were holding a magnifying glass. "Elementary, my dear Dr. Mike-son. The suspect has left the premises, the door is bolted, and we are about to enter the lion's den with nothing but a chipped 'W' and our dashing good looks. Stand back, lads, while Inspector Trashmouth cracketh the case of the Forbidden Foyer."
Mike let out a huff that was halfway between a laugh and a groan. "Richie, shut up."
"I shall not be silenced by the help!" Richie chirped, though his hand was still trembling as he slid the key into the lock. "Observe the technique. The grace. The sheer investigative brilliance."
He turned the key. The click was loud, final, and terrifying.
As the door swung open, they weren’t met with the usual cheap cigar from Will’s biological dad, pheromones that are too much enough to suffocate everyone inside without proper ventilation. Instead, a wave of nostalgic warmth hit them—the smell of old papers, a mix of pheromones that a family would leave before heading out with a hint of an overprotective Alpha Dad scent.
It was the smell and sight of the life they were forced to leave behind ten years ago.
Boris stepped inside first. In the hallway, they could see the kitchen fridge covered in artworks by Jane and Will, and photos captured by Jonathan. The living room furniture is different, yet still in the same spots. It felt so foreign yet so familiar.
Mike gulped, his heart aching too much from the familiar sight, his hands trembling while clutching his pants to keep from touching anything. Richie looked around, smiling because nothing had changed that much; it had only just become more domestic. Boris hugged Will tighter even more, his steady heart wasn’t so steady anymore, transitioning to a more loud and frantic rhythm, hoping that Will won’t wake up from the sudden heavy heartbeats.
It was home. Oops wait, correction. It was their home.
—
As they reached before the door to Will’s bedroom, the cousins exchanged a look—a rare moment of shared vulnerability. The tactical masks were gone. The scent-blockers were working, but with their internal Alphas screaming with a mixture of terror and a decade’s worth of longing, it was hard for them to restrain themselves. This is finally it. This is it. This is the “Sanctuary of the Sun.”
Richie reached for the knob. His hand, usually so steady when calculating a perimeter or a target, shook. He didn’t turn it. Instead, he stopped, his knuckles hovering over the wood. He looked at Mike and Boris, receiving a slow, solemn nod from each.
Richie knocked three times—a specific, rhythmic tapping that echoed in the quiet house. He leaned his forehead against the door and whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of the memory:
“Radagast…”
The name felt like a spell. Then, the roll call began.
“Um,” Boris whispered, eyes closing as he claimed his title. The Mind.
“Serdtse,” Mike rumbled, the word vibrating in his chest. The Heart.
“Iskra,” Richie finished, his breath hitching. The Spark.
“...Over.”
During their childhood days, “Wiw” (the three apples tall version!) made a pact with the cousins (also three-four apples tall) that before entering whether it was at Will’s house or “Castle Byers” they had to recite the password then whisper their nicknames with serious faces while Will giggled on the other side. It was corny honestly, but for Will? They would do everything for him. He was their beloved lifeline.
During their childhood, “Wiw” had made a pact with the cousins: before entering his room or Castle Byers, they had to recite the password and whisper their nicknames. Honestly, it was really corny at the age of 12-15, but for Will? they would do everything for him. He was their beloved lifeline, and they sure do share them with each other.
Now, they were saying them to a door that they’re currently terrified to open, begging for the past to still be there.
The silence that followed was heavy. Richie finally turned the knob. The door creaked open, and they stopped into the room they had dreamed about every night in Russia.
The scent hit them first—not just vanilla and graphite, but the “Will" they had remembered.
Boris first stepped in, still carrying the sleeping boy who was now the Dusha that held them unconsciously stable. He laid Will onto the bed with the grace of a man handling a holy relic.
As Will settled into the pillows, his skirt disheveled up to his knees, his hand landed on his throat, clutching the locket as if it was lost. It was a sight for the cousins. Boris gently sits down at the edge, and pets Will’s golden-brown hair, feeling its curls, eyes full of endearment. Richie took the walkie-talkie beside Will, sat down, his back on the bedframe, and checked to see if the device was still working and hadn’t malfunctioned. While Mike looks around, reminiscing from the sight, his memories flooding in–laughter on Will’s bed while they were talking about his artworks, the floors that were once filled with scratch papers to plan their D&D campaigns which filled laughter after.
