Archive of Our Own ^beta

The piercing call of the smoke detector was Mike’s first clue of how the day would go.

In bed next to him, Mike heard Will let out an annoyed groan. Without turning around, the younger man expressed his irritation toward who he thought to be the responsible party.

“Dammit, Mike,” Will sighed in resignation. Because of his observational negligence, Will failed to see his husband’s incredulous look. His voice lowered to a quieter but still audible pitch. “I’ve told you a thousand times not to touch the stove.”

“Hi, babe!” Mike said loudly, his tone a mixture of amusement and indignation.

Will’s whole body jerked in surprise and he twisted his torso around to stare at Mike, blurry-eyed, uncomprehending.

“Sleep well?” Mike asked, his eyebrows raised, his lips twitching into a half-formed smirk.

The last remnants of the befuddling fog of sleep were still dissolving from Will’s mind and Mike used his husband’s continued silence as an opportunity to partake in the contents of his still steaming coffee mug, before settling the cup onto his lap instead of returning it to the nightstand.

Seeing all this, the neurons in Will’s brain finally started firing and quickly made the connection.

“The kids,” he concluded, nodding, and Mike confirmed the inference with his own nod.

“Father’s Day breakfast,” he added, bringing his mug to his lips to take another sip. He smiled at the familiar taste. “This is apparently phase one.” Here, Mike pointed over Will’s head at the nightstand that stood sentry on the opposite side. “You have some too.”

“Oh, praise God!” Will cried out, ignoring Mike’s amused snort as he threw off the bedsheets and quickly pulled himself up into a sitting position. Grabbing his own multicolored mug from the bedside table, Will sampled his beverage and sighed contently when he found it perfect.

Hearing Mike’s snickering, Will sent the other man a halfhearted glare.

“What?” Will asked, his smile offsetting the defensiveness lacing his tone. “It’s the least those hellions could do for waking me up at the crack of dawn.”

Mike frowned, before grinning slightly and gesturing to the window in front of them, through which sunlight could be seen peeking through the thin curtains.

“Babe, it’s, like, 9 AM,” he informed Will, who blinked at the revelation and confirmed it with a glance at the digital clock.

“Huh,” Will muttered, before smirking. “Still. It’s before 10. Getting up at this hour should be illegal.”

“All of my students would probably agree with you there,” Mike said, snickering again. “Including our children.”

“Yeah,” Will agreed, snorting. “Poor Maia. She’s not used to being up this early on a weekend.”

The two men sat in silence, punctured occasionally only by the sound of slurping before Mike broke the relative silence.

“How would you even enforce that?” he queried, frowning in thought. At Will’s questioning look, he clarified. “Making early rising illegal.”

Will scoffed, grinning.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, chortling. He screwed his face up briefly, thinking, before waving his hand, dismissing the entire hypothetical. “Police, I guess?”

The resultant laughter from Mike caused the older man to slightly choke on his coffee.

“Police?” Mike emphasized, still chuckling. “What are the police going to do, Will? Have officers stand guard outside bedroom doors? Threaten to taser people if they don’t stay in bed?”

“Jesus, Mike, I don’t know!” Will argued, laughing along with his husband now at the absurdity of their discussion. “It was just a thought! Stop making me feel stupid!”

“I can’t,” Mike laughed, shaking his head, dissenting. “Not when I have so much material to work with.”

Will waited for his husband to take another sip of his drink before lightly tapping the man’s cup, causing Mike to descend into an impromptu coughing fit.

“Hey!” Mike sputtered in protest. He wiped his mouth with his pajama sleeve before using his tongue to lap up the droplets of coffee that were now trailing down the side of his mug. “Don’t do that! This is that special holiday blend your mom sent us! We don’t have much left!”

“I think you might have an addiction,” Will proposed, eyeing Mike critically as the other man continued to attempt to ensure that every displaced trace of his disturbed drink ended up in his mouth.

Mike snorted.

“Oh yeah,” the man muttered sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Caffeine is a serious drug. D.A.R.E. needs to start an anti-Starbucks campaign.”

“I don’t think D.A.R.E. is being funded anymore,” Will told him, amused. His voice was imbued with sarcasm as he continued. “It’s a real shame. It worked so well.”

The couple exchanged grins.

“There you go!” Will exclaimed and at Mike’s quizzical expression, he went on to explain. “They should start some anti-early risers program! Not the police, but something official. Something publicly funded.”

“Give them some fancy name,” Mike chimed in, smiling, deciding to humor Will.

“The Sleep Squad!” Will declared, giggling at the thought. His mirth multiplied at the sight of Mike’s skeptical face.

“No,” Mike countered, shaking his head, exasperated, his tone deceptively serious. “Take this seriously, Will. Something cooler than that. Like the…the Morpheus Monitors.”

That sent them both into a fit of cackling. Mike managed to sober himself, before he lost control again as he pictured Jonas and Maia standing at the stove, exchanging nervous glances as they wondered if their fathers had been replaced by hysterical hyenas.

Their laughter was quickly restrained when the smoke detector, which had been silenced after serving as the world’s worst alarm clock, wailed yet again.

“Do you think they need help?” Will whispered, although he needn’t have bothered. The blaring detector eliminated any chance of his voice carrying out into the kitchen.

“Nah,” Mike said, shaking his head. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

“We are not fine!” Jonas suddenly called out from the other room and both men exchanged smirks, unsurprised that their son had responded. Maia had probably overheard them. She had enhanced auditory capabilities that often caused Will to joke that he clearly wasn’t the only wizard in the family, while Mike usually just griped that their daughter reminded him too much of Holly.

Before either man could move, however, the voice of Maia herself rang through the house.

“Yes, we are!” she shouted. “Everything is under control! Do not come in here!”

Both men traded doubtful glances.

“I mean,” Will began before pausing, considering. “We risk the house catching fire and all of us burning to death or-”

“Or pissing Maia off,” Mike finished, grimacing.

Both men were silent for a few seconds as they weighed the risks.

“I’m sure she has it handled,” Mike said dismissively, finishing his coffee and settling into a more comfortable position on the bed.

Before Will could offer a retort, Jonas appeared in the bedroom doorway.

“Fathers!” he chirped as a greeting. He spread his hands wide and gave both men a clearly forced smile. “How are we this morning?”

Mike and Will exchanged smirks before focusing back on Jonas.

“Well, we’re awake,” Mike noted diplomatically.

“Yes,” Will muttered, his earlier irritation returning to the surface. “Thank you for that.”

“That’s just one of the many services we provide here, sir!” Jonas said cheerfully, adopting a hotel staff member's chipper, accommodating attitude.

“Funny,” Will said wryly. “I don’t recall asking the front desk for a wake-up call.”

“It’s complimentary,” Jonas explained, fighting to hide a grin at the withering look his comment earned from Will.

“Is that so?” the man went on, relentless. “Because I must say, it didn’t feel complimentary to my eardrums.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” Mike interjected, nodding his thanks to the now snickering teen.

Jonas gave a mocking bow.

“I had to contribute somehow,” he shrugged. “She insisted on doing the actual cooking. Which reminds me…”

Jonas trailed off as he dug in his pocket, eventually retrieving a rectangular card and bestowing it upon a confused Will.

“You might want to keep that handy,” he murmured so his sister couldn’t hear. “Call it a gut instinct.”

Will glanced at the card and squinted, snorting when he realized what it was.

“The poison control hotline?” he said for Mike’s benefit, huffing a laugh. “Really?”

“You never know,” Jonas said solemnly before departing for the kitchen.

Will blinked and his eyes darted back down to the card before sending a nervous glance at Mike, who mirrored his expression.

“I find his lack of faith disturbing,” Will whispered as an explanation and though the familiar quote made Mike chuckle, it was clear to Will that his husband’s mind was on a similar track.

“They’re fine,” he repeated reassuringly, although whether the tone was designed for Will or for Mike himself was unknown to either man.

“I have to say, not a fan of the atmosphere,” Mike added, joking. “This is definitely going to impact the Yelp review.”

“Two stars,” Will decreed, playing along. “And that’s only because of the coffee.”

Before Mike could offer his own assessment, Jonas reappeared.

“Hi again!” he said, his lively tone having returned. “Just checking in. Breakfast will be along shortly. Just a few more minutes!”

“Excellent!” Mike expressed, adopting a posh tone. “I’m quite famished.”

Jonas’ reply was cut short by the sound of the smoke detector interrupting the morning quiet for the third time.

Will shook his head fondly while Mike hid his grin by appearing to sip from his mug (an obvious ruse, as he had already emptied its contents). Jonas, meanwhile, rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Turn the fan on!” he called out exasperatedly, leaning out the door, his voice carrying through the house.

“I already did!” Maia snapped back, disgruntled. “It’s not helping!”

“Use the fire extinguisher!” Jonas replied helpfully, ignoring Mike and Will, who had started snickering, but were attempting to hide the fact by covering their mouths.

“Oh, what a wonderful idea!” she called back sarcastically, her voice sounding strained but still audible over the hiss of the extinguisher.

“Jesus Christ,” Jonas muttered, irritated, and he disappeared to help his sister, leaving his fathers, who had descended into full-on, raucous laughter.

“Three stars,” Will commented, still giggling, amending his earlier statement. “I appreciate live entertainment.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Maia yelled back, having heard Will. She sounded as though she wanted to be annoyed, but amusement was leaking through.

This was enough to send Will cackling again, too entertained to scold his youngest for her language.

Mike, though, pretended to be scandalized and gasped dramatically.

“Why, I never!” he said loudly, holding a hand over his heart. He shook his head, glancing at Will, his eyebrows raised in apparent disbelief. “Where do they find these staff?” He then raised his voice so that the so-called offending “staff member” could hear him. “Why are you so rude, child?!”

“Mostly because of my fathers, I guess!” she quipped back, having no trouble as the alarm had been quelled.

For now.

Mike and Will exchanged surprised but happy expressions.

Maia quoting Star Wars?

Stranger things had happened.

“Her fathers raised her well,” Mike whispered to Will, nudging his husband, who rolled his eyes.

“Actually, I think we’re raising them,” Jonas interjected, having returned, this time with Maia trailing behind him, carrying a tray with oven-mitted hands.

“Your breakfast, my lords,” she presented, depositing the tray on the hastily cleared-off space on the bed and bowing theatrically, which was met with applause from her fathers.

“Thank you, child,” Mike responded, still possessing a sanctimonious lilt in his voice. “This looks to be a fine culinary concoction!”

“Well, I’m not Julia Child,” Maia muttered, looking sheepish despite her tone revealing her desire to seem indifferent. “It’s not the best.”

“Much like your father,” Will commented, smirking, earning him a playful shove from Mike. Seeing Maia biting her lip nervously, Will shifted his focus and tone. “I’m sure it’s wonderful, Maia.”

“That’s right,” Mike chimed in, quickly hiding the card for poison control. “We all have the utmost faith in you!”

Jonas, recognizing his sister’s anxiety, remained silent.

“This is eggcellent,” Mike spoke up, pointing at his plate for emphasis. He steadfastly ignored his children’s groans and Will rolling his eyes. He had a lot of practice.

“And that,” Will said, shaking his head and pointing at his husband, “is why we don’t like being seen in public with you.”

Mike pretended to pout.

“So,” Maia spoke up. “How is it?”

Before either man could deliver a verdict, Jonas interrupted.

“I don’t think he can hear you,” he said, smirking at Will. “The fire alarm really did a number on his ears.”

“Oh,” Maia said, pretending to look thoughtful as she nodded. “Well, I figured we had a few more years before we got to this point, but,” she raised her voice to a shout, leaning toward Will. “How is it? Is it good?”

“Jesus,” Will muttered, leaning away from his daughter and shooting her a glare. “Let’s just say my tastebuds are faring better than my eardrums.”

“Yay!” she exclaimed, clapping loudly, ignoring Will’s look. She glanced at Mike and locked eyes with him. His mouth was full of pancake, so he gave her a thumbs up, which seemed to satisfy her.

There was silence for a few moments as Mike and Will cleared their plates.

“Hey,” Mike asked, nudging the other man. “Are we still on for noon?”

“Yep,” Will confirmed, taking Mike’s empty plate from him and giving the pile of dishes to Maia to wash, which she disappeared to do. “As long as no one has tech problems.”

The Party was gathering for their annual Father’s Day video call this afternoon. They had started the tradition a few years ago, wanting to be together on a day that for many of them hung like a dark cloud in their minds, a painful reminder of what they had lost or maybe never had.

"That reminds me," Jonas muttered, taking out his phone and glancing at it. His eyes widened when he saw the time. "Yeah." He showed them all the screen, on which a confirming text message could be seen. "They're ready for me to pick up the cake."

Perhaps it was odd for them to celebrate Father's Day with cake. But neither man (especially Mike) was going to pass up the opportunity for dessert. Jonas and Maia were fine with it, since their fathers' light eating habits usually meant they got most of it anyway.

It was a sacrifice they were willing to make.

"We wish you luck on your pastry proliferation!" Mike shouted after Jonas, who was rushing out the door.

"Okay," Will said, sighing and groaning as he stretched. "Let's get up. We've lazed around enough this morning."

"Says the guy who slept until 9," Mike shot back teasingly.

"I need my beauty sleep," Will said with a haughty air. "I know you don't understand, since-"

He broke off laughing when Mike shoved him.

"Just for that," Mike decided, shaking his head, though he sounded amused. "I'm going in the bathroom to change."

Will's sudden wave of apologies did nothing to dissuade him.

Will huffed in exasperation, smiling as he prepared for the day. He laid out his outfit and then waited for his turn in the shower, hoping Mike didn't take his comment as justification for using all the hot water.

Will rushed through his morning routine, eventually joining Mike on the couch, who had finished and was waiting with coffee refills for both of them.

"What I meant earlier," Will said, taking the cup gratefully. "You wouldn't understand needing beauty sleep, since for you, it's natural."

"Uh huh," Mike replied, smirking, knowing that the coffee was the true motivation behind his husband making amends.

Will contented himself with a few sips of his drink, before settling into the task of clearing off the coffee table. They planned to place the cake there and feast on sugar during their video call.

In the process, Will discovered an untidy pile of sketches, all depicting a similar design. Will frowned and studied it. It looked like some sort of logo.

"Hey!" Maia's voice called out, having caught her father snooping as she passed by the room. She rushed in now and quickly gathered the papers up. "Don't look at that!"

"What is this?" Will questioned, holding up the sketch he had picked up.

"It's nothing!" she insisted, snatching the paper from his hand. "I…forget about it!"

Will exchanged glances with Mike. The other man put his hands up in a surrendering pose. Will shrugged and let the matter drop as Maia rushed from the room and up the stairs, evidently to hide her secrets.

"What did it look like?" Mike asked, curious. He hadn't been close enough to see.

"I don't know," Will answered thoughtfully. He was concentrating, trying to remember. "It was really colorful. Looked more abstract than anything."

"You don't think she's self-conscious about it, do you?" Mike inquired, hoping that wasn't the case. His daughter had no reason to feel embarrassed.

Will snorted.

"Of course she is," Will explained, raising his eyebrows at Mike. "She's like me, remember?"

Mike scoffed and shook his head.

"You have no reason to be embarrassed either," he pointed out. "Your artwork is amazing. I know that and plenty of other people do too. Your work sells for a reason."

"I…I know," Will answered, Mike's praise still managing to make him blush even years later. "But part of me is always going to think it's not good, that the whole world is humoring me. And Maia's the same. She has too much of her father in her."

"Well, you're both amazing," Mike insisted, reaching to squeeze Will's shoulder in reassurance. "You're talented. And Maia's the same as you. Unique and with her own style. A lot of the stuff she makes is much more cheerful than what you were drawing at that age, for good reason, thank God. But she's like you."

Will smiled and sipped from his cup, a memory playing through his head.

She really was.

“Damnit, Jonathan, we talked about this!”

Will looked up at the sound of his mom’s exasperated voice, his drawing momentarily forgotten.

It wasn’t the cussing that captured Will’s attention. That was hardly a rarity for his mom, although he knew she would never admit it. It was who she was directing the words at.

As far as Will knew, Jonathan had not done anything that would warrant such aggravation. Although, as he took in the sight of his mom’s pursed lips and the way she seemed to be silently counting to herself, like she did when she required more than a few moments to rein in her temper, Will got the impression that circumstances had changed.

“No, we absolutely did, remember?” his mother said into the phone, her teeth clenched. Will guessed his brother was protesting the claim and his mother didn’t seem to appreciate that.

“Jonathan, you can’t-” she cut herself off and let out a tired sigh. “You know what? Forget it. It’s…it’s fine. Just-no, really, Jonathan, it’s alright. I’ll…I’ll figure something out. Work hard, okay? And we will be talking about this when you get off!”

Joyce said her last words in a lecturing tone and, after extracting a few more promises from her oldest son that he would come straight home after work and wouldn’t overexert himself during his shift, she hung up the phone.

“Uh,” Will said eloquently. “Is everything okay?”

Turning to him, Joyce attempted to cover her weary expression with a clearly forced smile that did not convince her son at all.

“Oh, everything’s fine,” she said, trying to sound calm if not cheerful. “It’s just that…well, your brother was supposed to…stay with you while I worked tonight, but it seems he’s working too, so…”

Joyce trailed off, her eyes glazing over as she tried to think up a solution to her problem.

Will’s eyes, meanwhile, had brightened.

“That’s fine!” he practically shouted. It took everything in him not to whoop with delight. He jumped up from the table and strode toward his mother, as though hoping that standing and showing proof that he was, in fact, a grown up boy, would help convince her. “I can stay by myself for a few hours.”

His mom, judging by her expression, thought otherwise.

“Will, baby,” Joyce sighed, looking at him sadly. She could see how excited he was at the possibility of being left to his own devices, with no adult supervision for a change, but she just…couldn’t. She knew that was unfair, that other boys his age were often granted that privilege, but, well, things were different for them. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just-”

“Mom, come on!” Will groaned, not bothering to hide the fact that he was rolling his eyes. “Nothing’s gonna happen!”

Joyce bit her lip, wincing when she saw her youngest’s annoyed expression.

“Sweetie,” she said softly. She can defuse this, if she treads lightly. “You don’t know that.”

“I’ll be totally fine!” he argued and Joyce fought the urge to grind her teeth in frustration. She knew Will was thirteen now, but did the moody, rebellious teenage bullshit really have to start right now? “I’ll be at home the whole time!”

“You were home then too,” she pointed out before she could stop herself and for a second, she felt like the scum of the earth as she saw the way he winced. But then the moment passed.

“Well…” he floundered, trying to think up a counterpoint. He found one. “The monster’s gone! Eleven took care of it!”

They both paused, remembering the girl that, of the two of them, only Joyce had met. Their fight was forgotten for a few seconds as they paid their respects in silence.

The silence didn’t last long.

