Chapter Text
In early November, the air in Derry is crisp with cold. The first anniversary of Georgie Denbrough's disappearance is fast approaching, and the air inside his household is thick with it. This is why their eldest, Bill, can often be seen racing down the quiet streets on his bike, his long winter jacket streaming unbuttoned behind him. He leaves early in the morning, and never comes back before sundown.
In early November, the air in Hawkins is gone.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck-”
Gloved hands in crisp white sleeves scrabble madly over smoothly sterile walls. Where the palm flattens against white, and drags, and moves on, a smear of orange-red slips along in its wake. Fingers probe, rubber squashing and rolling against painted concrete until they find the steel rim of the alarm. The arm pulls back. It swings forward, elbow acting as a fulcrum as its entire forearm carves through the air like a bat, and hits. Glass shatters. The plastic inside depresses, the air explodes in sound. The man slides to the ground, marks his motion with more scarlet tracks, and feels the floor beneath him crack.
Elsewhere in the lab, radar screens had lit up blue.
The residents, save for a few, hadn't known why they'd had to leave. Sirens had split the cool night air, and sleepy housewives had opened their doors to official-looking men and women instructing them to prepare for an emergency evacuation. Meetings were held in the school gymnasium, (the parking lot lit up with headlights, every family in Hawkins crowding themselves into a musty old hall) wherein the civic leaders had consulted a list of towns across the country who had volunteered (with more than a little arm-twisting from Uncle Sam) to take in evacuees. Smartly-dressed men had stood alert behind their bewildered mayor, surveying the crowd with impassive faces.
Karen Wheeler, looking immaculate as always but for a roller still caught in the back of her hair, had found herself facing down both her children.
“Mom, I can’t lose them again.” Mike had blinked at her, her ever earnest son, fists balled at his sides. “It’s been so terrible, without Will, and then El - I can’t move away and leave them.”
“Mom,” Nancy had butted in, arms crossed and eyes hard, “it’s okay if we need to leave.”
Mike had gasped at that, spat betrayal at her but she’d put a hand on his shoulder and continued.
“But, if we do go, wherever we go, we should go to the same place. We should all stay together.”
And she had agreed. Maybe it was the way Mike’s whole body sagged in relief when Nancy said that, or the way her own daughter - her own daughter, had looked at her as if there was to be no argument. But she’d agreed, as had Mrs. Sinclair, and Joyce Byers (who was overwhelmingly adamant), and Mrs. Henderson. There was something else in their children's eyes, and after the scare with Will not yet a year past, they were less inclined to pry the kids apart. Joyce had said something, in that wavering, fanciful way she had, about Maine. Bob had wanted to move to Maine.The mysterious Mayfields even agreed to allow Max to come visit.
“I did, yes, I did see an entry on the list of accommodating towns for Maine. Let’s see, let’s see…” The mayor was fumbling, and it had taken one of the obvious Lab representatives to step forward and slip the loose-leaf file out from the messy stack, place it in his trembling hands. “There aren’t many wanting to go to Maine, see, and the town we’re talking about is underpopulated… There shouldn’t be a problem finding you all somewhere to stay…”
So it was that in that same November, in that first week spent unpacking in the echoing, empty house they had been allocated in Derry, Ted Wheeler rocked back on his heels after setting up the television, and saw that Hawkins was gone. Mike had gaped at the screen, as it showed deserted, rotted streets thick with mould. Their old house had all but fallen in on itself. The cloudy air could be blamed on TV static, but Mike (and Nancy, and Eleven, and Will, who had all seen it firsthand) knew it for what it was. Hawkins had slipped into the Upside Down, and its occupants had only barely escaped in time.
Will Byers doesn't like Derry. This is for many reasons, he would argue: he feels eyes on him, everywhere, even in the privacy of his new home. He's used to Hawkins, and the remote but comfortable little house he lived in his whole life is so far removed from this apartment near Derry's town centre that it feels like a different life entirely. And the main reason for his current, vehement dislike of Derry, at this current moment, is that it's his first day of school here.
