Work Text:
September 1982
"Hey honey, I was just-"
Joyce faltered as she saw her son standing by the door, having just arrived from school. He was covered from head to toe in pink glitter and had a bloody scratch on his face; certainly not a sight she was expecting. She had the bag frozen peas she was carrying and rushed to him, sitting him down at the kitchen, before rushing to the cabinet to grab the first aid kit. She returned with the small kit and a clean face towel which she ran through some warm water.
Will winced as the towel made contact with the wound. "What on earth happened to you?" Joyce asked concerned as she dabbed away the blood. "And where are your friends?"
Will unsuccessfully tried to push the cloth away and sighed. "Mike and Dustin have that remedial class and Lucas is sick at home. And I fell of my bike and scratched up my face, it's no big deal."
Joyce gave him a look he quickly diverted his eyes from. "It's no big deal," he repeated. "I'm fine."
Joyce sighed and stood up to her full 5'3 height. "Was it those boys again?" she asked sternly. Will hesitated then nodded slowly. "Are they also why you're covered in all this glitter?" He nodded again, tilting his head lower. Joyce sighed and stooped down so they were eye to eye. "What happened?" she asked more softly.
Will stayed quiet for so long that Joyce was almost about to ask him again. "They called me a fag," he said quietly. "And a fairy. That's why there poured all this glitter on me, to 'make me look like a fairy too'." He thought of when he walked out of the double doors and had a bucket of pink glitter upended over his head. He remembered the laughs of bystanders as Troy and James threw cruel names at him.
He wiped his eyes then hissed as he brushed the tender wound. Joyce pulled his hand away from his face and began rubbing some ointment onto it with a cotton bud. "Did you get into a fight?" she asked worriedly.
Will shook his head. "No," he answered. "I-I ran away. Well, I biked away but they followed me anyway. Then suddenly, one of them threw a rock at me and I fell of my bike and scratched my face on the gravel." Will saw the shock on Joyce's face and added quickly, "But they ran away when they saw a police car. I'm fine now."
Joyce stared at his face a while longer, wondering how anyone could hurt her precious boy. She huffed and threw away the cotton bud, muttering as she packed away the first aid kit. "These people never learn. Must've talked to their parents twice already and yet they're throwing goddamn rocks at innocent kids and God knows what else."
"I'm sorry," Will said suddenly.
Joyce looked at him in disbelief. "What in the world for? You didn't do anything wrong!"
"I-I should've been braver," he replied. "But I just ran away like some wastoid."
"Oh Will, you don't really-"
"I bet Lucas, or Dustin, or even Mike would've done something!" he burst out. "At least said something to put them in their place, but not me! I just run away because I can't even defend myself without my friends." Tears were coming to his eyes again and Joyce's heart sank.
She sighed again and sat down beside him, watching sadly as he turned slightly away from her. She placed her hand on his uninjured cheek and turned his head back to her. He didn't resist but still kept his eyes downcast.
"Will," she said softly yet firmly. "Will, honey, look at me." He reluctantly met her eyes.
"William Christopher Byers," she began. "you are not a wastoid. You are the bravest boy I know. And I know that because you are also the kindest, even after everything our family has had to go through." She thought back to life with Lonnie, the days when the house was filled with yelling and the stench of alcohol. "You are so much stronger than you think. And what does it matter if you ran away from a fight? I'm glad you did!" She laughed and Will chuckled a little. "You don't need to fight every battle, Will. There are people here who will fight for you if it comes to it, and they won't judge you if you let them. So let them."
Will shrugged and smiled. "Yeah, I probably would've been worse off taking on the both of them alone," he admitted.
"Well, if you really want to you can always fireball them," Joyce suggested.
They both laughed, Will wrapping his around his mom, his amazing awesome mom. Joyce hugged him back briefly then pulled away still laughing.
"Ok, let's get the rest of you cleaned up. You're getting glitter everywhere!"
-----
November 1983
She feels dazed. The colors of the police car lights and Christmas lights blend together and make everything seem blurry. She sees Hopper talking to her but can't hear the words. She doesn't want to hear.
Dead. He just told her that her little boy, her Will, is dead. That's when she snaps out of it. She tells them no, that it can't be right, because she was speaking with him a half hour ago. Well, sort of, not really. But it was him. She tells them about the thing in the wall, she doesn't know what it was or where it came from or what the hell is going on in general but, it happened. It happened.
It's not Will.
They all give her pitying looks which only angers her more, but there's no use protesting further. She looks to Jonathan for any help but all she sees in his eyes are tears. He really believes that he just lost his little brother.
Later when the police are gone, she almost knocks on his door to tell him that it's okay, that his brother's still out there somewhere. But she can't. He didn't believe her then what makes her think he'll believe her now? She walks back into the living and stares at the letters on the wall.
Right here.
What does that mean? And how is he even controlling the lights?
She rubs her eyes and looks at the wall again.
Run.
That was his last message, before that thing came. She worries for a moment. What is it? What if it comes back? It could get me or Jonathan in our sleep.
But then one thought speaks louder than them all. Will is with it. My boy is trapped with that thing.
She becomes furious. At the monster, at the cops, at the universe, at herself. She can't leave him alone again, not now that she knows what's in there with him.
She storms out of the house and into the shed, and grabs an old ax. Them she storms back in and seats herself on the couch, weapon in hand, facing the wall. The next time that comes, she thinks, I'm not running away again.
She tightens her grip on the ax, keeping her eyes on the wall.
I'm not leaving my boy.