“Look,” Joyce said quickly, trying to stave off another objection from Will. “I know that this isn’t fair. But you know what Hop said. It still isn’t safe. And with your episodes-”

“Oh my God, Mom!” Will burst out, not even caring that he sounded extremely whiny. “It’s not like you being there helps! If I have an episode, I have an episode! Doesn’t matter if you’re there or not!”

Will realized what he had said and, seeing his mom’s hurt expression, deflated slightly.

“I-” he started and then paused, swallowing. His eyes flicked around the room, landing anywhere but on Joyce. He didn’t have the courage to look her in the eyes right now. “I didn’t mean it like that. I-”

“I know,” his mom said, holding up a hand. She looked slightly mollified by his apology. “And…you’re not wrong. But I would just feel better if…”

She trailed off again. She didn’t need to finish the statement. They both knew.

“Maybe I could call in sick,” Joyce murmured to herself, her face marred by a thoughtful frown.

“No,” Will said tiredly. He wasn’t even angry anymore. Just resigned. He figured his mom would ignore him. He should have known better than to get his hopes up. “You know we can’t afford for you to keep missing shifts.”

This caused Joyce to glance back at him, startled. She opened her mouth, probably to scold him for thinking about something that was only for her (and to a lesser extent, Jonathan) to worry about. Her jaw clicked shut when she observed his downcast expression. He had moved back to the table and had returned to his drawing, but with not nearly as much energy as before.

Joyce felt a twinge of guilt twist in her chest. She knew Will. He was responsible. And, well, he did have a point. If he had one of his…episodes (she honestly didn’t know what to call them, but they scared her), there was little she could do to help except wait them out and comfort him after.

She gave a long sigh.

“Okay,” she said clearly.

Will looked up, confused.

“‘Okay’, what?” he said, puzzled.

“Okay,” Joyce repeated, rushing on before she could change her own mind. “You can stay here alone.”

Will dropped his pencil, stunned.

He honestly hadn’t expected that.

A moment later, he was on his feet again.

“Oh my God, thank you!” Will babbled excitedly, running across the room. Joyce quickly found herself the recipient of a very tight hug, which was surprising, given her son’s small stature.

“Okay,” she said, chuckling, hugging him back. She then placed both her hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length. Her voice became stern. “But listen. You will call me if anything happens.”

“Totally!” he reassured her, nodding rapidly. “I promise!”

“I mean it, Will,” she stressed, pointing a finger at him in what she clearly thought was a serious manner. All it did was make Will grin, although he tried to hide it so that she could save face. She clearly wasn’t used to having to lay down the law with him. “If you so much as get a papercut, I want to know about it right away!”

“You want me to wrap myself in bubble wrap too?” Will sassed back, rolling his eyes, although he continued to smile. He loved his mom but her overprotectiveness was starting to get to him. That didn’t mean he wanted to say the wrong thing and ruin his one chance at something resembling freedom in months though.

“Well, actually-” she started teasingly before cutting herself and laughing at Will’s incredulous look. “I know, okay? Sorry. I’m not trying to smother you. Just…stay near the phone, okay? I worry about you! Especially after…what happened today.”

Will felt his smile falter and his mom, seeing it, looked apologetic.

Without thinking, Will lifted his hand and inspected his slightly swollen finger, the result of his latest run-in with Troy Walsh. The other boy had snatched a pencil out of his hand and, in the ensuing scuffle to get it back, the bully had bent one of Will’s fingers back a little too far. After returning home, his mom (after darkly muttering about the earful the principal would receive from her), had quickly wrapped the injury in an elastic bandage.

“It doesn’t even hurt anymore!” he insisted, waving his injured hand as proof. He was lying, of course, but she couldn’t know that.

She looked skeptical.

“Well, anyway,” Joyce sighed, before repeating her stipulations. “Stay near the phone. Got it?”

“I will!” he pledged, giving her a mocking salute with his good hand that made her huff another laugh. Suddenly, Will giggled and tapped himself on the chest. “Get it? ‘I will?’” He paused and waited for her to laugh and when she disappointed him, he went on. “ You know? Because my name is-?”

“Yeah, I got it, Will,” Joyce muttered, trying not to let him see her snickering as she turned away to grab her car keys. Where the hell did she put them?

She found them, after a thorough investigation, in the bathroom sink (and how they got there was anyone’s guess).

With her keys in hand, she turned back to her son, who was waiting by the door, looking impatient. She snorted at his expression.

“Almost feels like you’re trying to get rid of me,” she teased him. She adopted a falsely wounded voice. “And I thought you loved me.”

“I do love you,” he assured her, steadfastly ignoring her tone. He assisted her by opening the door and shepherding her across the threshold. Once she stood outside, he finished his statement, smirking. “But you need to get the hell out.”

Her offended face quickly vanished behind the door, which Will had slammed shut.

“Language!” he heard her call through the door, sounding torn between amusement and irritation.

“Bye!” he shouted cheekily, smiling wide and waving at her through the living room window, through which he could see her playfully glaring at him and shaking her head fondly.

Will watched with rapt attention as his mother got into her car and, with a final wave, backed out of the dirt driveway and shot down the road toward town, leaving only a thick cloud of whirling sand in her wake.

Will released the breath that he hadn’t even been aware he was holding. His mouth curved into a radiant smile until, not believing that expressed his excitement adequately, Will allowed his mouth to split into a wide grin.

He was alone at last.

Will pumped his fists (barely wincing at the reminder) before he let out a joyful cry that filled the whole house. He ran across the room and leaped onto the couch, letting himself sprawl across it.

Will grinned at the ceiling, feeling drunk with exhilaration.

This must be what freed convicts feel like, he thought happily.

His mind was a whir as he went over all the possible fun activities he could do. He sat up suddenly as one occurred to him.

Leaving the sofa, Will virtually skipped down the hallway into his and Jonathan's shared bedroom. He didn’t hesitate before crossing over to Jon's side of the room. His brother wasn’t that type of person. He wouldn’t mind Will looking through his things, even if he was away.

Crossing the room, Will quickly found the desired cassette and inserted it into the stereo. He bobbed his head as the familiar lyrics filled the room and Will turned the volume dial until he knew it would echo around the house.

Leaving the door open, Will raced back into the living room and began dancing (what? It had been a while since he’d been alone) animatedly to the music that now bounced off every wall.

Deciding to make a proper party out of tonight, Will only briefly hesitated before he broke from his dancing and wandered into the kitchen to acquire the cookies that he knew his mother tried (and failed) to hide from them.

Will glared at the Tupperware container, which observed him smugly from its place on top of the fridge.

Will really hated being short.

Muttering darkly about his less than ideal height and wishing fervently that Mike was here, Will dragged a chair away from its position at the table until he could use it to reach his bounty, which he swiftly did.

He helped himself to a chocolate chip cookie and carried the container with him back to the table, sitting down to continue his drawing as he munched contently.

He picked up his pencil to continue when the sound of the ringing phone ripped through the air.

Will blinked before scowling.

Seriously? he thought, annoyed. Is she even at the store yet? How is that possible?

Will huffed and jumped up from his chair, snatching the phone off the wall.

"No papercuts yet!" he snapped into the mouthpiece, not even caring if he sounded bratty. They had a deal.

“Umm…that’s good?” came the voice of a very confused Mike Wheeler.

Will froze, his irritation at his mom’s babying rapidly vanishing.

Shit.

Shit!

Mike!

“Mike,” Will breathed into the phone, wide-eyed. “Um…hey.”

“Expecting someone else?” Mike teased him and Will blushed. Thank God Mike couldn’t see him.

“Well, you know,” he rushed to explain to the inquisitive older boy. “My mom is, well…you know.”

“Yeah, I-” Mike started before stopping. His voice had been progressively getting louder. “Is that music?”

Will blanched and, cursing internally, he chirped out a quick “one second!” before leaving the phone dangling and sprinting to his bedroom to click the stereo off.

He returned to the phone mere seconds later.

“Sorry about that,” Will apologized, his chest feeling oddly fluttery.

“Was that ‘Boys Don’t Cry’?” Mike inquired curiously, snickering slightly at how out of breath Will sounded.

“Maybe,” Will responded after a moment, having caught his breath in the meantime. He twisted one of his fingers around the cord, an anxious tic.

“Well, okay then,” Mike replied, the mirth in his voice bleeding through the phone. “Sounds like you’re having fun. I guess I’ll just-”

“Don’t you dare hang up!” Will demanded. “I just ran a marathon for you!"

“Guess you got your exercise for the day then,” Mike shot back. “I was going to say you should bike over here and we could rewatch Poltergeist. Think you have the energy?”

“You convinced Dustin to rewatch Poltergeist?” Will said, amused. “How’d you manage that?”

“Dustin and Lucas aren’t here,” Mike revealed, sounding strangely…nervous? “I thought maybe it could just be us. If you…if you want?”

Will’s heart leapt into his throat and he opened his mouth to agree, but then bit his lip as he remembered.

“I…I can’t, Mike,” Will answered, defeated. “My mom has me on house arrest.”

“Oh…yeah,” Mike replied, understanding. Will hated that he sounded so deflated. “That’s…that’s okay then.”

Will gritted his teeth. For a second, he considered agreeing to come anyway, considered hopping on his bike and violating his mother’s rules. But…he couldn’t. Not only would his mom be furious (after losing her mind with worry when she came home to an empty house), but it would also spell the end of any leeway she might have given him. Will thought her overprotectiveness was bad presently, but that would be nothing compared to how she would react if Will were to disregard her rules now. Hell, she might even put him on a leash.

“I’m really sorry, Mike,” Will said softly, regretful.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Mike said, trying to sound upbeat. “Some other time, right? I just…I don’t know. I’ve…not been feeling great lately.”

Now Will felt even worse.

More than anyone else in the Party (excluding Will, who had never met her), Mike was grieving the death of the girl they had all known as Eleven (or “El,” as Mike had shortened it to). Dustin and Lucas seemed convinced that Mike had…feelings for her, but Will knew it was something else. Mike was the Party leader and keeping Eleven, who had been declared its newest member during his time in the Upside Down (which Will swore he wasn’t bitter about. He wasn’t.) safe had been Mike’s responsibility.

And in his eyes, he had failed.

Which, naturally, was bullshit, but Will had already told Mike that a thousand times with little success.

Will was grieving her too, in his own way. When the others had told him about her, he had been surprised. When she had found him in the Upside Down, huddled in that plane’s warped version of Castle Byers, he had thought she was a dream, some last hallucination conjured up by his slowly dying mind.

But she had been real.

And she had died defeating the monster that had stolen him from his friends and family.

He was both grateful to her and sad that he had never gotten to meet her, even to thank her.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Will returned to his kitchen and tried to reassure Mike.

“I promise I’ll talk to my mom when she gets back,” he vowed. “We’ll figure out a time to hang out soon. I…I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Mike snorted at his friend’s phrasing, but was heartened. It helped that he knew Will genuinely felt bad, that it wasn’t his friend’s choice to decline a hangout, but due to the mechanisms of Joyce Byers.

“I look forward to hearing how negotiations go,” Mike said, attempting to sound solemn.

Will giggled.

“Thanks for the support,” Will shot back. “Okay, well…sorry again. Bye, Mike!”

“Farewell, cleric!” Mike shouted back dramatically, before pausing, waiting for Will's usual response.

"I bid thee well, brave paladin," Will responded, granting Mike's unspoken request.

He hung up, still grinning.

He stood in front of the phone for a moment, trying to think of what to do. He thought about returning to his drawing, but suddenly didn't feel like it.

Just as he was considering watching television, the sound of someone knocking on the door cut sharply through the air.

Will turned around and eyed the front entrance cautiously. His face was scrunched up in confusion.

Had his mom forgotten something?

Except…no. She had a key. She wouldn't knock.

Another knock came, louder, as though the person on the door's other side worried that their first hadn't been heard.

Will frowned but then internally shrugged.

He strode to the door and wrenched it open, blinking in surprise when he recognized the visitor.

"Hey, Will!" Bob Newby greeted him cheerfully. "How's it going?"

"It's, uh," Will said, still puzzled at this latest development. "I'm good."

"That's good to hear," Bob answered, sounding like he genuinely meant it. He shuffled a bit on his feet, anxious. "Is…is your mom home?"

Will sucked in a breath before letting it out slowly.

This was awkward.

"Uh, no," Will stammered, scratching the back of his neck. "She just went to work."

Bob clearly hadn't expected to hear that.

"Oh!" his face morphed first into a look of surprise, before changing to sadness, then acceptance. "Oh, okay." He waved a hand. "That's fine. I'll come back some other time."

Will wondered what had brought the man out here. He really hoped that his mom hadn't forgotten about a planned date.

Feeling strangely guilty, he quickly called after Bob, who, after waving goodbye, had begun to retreat to his car.

"You…you don't work today?" Will called out curiously.

Hearing him, Bob turned back around and, after processing the question, shook his head.

"Nah," he replied. "The Shack's closed on Sundays."

"Oh," Will said. The guilt was still nagging at him, though he knew it was probably irrational. "Are you going to do anything today?"

Bob tilted his head, thinking, before shaking it.

"No, probably not," he replied, shrugging.

Well, now Will was all but certain that his mom had forgotten about a planned date. Bob had probably cleared his day and now had nothing to do.

Which was what persuaded Will to ask his next query.

"Do you want to stay?" he blurted out, feeling embarrassed when Bob looked startled. "You don't have to! I just…I figured if you have nothing to do…"

Bob weighed his options, ultimately nodding in agreement.

"Sure," he said, his usual crooked smile returning to his face. "Why not?"

Will held the door open as Bob gingerly stepped inside. The man looked nervous and Will realized that, though he had visited before, this was probably the first time Bob had ventured into their house without his mom.

"Um," Will said, fidgeting with his hands, blushing when Bob turned to look at him. "Do you want something?"

He gestured towards the kitchen, feeling foolish. He wasn't used to playing the host. That was typically his mom's (or if she was absent, Jonathan's) job.

Bob must have realized that because he waved off his offer.

"Oh no, that's alright!" Bob said contently, chuckling. "I'm good for now."

His eyes were trailing around the house and, stopping at the kitchen table, they lit up when they spotted Will's abandoned project.

"What are you working on?" Bob asked, nodding towards the table.

"Oh, uh," Will said, even more fiddly than before. He wasn't used to anyone outside his family or the Party asking about his art. "Just a new sketch of my character."

Bob nodded and offered him a slight smile.

"Will the Wise, right?" he recalled. "And you're a…cleric?"

He looked at Will questioningly, wondering if he'd gotten the term right. Will tried not to laugh at the man's worried look as he nodded.

Apparently, he didn't do a good enough job, because Bob smiled sheepishly.

"I don't know much about these new things you kids are into," he explained, sounding just a tad defensive. He gestured to Will's drawing. "Honestly, I can't even talk to you about that stuff. I was never much of an artist."

"It's okay," Will assured him, snickering. He turned around to return to the table before a thought occurred to him. He spun around to face Bob, his expression suddenly hard.

"My mom didn't send you to spy on me, did she?" Will asked, sounding accusing.

Bob held up his hands, looking surprised at Will's sudden shift in tone.

"No!" Bob protested. "I swear, I thought she was home." He stopped and then suddenly smirked. "Why? Were you doing something you shouldn't have been?"

Will crossed his arms. Now he felt defensive.

"No!" he said, sputtering. "Of course not!"

Bob's gaze wandered, finding the open Tupperware container of cookies on the table, before drifting back to Will and spotting something that looked suspiciously like chocolate smeared under the boy's lip.

"Of course not," Bob repeated, pursing his lips to keep from laughing outright.

"Right," Will said, still looking oddly like a ruffled kitten. He spun back around and reclaimed his seat at the table.

Bob followed him slowly, not wanting to intrude on Will's territory.

Will noticed and immediately felt bad.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I just thought…well…you know?"

Bob chuckled lightly and nodded in understanding.

"Yeah, I do," he said. "You know she doesn't do that because of you, right? She just worries."

"Yeah, I know," Will mumbled and he did. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Bob chuckled again, electing to take a seat across from Will.

They didn't exchange words for a few minutes. Bob seemed content to stare off into space. He was particularly skilled in the art of daydreaming, while Will's talents lay in more visual arts. He made smooth, gentle additions to his drawing, the sound of lead gliding across the paper a soothing background noise.

Will was so lost in perfecting his creation that he momentarily forgot his earlier injury and, shifting to get a better position in his chair, his bandaged finger pressed against the tabletop and he winced.

Bob noticed, breaking from his trance at what he perceived as trouble.

"You alright?" he asked. Scanning him, the man quickly spotted Will's injury. "Yikes! What happened there?"

"Oh…nothing," Will stuttered out, trying to think up an excuse, an exercise that quickly ended when he spotted Bob's expression. It was sincere, genuine. After debating for a moment, Will decided to simply tell him the truth. Bob wasn't his mom. He wouldn't smother him. And he also knew that, from what Bob had said, the man was no stranger to being picked on. "This, uh, this other kid sprained it. He sort of…likes messing with me, I guess."

Bob scowled, a look that he so seldom wore that Will couldn't help but think that it almost felt wrong to see on his face.

"Aw, jeez," Bob shook his head, affronted. "I hate bullies."

“Me too,” Will said dryly, shooting him a grin despite the subject matter.

Bob responded with his own before he became serious again.

“Does it hurt badly?” Bob asked delicately.

Will shrugged before deciding to be completely truthful. He nodded. It was still throbbing a little.

Bob bit his lip in thought before he stood up from the table and made his way to the fridge, opening the freezer portion and retrieving a frozen bag of vegetables at random. He then rummaged through one of the drawers for a washcloth, eventually bringing both items back to the table.

He wrapped the bag with the cloth and gave it to Will.

“There,” Bob said, quirking his mouth. “That should help. Surprised your mom didn’t do that herself.”

Holding the bag to his finger and finding that, though cold, it did help with the pain, Will shrugged again.

“I might have told her it stopped hurting a while ago,” he muttered, feeling embarrassed.

Bob just laughed softly.

“Yeah, I get that,” he said, nodding. “I didn’t like telling my parents how often I got hassled either.”

“It wouldn’t be an issue,” Will remarked wryly. “If he’d just leave me alone.”

Bob heaved a sigh, nodding in agreement.

“Unfortunately,” he informed him, sounding slightly bitter himself, “that seems to be the one thing that bullies just never seem to want to do.”

“Yeah, I know,” Will said, growing more frustrated as he thought more about it. “I’m just an easy target, I guess.”

Bob actually scoffed.

“What?” he said, sounding flabbergasted. “Will, no! That’s not what this kid’s deal is.”

Will tore his gaze away from his drawing and focused on Bob, feeling confused.

Bob saw this and sighed.

“Will,” he pressed. “Do you know why guys like…what’s this kid’s name?”