Mike was indeed the Heart, Boris being the Mind, Richie being the Spark, and Will being the Soul. They finally reunited, they were finally complete.
Almost.
— (Time goes by, the cousins also rested. Richie–still sitting at the floor, Mike being at the other side of the bed while looking outside the window, and Boris continued to pet Will’s head)
“We can’t stay for long… Mrs. Byers will be here anytime soon.” Mike said, his eyes on a lookout, checking to see if there was a family member about to go inside the house.
“Yeah, Big B. Besides, this walkie-talkie seems fine. No problems and shit here,” Richie added, his eyes focused on the device, hands fixing something inside. He then places it beside Will, where he originally found it to make sure he wasn’t caught doing something with the walkie-talkie.
Both paused and realized something. Boris wasn’t responding immediately, they looked at him and automatically knew that he was thinking, occupied about something. He kept staring directly at Will, his hands still petting the sleeping boy.
“Let’s go, before they return,” Boris said, with a commanding yet endearing tone, worried that something might happen if they stay too long.
They each had their own fill of Will—Boris petted Will’s hair one last time before releasing his hand and whispered sweet affection in his ears while caressing the locket he was clutching before. Mike carefully pulled Will’s skirt down and carefully tucking him with his blanket so he wouldn't be cold. Will doesn’t like it cold, and they knew that. He then put his ears right on Will’s chest, listening to the sleeping boy’s breathing as if it was a painkiller for his instincts that keeps on fighting him everyday. On the other hand, Richie likes to play with Will’s knuckles—a sensitive part of Will that makes him let out a cute sound which only they knew, and made their foreheads touch each other, something intimate that they only did with him in the past.
“Goodnight, Princess”—Richie whispered;
“Goodnight, Solynshko”—Mike said;
“Goodnight, Rodnaya”—Boris added.
They said with the most soft and endearing voice they had. The head-over-heels loverboys of Will suddenly showing themselves when he’s still enjoying his dreamland.
Each had their own different nicknames for their beloved Omega, individually had their own meanings behind—a nickname so intimate, it makes their hearts flutter.
Luckily for them, Will didn’t wake. Instead, a sleepy, lopsided smile pulled at his lips. His pheromones shifted, releasing a wave of satisfied, honey-sweet vanilla that acknowledged their presence without him knowing. Their actions may not be that visible to one’s naked eye, but Will was different. He can feel it, he can see it.
“Goodnight…guys…” Will mumbling, his voice thick with a subconscious happiness. Their Dusha was acknowledging them.
BA-THUMP. BA-THUMP. BA-THUMP. The Alphas’ heart hammered in unison, a frantic, overlapping rhythm triggered by that one mumble. They were completely, pathetically in love. LIKE STUPIDLY IN LOVE. It was their fate—destined to be transformed from cold and suppressed machines into something colorful and breathless by this one boy.
Richie stood up, dusting off his maroon trousers and trying to regain his "cool" sensor persona, though his ears were still bright red. He looked at Mike and Boris, who were still staring at Will like he was a miracle.
"Alright, wrap it up, Romeo and... other Romeo," Richie whispered, his trademark smirk returning to hide the wobble in his voice. "If we stay any longer, you both are just going to be all sappy and shit until we even get inside the car. Let's move before I fucking start crying and ruin my expensive eyeliner."
Mike rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders finally broke. "Shut up, Richie."
"I'm serious! My heart is doing cardio it didn't sign up for," Richie joked, gesturing toward the door. "Hello? Vanish like ghosts, remember? Before Mrs. Byers catches us, we have to explain why three Russian tanks are standing in her son's bedroom at midnight."
They turned toward the door, but the movement was sluggish, heavy with a reluctance that made their limbs feel like lead.
Mike stopped first, his hand hovering over the doorframe. He looked back at the small, moonlit room, his jaw tight. We’re already here, his internal Alpha snarled. After ten years of freezing in Russia, they were finally in the warmth of the Sun—so why were they walking back out into the cold? Why would we leave the very reason why we came back to this dipshit, gloomy town? It felt like a betrayal of their own instincts.