He pulls on his jacket, and puts his plate in the sink where tap water drips steadily onto the scrambled eggs Jonathan made him. He felt nauseous this morning. His mother's eyes flick over to the sink as she opens the door for him, worry evident in the crease of her brow. She's trying not to fuss over him this morning, he knows, and he appreciates it. They’re the last to go; Hopper took Eleven to school already, taking her to meet her new teachers and deliver them a heavily falsified sob story to help explain away any odd behaviour.
The car ride is quiet, and he looks out the window the whole time, scanning the world outside like he's assessing a threat. The kids are walking to school in little clumps, and they’re so clearly settled into their groups that he feels even worse.
"Mom?"
"Yeah, sweetie?" Joyce is watching the road nervously.
"Do you know where my friends will be when I get there?"
Joyce smiles a little, hearing the anxiety in his voice. He doesn't want to linger awkwardly by the school, wondering where his friends will be. It's just like Will to think ahead.
"Hop's taking El back out to the front gate when they're done, and you can go in together."
Will lets out a long sigh, relaxes a little into his seat. The crowds are getting thicker here, obviously much closer to the school. He's dreading this.
The first thing he notices once he's walked a few paces from his mother's car is that Mike is there, and he's yelling at some other kids. They're laughing, and though it doesn't seem malicious he starts forward nervously, worried. It's not like Mike to be so aggressive. So loud. Before he gets near, though, Mike snatches a set of thick, goofy-looking glasses from another boy's grip (he's small, with neat hair and dark eyes, and his arm is encased in a large, stiff cast) and slides them onto his nose. Will is in hearing distance of him now.
"You're such a fuckin' asshole, Eds, come on-"
"I told you, I told you, first, don't call me that, and two, I told you - if you don't stop talking about my mom like that, I told you I was gonna take your glasses -"
"Like, I know I'm so sexy in them, but truth be told I don't actually just wear these for fashion, I do need them -"
Will stumbles back, an alarm blaring in his head. That's not Mike. They look identical, perfect mirrors but for this boy's thick glasses and loud voice. Something’s wrong here. He looks back at the fake Mike, but realises one of the other kids is looking at him.
He’s tall and thin, with a worried twist to his face and floppy brown hair. ("Oh my God, shut up, " the boy in the cast is saying, voice high in frustration) He raises a hand silently to Will in greeting, or concern, or something - he supposes it must have looked weird, the way he almost fell over, but before he can respond there's a call from behind him.
"Hey, kid!"
Hopper's by the school gate, Eleven trailing thoughtfully behind him. Hop is, as always, a huge presence, made even more intimidating by the way he towers over the schoolchildren. El's watching the passing kids with a mixture of disdain and curiosity, but her eyes light up when they meet his. He glances back at pseudo-Mike one more time, shakes off the crawling feeling on his skin and runs to the gate.
Will and Eleven, since they became some approximation of step-siblings, have gotten on well. For Will, she was the voice in the dark, the person who came to him in the cold deadness and told him there was help coming. For her, he’s someone who doesn’t expect her to talk. They have a comfortable silence together, quiet and curious and introspective. Hopper puts his big hands on the top of both of their heads, ruffles their hair with a vigour that leaves Will's head spinning and El smiling softly from under her curls. He clicks his tongue, looks away when he tells them to be good and not to cause trouble. "Look out for each other," he says briskly, before he spins on his heel and leaves them by the school doors.
"What class do we have first?" Will asks, and El casts her eyes skyward in thought.
"English," she says, quiet, and starts back into the school building. Will scrambles after her.