“Troy,” Will supplied, wondering where this was going.

“Do you know why guys like Troy mess with guys like you?” Bob questioned him.

“Let me guess,” Will said, rolling his eyes. He’d heard this talk before from teachers who thought they were helping. “Is it because they’re hurting themselves and just need someone to care about them?”

“God, no!” Bob countered, sounding almost offended at Will’s suggestion. “I mean, in some cases, sure. But with some guys, and I’m presuming Troy falls into this category, it’s because…do you know what the word ‘revolutionary’ means?”

Will blinked at the abrupt change of topic before screwing up his face, thinking.

“Um, maybe?” Will said. He was pretty sure he knew that word from his history class. “Isn’t that…isn’t that someone who tries to overthrow the government?”

Bob snorted, grinning slightly.

“That’s one definition,” he told Will. “But it can also just mean someone who’s unhappy with…the current system, the way things are. Someone who wants to change things and has the power to do so.”

Will raised his eyebrows, still puzzled.

“Okay,” he responded. “And you’re spouting off the dictionary because…?”

“Because you are a revolutionary, Will!” Bob proclaimed. “You are one of those people who wants things to change and has the ability to do it!”

Will was absolutely floored. He started shaking his head.

“No, I’m not,” he protested. “I don’t have ‘power.’ I’m just-”

“Will Byers,” Bob finished confidently. “You don’t think you’re special? Look at that!”

He pointed at Will’s drawing, which was still half-formed but was steadily taking shape.

“That is special, Will,” Bob argued, nodding even as Will was visibly disagreeing. “Yes, it is! And where did that come from? You! Your talent makes you special, Will! It’s going to change the world!”

Will blushed. He wasn’t used to hearing such passionate praise for his artwork. That sort of thing usually came from Mike.

“And people like Troy,” Bob continued. “They can sense that you’re special. That you’re a revolutionary. It’s like a-” he cut off, gesturing sporadically, trying to think of a proper analogy. He found one. “Like a radio signal! It’s invisible, but people can hear it from miles away. It’s like that. People like Troy sense it too.”

“So,” Will drawled out. “He beats me up because-?”

“Because he’s nothing,” Bob spat out harshly and Will blinked at the man’s ferocity. The usually gentle, even timid Bob Newby had been replaced by someone else.

Bob noticed Will’s startled look and his expression somewhat softened.

“Sorry,” he explained, fidgeting with his own hands now, seemingly worried he’d scared Will. “It’s just…I told you: I hate bullies.”

“No, it’s okay,” Will replied, shrugging. “You don’t hear me disagreeing.”

Bob chuckled before moving back to his explanation.

“He’s nothing,” Bob repeated, sounding calmer now. “And he knows it too. He knows that someone like you is going places while he’s stuck in one place, so…he hates you for it.”

Will thought about that for a second.

“That’s stupid,” Will decided. “Him hating me, I mean. It’s dumb.”

Bob snickered and nodded.

“Well,” he shot back. “Nobody ever accused bullies of being smart.”

They both smirked at each other.

They both sat there for a moment. Will took the time to absorb what Bob had told him. If the man was right, and something told Will that he was, then Troy’s reasoning for picking on him was even dumber than he had originally thought. He had always just assumed it was because he was weaker, smaller, scrawnier, making him a prime candidate for being harassed. But if Troy really hated him for being a…revolutionary, then…

Then he’s an even bigger dipshit than I thought, Will thought, snorting. And I seriously didn’t think that was possible.

“Of course,” Bob spoke up, waving a hand, breaking Will from his thoughts. “He might have different reasons for going after different people. Like your other friend…Lucas, is it? He, well, you know.”

Will scowled. He did know.

Troy wasn’t just a dipshit. He was a bigoted dipshit.

“All your friends are, actually,” Bob mused aloud and at Will’s questioning look, clarified. “You’re all revolutionaries. Not surprising. They tend to band together.”

Will thought about it and agreed. He still wasn’t sure about himself but Mike? Mike was definitely going to change the world someday.

“Mike invited me over, you know,” Will revealed to Bob, twirling his pencil between his fingers. “He wanted to watch a movie. But I told him I couldn’t because, well…”

Will gestured to his surroundings before trying to distract himself from the sad direction his thoughts had taken by focusing on his drawing.

Bob watched him thoughtfully for a few moments, observed Will’s downtrodden look and his slumped shoulders.

He sighed resignedly.

“Okay,” Bob spoke up. Will looked up and Bob made sure they maintained eye contact, made sure Will knew he was serious. “Listen to me. I…I will bring you over there if…hey, listen!”

Bob broke off. Will had shot to his feet and looked ready to sprint for the car. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. He knew Bob was telling the truth and was already impatient. He froze and tried to appear polite as he waited for Bob to finish laying out his conditions.

“I will bring you over there,” Bob reiterated, trying to withhold his smirk at the sight of a clearly restless Will. “But you need to promise me that you will listen to Mike’s parents. You will not go anywhere else. You will stay at Mike’s house. You will be polite and respectf-why am I even saying this? It’s you. Of course you’ll do all that. Just…try to follow your mom’s rules the best you can.”

“All she said was that I had to stay near a phone,” Will recited, smirking. He could already see a loophole.

Bob saw it too.

“Well,” he said, shrugging. “You can stay near Mike’s phone.”

Will giggled, giddy that Bob was giving him permission.

“If your mom gets mad at you,” Bob warned. “Just blame it on me. I’ll handle it. Although…I’ll be calling her anyway. After we get there. Let me explain it, okay?”

Will nodded rapidly, inching towards the door.

“And if your mom says to come home after the movie, that is what you do, okay?” Bob said sternly. “We’re already bending the rules to their limit. We can’t do much else without just breaking them.”

“Okay!” Will agreed before he was struck by a realization, trying to hide a triumphant grin. “But…she won’t. It’ll be late. She’ll probably just tell me to stay there.”

“Oh, will she?” Bob said, smirking, sounding totally unsurprised. “Well, then, like I said, that’s what you do.”

Will was ecstatic. He felt like fireworks were going off in his chest.

He couldn’t wait to see Mike.

His jubilation was evident on his face and Bob couldn’t find the heart to deny him any longer.

“Alright, let’s go!” he commanded, jangling his car keys in his hand as he led the way. “You have a rendezvous with a fellow revolutionary to get to!”

Will came back to the present and found himself alone on the couch.

He sat up slowly, taking stock of his surroundings.

Where was Mike?

“Hey!” Mike called, appearing in the archway leading to the kitchen. Mike regarded his surprised husband with amusement. “Good to see you’re back from your trip down memory lane. You didn’t provide me with a travel itinerary, so I didn’t know how long you’d be.”

“Gee, thanks,” Will shot back sarcastically, rolling his eyes and standing up from the couch, wincing at what the prolonged position had done to his back. “How long was I gone?”

“Well,” Mike announced, smirking. “Let’s just say our assemblage over the airwaves will begin in a few minutes.”

“Oh my God, seriously?” Will gasped, glancing at his wristwatch (which was a copy of Mike’s) to find that his husband was right. “Jesus Christ!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mike said, chuckling as he crossed the room to put his arms around his husband. “You didn’t miss anything that important.”

Will smiled and both men leaned in, meeting in the middle for a light kiss.

“God, really?”

They broke apart abruptly and looked over to find Jonas staring at them with an expression of anger and…something else that neither man could name. He was holding the cake in his arms and had evidently just returned, though neither man had heard him enter.

“Why do you have to-?” Jonas started, stuttering, sounding frustrated. “Why can’t you just-? I-I can’t. I can’t fucking do this.”

Dropping the cake on the coffee table, the teen retreated, running past his extremely confused parents and up the stairs. The eventual sound of a door slamming told them that Jonas had sealed himself in his room.

The two men slowly looked away from the stairs to focus on each other, both thinking the same thing:

What the hell was that?

"Wha-?" Mike began, cutting off to frown. "What was that about?"

"I…don't know," Will responded quietly, glancing back to the stairs. "Maybe we should go find out?"

"You don't think-" Mike started, chewing at his lip anxiously. "I mean…he's never said anything negative, but-"

"Mike," Will interjected, wanting to shut down this seed of doubt before it had a chance to take root. "Jonas has never had a problem with our relationship or our family. I doubt he's going to suddenly turn into a raging homophobe now. This…this is something else."

"But he said-" Mike protested, looking worried, only to be cut off by Will again.

"Mike, I know what he said," the cleric interrupted. "But it was all super vague. And besides, you saw the look on his face. He's probably pissed about something and it was a heat of the moment thing. Let's…let's give him a few minutes to calm down."

Mike still looked worried, but nodded in agreement.

"Let's get set up here," Will suggested, gesturing to the cake. Both of them needed something to do as a distraction and Mike seized it.

Mike tore into the package and removed four paper plates, setting the stack on the table, before moving to take the cover off the cake so that he could begin cutting it. Will, meanwhile, was hooking his tablet up to the TV. Neither of them fancied the idea of hunching around the device during the call.

He was just in time. Mere seconds after Will had finished ensuring that everything was in working order, the TV sounded off with a ring.

Tapping the answer button, Will smiled as the first guest arrived, his head appearing on screen.

"This is Gold Leader," Dustin announced, grinning back at them. "Does anyone copy?"

Despite the seriousness of what had just transpired under their roof, Will couldn't help but snicker.

"Red Five, standing by," he quipped back, causing a smirk to form on Mike's face and making Dustin's grin widen.

"Will the Wise!" Dustin crowed, spreading his arms, his eyes then moving to Mike and dipping his head in a regal manner. “And our noble Party leader! How are you? How is the Byers-Wheeler clan today?”

They both hesitated and the bard saw it, but before he could inquire further, the TV was ringing again and, glad for the distraction, Will quickly answered.

At the sight of the newest arrival, Dustin gasped dramatically.

“Is that Lucas Sinclair?” he said, sounding like a man who had spotted a friend in the grocery store and was delighted for a chance to catch up. “It is! How’s it going, pal?”

Lucas sighed in resignation, already looking like he regretted making this call.

“Hey, Dustin,” he responded wearily. “How’s the wife and dog?”

Before Dustin could comment, he was cut off by a pointed voice.

"Both can speak for themselves," El insisted, appearing on camera, her eyebrows raised. She was holding the couple's chihuahua in her arms, holding him up so he could look at the camera. "Say hi, Dorian!"

Dorian growled at the audience, unhappy with his temporary imprisonment.

"So polite," El muttered and released her captive, who instantly bounded from the room. She glanced back at the camera and grinned, waving. "Hi guys!"

"Hey, mage!" Mike called out, still snickering from the show. "How's it going?"

"I'm good!" she responded enthusiastically. "You?"

Naturally, it was then, when she had an opportunity to cut Mike off, that Max made herself known.

"I'm doing great, by the way," she said, appearing at Lucas' side, looking disgruntled. "In case anyone cared."

Lucas reached out and squeezed her shoulder, sending her an apologetic look.

"Our zoomer!" Dustin yelled, causing El to wince and shoot him a look. "We are truly blessed to have you with us!"

"Yeah, yeah," Max murmured, feigning indifference but smiling softly. "Is everyone here?"

Mike and Will glanced at each other, wondering what they should tell them.

"Jonas and Maia are both in their rooms," Will settled on diplomatically. "They should be down soon."

The awkwardness did not go unnoticed, and Mike saw Lucas open his mouth, looking concerned, but Dustin cut him off.

"We're also waiting on-" his voice was drowned out by more ringing and he stopped and flashed a grin. "Them."

Answering the call, everyone was treated to an extremely close-up view of Jim Hopper's face.

"Hey everyone!" his rumbling voice boomed out at them, causing them all to wince. "How's everybody doing today? I hope you-"

"Dad!" El mercifully intervened for the sake of her hearing. "You don't have to talk so loud. You can just use a normal speaking voice."

"Oh," he said, sounding embarrassed, his voice much quieter. "Sorry about that."

"You also don't have to be so close to the screen," Joyce's amused voice commented from off camera.

Everyone exchanged smirks while Hopper adjusted himself, eventually appearing a normal distance away from the screen with a sheepish expression.

"Right," he muttered. "Damn technology. Hello everyone! Honey, come say hi!"

Joyce appeared at the edge of the screen and waved to them all.

"Hi, kids!" she greeted them cheerfully, refusing as always to acknowledge the fact that they were, in fact, not kids anymore. "Look who's here!"

Will smirked, already knowing.

Joyce moved Hopper's laptop so that everyone could take in the sight of Jonathan and Nancy sitting on the couch. The couple waved at them.

"Who are you?" Mike called out teasingly, addressing his sister, causing her to roll her eyes.

"Someone who loves you," she responded. "At least for now. The day’s still young."

Mike gasped in mock offense and opened his mouth to retort. Seeking to impede a sibling squabble, Dustin cut in.

"So," he announced. "We meet again at last. Another Father's Day."

That sobered the room.

Silence fell.

Mike broke it.

"You know," Mike sighed, leaning back on the couch. "Every year…it's just a reminder, you know? About my dad, about…how he didn't really act like one."

Nancy was nodding in agreement. Next to him, Mike felt Will squeeze his shoulder.

Dustin had a strange look on his face before speaking.

"It's different for me," he commented, nodding to himself. "I…well, you know. I have no memory of my father. I never knew him."

A few smiles broke out at the reference, including one on Dustin's face.

"He wasn't there," Dustin went on, shrugging. "Which meant he was perfect. I…I don't miss him. You can't miss what you never had, right?"

There were a few murmurs of agreement.

"Still," he said, shrugging again. "I know that there were times when having him around would have made things…easier. On me and my mom, I mean. He was supposed to be there. That was the plan. But…plans change."

Everyone was silent, watching Dustin as he sighed and then smiled.

"But that's fine," he told them. "My mom and I made it work, even if that meant she had to pick up the slack that he probably would have. Like-" he stopped and grinned to himself, a memory coming to him. "Do you guys remember when I learned how to shave?"

Everyone snickered as they recalled the memory. Mike and Will shot smirks at each other. They both remembered the bard being covered in a decent amount of cuts when he had told them, which he had been appropriately heckled for, mostly by Lucas and Max.

Dustin leaned back in the seat, his gaze seemingly fixed on a point beyond the screen as he remembered that day himself.

“Son of a bitch!”

Dustin growled in frustration and threw the razor. It sailed across the small room, coming apart when it hit the wall.

He had cut himself.

Again.

He threw a glare at the reprehensible razor, which mocked him from where it lay on the floor.

"Piece of shit," he muttered.

This was dumb. Shaving was dumb. It was pointless and only caused pain and it just made him want to scream at the world.

Like his English class.

Was shaving even necessary? What was wrong with everyone walking around looking like Wookies?

Dustin leaned toward the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection, wincing when he saw the blood oozing slowly down his cheek.

He knew he should have just asked Steve.

Sighing, he turned to go retrieve the razor when he heard a sharp knock on the bathroom door.

"Dusty?" his mother's anxious voice called out from the other side of the door. "Are you in there?"

"Don't come in!" Dustin shouted, panicking, swiping at his face and grimacing when he saw the red on his hand. "I'm…peeing!"

"Well, hurry!" she pleaded with him. "I have to go too!'

"Mom!" he shot back, exasperated. He was frantically searching in the cabinet beneath the sink for bandages, seizing the box when he saw the familiar brand. "My body operates on its own timetable. You can't rush it!"

"I'm not-" she started. Her ears were picking up some of the racket produced by her son. "What's going on in there?"

"Nothing!" he assured her. He moved over to the sink, turning on the faucet to sell the ruse as he attempted to cover one of his many, many injuries. "I'm just washing my hands!"

That, as it turned out, was a mistake.

"Sweetie, can you finish in-?" his mother requested as she swung open the door, stopping short when she saw her son clearly not washing his hands.

"Dusty, what-?" her confused gaze scanned the room, taking in the open box of Band-Aids on the floor next to the open cabinet, causing her eyes to immediately dart back to her son, where she took in numerous small cuts on his face. Growing alarmed, she stepped fully into the room. "Oh my goodness! Dusty, sweetie, what happened?!"

"Nothing!" Dustin insisted, mind scrambling. I…fell!"

Okay, so maybe he wasn't the best liar.

Shooting him a look of clear disbelief, Claudia Henderson gestured to her son's face.

"Dusty, what happened?" she repeated, sounding distressed. "Tell me!"

"I-" he tried to think up a believable excuse, but none came to mind. Against his will, Dustin's eyes shot over to the corner of the room, where the pieces of the razor lay, laughing at his predicament.

His mom saw it.

Turning to look, she noticed the razor for the first time.

Everything came together.

"Oh," she realized. Oddly, she was smiling. Not one of mockery, but one of fondness. Maybe sadness too. This was a sign of the end of her son's childhood, in a way. "You were…trying to shave."

"Yeah," Dustin grumbled, feeling embarrassed, though he didn't know why. This felt like a violation of some long-held rule. "'Trying' being the operative word."

She huffed a laugh.

"Well," she pointed out. "You're doing it wrong."

"Really?" Dustin sent back sarcastically, slightly irritated. "This isn't how it's supposed to go?"

She rolled her eyes fondly.

"First, you have to get your face wet," she informed him, tossing him a washcloth and directing him to run it under the faucet. "Warm water. Shaving with a dry face will make you bleed. Which I guess you already know."

He shot her a scowl.

Ignoring him, she gestured that he should run the washcloth over his face.

"Once your face is wet," she told him. "You should use some sort of moisturizer. Maybe a lotion. It will soften the hairs. Make things easier."

He nodded and followed her directions, using the face cream he often saw her applying in the mornings.

After he had done this, his mom went and retrieved something that had been sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

"This is called shaving cream," she explained. "And as the name implies, you should have been using it already."

He snatched it from her and stuck his finger into the substance, bringing it to his nose to sniff.

"Put it on your face," she said pointedly. "And keep scrubbing at your face until it's all…lathery."

"This feels weird," Dustin complained. His face felt all cold and tingly and he looked like Santa Claus. Or, more accurately, an elf who'd grown tired of slaving away for his corporate, cookie-loving master and was trying to steal his job.

His mother wasn't paying attention. She bent down and retrieved the razor from the floor, snapping the two pieces back together and rinsing it in the sink.

"Now when you shave," she instructed. "Go with the hair. Don't apply too much pressure. Let the razor blade do the work. Do short, quick strokes. And when you're done, rinse off with cold water and moisturize again."

She watched as Dustin did his best to follow all her instructions, not wanting to mess up in front of her.

He managed the process without adding another cut to his collection.

When he was finished, he let out a delighted whoop, feeling satisfied.

"I did it!" he announced, catching his grinning face in the mirror and giving himself a thumbs up. He spun around and tackled his mom with a hug. "Thank you!"

She laughed slightly and hugged him back, squeezing tightly.

Breaking apart, he looked at her, confused.