Boris was worse. He didn't even turn his body fully away from the bed nor even stopped thinking about Will’s smile earlier. He stood like a silent sentinel, his eyes fixed on the rise and fall of Will's chest. The "Mission" told him to leave, but his soul told him to lock the door and never let anyone in again. They were finally home. Leaving felt like losing him all over again. The thought pained him too much.
The humor earlier was the only thing shielding them from the physical ache of leaving, but as they stood there, the silence of the house seemed to beg them to stay.
But they didn't even make it two steps.
A sharp, jagged gasp cut through the air—a sound so loud and pained it made them flinch as one.
They spun around, shocked at what they saw. The "Goodnight" smile was gone. Will was sitting upright, his eyes wide and glistening with tears that were already streaming down his soft-pink, flushed cheeks. He looked terrified, his small frame shaking under the weight of a nightmare that had caught him the moment their warmth pulled away.
“Please… please don’t leave me,” Will sobbed, his voice cracking with a desperate hiccup. “I’m scared… please don’t go back to the dark.”
The whiplash was devastating. One second, he was their happy “Dusha,” having fun at the museum and even cuddling Boris as he was carried and laid down by him, and the next, he was a broken child begging for mercy. The memory of Will in their minds, the first time they get to be beside Will after so long, when he got beaten up by his fucking boyfriend at the disgusting shed and they all had to tend to him. The memory rushed in. The Alphas reacted instantly. They knew the risk–they knew that releasing their pheromones now would stain the room and alert the whole house that Alphas had been there, that strangers had been there.
But as Will’s breathing turned into a panicked wheeze, his pheromones going all haywire, the "tactical" mission died.
Omega is not okay. Omega must be comforted. Omega needs us. Their Alpha within them internally screams, heads buzzing.
"Screw the blockers," Boris growled, dropping his guard entirely.
They lunged back to the bed. Richie and Boris caught his shoulders, while Mike cupped Will’s face, his thumbs desperately chasing the tears. They let their pheromones flood the room—a massive, grounding wave of Cedarwood, Peppermint, and Smoke—trying to drown out the scent of Will’s fear.
They knew it was the wrong decision to do, they knew it would become too dangerous once they alerted the “pack leader" of this house that Alphas were there, that there were strangers inside his very own territory. However, Will’s well being was their top priority. They didn’t care whether this would be their “last” visit at the Byhopper residence. They didn’t care it would risk all they’ve planned during the years where they had to distance themselves from Will. As long as they’re sure that Will was safe and cared for, they won’t stop comforting him. Was that so wrong for them to think about their Beloved dam’s well being? Their very own Omega?
“It’s okay, Will. We’re here. We’ve got you.”
“Princess, breathe. Look at me, it’s just us.”
“Rodnaya, relax. You aren't alone. You'll never be alone again.”
Will wasn’t listening nor seeing what's in front of him, he can’t hear anything but his own loud heartbeat. He was still crying, his breathing worsened. He wasn’t listening nor acknowledging their touch, it wasn’t processing inside him.
Yet somehow they know that, they always know that.
With a final, desperate hesitation, they leaned, pressing soft, grounding kisses to the moles on his face-the tiny "stars" of his skin—whispering every secret promise they had kept for ten long years.
It took thirty agonizing minutes for the storm to break. The Alphas worked in a rhythmic, desperate synergy to pull him back. Eventually, the frantic weeping faded into soft, exhausted hitches, and Will finally slumped back into the pillows, his body gone limp from the emotional drain.
But the fear of the nightmare returning hung heavy in the air.
"The scent-blockers... they won't last," Mike whispered, his eyes darting to the door. "When the spray wears off, he'll wake up to an empty room and the smell of nothing. He'll think we were just a dream."
"We aren't leaving him with nothing," Boris rumbled.
They exchanged a look as if they had telepathically communicated. In a silent, synchronized move, the three Alphas reached for their buttons. They unbuttoned their expensive polo shirts, stripping off the white tank tops they wore underneath—the fabric that was most saturated with their raw, natural pheromones.
