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Will is average looking at best. He knows this. He is so awfully aware of this every day of his life. His hair is at an awkward length at the moment and styling it is a hit or (severely) miss event. Sometimes it's not even miss. Sometimes Will thinks it hits him squarely in the face. Sometimes in the chest, were it knocks the wind right out of him and he nurses a bruised, aching set of ribs the rest of the day. He's average at best. At worst, he's just ugly. He has accepted this and doesn't want to know the consensus on him. Having anyone agree would be terrible but being lied to is worse. So much worse.
Senior year is the hardest. He knows he wants to get out there, he wants to make his move and leave his mark in some way that isn't just a stupid AV plaque in the hallway. He wants to talk to a boy, wants to make a Boy feel, in some small way, that he is kinda the cutest thing to happen to third period social studies class. He knows he doesn't have the time to be in love or to be committed beyond his time in Hawkins, but he wants to have a connection to somebody.
He wants to feel like if he puts his arms out, he'd reach somebody. His hands wouldn't glide through phantoms of friends and push away those that are already afraid of him.
Every class he tries. And every class he feels like his spirit is finally in the room with him; he doesn't feel so fucking lonely. At least for a few hours. Then when he leaves, when it's over, he becomes aware of what every one sees. The split ends of hair, the rounded nose, the honking laugh, the overzealous gentle touches to the arm, the way he just isn't as good-looking as everyone else is.
Especially the girl that's taking Said Boy to prom. Will knows he can't compare himself to her-- that's not how physical appearances work-- but he feels the competition kick him in the teeth. Not the chest, not even the ribs. Dead in the teeth, like he's already kneeling for the slaughter. He thinks, some days, he was born in this position.
There are things Will can't change about himself, and on most days he doesn't want to, but when it matters-- when it's people thinking he's worth having around and loving-- Will wishes God would hear him and change his face and his hair and his teeth and his growth pattern and his height and his fingers and his legs and his knobby knees and his sense of humor. He wishes he could wake up and be as desirable as he needs to be to just be seen.
Being overlooked for being perceived as a awkward victim is his life's work and he's working on that too. But being considered invisible by the protruding way his teeth show when he smiles-- when he shows joy-- is a declaration by the world that love does have a shape and form. And it isn't whatever Will's been molded into. Whatever angel or creator was busy spinning Will around in their cloud or planning in their celestial palms must have been creative-- a real modern visionary. He’s got a body that has all the right parts and all the right pieces and has a heart beating loud and strong, but it seems like he’s the only one of his kind.
Will wants to respect the art that was crafted within him, but it's hard when he's the only one looking into it. He thinks maybe the art only looks good because he sees it every day. Maybe if he saw it from another person's eyes he'd see all the mistakes, where the artist really fucked up. Where he’s fucked up. Will's afraid to see what he really looks like. He know it will only prove him right, and he's just not ready to accept, at eighteen and three months, two weeks, and five days, that he really isn't lovable.
He knows he's young and the world isn't crashing down around him, but he wants to know what's wrong with him. Just a word, a sentence, an excuse, anything. He wants to know why patience has to be his first love experience. Not even rejection or heartbreak, but the act of swallowing every flutter he has in his throat for Said Boy. Forcing himself to reconcile that it will lead no where. It never does.
He's doomed to waste every minute of his twenties thinking he's worthy of love. He'll reach his arms out, hoping that maybe it will at least slip through his fingers-- he'll at least have a brush encounter with it-- but instead it will circle around him, dancing with a pretty face. One Will can't recognize.
He knows it’s not him though. It’s never going to be him, and one day, he’ll be okay with that. Right now, he’s ignoring every mirror and pretending that friendly conversations are validation. It’s not love. Will doesn’t know if that word is even real, if it has any substance.
When Will’s thirty, he’ll find it, hidden deep within himself because no one else offered it. His hands will still be out, grasping and lifted in prayer, but no one will have touched them. It’ll be like running timelessly in the dark. He’ll understand he has to stop running and sit down. And kneel. There’s nothing out there. Just himself. There isn’t any Real Love inside him anyway. Just acceptance to the outstandingly average.
At least in the dark he can’t see himself. And neither can anyone else.