"How'd you know all that?" he asked her, puzzled.

She snorted.

"Ladies have to shave too, Dusty," she said, shaking her head at his naivety. "And…I remembered some tips I overheard from…your father."

Dustin's head jerked up, surprised.

They didn't really talk about his dad. He had died of a heart attack when Dustin was only two. He didn't really remember him.

"When you were born," she said quietly, more to herself than him. "We sat down and made all these plans. Typical parents, I guess. We wanted to plan out your whole life."

She laughed slightly and Dustin joined her. It was a pretty ludicrous exercise.

Nobody could plan out something like that.

Life was too unpredictable.

"I think," she speculated, "that he probably would have been the one to teach you all this just now. But…plans change."

Dustin suddenly realized what the source of his earlier embarrassment had been.

A subconscious part of him, the one that carried all the biases and subliminal messages that got caught in his brain as he went about his day, collected from television and the radio and magazines, was telling him to be. They were telling him that teaching a son how to shave was a father's responsibility.

Screw that, Dustin thought fiercely.

His mother seemed to have similar thoughts.

"Well," she said, her voice sounding strained. "Maybe we don't do things the way they're 'supposed' to be done, but we get by. That's enough, right?"

He smiled gently and went in for another hug.

"Yeah," Dustin whispered, voice muffled. "That's more than enough."

They broke apart again and she beamed at him, eyes misty.

He gestured to his face, grateful that his cuts had closed up.

"I'm going to go show my friends," he said excitedly.

She chuckled at his enthusiasm.

"Okay," she agreed, nodding. "Don't be back too late."

"I won't," he answered softly. "I promise."

He left her and made his way outside, heading for his bike. He was going over what he would say to his friends.

He couldn't wait to tell them about his new experience.

And about who he had shared it with.

Dustin came back to the sound of arguing.

“Don’t be stupid!” Max was saying, arguing with an incredulous Mike. “Look, I’ll admit: Denbrough’s good. Really good, even. But calling him ‘the best’? Are you kidding me? The guy can’t write a decent ending to save his life!”

“She’s got you there, Dad,” Maia said, appearing in the room and having heard the end of Max’s comment. She bounced over to the couch and sat beside Mike, frowning when she looked around and found someone missing. “Where’s Jonas?”

Mike and Will bit their lips, looking uneasy. On the coffee table, their pieces of cake sat untouched. Neither of them had wanted to partake. The dessert only reminded them of what had happened.

“He’s in his room,” Mike told her, watching his words due to their audience. “He…might not be joining us.”

Maia frowned, confused, before muttering to herself and disappearing upstairs once more, presumably to check on her brother.

Mike could feel the burning eyes of their audience pressing on him, wondering.

"Uh," Dustin spoke up, his eyebrows at his hairline. "Is everything okay?"

Mike sighed and looked at Will. They engaged in their signature "eye-talking," before Will indicated that Mike should take the lead.

"He-" Mike said, trying to figure out how best to explain. He was still so confused himself. "He walked in…while we were kissing and…got mad, I guess?"

Everyone stared at the screen, looking disbelieving.

"Well, something's obviously wrong," Dustin alleged after a moment, looking troubled. That behavior did not fit his godson at all.

Mike huffed.

"Yeah, we gathered that," Mike muttered, his mouth twisting as he thought back on what had happened. "I just…I don't know why he'd say something like that, you know?"

"People act out of character when they're angry," Lucas reminded them, sounding distant. "Say and do things they wouldn't normally do."

"Why was he so angry though?" Mike asked, knowing it was a stupid question to ask. How would they know?

"It probably has nothing to do with you guys," Max interposed, leaning over to be seen. "Maybe something happened and he just couldn't keep it in."

Mike and Will considered that. It was a good point.

"He's in his room?" Hopper clarified and at their confirming nods, he nodded himself. "Then he wants to be alone. Let him. Respect his boundaries. He'll come out when he's ready."

"Just give him a chance to breathe," Lucas said. "Sometimes, that's all people need."

Suddenly, there was a sound of a crash from off screen. Lucas looked up, startled, before sighing.

"Give me a minute," he muttered, grinning slightly as he got up, Max claiming his spot in seconds.

Out of sight of the others, Lucas wandered down the hall, stopping outside the smallest bedroom and peering inside.

Standing with her back facing him, a small girl stood before a messy pile of blocks. Lucas chuckled as he deduced what had likely happened.

The smile fell from his face a moment later when, showing a rare display of her mother's temper, the girl yelled in frustration and began furiously kicking at the blocks, causing a few of them to be flung against the wall.

Eyes widening, Lucas was across the room in a split second, wrapping his arms around his daughter's shoulders from behind and hugging her against his body, holding her tighter as she struggled.

"Astra, hey!" he told her, leaning close to her ear. "It's alright! Just breathe! Breathe, little star. It's fine! It's just a tower! It's fine."

Astra's yelling had stopped and she twisted her head around to look at him, scowling.

"It fell!" she bit out, gesturing to the pile of blocks, her tone making it clear that she couldn't believe their audacity.

"I can see that," Lucas said, biting back a smile. "But that's not an excuse to be mean to the toys we’ve been blessed with."

She huffed before her shoulders slumped and she nodded.

"Sorry," she mumbled dejectedly.

"It's okay," he said, pulling her close and hugging her from behind. "We're not ourselves when we're angry. It's okay."

Astra was nodding, agreeing, but Lucas was somewhere else, thinking about when he had become someone else, because of his anger.

“Overpriced piece of shit!”

Lucas followed up his vexed declaration with a sharp kick to the machine, and the resultant noise that it produced was an oddly satisfying sound.

He glared at the “GAME OVER!” that flashed across the screen, taunting him.

He was out of lives and out of patience.

Lucas shoved his hand into his pocket, planning to fish a coin out, wipe the mocking message from the screen, and this time, this time, beat his girlfriend’s high score.

…Only to be met with nothing but lint.

Damn.

He was out of quarters too.

Lucas let out a long, drawn-out sigh, staring at the screen as he sulked. He gave the machine another kick. He needed to let out some frustration, and that was his unwilling target.

Unfortunately, the target had a bodyguard.

“Hey!” Keith had stood up from his perch on the stool behind the counter and was now glaring at Lucas, looking extremely annoyed. “Those things aren’t cheap, you know! Lay off! Not the game’s fault you suck!”

Lucas flipped him off.

Muttering under his breath, Keith settled back onto his stool and observed his unwanted guest with narrowed eyes.

Lucas turned back to the machine, wishing that he hadn’t burned through his allowance so quickly. He cast his eyes around, scrutinizing the floor for anything resembling coins, but it was a fruitless search.

With no other option but to quit (for now), Lucas (after stopping to send one more kick at the machine just to spite Keith) made his way out of the Palace Arcade, emerging into the summer afternoon, blinking rapidly to hasten the adjustment of his eyes to the bright sunlight.

He had been in there for a while.

He still had plenty of time left in the day, so Lucas considered his options.

Usually, if he had nothing to do, he would go see Max. Sadly, the zoomer was spending today helping her mom with chores and, though it was no longer a place forbidden for him to venture out to, thanks to the departure of Neil (and Billy, although he tried not to think too much about that part), he didn’t much fancy doing that. Besides, part of him didn’t want to encroach on Max spending what she considered quality time with her mom, even if that time included such envious tasks as folding laundry and pulling weeds (though Lucas didn’t understand the purpose behind that particular activity. They didn’t even have a garden).

With Max out, Lucas would usually turn to Dustin, but again, that possibility was a no-go. His friend was spending time with El doing…honestly, he didn’t really know. Probably another mini-lesson. Dustin enjoyed creating learning experiences, especially since El was eager for knowledge and soaked it up like a sponge.

He didn’t even consider Mike or Will. Saturday was their standing “date day.” The couple was still, in Lucas’ opinion, in their “honeymoon phase,” having gotten together a mere month ago, just a few weeks after Starcourt. Despite his slight irritation at how mushy they could be with each other, Lucas did think it was kind of sweet that they had established time to be together each week. It was actually something he had incorporated into his and Max’s relationship. Both Mike and Will were very strict adherents, refusing to bend any plans on Saturdays. Mike especially had made it abundantly clear that anyone who disrupted his time with his boyfriend would be banned from all future DnD sessions, with the date of expiration being up to the paladin's discretion.

So, with Max at home, Dustin and El unlocking new curiosity doors, and Mike and Will probably making out in the recently rebuilt Castle Byers, Lucas didn’t know what else he could do.

Who could he hang out with? Erica?

Lucas shuddered at the thought.

Ultimately, he shrugged his shoulders and decided to just bike home. Maybe his parents needed help too.

Grabbing his bike from the rack, Lucas got onto his bike and started pedaling slowly, gaining momentum until he rocketed out of the parking lot, turning in the direction that would take him home.

Lucas had just settled into a groove, pedaling at a relaxed pace, even whistling a soft tune, when he found his pathway blocked by two irksome interlopers.

“Well, would you look at that?” Troy Walsh called out mockingly to James Dante, who mirrored his stance on the other side of the road. “We found Midnight! And he’s all alone!”

Lucas groaned to himself.

He changed his mind. He’d rather be crouched awkwardly in Castle Byers, listening to Mike and Will sucking face than deal with these two idiots.

He thought about going off the road, maybe trying to go around them, but his bike wasn’t in the best condition. Lucas didn’t want to risk it.

The only way through was through.

He traveled on and oddly, they let him pass.

Instead, they pedaled alongside him, boxing him in.

“Hey Sinclair,” Troy said conversationally. “How’s it going?”

Lucas rolled his eyes but, seeing no alternative, played along.

“Oh, you know,” Lucas replied, fighting to keep his voice level. “It’s going. You?”

“Pretty bored, actually,” Troy confessed. “Not much to do in this shithole since the mall went up in flames, you know?”

“Yeah,” Lucas responded, finding himself actually agreeing (very reluctantly) with the other boy’s assessment. “Arcade’s nice, though it’s pretty empty these days. Just don’t kick the machines. Keith doesn’t like that.”

“Oh, fuck that guy,” Troy said, cackling. “Would you believe I’m banned from that place ‘cause I cracked one of the screens?”

“I would believe that, actually,” Lucas muttered, trying to keep his eyes straight ahead.

It was due to his tunnel vision that he failed to see Troy speeding up and suddenly swerving in front of him.

Panicking, Lucas jerked his handlebars too sharply to the right and was soon unceremoniously thrown from his vehicle, his bike collapsing on top of him.

He groaned with pain, already feeling stinging in a few choice places on his legs. He knew his right shoulder would soon have a rather large bruise decorating it.

Thank God he had landed in the grass.

Above him, Lucas could hear Troy snickering.

“You alright there, Sinclair?” Troy called out tauntingly after his laughter had subsided.

“I’ve felt better,” Lucas admitted, carefully moving his bike off of himself and shakily rising to his feet.

“I bet,” Troy said, smirking. “You know, you took quite a fall. Maybe you should sit down for a bit. Get your bearings.”

“I think I’ll manage,” Lucas growled back, returning his bike to its upright position and starting to walk it away on foot.

“I don’t know, man,” Troy responded, shaking his head, pretending to sound concerned. “You’re out here all alone. You might not make it on your own. What’s that about, anyway? Where’s the rest of your faggot friends? Finally get tired of you?”

“Don’t call them that!” Lucas snapped out, his pain dulled for a few seconds by the quick spark of anger that flashed through him. It had been bad enough before…before he knew about Mike and Will, about Robin and Max, but now? Now the slur that so casually passed through Troy’s lips, that Lucas had heard plenty of times before, made him see red.

Troy’s smirk widened at Lucas’ show of anger.

“What happened?” he jeered. “You scare them away?”

“Some people like being alone,” he spat out, pointedly glancing at both of them.

Troy ignored him and continued his tormenting, now walking on his other side as Lucas once again tried to walk away.

“You did, didn’t you?” Troy mocked him, sniggering. “Oh my God, you did! Or…or maybe…maybe they got sick of the smell.”

Lucas clenched his jaw and kept walking.

Was that all Troy had?

He could handle that.

“Oh man, I don’t blame them!” Troy went on, wrinkling his nose as though he had sniffed something foul. “Shit, you smell that, James? Fucking reeks!”

Lucas continued on his path, though he could feel something cold crawling up his spine. On the handlebars, he could see his hands trembling.

“You know, Sinclair,” Troy announced, as though revealing a great secret. “I read about monkeys. Apparently, they’re full of diseases. They even like to throw their own shit. That explains a lot. You do that, Sinclair?”

"Troy!" James suddenly spoke up, his tone shocked. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated in disbelief. His face quickly shifted, adopting a pointed look, trying to communicate with his friend without words. 

"What?" Troy snapped back, his head jerking around to glare irritatedly at the source of the interruption.

James didn't say anything further, just narrowed his eyes, causing his friend to scoff.

Meanwhile, the chill had spread to Lucas' chest, covering it like frostbite would claim an exposed limb. Distantly, he heard the two boys squabbling and felt a wave of annoyance. He could protect himself just fine!

“Funny,” he sent back at last, trying to prevent his voice from wavering. “I didn’t think you could read.”

Troy scowled but then smiled anew as he thought of a new tactic.

“What I’m wondering is how she puts up with it,” Troy commented before trailing off, hoping Lucas took the bait.

Which he did.

“She?” Lucas inquired, glancing at Troy quizzically as he pushed his bike onwards. “What ‘she’? Who are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know,” Troy said with false casualness. “Mayfield.”

Lucas halted. The cold had enveloped his whole body. It was pumping through his veins. It had formed icicles on his joints and in his chest.

No.

Max was off-limits.

“Stop,” Lucas’ voice came out as barely a whisper.

Troy still heard him. His ears had been perked up, waiting for a response.

But he ignored him.

“I just don’t get how she does it,” Troy continued, raising his voice so that Lucas couldn’t even pretend to ignore him. “I mean, being around you is one thing. But kissing you? That’s disgusting!”

Lucas was trying (he was really trying!) to take deep breaths, to steady his temper the way El had taught him. He suddenly remembered another piece of her advice, to focus on something that made him happy, that calmed him, and started naming constellations in his head, picturing them as he did.

Troy went on, oblivious to his internal struggle. Or perhaps knowing of it and savoring every second. The three of them now lingered at the end of the street. The road to downtown stretched off to the right.

“I mean, I shouldn’t be shocked,” Troy said, a malicious smile forming on his face, his eyes glinting cruelly. “You really did find the perfect girl for you, Sinclair. I mean, shit, I knew you probably had slim pickings, but even you have to know: Mayfield isn’t what I would call a ‘catch.’”

“Stop talking,” Lucas said clearly, raising his voice to be heard. He still refused to turn around, to give Troy the satisfaction of seeing him so shaken. “Right now.”

"Come on, man," Lucas distantly heard James whispering, sounding almost desperate. "Forget him."

But Troy didn’t heed either boy's warning and continued to try to provoke Lucas.

“I guess it’s true what they say though,” he mused, as though noting something to himself. “About one man’s trash and all that-”

“Don’t you fucking talk that way about her!” Lucas shouted, forgetting about keeping his back turned. He spun around and glared at Troy with unfiltered hatred. Distantly, he heard his bike fall to the ground, barely audible over the roar in his ears. He was heaving as he struggled to remain calm. His fists were clenched at his sides. His vision had tunneled. The only thing we could see was Troy. But he could do this. He was still in control. The frost was still gripping his body.

Troy looked like Christmas had come early. He looked enraptured at seeing Lucas’ intense reaction to his ugly words. 

James was staring at his shoes, looking like a miserable child forced to witness their unhappy parents arguing-something natural that they could do nothing to prevent.

“It’s true, though,” Troy went on mercilessly, stepping even closer to him. “Everyone knows it. Your other faggot friends. Hell, even you know it, deep down. This whole town does. I even heard her stepbrother couldn’t stand her.”

Lucas sucked in a breath.

No.

Absolutely not.

Only Max was allowed to talk about Billy! She was still grieving! Nobody else was allowed to even mention him! Nobody else had that right! Even the Party, minus a few accidental slip-ups, had respected that.

He felt like a snowman. The ice kept him paralyzed, helpless as Troy went on gleefully.

“I heard a lot of stuff about that guy,” Troy remarked, smiling viciously as he thought of it. “I heard he had a real problem with you. See, he knew how to handle people like you, didn’t he? He was just trying to protect his little sister.”

Lucas swore he could see his breath, could feel ice crystals forming in his lungs. They were choking him, keeping him silent as Troy delivered the killing blow.

“I bet you’re glad he’s dead, aren’t you?” Troy remarked softly, chuckling snidely as he took in the look on Lucas’ face. “You are, aren’t you? Because you get to date Mayfield now and he was in your way. Because he saw you for what you are, Sinclair: a smelly, rotten, disease-infested n-”

The ice shattered.

Before Lucas knew what had happened, Troy was on the ground, clutching at his nose, which was now spurting blood.

Lucas stood above him, his fist smeared with red.

James had frozen in shock, whether at Lucas' show of violence or at what Troy had almost uttered, only the boy himself knew.

Lucas and James locked eyes and, if the ranger's thoughts hadn't been clouded by rage, he would have seen the other boy’s eyes widen as he held up his hands in apparent surrender.

Instead, driven on by adrenaline, Lucas reacted instinctively to James' moving hands and, stepping closer, brought his leg up, kicking James squarely in the balls.

His victim squealed and promptly collapsed, curling into a fetal position as he tried to recover.

Seeing that James was out of commission for the foreseeable future, Lucas turned his attention back to Troy.

He saw the way Troy was cowering on the ground, the lower half of his face covered with blood. All traces of bravado had left him and he now stared, wide-eyed, up at Lucas.

It wasn’t enough.

As he thought of all the pain that Troy had caused, all the hurtful words and the bruises and the tears that had been shed over the years because of him, a voice, his voice, whispered to him that it wasn’t enough.

So he bent over Troy, looming over him, and brought his fist down to meet the bully’s face.

The feel of it connecting, of the sound hitting flesh, jolted something in Lucas, like a spark of electricity coursing through a wire.

It felt good.

So he did it again.

And again.

And as he did, Lucas saw flashes of every memory where Troy’s shadow loomed.

On his first day of first grade, when Troy had christened him with the nickname “Midnight.”

When he had pushed Lucas into the mud on the day they were to have school pictures taken (he had talked his teacher into letting him call his parents for a fresh set of clothes, but still).

The first time Troy had given Will a black eye.

The day Troy had James pin Mike down while he stomped on the paladin’s hand, breaking a finger.

Troy mocking Will at his vigil.

Lucas hit him again.

And again.

Until he suddenly couldn’t anymore, because he was being roughly pulled away by a strong set of arms, arms that forced Lucas’ own back to their sides, where they stayed pinned due to the figure holding him to his chest.