Boris took his and tucked it under Will’s pillow. Mike wrapped his around Will’s hand, and Richie draped him over the foot of the bed, creating a triangle of protective scent. The room was now thick with the unmistakable, heavy aroma of the Sokolov pack: Cedarwood, Peppermint, and Bitter Smoke. It was a reckless move. It was a neon sign for anyone who walked in. But it worked. Will’s face smoothed out, his small hand clutching Mike's tank top like a lifeline. He was finally, truly, at peace.
"Now," Boris commanded, his voice tight. "Move."
They slipped out of the room like shadows, their polo shirts buttoned back up over their bare chests. They moved through the house with a frantic, silent speed. Just as they reached the Mercedes at the curb, the distant hum of another car echoed down the street. Headlights swept over the asphalt—Mrs. Byers and Jonathan were finally returning from their shifts.
Boris didn't waste a second. He ignited the engine, the Mercedes pulling away from the curb and disappearing into the darkness just as the other car turned the corner.
They had made it. They were gone, leaving no physical trace of their presence—save for three white shirts and a scent that told the story of a decade's worth of love.
POV’s cousins:
The Mercedes-Benz glided away from the curb just as the headlights of the Byers’ car hit the driveway. For a few minutes, the cabin was dead silent, the only sound being the soft hum of the tires against the asphalt and the heavy, synchronized breathing of three men who had just committed a beautiful yet a reckless crime.
They were blocks away before anyone spoke. The interior of the car still smelled faintly of the scent-blockers contradicting the heavy-scented blanket they prepared, but under that, the Alphas could still smell him.
Mike leaned his head back against the leather seat, his eyes staring at the dark ceiling of the car. The "Steady Anchor" was fraying at the edges. He’s worried about something that is slowly yet surely approaching in the future.
“Our time with him is almost over,” Mike said, his voice sounding hollow in the quiet cabin. “Should we proceed with our plan... or should we stall for more time?”
Richie, who was currently staring at his bare chest beneath his unbuttoned polo, let out a sharp, jagged exhale. He looked like he was vibrating with nervous energy.
“As much as I hate to agree with you—the boring version of me who looks like he got a vasectomy both inside and out—I get what you’re saying,” Richie said, his usual wit laced with a rare, bitter edge.
Boris stayed quiet, his large hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two. He was driving with a clinical focus, but his jaw was so tight it looked like it might snap. He was listening, processing, and calculating the risk of every move they had left. They knew their time was ticking, that’s why they had to move fast.
“Hey, Big B,” Richie pushed, leaning forward from the backseat. “What should we do? We shouldn't let that dog near the Princess anymore. It’s just going to worsen his condition at this rate, and I know you don’t want him to experience that again. Not after tonight.”
The mention of "that again" hung heavy in the air—a reference to a past they had all bled for. They hated its name as if it was a disease that would suddenly attach to them and would never be removed from their internal organs. They’re disgusted by him THAT bad.
Boris let out a heavy sigh, a sound so deep it felt like he was shifting the weight of the entire Sokolov empire on his shoulders. He slowed the car as they hit the main road, finally breaking his silence.
“Завтра мы решим, как уничтожить Стервятника,” (Tomorrow, we decide on how we should destroy the Vulture,) Boris rumbled, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Но прежде мы должны поговорить с Родной. Мы не должны навязывать ему то, что против его воли. Да?” (But before that, we must talk to Rodnaya. We must not push something that is against his will. Da?)
Mike and Richie both went silent. They knew Boris was right. They could burn the world down for Will, but if they did it without his consent, they were no better than the people who had taken him away in the first place.
“...Okay,” Mike whispered.
“...Fine,” Richie added, leaning back and crossing his arms.
The pack had agreed. The decision was made. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow would be the day they stopped playing by Chance’s rules and started playing on their own.
But as the adrenaline began to fade, the "walls" they had spent ten years building around their hearts started to crumble. The silence in the car didn't stay quiet for long. They began to bicker—sharp, biting arguments about the "right" way to protect him, throwing words that felt like knives meant to carve into their melting hearts.
They argued because it was easier than admitting how terrified they were. They argued because if they didn't, they might just turn the car around and never leave his side again.
They were the Mind, the Heart, and the Spark—and they were finally, dangerously, coming alive.