English is usually one of Will's best subjects, and he was used to being in the advanced class back home. Here, he and the other recent transplants have all been started in the same standard classes across the timetable, and he's grateful for it. The teacher's voice is droning and strange, and he spends most of the lesson desperately trying to signal to Mike (the real Mike, who arrived a breathless two minutes late, but still earlier than many of their classmates, much to El's amusement) that he needs to talk to him after class. Mike raises his eyebrows but offers a gentle smile. Will is reminded of the other-Mike's wide, obnoxious grin, and shivers a little. Eleven is drinking in new vocabulary words with wide eyes. He forgets, sometimes, that it’s her first time as a real student. He doesn’t forget how she likes to learn.
Their first few classes are both interminably long and startlingly short; they're soon blinking in the cold, bright air in the schoolyard, huddled close in awkward solidarity. Will casts around quickly to ensure that fake-Mike isn't nearby (he hasn't been in their classes - it looks like he and his friends are in the year above) before he pulls the Party into the shade cast by the school building.
"Will, what the hell?" Lucas asks. He looks exhausted, and suddenly Will's sure that Lucas can feel it too, the malignant feeling in the air that makes him feel unsafe, and watched.
“Before you freak out,” Will says, and he can feel Mike freaking out already, “there’s a kid in this school who looks just like you.”
It’s anticlimactic. Dustin snorts. Mike just looks confused, and asks, “Is that all?”
“You don’t understand - he’s like your twin. But with glasses.”
Eleven looks curious, but everyone else has already lost interest. They think it’s just an oddity, a kid who looks a bit like Mike and Will is (uncharacteristically, sure) making a big deal out of it. They’re just gearing up to move on to something else, Dustin about to launch into a rant about how their new science teacher has nothing on Mr. Clark, it’s like she doesn’t give a shit whether they learn anything -
And then, vindication. Will freezes, Lucas shoots him a Look. He hears the doppelganger before he sees him, and they just have time to turn around before fake-Mike and all his friends come bounding around the corner, and just as quickly stop in their tracks.
“I told you,” the little one is gasping, as if he’s just run a mile, even though they were barely moving faster than a walk. “He looks just fucking like you, do you think it’s -”
“It’s dead, Eddie, don’t start, please.” The one who’s just spoken is pale with flat curls, light eyes locked on Mike with worry.
“This is so weird,” a tall, redheaded girl breathes. The boy with the floppy hair, who’d waved at Will that morning, nods mutely. It’s the boy at his side, the one with a sweet face and a Walkman slung around his neck, who actually speaks to them.
“Hey, you guys are new, right? I’m Ben.” He waves, a little redundantly. “I was the new kid last year. What’re your names?”
“Um.” Dustin says, intelligently. “Names. We have those.”
“I think they’re a bit fucking weirded out, Ben,” the little one says, “given that there are two Richies and zero explanations!”
The Mike lookalike (Richie, did the little one say?) prods his glasses up his nose and cocks his head to one side, a theatrical little gesture so unlike Mike that it’s oddly reassuring.
“I don’t see it, fellas. I’m clearly much more handsome than this bozo.”
There’s a frisson of discontent that passes over the Party then, (Frog-face, frog-face).
“Nah, he’s way better-looking,” the pale one says flatly. “He doesn’t have those coke-bottle glasses, for one, Richie.”
“P-Probably doesn’t have your p-p-personality, either, Rich.” the tall one adds. “That’s always a b-b-bonus.”
“You wound me,” Richie announces, voice so loud it makes El jolt a little by Will’s side. “I do nothing but toil and work and slave for this family, and this is how you repay me?”
He drops to the floor in a stupidly extravagant display of hurt, peeking up at them through his lashes.
Ben clears his throat, and makes another brave attempt.
“So... who are you guys?”
The little kid with the cast gives Richie a tentative prod in the ribs with the tip of his shoe, like he’s checking if he’s really dead. Mike coughs, uncertain, but when no-one else seems to want to go first, he sighs.
“Mike Wheeler. We all just moved here, so it’s our first day.”