“Lucas, breathe!” a voice, the figure’s voice, commanded him, gripping him tightly. “It’s alright. It’s alright, kid. Calm down. You gotta breathe for me, kid, alright? Listen to me, listen. Breathe. Can you do that for me? Come on, now. Show me.”

Lucas obliged, sucking in greedy gulps of air. He felt disoriented. Lightheaded. Like he was hearing everything from underwater.

“That’s good! That’s really good, Lucas!” the voice praised him. “Keep going, alright? Let me know…when the ringing stops.”

Lucas figured the dazed feeling must be the “ringing” and, wanting it gone as much as the owner of the voice did, he continued to follow their instructions, breathing in and out until he could do so in a steady rhythm.

“Are you good now?” the voice asked, and Lucas was focused enough now to tell that it was a naturally gruff one. “Feel better?”

Lucas nodded silently, wincing. He had a headache.

“Okay,” the voice responded. They sounded slightly hesitant as they continued. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna let you go, okay? Do you promise to stay calm?”

Lucas nodded again.

The vice grip the figure had on him was released and Lucas stood there, blinking. At first, what he was looking at made no sense. It was little more than a swirl of colors. Then, it all came trickling back.

What Troy had said.

Punching him.

Liking it.

Lucas inhaled a shaky breath.

Oh God, what had he done?

His parents were going to kill him.

After taking a few moments to process, Lucas glanced behind him to discover who had stopped him, blinking in surprise at the familiar face.

Chief Hopper was watching him with a worried expression. In the distance, parked just a few feet behind him, the driver's side door left open, like the chief had gotten out in a hurry, was his truck.

Seeing movement in his peripheral vision, Lucas turned his head further to the right and saw a black-skinned cop dressed in his full uniform that Lucas recognized from around town. He was getting out of his own squad car. On the other side, another man got out, this one a stocky, scowling white man that he didn’t recognize.

“Hey, Lucas,” Hopper said, catching his eye. “Can you do me a favor? Can you sit down for me? Just sit. Keep doing that breathing for me, okay?”

Lucas nodded and obeyed, though his legs, which were still smarting from his crash earlier, whined in protest.

Seeing him doing as he asked, Hopper smiled appreciatively. He wandered over out of earshot, presumably to check on Troy and James.

Lucas risked a glance at the other two officers. The black-skinned man was studying him thoughtfully, while the heavyset man was glaring at him.

“You like getting into fights, boy?” the glaring man suddenly growled out at him challengingly.

Lucas bristled at the form of address, but kept silent. His eyes flicked around for Hopper, but oddly, the chief was nowhere to be found.

Getting no reaction, the scowling man opened his mouth to try again, but was not given the chance.

“That’s enough,” the dark-skinned officer said, his tone firm, glancing sideways at the other officer, his eyes glistening with thinly veiled disgust. “Let’s hear his story before we start assigning blame.”

The other officer opened his mouth, no doubt to protest, but was cut off again.

“I agree,” Hopper said, stepping back into view from wherever he had gone.

“Oh, come on, Jim!” the displeased officer tried to reason. He gestured vaguely at Lucas. “You know exactly what happened here!”

“You’re right, I do,” Hopper told him, his tone as cold as the chill that had run through Lucas’ blood earlier. “And it’s not what you think. I spoke to a witness.”

Lucas’ head shot up, startled.

A witness?

“A witness?” the disgruntled officer said, echoing his own thoughts in a disbelieving voice.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Hopper grunted back, resolute. “See, I did some actual police work. And according to the woman who lives here,” Hopper pointed behind him, directing everyone’s attention to a squat, one-story home that Lucas had completely forgotten was there. “Walsh was harassing him, trying to wind him up, way before Sinclair threw his first punch.”

“She’s lying!” Troy suddenly yelled out, and if Lucas hadn’t been so stupefied by the situation, he would have smirked at the way the other boy’s voice was tinged with panic.

“Oh, is that so?” Hopper said, not even trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Alright then, Walsh, why don’t you tell us what happened here.”

“Sinclair just came at me!” Troy immediately claimed, speaking rapidly, like the quantity of his words could compensate for the poor quality of his lie. “He’s a fucking psycho!”

The heavyset man was glaring at Lucas again. The dark-skinned man, strangely, had gone to his car and was sitting in the driver’s seat, appearing to talk into a radio.

Hopper was shaking his head, smiling wryly.

“You know, I’ve been a cop for a long time, Walsh,” he reminded the boy, reminded them all. “And over the years, I’d like to think my bullshit detector has gotten pretty well-honed. Right now? It’s lighting up like a breathalyzer on the Fourth of July.”

Troy made to argue, but Hopper held up a hand.

“No, I don’t want to hear any more from you,” he ordered him, and Troy snapped his mouth shut, looking sullen.

“Now, wait, Jim,” the scowling officer demanded. “You can’t do that. Who's to say this boy,” he jerked his thumb in Lucas’ direction, “didn’t threaten this witness into lying for him?”

The look that Hopper fixed the other man with was so incredulous that the belligerent officer immediately quieted.

“Part of being a good cop,” Hopper commented, his eyes flicking around the scene, even as his body remained still, “is knowing the people that you serve. Knowing who you’re protecting.” Here, Hopper’s gaze rested on Lucas for a moment, before continuing his examination. “Not just their names though. Who they are. How they act. And a small town like this? Everyone knows everyone else. Everyone has a reputation. And that can work for you…or against you.”

Hopper was staring intently at Troy as he spoke his last sentence, and the young bully shifted nervously under the man’s scrutiny.

“You don’t exactly have the best reputation, Walsh,” Hopper said coolly. “You even got a record. You’re a known troublemaker.”

Troy remained silent.

Lucas got the sense that Hopper was speaking more for the aggressive officer’s benefit than anyone else. Lucas didn’t recognize him, meaning he was probably some transfer who didn’t yet know how the chief liked to do things.

He was also, in Lucas’ opinion, an asshole.

Case in point…

“You can’t decide what happened here based on past experiences, Jim,” the officer in question complained. “You need to look at what happened today. Right here. And-”

“I have,” Hopper said through gritted teeth, his patience for his fellow officer wearing thin. “In case you already forgot, I spoke to a witness who corroborated my theory. That, combined with Walsh’s past criminal history, paints a pretty clear picture for me. How about you?”

The hostile officer was clearly frustrated at this turn of events, but, faced with the evidence, could do nothing to prevent it.

Just to make you happy though,” Hopper said, sending the man a mocking smile. “I’ll talk to Walsh. Get his take on things.”

Here, Hopper stepped out of earshot once more and gestured for Troy to follow him.

With the dark-skinned officer still in the car, and Hopper preoccupied, the scowling officer took the opportunity to stomp towards Lucas, looming over him.

“I just thought I’d tell you, boy,” the angry officer hissed at Lucas, who was regarding the man fearfully, “that witness tampering is a crime. So if you think you can beat up on people and then get people to lie for you, I promise-”

“That’s enough!” Hopper’s voice punctured the air, cutting off the other man’s delusional rant. His tirade had attracted his superior’s attention. “Collins, go wait in the car. You’re clearly biased and I’m done putting up with it.”

The officer-Collins-tried to protest but Hopper shut him down as he continued.

“Right now,” the chief said, seething. “You are the one committing a crime by trying to intimidate the victim!”

“Sinclair threw the first punch, Jim!” Collins argued. “Look at Walsh! His face is all messed up!”

Hopper glanced back at Troy.

“Little prick looks fine to me,” he muttered. His eyes darkened as he returned them to Collins. “Knowing what I know about the people of this town, I’m content to say justice was served here. Now, I’m not telling you again: Go wait in the car.”

Collins tried to argue again, but was cut off by the dark-skinned officer, who had returned from his patrol car.

“Not necessary,” he informed them all, somehow sounding pleasant. “As it turns out, there’s been some sort of disturbance over at the Silver Cat. We have this handled, Collins. You should go check it out.”

Hopper visibly brightened, cheered that his inferior would have to go deal with what he presumed to be a measly bar fight. This didn’t go unnoticed by Collins. Nonetheless, the antagonistic man spun around on his heel, and departed, leaving only grumbling in his wake.

It wasn’t until Collins was gone that Hopper remembered.

He grinned.

“You know,” the chief said dryly. “I could’ve sworn the Silver Cat closed down six months ago. One of the small businesses gobbled up by Starcourt.”

The dark-skinned officer dared to look baffled.

“Did it?” he replied, trying and failing to hide a smirk. “How strange.”

Hopper chuckled and exchanged smiles with his fellow officer.

“Damn,” the man sighed to himself. “I miss Callahan. How long until we get him back?”

“Shouldn’t be too long now,” his officer assured him. “He’s almost healed up.”

“Damn Starcourt,” Hopper muttered. “Injuring one of my best men. Making me put up with that asshole.”

His muttering continued until he heard his colleague snickering, when he promptly shut up and shot him a playful glare.

“Alright,” he grumbled, but he seemed to be much more enlivened now. “I’ll talk to Walsh and Dante. You talk to Sinclair. Sound good?”

The other man nodded his assent and Lucas finally looked up as the officer took a seat next to him.

“Lucas, right?” the man asked, and, seeing Lucas’ confirming nod, he smiled at him, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Officer Powell.”

Lucas offered the man his own hand and a timid smile that more resembled a grimace.

Powell grasped Lucas’ hand in his and then, for some reason, held onto it and for a moment, Lucas didn’t know why. Glancing at his hand, his breath caught as he spotted the red bloodstain still marring his knuckles.

Powell inspected it too before meeting Lucas’ eyes.

“Can you tell me what happened here, Lucas?” the man requested, his voice gentle, so unlike Collins’ had been that it was startling.

Lucas sucked on his lip, debating where to begin.

“I was biking home from the arcade,” he began, his voice croaky, tears that he hadn’t even been aware he had shed still distorting his voice. “And…they were waiting for me, I guess.”

“You think they were watching you?” Powell questioned softly. “Waited for you to be alone?”

“Maybe,” Lucas allowed, shrugging. “Or maybe it was just…bad luck.”

Powell nodded slowly, squeezing Lucas’ hand in support, which he still held in his own.

“This woman,” the officer said, nodding towards the house in front of them. “She said she heard Walsh talking to you, trying to provoke you. That true?”

“Yeah,” Lucas agreed, shifting, feeling like he was being x-rayed. “He was just saying shit, you know?”

Too late, Lucas realized he’d cussed in front of a police officer and he blushed. Before he could apologize though, Powell evidently decided to roll with it.

“What kind of shit?” the man pressed him.

Lucas bit his lip again.

“You know, just…” he started, stopped, then decided to just go all in. “Stuff about my…girlfriend. Said some…rude stuff about her.”

Powell hummed to himself and squeezed his hand again, a sign that Lucas should continue.

When Lucas didn’t go on, Powell tried inquiring further.

“Was there anything else?” he prodded him, his eyes searching Lucas’ face for the slightest micro-expression.

Lucas’ ears were burning.

“He-” Lucas forced out through the sudden lump in his throat, wanting to get it over with. “He said some things…about me.”

Here, Lucas looked up and met Powell's face.

“You know?” he whispered hoarsely.

He held the man’s gaze and as he did, he could almost feel a silent understanding pass between them.

Powell pursed his lips and then, giving a quiet, weary sigh, he slowly nodded.

“I don’t even remember most of it,” Lucas rushed out, the words blending together as he tried to explain. “I just remember being so mad. And I-”

“I know,” Powell interrupted, his eyes looking distant. “Trust me. I know.”

Silence clung to them like a thick fog for a few moments, before Powell spoke again.

“Lucas,” the man said, sounding oddly urgent. He turned and soon held Lucas’ tainted hand with both of his own. “I…I understand. Okay? You know that. But…son, you have to be careful.”

Lucas opened his mouth to speak but Powell went on before he could.

“You have to be careful,” he repeated, stressing his words. “Especially here. This town, it’s…well…let’s just say, small town, small minds.”

Lucas nodded. He knew that, of course. Hawkins wasn’t exactly welcoming of anyone perceived as an outsider and for as long as he could remember, that had included him and his family.

“In this town-” Powell started before snorting and continuing, sounding bitter. “Hell, in this world, there are always going to be people like…well, like Officer Collins.”

Lucas scoffed at the reminder of the man.

“He had his mind made up about me the second he saw me,” Lucas muttered angrily.

“Yes,” Powell agreed, nodding. “He did. And unfortunately, as I’m sure you know, there are a lot of people like him.”

Lucas sighed and looked at the ground in defeat.

Powell watched him, before gesturing toward where Hopper was speaking to Troy.

“Like Walsh,” he noted. “Only difference is that, you know, he’s a boy. He’s young. Maybe he can change. Who knows? I’m hoping he can. Someone like Collins though? They’re too…set in their ways, I guess.”

Powell let that statement hang between them for a second before he resumed talking.

“Yeah, there are a lot of people like Collins,” Powell repeated, shaking his head in disgust at the thought, looking off into the distance. Then, he focused back on the present and looked back at Lucas. “But you know what?”

“What?” Lucas asked, tilting his head.

“There are also a lot of people like him,” Powell said, pointing over at Hopper, who was shaking his head at whatever bullshit story Troy was obviously trying to spin. “And your girlfriend. And those other kids I’ve seen you hang around with.”

Lucas smiled to himself at the reminder of his friends. The Party.

His Party.

Everyone else too. Everyone who mattered to him.

“I really believe,” Powell concluded, “that there are more people like them than people like Collins and Walsh.”

Out of their earshot, unknown to them, Hopper was stressing a similar point to a rambling Troy. James stood apart from them, his thoughtful gaze fixed on the horizon.

“I don’t want to hear it, Walsh,” Hopper growled at him, holding up his hand to stop the boy’s verbiage. "We both know what happened here. We have a witness. We have your record. We know. So you can either keep spouting bullshit or you can just accept that you didn’t get away with it this time.”

Troy snapped his jaw shut and sulked.

Hopper continued to glare at him before his face shifted as he heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“Look at me,” Hopper demanded.

When Troy didn’t heed his command, the man tried again, more insistent.

“Look at me!” Hopper practically shouted at him and it seemed to work. Troy’s head jerked up and he met Hopper’s furious gaze with his own apprehensive one.

The chief leaned in, wanting to ensure Troy heard every word.

“If you’re smart, you’ll take today as a lesson,” Hopper intoned, his accompanying glare promising a threat to anyone who didn’t take his words to heart. “What you did today will not be happening again. Ever.”

Troy tried to look away and Hopper brought his focus back by reaching up and gently turning his head back to face him.

“No, listen to me,” Hopper ordered. “In case today wasn’t proof enough, I just want to make this explicitly clear: You strutting around, acting like you’re untouchable? That’s over.”

Troy had the nerve to sneer at him and Hopper raised his eyebrows at the sight.

“What?” Hopper spat out. “You got something to say?”

Troy must have changed his mind because Hopper received no answer.

The chief sighed again, scrubbing at his face. He observed Troy for a few moments before he spoke in a somewhat subdued manner.

“I don’t know where you learned that from,” Hopper muttered, referencing the sneer, as well as all of Troy’s other undesirable behavioral traits. “God, I sure hope it wasn’t your parents.”

Troy was looking at the ground again. Hopper allowed it.

“Of course,” Hopper carried on, sounding self-deprecating. “It probably didn’t help that you got away with it all for so long. Nobody really was there to stop you. And that’s on them.”

Unseen by everyone, the chief's words caused James to wince.

Hopper, continuing, did the same.

“Including me,” the man said remorsefully. Now, he was the one avoiding eye contact. He took a deep breath and then returned his gaze to Troy. “I…I was in a…a bad place for a long time. And I didn’t…didn’t take this job as seriously as I should have.”

His voice had been trembling by the end and he cleared his throat.

“But I’ve changed,” Hopper declared, his voice sounding clear, steady, authoritative. “And I plan on doing what I can to change Hawkins too.”

He paused again, wondering if he should share this next bit.

Why not?

“You know,” Hopper said, seemingly at random. “I used to think that people were either born good or bad.”

Apparently, this was such an abrupt topic change that Troy looked back up, confused and impatient.

“What the fuck does that mean?” the boy asked rudely.

“It means exactly what I just said,” Hopper explained, choosing to ignore the cursing. “I used to think that people, including children, were either born good or bad. I…I don’t think that way anymore. I…”

The man trailed off, thinking.

“No,” Hopper said decisively. “I know now. I think that children…well, okay, most children, can be…molded into better people.” He stopped and allowed a smirk to grace his lips. “Including you.”

Troy shot him a dirty look.

“They just need rules,” Hopper explained. “Boundaries. So, you better listen up, kid, because I’m about to set one. A big boundary. And I swear to God, Walsh, if you ever cross it, I promise, you will regret it.”

Hopper’s voice had softened into a deadly, dangerous simmer, and Troy was staring at him in what could only be described as terror.

Hopper stepped closer and Troy, without realizing it, took a step back.

“Lucas Sinclair,” the man hissed out, jerking his head in Powell and Lucas’ direction. “Max Mayfield. Will Byers. Mike Wheeler. Dustin Henderson. And…Jane…Hopper. Jane Hopper. My daughter. You leave them all alone. They are off-limits, do you hear me?!”

Troy was nodding vigorously, not even attempting to maintain his tough-guy facade. His eyes glinted with nothing but fear.

But Hopper wasn’t done.

“And not just them,” he gritted out. “Everyone they care about. Friends. Family. Hell, even pets. You don’t mess with anyone in their circle.”

Troy was still nodding.

“Okay,” he agreed vehemently. “I’ll do it! I swear!”

“Happy to hear that,” Hopper replied sarcastically and he made to turn away, before he paused and glanced back, smirking.

“I just realized,” he added, in a voice that conveyed that he had, in fact, not “just realized” and had actually known what he was about to say the entire time. “That includes me, too. And that includes everyone I care about.”

Stepping back towards Troy, he delivered the final nail in the coffin.

“I care about Hawkins,” he announced. “I have to. I care about everyone in this town.”

He took another step toward Troy and the boy didn’t back away. He was paralyzed.

“All of Hawkins is off-limits,” Hopper clarified. “This entire town. You hurt anyone, I don’t give a shit who they are, I will find out about it, Walsh. And I will make you regret it. Understand?”

Troy didn’t move or say anything, didn’t do anything except stare, wide-eyed.

“Nod if you understand!” Hopper shouted and Troy quickly complied. “Thank you! Now, get out of here.”

Troy looked back at him, puzzled.

“But,” Troy stammered, gesturing to his nose, which was still flecked with dried blood. To the bruise forming under his left eye. “What about-?”

“Unless you want me to give you a ride home in my truck,” Hopper threatened. “After which, I would be more than happy to go in and inform your parents that you decided to harass someone and rightly got your ass kicked for it, you and your friend will walk away and act like this never happened. Your choice.”

