robinyx
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Come, the ground murmurs, echoing in the soles of his bare feet, in the grain of his bones. There are vines there, crawling just under the thin layer of dirt, reaching ever-outward to the sky. He should feel cold, shouldn't he? Should feel the painful press of the ground on his bare skin. Come, the sky echoes, an enticing tune. Where, Will doesn't wonder, because all is whole and the same to the swarm, the pull of it steady, a magnetic force that doesn't need to be questioned, a True North-
“Will,” he hears Mike say, a whisper in the darkness, and it sounds like rain but kind, a soft drizzle, sounds like low lamplight buzzing in a basement full of his childhood drawings, sounds like home, a sin of thought. “Will, you're scaring me,” Mike says, voice soft and pleading.
At the edge of the end of the world, people are going missing, the sky bleeds ash, and Will Byers can't seem to run forever.