“I’m Lucas Sinclair,” Lucas chimes in the second Mike stops talking, rushing awkwardly to get the words out.
“Dustin.” Dustin reaches a hand out, and shakes Ben’s hand briskly, like a businessman. “I’m new here. Obviously.”
“Will Byers,” Will says softly, pointing at himself.
“Eleven.” She mirrors Will.
“Eleven? Like the number?” The kid in the cast says, voice high and sharp. Richie kicks him from the ground, then goes back to his feigned death.
“Well, we’re the Losers,” Ben says. “I’m Ben, but I guess I already told you that…”
“I’m B-B-Bill. Denbrough.”
“Stanley.” He bows his head a little when he says it, as if embarrassed, and Will realises he’s wearing a kippah.
“Beverly Marsh,” the girl says, smiling wryly at them. She slips a cigarette from a pocket on her overalls and lights it. “Bev, to friends.”
“Too bad you have no friends,” comes a voice from the ground, and Bev steps on Richie (“Hurk- ”) without a falter in her smile, grinning around the cigarette between her teeth.
“Richard Tozier, forever at your service,” he says, voice muffled where he’s speaking directly into the ground.
“Eddie Kaspbrak.” The little one fixes them with a glare so intense it almost burns. “Why the fuck do you look like Richie, Mike?”
“Are you calling him Mike like it’s a lie, like, why would he lie about his own name-” Eddie goes to kick Richie again, but Richie just grabs his ankle and yanks, pulling him down to the ground with him. Eddie yelps, something about being in the mud, and Bill smiles at the Party over the sound of their squabbling.
“So do you g-guys have any idea why M-M-Mike looks like Richie?”
Will shakes his head, but Eleven puts up two fingers and says “Twins.” with the quiet certainty she has.
“No offense, but I think I’d know if I had a twin, El.” Mike says. “We’d have had the same mother. We should have grown up together.”
“Not if you two got separated at birth.” Dustin pipes up. “We know the government does fucked up shit to babies,” here he gestures at El, who looks unimpressed - “maybe you are twins.”
“And why would the government want to separate them, for no apparent reason? Just for fun?” Lucas retorts, and Dustin looks stumped.
“Too handsome,” Richie mumbles, finally dragging himself up from where he’s been wrestling with Eddie in the dirt. “Couldn’t have two of us in the same place, the universe can’t handle it.” He swings his hand down almost absently to help Eddie to his feet, who takes it, pulls himself up and then immediately starts fussing over the dirt stains on his bare legs and arms.
“By the way,” Richie adds, looking up at them through wild black curls, “as if you’re not enough of an impostor already, Mike, you’ve only stolen Mr. Hanlon’s favourite first name.”
“Shit, yeah,” Stanley says. “Two Mikes. That’s gonna get confusing.”
“Not if we never speak to them again,” Eddie says, and then looks guilty. “No offense.”
“Some offense,” Richie adds.
“Who’s Mike?” Will asks.
“Another L-Loser, but he d-d-doesn’t go to school here. Y-You’ll probably meet him at s-some point. He’s usually busy w-w-working.”
“Ah.” Mike says, feeling strangely guilty for stealing some random kid’s name.
“Well, that solved nothing,” Stan says, dryly. “Recess is almost over, we should get ready to go.”
Ben shrugs helplessly, as if to say I wish we could hang out more, but the passage of time is beyond my otherwise-infinite control. Will can’t help but grin at the thought, and Ben’s face lights up.
“Yeah, s-see you later, guys.” Bill says, and Bev gives them a little wave, stubbing her cigarette out against the wall of the school building. Richie and Eddie stumble off, pushing and shoving at one another the whole way, Richie laughing that loud, donkey-ish cackle, miles away from Mike’s soft, wheezy laugh. Ben offers them another soft smile before he leaves. Lucas waves awkwardly.
Just as Bill is walking away, he turns back and says, voice serious, “Be careful.”