Troy Walsh, as usual, chose the option that somewhat maintained his ego.

He quickly left the area, biking furiously away, not even bothering to look back.

James, though, paused, straddling his bike as he looked back up at the chief with trepidation.

"Is-" the remaining boy croaked out, voice worn by...something. His eyes left Hopper's inquisitive face as he continued, not possessing the courage to look at the man as he said the words. "Is Sinclair going to be okay?" 

Hopper's eyebrows shot up to his hairline in surprise.

Part of him wanted to say something biting, something snide about the boy finally seeming to have developed a conscience. 

But as he took in the way James seemed to hunch in on himself nervously, so similar to how El looked when she asked him for permission to go somewhere, as though afraid he'd deny it and keep her locked away for another year (though protecting her had been his motivation, he knew enough to know that he had messed up royally with that decision. Winning her trust in the aftermath was proving to be a long walk), Hopper was reminded that, despite all that he had done to help Troy make his daughter and her friends miserable, James Dante was still just a kid.

Besides, it wasn't as though the man had grounds to stand on when it came to the damage wrought by inaction. 

"He'll be fine," the chief responded softly, his steely exterior thawing slightly when he saw the way his answer caused relief to flicker across the boy's face. 

"Good," James commented, nodding to himself, his fingers anxiously tapping his bike's handlebar, a behavior so alike something he'd seen from Mike that more tension went out of Hopper's shoulders.

"Yes, it is," he noted, nodding himself.

"Will-?" James went on timidly, stopping to clear his throat. When he continued, his voice sounded somewhat stronger, though still possessing an undertone of awkwardness. "Will you tell him I said...I was sorry?" 

Silence pressed in on both of them as Hopper regarded him curiously, not sure what to make of this unexpected-but not unwelcome-development. 

"You should tell him that yourself," he finally advised his guilt-ridden companion, having to bite back a smile when James looked doubtful. "But...sure. I'll pass it on."

The boy looked grateful.

"Thank you," he whispered, showing that he possessed better manners than his friend. 

With that, James shifted on his bike, preparing to depart. 

"James?" Hopper called out as the boy in question was placing his feet on the pedals.

James looked back questioningly.

"If you're smart, you'll take today as a lesson too," the chief suggested. His lips quirked as he added. "And unlike Walsh, I think you are."

Though he fought to maintain a straight face so as not to betray his friend, his companion's eyes sparked with amusement.

"I am," James Dante declared, his tone serious. He jerked his head in a firm nod before he turned back around and finally followed after Troy.

Hopper watched thoughtfully until the boy had disappeared into the trees before returning to his curious audience.

“What…happened?” Powell asked, looking like he was trying to decide between being worried about what had transpired or feeling relieved at the results.

Hopper locked eyes with Lucas and grinned.

“We had a heart-to-heart,” the chief said innocently.

Lucas snorted, confirming that El had told their little group about that conversation.

It was nice to know his daughter was spilling all of his secrets to a group of teenagers so that they could be dissected and psychoanalyzed.

After Lucas had finished laughing at his expense, Hopper hesitated, unsure if hearing the words was what was best for the boy at the moment.

But he had promised.

It was time to start living up to them.

"Dante said he was sorry," Hopper imparted, watching with a slight smirk as his words caused Lucas' head to whip up and fix him with a surprised expression. A few moments later, his gaze was thoughtful.

"He's never been as bad as Troy," he muttered to himself. "Didn't even do anything today."

Lucas appeared to be thinking over his earlier interactions and Hopper felt a pang of intrigue when the boy thought of something that caused him to look guilty.

Seeing the man studying him, the ranger tried to play it off with a shrug.

"Good to know," he decided.

Hopper nodded in agreement before gesturing  to Powell, signaling that the other man should join him for a quick private word.

Powell stood up from the ground and, shooting Lucas a reassuring smile, conferred with his colleague.

Lucas didn’t have to wait long and Powell quickly returned, signaling that he should stand up.

Doing so, Lucas allowed the other man to guide him toward Hopper’s truck.

“Where are we going?” Lucas asked, getting into the backseat, Hopper driving, and Powell taking the passenger side.

Hopper and Powell glanced at each other before Hopper answered, sounding hesitant.

“We, uh,” he began and then, clearing his throat, continued. “We’re going to talk to your parents.”

Lucas sprang forward in the backseat, staring at the back of Hopper’s head, feeling betrayed.

“You can’t!” he pleaded with them, unable to believe his rotten luck. “Please, Hop, they’ll kill me!”

“They won’t,” Powell assured him, turning his head to speak to him. He looked confident. “I promise. We’re going to explain things. Make sure they know you weren’t the instigator. All that. You’re not…in any real trouble, okay?”

“If I’m not in trouble, then why do you have to tell my parents?” Lucas countered, glaring at Powell, but the other man didn’t react to his expression or tone.

Hopper half-grinned but quickly sobered at Lucas’ irritated look. He sighed.

“We just think it’s something you should talk over with them,” Hopper responded and, when Lucas still looked worried, he added. “Hey, kid, don’t worry. Look…I’ll make sure they’re calm before we leave you. I promise I won’t leave if I think they’re gonna blow up at you. Sound fair?”

Lucas turned the deal over in his head and then nodded.

He could live with that.

The car was dead silent as the chief drove them through downtown.

Much too soon, Lucas felt his heart rate quicken as the truck pulled into his driveway.

He saw his father step out of the house before he had even gotten out of the car.

Lucas let out a shaky breath as he closed the car door behind him, and Hopper must have heard him, because he glanced at him, before stopping and laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” the man said softly. “Lucas, relax. Everything will be fine. Breathe, remember?”

Lucas remembered and did his best to match the chief’s impromptu demonstration.

Once he saw that Lucas was in no danger of hyperventilating, Hopper glanced at Powell, who was waiting for them, and nodded, jerking his head in the direction of the house to indicate Powell should take the lead on this.

Powell nodded and walked out to greet Lucas’ father.

“Is everything alright?” his father said immediately, nodding in greeting to both Powell and the chief. “Did…did something happen?”

“Nothing that hasn’t already been resolved, Charlie,” Hopper said soothingly. The chief nodded to Powell. “Officer Powell here will explain.”

“Sir, why don’t we step over here?” Powell said gently, leading the clearly nervous man down to the end of the driveway, while Lucas, with Hopper’s coaxing, quickly shuffled past to sit on the stoop in front of the entrance.

He was far enough away and their voices were hushed and so Lucas couldn’t make out what was being said. Even worse, his father’s back was facing him, so he couldn’t even gauge his reactions from his expression.

In the end, only ten minutes passed before Lucas heard Hopper call out to him.

“Lucas,” the chief said, waiting until he had his attention before finishing. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

His eyes flicked to his father.

He still wasn’t facing him and his head was tilted down at the ground.

Lucas anxiously looked back at Hopper and was given a reassuring smile. Powell mirrored his expression.

Waving goodbye, both men got into Hopper’s truck and, within moments, had backed out of the driveway and disappeared down the road.

Lucas tried to focus on his breathing, especially when he saw his father leave the spot that he had been rooted to and make his way toward him.

He risked a glance at his father’s face and found it to be unreadable.

Great. What a huge help.

His father remained silent and Lucas braced himself for the inevitable explosion.

But the man moved past him, disappearing into the house, and it was only seeing his father's raised hand that prevented Lucas from scrambling into the house after him.

When he returned, the older Sinclair held a wet rag and as he sat down on the stoop next to him, Lucas obeyed the unspoken request and held out his blood-stained hand.

After a slight pause, he felt the gentle pressure of the cloth against his skin as his father began slowly and methodically scrubbing his knuckles.

Neither of them said a word.

Until…

“Your mother’s out,” his father’s voice stated matter-of-factly, his tone betraying nothing. “Some PTA thing.”

Lucas didn’t respond. He didn’t quite know how to.

“Erica,” his father continued, “is at a friend’s house for a playdate.” His father paused here, before amending, slightly chuckling. “Sorry, I meant, she’s ‘hanging out’ with a friend. Don’t tell her about my slip-up.”

Lucas snickered slightly.

Okay. This was a good sign. His father couldn’t be too pissed if he was cracking jokes.

“My point being,” his father explained, sobering. “That we’re alone. It’s just you and me.”

Lucas nodded but remained silent, waiting for his father to bring it up first.

Which he did.

“Lucas,” the man began, sounding like he was trying to figure out how to feel. “You…punched another boy?”

“I-” Lucas tried to say but suddenly couldn’t speak. Without any warning, the tears had returned.

So he just nodded, hanging his head.

He heard his father sigh.

“Lucas,” his father went on. Now, he sounded exasperated but also exhausted. “How many times, son? How many times have I told you that resorting to physical violence is n-?”

“Troy started it!” Lucas interrupted, the words shooting from his mouth before he has a chance to think. He immediately clamped his mouth shut, but the damage was done.

But his father didn’t scold him.

“You think I don’t know that?” the man said softly. Lucas glanced up at him and saw his father looking back at him with a gentle expression. His face shifted to a scowl as he proceeded. “You’re not a violent boy, Lucas. Your mother and I raised you better than that. You don’t anger easily, except…when those you care about are involved. I know that. Officer Powell told me what the other kid said. Or…gave me the general idea. So…I know that it wasn’t your fault.”

Lucas absorbed all this. This was a better reaction than he could have ever hoped for.

“Then,” he questioned, treading carefully. “Why are you mad at me?”

“Oh son, I’m not mad at you,” his father responded, deflating, waving a hand before laying it on top of Lucas’ own, using the other to lay the rag on his lap. “I’m mad at…well, I don’t know. Everyone else, I guess. This town. All the narrow-minded people.”

Lucas nodded.

Yeah. He could certainly understand that.

“The chief also told me,” his father revealed. “About Officer…Collins, was it?”

Lucas nodded in confirmation.

The man heaved a sigh before he picked up Lucas’ hand and squeezed it tight. He looked anxious now.

“Son,” his father pressed, his tone grave, struggling to find the proper words to express how scared he felt at that moment. “Do…do you…know…how badly things could have gone today?”

Lucas felt his eyes getting misty. The shock had worn off. He swiped at his eyes, determined not to break down. He nodded.

“I mean,” his father went on. “Think about it, Lucas. I know you had the best reason in the world, but you did technically assault another boy. I know you were provoked, but think: What if the chief hadn’t been so understanding?”

Lucas was biting his lip, the world swirling in front of him as teardrops fell from his eyes. He hastily looked down but knew his father could tell he was crying anyway.

“What if he hadn’t been there?” the man proposed, needing to drive the point home. “Powell either? What if you had to deal with that bastard Collins alone?”

Lucas’ breath caught.

Oh, God. He didn’t even want to consider how badly things would have gone then.

But his father already had.

“He would’ve had you on the ground, in handcuffs before you even got a word out,” the man told him somberly. “That Walsh boy could’ve spun whatever yarn he wanted, could’ve made you sound like some sick monster, and that son of a bitch would have believed every word.”

Lucas’ crying was growing louder and thus harder to ignore for both of them, though his father followed his son’s lead and steadfastly refused to acknowledge it.

“Son,” his father said, running his thumb over Lucas’ hand in circular patterns. Lucas was sniffling and still refusing to look up. “I’m not saying all this to make you feel bad. I’m saying all this because…because you need to be careful.”

“Off-” Lucas started, his voice cracking due to the rawness of his throat. His voice was hoarse again. “Officer Powell said the same thing.”

“He’s right,” his father told him bluntly.

They lapsed into silence.

But not for long.

“Lucas,” his father spoke up after granting his son some time to collect himself. “I…I know this is sounding really harsh. But…it is. You need to understand that to guys like Collins, it…it doesn’t matter who started it. Okay? It doesn’t matter who said what first or any of that. If someone like Collins sees you? In their mind? You started it. Every. Single. Time.”

Lucas couldn’t take it anymore.

He let out a strangled-sounding sob.

“That’s-” Lucas cried out, his voice rough. “That’s not fair!”

“No,” his father said simply. “It’s not.”

Lucas turned sideways and buried his head in his father’s shoulder, his own shoulders shaking as his body was wracked with more sobs. The man let him and used his hand to trace soothing circles on his son’s back.

Once he could tell that Lucas’ cries were ebbing, his father dropped the hand from his back and spoke up.

“You know,” he noted. “With the world being what it is, I’ve always found the best way to get through it all is to enjoy the small comforts.”

Lucas nodded slowly, agreeing but wondering what his father’s point was.

“You know what one of my favorite small comforts is?” the man asked him, smiling widely when Lucas shook his head. “Ice cream!”

Lucas stared at his grinning father, eventually producing a sound somewhere between a giggle and a snort.

“Really?” Lucas questioned, grinning himself now. This conversation had taken a weird but not unwelcome turn.

“Oh yeah,” his father confirmed. “Best part of God’s creation. Don’t you know that’s what He was really doing on the seventh day? Making ice cream! He worked six days in a row nonstop, with no breaks. The guy is clearly a workaholic. He can’t just turn it off and on. He needs something to keep busy, so boom! Ice cream! And it was very, very good!”

Lucas had already been cracking up at the narration of the supposed missing biblical story, and he and his father were both plagued by uncontrollable, rapturous laughter by the end.

Standing up suddenly, his father slung his arm around Lucas' shoulder and they both began walking toward the house.

"Come on," the man said. "Let's go get some before your mother and sister get back. We don't have to share this time! Must be God's will."

Lucas snickered as he accompanied his father into the house.

A random thought occurred to him, and he smirked when he realized it fit the biblical theme. But that didn't make it any less accurate.

As he heard his father continue to chatter beside him, his calm and gentle presence steadying him as it always did, the thought continued to ring true.

Lucas felt blessed.

Max came looking for him.

Peeking into her daughter’s room, she blinked when she saw Astra playing quietly with her blocks while her husband stared off out the window.

She smirked. She had to. She couldn't resist.

"Oh, stalker," she said, sighing dramatically. "Always looking to the horizon."

Lucas scoffed and turned back toward her, grinning.

"Technically," he pointed out as he crossed the room, carefully stepping around Astra's creation. "I don't usually look at the horizon. I stargaze. That's different."

"Then what are you doing right now?" she asked him, lifting an eyebrow as she nodded, through which anyone could see that it was clearly the afternoon.

"I was thinking about something," he answered vaguely, waving a hand when she looked curious. "I'll tell you about it some other time."

Leaving their daughter to rebuild (who this time was paying particular attention to the foundation), Lucas and Max ventured back into their kitchen.

"There you two are!" Dustin called upon spotting them reentering their view. He focused on Lucas. "Where'd our ranger run off to?"

"Dealing with an angry child of my own, actually," Lucas muttered, snickering. "Although her crisis was much easier to solve. Her tower fell down."

"Her foundation wasn't strong enough," Max added, shaking her head in apparent mourning. "Rookie mistake."

"I know her pain," Dustin said gravely. "I've had many Jenga projects go tumbling because of my lack of foresight."

They all snickered at that.

"It's hilarious," El added, smirking. "Sometimes, I swear, he'll actually start crying."

Dustin sputtered indignantly while everyone laughed harder.

"You know she does it with her powers, right?" Dustin stage-muttered, leaning forward conspiratorially, as though that would prevent his wife from overhearing. "It's the only cogent explanation."

"Or maybe you just suck," Will said, daring his friend to say otherwise. "You aren't exactly a master architect, Dustin."

Dustin flipped off the camera.

They settled into a silence that lasted until Maia made her return, prancing down the stairs and finally sitting to eat her cake.

"He says he just needs a few more minutes," Maia revealed, addressing her parents.

"How was he?" Mike asked worriedly. Part of him wished he had gone up to talk to Jonas himself, though he knew the teen probably wouldn't have opened the door then. "Is he okay?"

Maia bit her lip, wondering if she should reveal something.

"He was crying," she said after a moment.

Mike felt his heart ache. He exchanged miserable looks with Will. What had happened?

Everyone took in the words soberly.

"That's-" Hopper began before pausing. He wanted to make sure he phrased this right. "That's not necessarily a bad thing."

This was met with a mixture of confused and doubtful looks. Seeing them, Hopper opened his mouth to explain, but El beat him to it.

"Yeah," she agreed, nodding rapidly. "Crying is…well, it's…sound. You know? Sometimes, you bottle everything up or something really bad happens, you can't keep quiet. So you cry. It can be a good thing. It's…cathartic."

Everyone was nodding slowly, frowning thoughtfully. That kind of made sense.

The only person who wasn't frowning besides El was Hopper, who had smiled when he'd heard his daughter's word choice.

It was a word he had taught her and El met his gaze, smirking at him as she remembered the events surrounding the lesson.

El’s daily schooling ended when she heard the BANG!

At least, that’s what she thought it was. She was still learning her words, so she couldn’t be sure. Sounds, not to mention how to identify them, were not something Hopper considered important at the moment, but she disagreed.

She liked sounds.

On her own, she had worked out what a lot of sounds were.

El knew that SLAM! was the sound Hopper made when he closed the door as he rushed out each morning.

She knew that CRASH! was when Hopper burned himself at the stove, causing whatever pot or pan he had been making food in to fall to the ground.

El even knew that CRACK! was the sound of the ice breaking outside. She had actually done an…experiment (Day 35’s World of the Day) and compared the sound of the ice slowly splitting apart in her cup to the sound she heard outside, lighting up when she realized they matched (Day 5’s Word of the Day) and that she had been right.

But she had never heard a BANG! before.

El frowned to herself, chewing her lip thoughtfully.

She had dropped her pencil in her startlement, the unexpected noise acting like a jolt of electricity (a big word, but it didn’t count. She’d learned it from Papa) being sent through her body.

She had never liked sudden noises. From what she could tell, they were almost always followed by pain.

Deciding to halfway-listen, El retrieved her pencil and returned to her “penmanship practice,” as Hopper called it. It wasn’t her favorite thing to do, which Hopper had laughed at when she told him, saying something about how “school has never exactly been popular” with kids her age since apparently “the beginning of time,” which El figured was a long time ago.

Reluctantly, she focused back on her penmanship and started singing off the letters in her head, tracing them with her pencil as she did, starting with the ones she was struggling with.

She struggled to remember all the steps to forming some of them.

R just seemed to be a P that was trying too hard, and with her clumsy handwriting, reading her past “assignments” back, she could never tell if she had written a V or a U.

BANG!

El’s head jerked up. There it was again!

She wandered out of her bedroom and cautiously approached the front window, which was covered by a curtain. She wanted to peek out and see if there was someone (or something) there, making the BANG! noise, but that would break one of the “Don’t Be Stupid” rules.

So instead, she went and sat down at the small table, watching the door intently. She didn’t want to miss anything if someone was out there, if someone had…

Oh no.

The tripwire.

El’s entire body felt numb, like she did when Papa would have someone stick a needle in her arm after she tried to fight back.

That memory opened her mind up to more, and before she knew it, she was back in the bedroom, the door shut tight, hiding under the bed coverings. She was trembling, shaking as she had in the cold forest before she had found Hopper.

She didn’t want to go back to the Lab.

She curled in on herself, like a ball, not able to see anything.

It reminded her of the tank. Except in the tank, she hadn’t been allowed to leave and here, she could throw the blankets off whenever she wanted.

El didn’t know how long she stayed in that position. It hadn’t felt like long.

The next thing she knew, she had jolted awake and was blinking her eyes and throwing off her blankets to find the afternoon sun had vanished. The outside world had grown dark.

She was puzzled. What had woken her?

Suddenly, the sound came again:

Knock, knock, pause, knock, pause, knock, knock, knock.

El felt the tension drain from her body.

It was Hopper.

Closing her eyes to focus, she stretched out with her feelings (a phrase Dustin had used in relation to her using her abilities, for some reason unknown to her) and, a moment later, smiled victoriously as she heard the many locks sliding open, before Hopper pushed into the cabin.

“Hey!” Hopper’s distinctive drawl flowed through to her bedroom. “I’m back! Sorry, I’m a bit late. I stopped by-”

The voice stopped and El smiled as she guessed why.

Sure enough, she heard her bedroom door open and heard the floorboards creak as Hopper came in, spotting her in bed.

Feeling suddenly mischievous, she threw the blankets off herself dramatically.

“Hi!” she shouted, giving Hopper a lopsided smile.

“Oh, Jesus!” he cried, putting a hand on his chest. “Kid, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

She tried to look apologetic but failed, as she was now giggling.

Hopper rolled his eyes, smiling at her antics.

“Figured you’d be asleep,” he said, gesturing outside, reminding her of the late hour.

El was about to tell him she had taken a nap when she remembered why exactly she had fallen asleep in the first place.

“I heard a BANG!” El divulged, forming the word with her lips as well as mimicking the sound with a sharp clap.

“I’m sorry?” Hopper said, not quite understanding. It had been a long day and, while El was apparently not tired, he certainly was.

“I heard a BANG!” El repeated, doing the motion again just to be sure he didn’t miss it this time. “Do you think it was the...tripwire? You said it would go BANG! like gunfire.”

Hopper’s eyes widened as he realized the gravity of what she was revealing.

“Stay here!” he ordered her. “Don’t move!”

Hopper walked back into the main room and, immediately disobeying and trailing behind him, she saw him reach inside the drawer she was “absolutely, never, in a million years” supposed to look in, removing the gun that he carried in his holster for his job. She watched anxiously while he told her to remain inside. He grabbed a flashlight from on top of the fridge and was soon out the door, telling her to immediately lock it behind him.

She watched him through the window, peeking through the curtains as he slowly scanned the area for intruders.

Finally, deeming it safe, she saw him walk up to where they had set up the tripwire.

After inspecting it, Hopper glanced up and met her gaze through the window. He nodded and gestured for her to join him outside.

She unlocked the door with a quick flick of her wrist, stumbling over her feet in her eagerness to join the man, barely remembering to slip on her boots.

Though she knew she should join Hopper right away, El took her time, listening to the crunch of the snow under her. She took in a breath and the crisp, March air felt refreshing on her face.

Hopper watched her, saw her dallying, but didn't scold her. They both knew it had been way too long since she’d been outside.

Finally, she reached the tripwire. It was, as Hopper had noted, undisturbed.

“You see, El?” Hopper said, smiling reassuringly. “It couldn’t have been this thing. We would-”

BANG!

El’s heart leapt into her throat and she was instantly scanning the area.

Hopper, meanwhile, watched her curiously before a look of realization crossed his face.

“El,” he asked her, and she tore her gaze away from the treeline to look back at him. “Was that sound the one you heard earlier?”

She nodded rapidly, worried. What if it was the Bad Men?

“Oh, no, kid,” Hopper rushed to explain, chuckling slightly. “That’s not anything bad. It’s just…well, come here. I’ll show you.”

He led her over to a large tree and pointed at it.

“This tree,” he said, knocking on the trunk. “Do you know what’s in it?”

El scrunched up her face trying to think, but couldn’t figure it out. Had anyone ever told her? Probably not.

“It’s called sap,” he enlightened. “It has something special in it that keeps trees from freezing up on the inside. But it doesn’t stop the tree from freezing entirely. All it can do is resist. But sometimes, there’s weather that’s so cold, the sap does freeze, and then it will expand, which means it will stretch and stretch until it finally…bursts.”

El was watching Hopper with rapt attention, hanging onto his every word.

“That’s what you heard, El,” he clarified. “The sound of the frozen tree sap breaking.”

El blinked.

Oh.

“But,” she started, trying to figure out how to explain. “It didn’t sound like a crack.”

“No, it didn’t,” Hopper agreed. “It actually does sound a lot like gunfire. I’m not surprised you thought of that. But don’t worry. It’s nothing bad.”

El looked relieved, and, after spending about a minute more breathing in the cold air, she hurried back inside, Hopper swiftly following behind her.

He locked the door behind them and, once they had removed their winter gear, El sat down at the table, while Hopper stood in the kitchen, trying to decide on something quick he could make for the both of them.

Turning to ask El for her opinion, he caught sight of her extremely comforted expression as she presumably was still thinking about Hopper’s explanation about the freezing tree sap.

Everything clicked together.

“Hey, El?” he inquired softly and when she looked at him, he smiled. “Is that why you were under your covers when I got home? Were you worried about the noise?”

El tilted her head, considering. She debated saying ‘no,” but ruled against it. The truth wouldn’t hurt either of them.

She nodded.

Hopper sighed and leaned up against the fridge, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“Aw, jeez,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry about that, kid.”

“It’s okay,” she told him. And it was. She felt better now, especially since he was here.

“No, it’s not,” he protested and seemed to be thinking about something. His face lit up as an idea came to him. “I’ll tell you what. Since we’ve both had pretty rough days, why don’t we treat ourselves?”

Hopper turned around and, opening and reaching into the top freezer portion, extracted a oval-shaped tub.

Hopper chuckled at her confusion before explaining.

“It’s ice cream!” he told her. “Eating this is one of the few things that makes me truly happy. Trust me. You’ll love it.”

El shrugged but something was nagging at her.

Ice cream. Why did that sound familiar?

“Hopper reached into the cupboard above the sink and brought back two bowls, collecting two spoons from the drawer nearest the door. He brought all this to the table and quickly began dishing up the ice cream.

“Usually, I would just eat it from the tub, but…” he shrugged and then looked sheepish. “I guess we can try to be civilized.”

He passed her a filled bowl and a spoon.

“I got a whole tub,” Hopper boasted. “I mean, sure, it’s vanilla, but hey! I’m not picky. Guess nobody wants to eat ice cream in March.”

“Where did you get it?” El asked, pausing in taking a bite. Something about this felt off.

“It’s Will’s birthday,” Hopper informed her. “We all had cake, but I guess nobody wanted any ice cream, so it’s ours now.”

She smiled at his obvious enthusiasm before finally taking a bite of her dish.

…After which she abruptly lost her appetite.

Shooting up from the table, El sprinted to the bathroom, nausea that she knew all too well quickly overwhelming her.

That’s how Hopper found her.

Puking into the toilet bowl as her whole body trembled and tears fell down her cheeks, memories flashing through her head.

His worry only heightened at what he saw.

“El, oh God,” Hopper exclaimed, crouching down so that he was next to her. “I don’t…I don’t understand. How-?”

His questions were dropped as he observed El starting to hyperventilate.

“Okay, El, hey,” Hopper said soothingly. “Breathe! Deep breaths! There you go! It’s alright. I’m here. I’m with you. Can you do something for me? Can you look up?”

El lifted her head from the toilet bowl and turned to look at him. Her face was pale and streaked with tears.

“Hey, Elly,” Hopper said, smiling at her proudly. “Can you look around and just tell me five things you can see?”

She glanced around the small room. Everything was blurry, though she didn’t know if that was from the tears or something else. El spoke up, and though her breathing was still somewhat irregular and tears still choked her, she spoke clearly. “I see…towel. Brush. Carpet. Um…the…the s-sink. And you.”

“That’s good!” Hopper praised her. “Okay, what about smells? Can you smell anything? Tell me.”

“I can smell, um,” El said, her tone steadier than what it had been a minute ago. “Your…perfume.”

“Hey,” he interjected, grinning. “I don’t wear perfume. I wear cologne. There’s a difference.”

“Smoke,” she said, ignoring his playful indignation, continuing her quest for aromas. “Like a fire.”

“Alright,” Hopper said, nodding. “Are you…are you feeling better?”

She nodded.

“Kinda,” she assured him. She felt exhausted (Day 9’s Word of the Day). “Sorry ‘bout the…mess.”

“What?” Hopper said, looking shocked. He started shaking his head, denying her apology. “Hey, no, El. You don’t have to say sorry about something like this. I’ll deal with this. I just…what happened? You were…more than just sick.”

“Ice cream,” El mumbled, wanting nothing more than to sleep. “Benny gave me ice cream.”

Hopper’s face fell.

“Aw, man,” the man said, shaking his head at his own stupidity. He should have remembered that. “I’m so sorry, El, I totally forgot about that.”

“It’s ‘kay,” she replied. “I’m gonna sleep now. Tired.”

“Yeah, probably,” Hopper muttered. “Just give me a second, okay?”

He reached under the sink and retrieved a washcloth. Wetting it with warm water, he gently scrubbed the remnants of sickness off El’s face, grinning slightly when he saw that her eyes were already shut.

Hopper then took the small cup that he used for mouthwash and filled it with warm water.

“Hey, Elly?” he said softly but insistently. “Let’s get that nasty taste out of your mouth, okay?”

She complied and gurgled the water, spitting into the sink. He had her repeat the process until the water was clear, then topped it off with actual mouthwash.

Finished, he guided her to her bedroom, where she plopped down and allowed Hopper to cover her with the blankets.

“Sorry ‘bout before,” she mumbled sleepily at him, and he rolled his eyes even as he found it adorable.

“You apologized already,” he reminded her. “And I told you, I-”

“No,” she said slightly louder. “Not ‘bout being sick. Crying.”

Hopper froze and he stared at her, floored, his mind whirring.

“El, listen to me,” he said urgently, hoping she was still awake and coherent enough to hear this. “You don’t ever have to apologize for crying. Do you understand? I’m never going to hold that against you and…I hope you don’t hold it against me, because God knows I’ve had more than my fair share of bad days. Hell, sometimes, crying can be good. It can be…cathartic.”

“Ca-” she said, breaking off, unable to pronounce it, sounding confused. “What does that mean?”

“Cathartic,” Hopper explained gently, “is when you have so many feelings and bad thoughts in your head and you find some way to get rid of them. That…release is called ‘cathartic.’”

“Cathartic,” El said, pronouncing it correctly, wanting to commit it to memory. She liked it.

“There you go,” Hopper praised, smiling. “Cathartic. C-A-T-H-A-R-T-I-C. There’s your word for the day. Goodnight, Elly.”

As El felt herself drifting off to sleep, she thought back on that memory in Benny’s diner.

It still hurt, of course. It always would. But it seemed to hurt a little less than before, now that she had been given the chance (short as it had been) to think the memory over and express everything she felt about it through her tears.

Hopper was right.

Crying could be good, sometimes.

It was cathartic (Day 102’s Word of the Day).

El found herself at the piano.

It was where she went when she needed to think, when she had to get thoughts out and words weren’t enough.

She played a few random notes and frowned.

Thinking about that day had been hard.

El would always be grateful to Hopper for what he had done for her. Protecting her. Teaching her. Loving her.

But part of her still felt bitter when she thought about being locked up in that cabin.

Cut off. Alone for most of the time. Unable to talk to anyone except for him.

In many ways, it reminded her of the Lab, though she had only told him the one time, during their fight before she left to find Mama.

Unlike P-Brenner, Hopper's heart had been in the right place.

"Hey, you good?" Dustin's voice came from behind her. He knew the piano was where she went when she was thinking.

El twisted around and smiled at him, nodding, before turning back to the instrument.

Smirking, she played the opening notes of "The Imperial March" and grinned when she heard him snickering behind her.

"Should I be worried?" Dustin asked her teasingly, placing his hands on her shoulders and kissing the back of her head.

"Unclear," she shot back, causing him to laugh. Behind them on the tablet, Lucas and Will were currently dominating the conversation. Well, Will was. The cleric had the other man's rapt attention as he shared various fun facts about Van Gogh.

Max seemed to have disappeared.

Back in the Byers-Wheeler living room, Mike was staring with a soft smile at how animated his husband was when he was talking about something he was passionate about.

The feeling of his cell phone vibrating in his pocket broke Mike from his trance.

Confused, he fished the device out, blinking in puzzlement at the name on the caller ID and glancing at the tablet screen.

He answered the call, moving off the couch into the kitchen, out of earshot and the line of sight of his friends and husband.

"Hello?" Mike spoke into the phone.

"When are you going to talk to Jonas?" Max questioned immediately.

Mike raised his eyebrows.

"Didn't you hear Hopper?" he asked her, somewhat irritated. "I'm letting him come to me."

"And if he doesn't?" Max queried. "Not everyone is great at sharing their feelings. Trust me."

"I know that," he said, a little annoyed that she was presuming he didn't know how to do his job as a parent. "But he is. Whatever happened, he'll come out to talk eventually."

"Okay," she replied and he frowned at how nervous she sounded.

"What's up?" Mike asked, starting to feel genuinely concerned. "Why do you sound so worried?"

"It's just-" she answered, struggling to put her thoughts into words. "I want to make sure he's talking to people."

Mike couldn't help but scoff at that.

"You are worried because he's not talking to people?" he said incredulously. "You?"

She stayed silent and Mike winced.

"I’m sorry," he said, apologetic. "That was-"

"No, you're right," she interrupted quietly. "I know I'm the last person who should be scolding anyone for not opening up to people. It's just…I don't want Jonas to close himself off when something bad happens. He won't like who he is when he does that. Trust me."

Mike pursed his lips, mind whirring.

"I'm not worried," he told her, lying through his teeth. "You shouldn't be either."

She could hear the dishonesty in his voice, but didn't call him on it, choosing to simply say goodbye and hang up.

In her own bedroom, where she had secluded herself to call Mike, Max was lost in thought, absently fiddling with a hairband on her wrist.

Her thoughts were on her present worries and what had sparked them.

Max took a deep breath and held it for exactly five seconds before letting it trickle out.

Thus fortified, she reached up and knocked on the door.

While she waited for someone to answer, Max took a few cursory glances around the front yard.

Everything was neat.

The cars in the driveway were parked perfectly straight. The grass around the house was an acceptable length. Even the flowers in the front garden looked like they had been spaced with a ruler, as they were evenly apart.

Everything was neat.

It made Max antsy and she resisted the urge to knock again. Whenever she looked around this yard and saw how orderly and put-together everything was, she was reminded of how different it was from her own house.

She would never tell Lucas this, but standing in his yard made her feel…inadequate. Like she was trespassing.

Like this wasn’t her world.

Max hugged her skateboard to her chest and hunched her shoulders, feeling defensive.

Finally, the door was wrenched open.

But not by Lucas.

“Max!” Mr. Sinclair greeted her, smiling warmly. “It’s good to see you! It’s been a while!”

Max let her arms separate and fall back to her sides, not wanting the man to notice her guarded posture.

“Uh, hey, Mr. Sinclair,” Max mumbled, even though she knew she shouldn’t. It wasn’t polite. She tried to ignore the comment on how long it’s been since her last visit, though she knew he didn’t mean it as a subtle dig. He was right. To be fair, it wasn’t just Lucas. She’d been ignoring everyone.

“There’s a reason you hide from them.”

“Max?” Mr. Sinclair asked her, studying her face, sounding concerned. Unknown to her, Max’s visage had suddenly gone pale and her hands had curled so that her long nails were digging into her palms. “Is…are you alright?”

“Yeah!” she blurted out, wincing at her voice’s volume. She sounded so…on edge.

She fought back a hysterical laugh at that thought.

Of course, you’re on edge! Max thought harshly. But don’t be weird. Especially not to him. He’s just being nice.

“Sorry,” she added, deliberately speaking softer and letting her hands relax. She wanted to wipe the look of worry off of Mr. Sinclair’s face. “Is, um, is Lucas…home?”

She ignored Mr. Sinclair’s searching gaze until he had given up (or more likely, knowing him, saving his questions for later).

“He’s not, actually,” the man confessed. “He’s hanging out with…Dustin, I think.”

Max blinked.

Well, shit.

That wasn’t ideal.

She wasn’t upset though. Lucas, like Mike, had been doing his best to ensure that the mistakes of last summer did not repeat themselves.

“Oh,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment from the annoyingly observant man. “Okay. I’ll come back then. It was-”

“You don’t have to leave,” Mr. Sinclair interrupted, and Max knew he was still thinking about earlier and how weird she had been. “I’m not sure how long he’ll be. Do you want to use our phone? You can call him.”

“No, that’s okay,” she answered, trying to keep her voice level to put him at ease.

“Well, still, no reason you should have to go,” he pressed her. “You can watch television or…I don’t know, read some of Lucas’ comics. Is reading comics still cool?”

“I don’t think it ever has been,” Max replied, smirking. “Which explains why Lucas has plenty.”

Mr. Sinclair huffed a laugh and, deciding to take him up on his offer, she walked carefully past him into the house as he held the door open.

“Are you hungry?” he asked from behind her, and Max quickly shook her head.

“I’m okay, thanks,” she assured him, smiling to herself as she looked around the room.

In contrast to the neat exterior, the inside of the Sinclair home felt more natural. More lived-in. She could see various pairs of shoes, haphazardly scattered near the door. As she made her way into the living room, she spotted a red sweatshirt hanging off the back of the couch that, judging by its size, belonged to Erica. The coffee table had a messy stack of newly checked out library books that, leaning closer, she saw were all on the Apollo space missions and NASA equipment, meaning they were Lucas’.

“He’s building some sort of model,” Mr. Sinclair supplied when he saw her looking. “Of one of the lunar rovers.”

She nodded absently, smiling as she took in more of the house. She felt a tug in her gut as she realized why she had agreed to come inside, despite Lucas not even being here.

Lucas’ home felt like…well, like a home. It felt like a place where a family lived, not like her house, which just felt like a place to sleep and hide in to avoid people.

“Is Erica home?” she wondered aloud. Max sometimes hung out with her while she waited for Lucas to get ready for dates and Party hangouts. She could be fun to talk to, even if she was a tad too immature for Max to take seriously.

“Nope,” Mr. Sinclair said, shaking his head. “She’s hanging out with her friends and has abandoned her “old and boring” parents for more exciting adventures.”

Max snorted, suppressing a smirk.