It could have been an innocuous comment, but something about the gravity in the other boy’s voice makes Will shiver.
“Mom, it was so weird, seriously -”
“You should have seen him! He looked just like Mike!”
“No.”
That’s Eleven, and cutlery stills. Even with eight at the table, (the Party, Jonathan, Hopper and Joyce) no-one speaks. She lifts her head up from her plate, meets Mike’s eyes, and says, “They're different."
“No-one’s saying they’re the same person, El, just that they look alike.” Lucas offers.
“No, I know what she means,” Will says. “It’s like, they’re such different people, it’s kind of hard to think of them as being alike, even though they have the same face. Right?”
Eleven nods, and returns to her meal.
“Well, nothing against the law about looking the same,” Hopper mumbles. “Put it out of your minds. Might be a good idea to make some… new friends around here, though.” He grits the last sentence out, like it’s physically paining him.
Eleven scowls. Joyce puts a hand on her arm.
“You don’t need to replace your old friends, sweetie, nobody’s going anywhere,” (Mike nods so vigorously he gets hair in his eyes) “It’s just nice to meet new people. They might know some fun places to go around here.”
“New friends,” Eleven whispers. Will smiles at her. Mike bumps her knee under the table.
“So!” Joyce claps her hands. “Tell me about these other kids you met. Including new Mike. Do they seem nice?”
“Nice enough,” Lucas shrugs. “They’re different.”
“They don’t seem like bullies.” Dustin adds. “They called themselves the Losers.”
“Probably the ones getting bullied, then.” Jonathan muses.
“The one with the stutter,” Mike says, thoughtful. “It might be cool to talk to him.”
“High praise, Mike. Where was this open-mindedness when we were trying to get you to let Max in the Party?”
The table devolves into playful squabbling. Joyce Byers watches it all over the rim of her glass, and whenever Will or Eleven laugh, she laughs too.
Late that night, Eleven pads softly into the hall. The new house is still strange, and despite Joyce and Hopper’s best efforts there are still boxes stacked against the skirting boards. She flicks on the fluorescent light in the kitchen, hears the low hum as it flickers to life. Normal. Normal electric behaviour, no surges or unexplained flashing. Normal. The tapwater tastes different, she thinks, and she dimly remembers Hopper telling her how to take care of dirty dishes. She leaves her empty glass on the kitchen table anyway. She’s about to return to her room, but she slips into the living room instead, runs her fingertips over the couch that came with the house. There’s a silhouette out the window. Someone’s outside.
Jonathan is leaning up against the railing on the fire escape, looking pensively out. Brooding , Eleven thinks. Word of the day. The metal creaks underfoot, so she has no chance of sneaking up on him, but he doesn’t turn when she joins him.
“Can’t sleep?” He asks instead.
“Losers.” She murmurs. “Bad.”
“You think those other kids are bad?”
She shakes her head. "It's a bad word. Mean."
“Ah.”
They stay in silence for a moment. Jonathan doesn’t smoke, but some of Hopper’s cigarette butts are already littering the fire escape. Joyce’s too, she imagines.
“Sometimes,” Jonathan starts, then falters. “Sometimes, when someone calls you mean things, it feels good to - to reclaim it, you know?”
Eleven looks puzzled. He continues.
“Like, people always called me a freak, right? And it used to get me down, until I said no, okay, I am a freak, and I’m glad, because fuck being normal, you know?”
Eleven nods slowly.
“So maybe, I don’t know, these kids you met get called Losers so much they decided to make it their own. And, you know, props to them. Screw what other people think.”
“Screw what other people think.” Eleven says, soft, and smiles. Jonathan claps a hand on her back.
“We should get back to bed, huh. School in the morning.”
He stretches, and the pop and snap of his back are loud in the night.
“I’ll make you Eggos for breakfast. Don’t tell Hopper.”
Eleven holds a finger up to her lips, and lets Jonathan bring her back inside.