“I’m not too worried about her,” Mr. Sinclair commented, snickering. “I’m sure she can’t get up to anything too dangerous. And if she tries, I know where she lives.”

Max couldn’t hold back another snort and for a moment, she was tempted to ask the man if the idea of his daughter crawling through an air duct to infiltrate an underground Russian base was something he considered “dangerous,” but held her tongue, letting him think her snort was due to his joke.

She paused at the bottom of the staircase, debating whether she should go up to Lucas’ room and take his father’s suggestion. Some of his comics weren’t awful.

Misinterpreting her hesitation as feeling awkward about how to excuse herself, Mr. Sinclair waved his hand.

“Oh, don’t let me keep you,” he called out, moving toward the kitchen. “Let me know if you change your mind about wanting something.”

She nodded in thanks and soon found herself alone.

After a few seconds of thought, Max decided not to go upstairs and instead continued to explore the downstairs area, moving quietly and avoiding the kitchen so as not to disturb Mr. Sinclair.

Max smirked at the Star Wars backpack that could only be Lucas’ resting under the window, though its size and the thin layer of dust covering it told her it hadn’t been utilized in a while.

Glancing through the window and peering into the backyard, she admired Mrs. Sinclair’s vibrant and multicolored flower garden. Scanning the yard, her gaze stopped on a sandbox that was set up near the back of the yard.

It was obviously a leftover from an earlier time, a childhood relic from when Lucas and Erica were younger, judging from the state of it and the plastic toys she saw scattered within.

Glancing toward the kitchen, Max felt her mouth curve into a genuine smile (her first in…a while) and she slowly eased the back door open, before carefully closing it behind her, wincing at the squeaky hinges.

She slowly approached the sandbox, feeling nervous, before chiding herself for feeling that way. Mr. Sinclair wouldn’t mind. He’d left her to her own devices in the house, after all. He clearly trusted her.

Still, this felt a little too…childish. Something no self-respecting teenager would want to be caught dead doing.

But she was bored. Plus, she liked making them and it had been a while.

Besides, since when has she-or any of them-been normal?

She dropped to her knees in the sand and began the necessary steps to construct her sandcastle.

She filled up a bucket with water using the garden hose, turning off the spout quickly to avoid wasting it. Then, she returned to the sandbox to begin scooping sand using a toy, hand-held shovel into another bucket.

She’d never been in a sandbox. It hadn’t been necessary in California, where the beaches were just a short drive away. By the time she’d moved to Hawkins, she had outgrown playing in the sand, preferring to skateboard.

Or at least, Max thought wryly. I thought I’d outgrown this.

With her bucket half filled with sand, she carefully began adding water from the second bucket. She remembered that the ratio had to be right.

Doing this, she tipped the bucket over, only for the mixture to fall out, creating an unattractive pile.

It looked like literal shit.

Max grimaced. She’d evidently done something wrong. It had been a while.

“You have to pack it in,” a voice called out, sounding amused, and she looked up, feeling like a deer in headlights.

Mr. Sinclair was watching her, leaning up against the back door. He now strode toward her and, upon reaching his destination, carefully sat down next to her, though he was outside the sandbox.

“Never built a sandcastle before?” he asked her teasingly and she blushed.

“I have,” she said, feeling slightly defensive. “Just…not for…years, I guess. I’m out of practice.”

“Ah,” he replied, nodding. He reached his hand over and hastily cleared away the wet mess, sand clinging to his skin as he did. He then took the toy hand shovel from her and began refilling the bucket.

“You have to pack it in using this,” Mr. Sinclair explained, referring to the hand shovel. “That way, the sand takes on the shape of the bucket and it all sticks together.”

He continued his task in silence, adding water when it was time and offering Max the shovel to pat the sand down.

She tipped over the bucket and, remembering another step she’d forgotten, patted the bucket to ensure all the sand had slipped out.

The result was something much more resembling a sandcastle.

“There we go!” Mr. Sinclair announced enthusiastically. “It’s all about the foundation.”

She smiled and started filling a cup with sand, wanting to add a second story.

“Foundations are important,” Mr. Sinclair continued. “If you don’t have a strong foundation, the whole structure will collapse. That’s why it needs to be firm and have plenty of support to fall back on.”

Max’s hands stilled as she realized what the man was doing.

She glanced over at him and found him looking at her with a pointed expression, his eyebrows raised.

“Really?” she asked him, smirking.

“Okay, fine,” Mr. Sinclair agreed, chuckling slightly. “Not my most subtle transition.” His expression became serious. “But it’s still true, Max.”

She looked away, scooped up some sand and let it out, watching it trickle through her fingers.

“I…have a…foundation,” she reminded him (and herself). “I have people who care about me.”

She knew that now.

“But do you…lean…on them?” Mr. Sinclair questioned her. “Because, Max, I might not know everything, but I’d like to think I know what goes on in this house. And this is the first time you’ve been here since…well, I suppose since all that business with the Munson boy went down.”

She had dropped the shovel and her nails were digging into her palms again.

“Did something happen, Max?” he prodded her. “Something bad?”

She couldn’t speak. Her throat had closed up and she stared at the ground, unwilling to meet his anxious eyes.

She looked up, startled, when he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, listen,” Mr. Sinclair told her gently. “You don’t have to tell me. Okay? I understand if I’m not the person you want to talk to.”

Max fought the urge to laugh. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell him, but that she couldn’t. He would never believe her. Oh, he’d say he did. He’d nod and pretend to take her seriously, then call Pennhurst the second he got the chance.

He’d think she was nuts, that whatever had “really” happened had driven her crazy.

That she was broken.

“You've broken everything.”

“I understand if you can’t talk to me,” Mr. Sinclair told her, regarding her solemnly. He saw the way the sudden memory had made her wide-eyed with fear and he wished he knew what she was struggling with. “But I really think you should talk to someone.”

She actually scoffed aloud at that.

Talk to who? Ms. Kelly? That was the whole reason V-he had come after her in the first place!

“Max-” Mr. Sinclair started, seeing her reaction, but she interrupted him, exasperated.

“I can’t!” she told him, before stopping herself. She didn’t want to be an asshole to someone who was just being nice, who was trying to help. “Nobody…nobody else gets it. You…you know?”

He watched her silently for a few seconds, his expression unreadable.

“I do know, actually,” the man finally said, sounding far away. “I…did you know I fought in Vietnam?”

She nodded slowly. She remembered Lucas mentioning that at some point, when she’d asked him where he got his binoculars.

“Yeah,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “I was there. Saw some action. And…lots of stuff I wish I hadn’t.”

Max didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to interrupt. It would have been wrong.

“And when I came back,” Mr. Sinclair recalled, grimacing. “Well, no one really wanted to talk about it. We weren’t exactly all welcomed home by people grateful for our service. But…it stayed with me. You know? And people noticed and…they tried talking to me. Tried to get me to open up and talk about what happened. But…they didn’t really understand.”

Max shifted uncomfortably. This was hitting a little too close for comfort.

“Part of me was happy about that,” Mr. Sinclair went on. “I didn’t want them to understand. I was glad they hadn’t seen what I saw. But…it also made me feel frustrated…and lonely.”

When he didn’t say more, Max decided to ask.

“So, what did you do?” she whispered. Anything louder didn’t feel appropriate.

“I found someone who did get it,” Mr. Sinclair answered, and, at her curious look, continued. “Chief Hopper. I went to him because I knew he’d been there too. I talked to him about some stuff and he got it, you know? He put me in touch with some other guys who’d served and seen shit, and that was that. I made some new friends. Now, we all meet at least once a month for coffee.”

They sat there in silence and Max digested the story. She knew why he had told her this.

“So, if you can’t talk to me,” Mr. Sinclair concluded. “That’s fine. Find someone who gets it, Max. If you can.”

Max sighed and nodded.

She knew he had a point.

And she also knew who she could talk to.

“Um,” Max stammered, moistening her lips and gaining confidence from Mr. Sinclair’s encouraging nod. “Is that offer to use your phone still open?”

The man grinned and nodded, waving her away.

She stood up and walked back into the house, heart thundering. She picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed the number with a shaking hand, her mind scrambling as she rehearsed what she wanted to say.

Eventually, the line connected and her call was answered.

“Byers residence, Will Byers speaking,” Will chirped out, his upbeat voice immediately putting some of her nerves at ease. “If there’s a Will, there’s a way. Who is this?”

Max covered her mouth so that he didn’t hear her snort. It would only encourage him.

She hesitated then. He seemed happy today. Maybe she shouldn’t do this. She didn’t want to drag down the mood and bring up shitty memories, which she definitely would if she told him why she was calling. And his shit was definitely worse than hers. Did she really need help?

“Hello?” Will called out, confused. “Does anyone copy?"

She should just hang up. She could do this on her own. This was nothing she couldn't handle.

"Nothing you don't deserve."

Yeah, Max thought dryly, doing her best to push the memory away. I think I need help.

"Hey Will," she said before she could talk herself out of it.

"Max?" Will asked. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” she breathed. “Um, do…do you have…can we talk?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replied after a few moments of silence. He sounded perplexed. “Is everything okay?”

“N-no,” she replied, fighting hard to keep her voice steady. “I…I need to talk to someone about…what happened to me. With V-him.”

“Got it,” Will said seriously. “Do you want to come over?”

She hesitated.

“Mike isn’t here,” he added, thinking that might help sway her.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll…I’ll be there soon.”

“See you soon, Madmax,” Will responded.

Saying goodbye, she hung up.

She went and opened the back door, smirking when she found Mr. Sinclair making his own sandcastle.

“Mr. Sinclair!” she called out. “I’m gonna go!”

“Okay!” he called back, raising his hand in farewell. “Don’t be a stranger!”

Walking back through the house, she emerged into the driveway and, without looking back, Max got on her skateboard and zoomed, moving in the direction of the Byers home.

It was time to talk to someone who gets it.

She was ready to open up.

Mike couldn't take it anymore.

He sat on the couch, pressed between Will and Maia, trying to listen to El as she told some story about how Dorian had mistaken an Amazon delivery man for an intruder. He was trying to enjoy himself.

But all Mike could think about was what Max had said on their call, about not letting Jonas shut himself away.

Mike was worried about his son.

On one hand, part of him agreed with Hopper. He should let his son come to him when he was ready, not force things to happen. But another, much more insistent part was panicking about what Max had told him and Mike was resisting the urge to rush upstairs, burst into his son’s room, and demand to know what was wrong so that he could fix it immediately.

Mike had already dismissed his earlier worries about Jonas having a hidden homophobic side. It was ludicrous.

But something had obviously happened to his son and Mike wanted to know what it was.

And he couldn’t ignore the problem anymore.

He couldn’t sit here and laugh along as Dustin told a joke or Max recounted some parenting anecdote with this anxiety twisting in his gut. He couldn’t pretend everything was okay while his son sat alone upstairs, hurting.

He stood up from the sofa suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention.

“I’m gonna go-” Mike started before stopping. Who was he kidding? It was them. The Party. His Party. They had all read the emotions waging war on his face. They knew what he was doing. He glanced at Will and said it out loud anyway. “I’m gonna go talk to him.”

Will nodded and made to rise, but Mike stopped him.

“Actually,” he said, biting his lip. “I…I think I have this handled. You stay here. Keep slinging those Van Gogh facts.”

Will nodded, not questioning him. As Mike left the room and began ascending the staircase, he looked back to find Will watching him while the rest of the Party had returned to their discussion.

Mike paused at the top of the stairs, turning the corner and taking the last few steps to his son’s bedroom at a slow, creeping pace. Mike didn’t want to startle Jonas, didn’t want to make him think he had come to yell at him.

Stopping at the closed door, Mike lifted a hand to knock before he froze.

What if this was a mistake?

What if Hopper was right?

Mike shifted nervously on his feet as he thought. He wished he just knew what the right thing to do was.

Suddenly, Mike thought about his own father. Had Ted Wheeler faced these same struggles? Had he ever paused anxiously outside his son’s bedroom door, wanting to talk but not knowing the right words?

Had he ever felt like he had failed?

Mike wanted to say he knew for sure that the answer was ‘no,’ but the man must have. He had admitted he was wrong in the end, wrong to cut Mike off. He had said he was sorry. That required some self-reflection.

Mike was still hesitating.

Unbidden, Max’s words came back to him and Mike felt a wave of determination enter him.

Mike loved Max, loved her like a sister (though good luck getting him to admit that to anyone else, especially her). The summer after V-after everything, he had seen how closing herself off had torn at her, how it had made her act. Max had isolated herself, wouldn’t come out of her house for days at a time, and her mind was always someplace else whenever they managed to talk her into hanging out.

When she had finally opened herself up, first to Will and then slowly, over time, to the others, it was like they were getting their zoomer back. Mike had been ecstatic.

He wouldn’t let Jonas go down that route. He would not, could not watch his son bury his feelings and isolate himself from his loved ones.

Maybe Mike was being dramatic. But after everything they had seen, he had learned that at the first sign of trouble, it was best to kill the problem before it grew too large.

This was his son.

He had to help him.

He loved him. And he always would.

And right now, Jonas was probably in there, thinking that he had broken something between them.

Didn’t he know how much Mike loved him?

He had to tell him. He hadn’t said it yet today.

He had made a promise.

And that was something that you can’t break.

Ever.

The crunching sound of feet on gravel ripped through the air, seeming to echo as it bounced off the slanted stones.

As he walked cautiously down the well-worn path, no other noise met Mike's ears.

He had hesitated briefly at the gate until he regained his courage.

He didn’t like visiting this place, which is why it was a trip he seldom made.

If Mike’s mind had been functioning normally, he might have noted how odd this absence of sound was. They were far enough from the proper town that cars only occasionally came through the area. Therefore, the bustling sounds of society did not extend here.

But even the auditory contributions of nature did not chime now. Even the birds, usually more than happy to make themselves known, held their noise, only looking, as silent as the graves they watched over.

Mike’s brain was on autopilot and his body acted on its own, moving slowly through the rows while his consciousness felt detached, as though he was in a daze.

It only took a minute more for Mike to draw near to the grave he had come for. The stone was bright, whitewashed. The words were carved deep, ensuring that they would be able to be deciphered even years later:

THEODORE WHEELER

MARCH 6, 1938-AUGUST 27, 2009

Mike stopped a few paces from the grave. The trance that had claimed him slowly ebbed away as he focused on the emblazoned words. He took a deep breath and held it for a few moments, trying in vain to steady his nerves.

Finally, he released the breath in a shaky exhale and took the last few steps necessary to stand directly in front of his father’s grave.

“Hi Dad,” he said awkwardly after a few tense (in his mind) moments of silence. His voice cracked. He had been completely silent on the drive here and it seemed his vocals had suffered for it.

He cleared his throat.

“I-” he began before stopping. He didn’t even know what to say. “I’m…I’m here.”

He winced and cursed internally.

Of course you’re here, dipshit, Mike chastised himself. Say something he doesn’t know!

“Um-” he fumbled for a second before he brought out the wrapped package and held it in front of him. “I brought flowers.”

Pausing for a moment, absurdly thinking his father might actually voice his rejection, he gently laid the simple bundle of red petunias against the grave.

After a moment, Mike himself followed suit, bending down until he sat in front of the stone slab, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs.

His head was bent, staring at the ground in thought, but Mike titled it back up to glance at the face of the grave.

“You know,” Mike noted dryly. “This conversation is feeling pretty one-sided. Just like old times.”

He chuckled slightly at his own joke, before wincing as he imagined Will’s disapproving look.

He scratched his head as he thought about where to take the conversation next.

“We never were very good at talking, were we?” Mike mused, his tone distant, seeped in memories.

He gazed at the grave for a few seconds, unseeing, before he scoffed.

“I mean,” he went on scornfully. “You said plenty. Just never anything nice.”

Here, Mike’s tone became a gruff rumble, mockingly imitating Ted’s voice.

"Son, I wish you were more the athletic type," Mike spat out. "Why don't you try out for a sports team? Do you have to spend so much time on that odd game? Don't you want to make other friends? How do you expect to get a girlfriend acting like that?"

Mike's voice had risen during his tirade until he was near shouting. He stopped himself and cast an anxious glance toward the parked car, even though he knew there was no logical chance of being heard.

Avoiding looking at the grave, Mike's gaze flicked around, darting up toward the trees that stood regally off beyond the steel fence. From their branches, the beady eyes of the birds bored into him, accusing.

Focusing back on the grave, Mike continued in a quieter tone.

"I just-" he stopped, swallowing a painful lump. "You were always trying to get me to be someone else."

Mike paused, chewing his lip nervously, wondering whether to vocalize his next question.

“Why?” he asked, deciding to do so. “I don’t…I don’t understand. What was wrong with me?”

Here, Mike stopped. He could almost hear Will, Nancy, Joyce, El, everyone in his life chiding him, telling him that there was nothing wrong with him. The whispers came to him like a warm breeze and they empowered him to continue.

“I mean,” Mike said, wincing when he heard his tone. He sounded whiny. Childish. But you know what? He had a right to. “You didn’t even know me! You never even tried to!”

Mike cast his eyes to the ground again, but then a thought came to him, a memory, and his eyes shot back up to the gravestone. He stared at it with a hard expression.

“Do you remember when you caught me sleeping with a nightlight?” he blurted out and he was angry. Mike was glad suddenly that he had elected to do this on his own. He didn’t want to be seen like this. Yelling at a grave, spitting with rage at someone who more than likely couldn’t hear him anyway.

“You came into my room,” Mike continued, swallowing. “Which, of course, you never did, so I didn’t have time to…hide anything, I guess. You saw it. My nightlight. And you just-”

He stopped for a second, before scoffing again.

“You just started saying shit,” Mike remembered, shaking his head. “How it was babyish. How I was too old for it and, hell, maybe I was. I was…in high school. You said I was almost a man and I should have been able to handle a little darkness.”

He stopped short and to his own mortification, Mike realized that tears had sprung up in his eyes. He wiped at them furiously.

His father’s words had cut deep, had burned him like the poisonous venom of Echidna.

Mike calmed himself with a few deep breaths and his hands, which he had unconsciously balled into fists, relaxed and unfurled.

“It wasn’t just darkness I was seeing, Dad,” Mike whispered after his voice worked properly again. “I…I was…do you have any idea what I saw?!”

Mike’s last words came out in a jumbled rush, a plea for understanding from a man who was no longer there to grant it.

“You took it away,” he recounted bitterly, still resentful all those years later. “And every night until Mom made you give it back, I laid there frozen. Paralyzed. I was terrified.”

His voice cracked on the last word and he winced at how weak he must sound, before remembering there was (probably) no one around who cared.

“Dad, the things I’d seen,” he murmured, his voice breaking again, before snapping his mouth shut and biting down on his lip hard, thinking that maybe the pain might ground him, might stop the flood of nightmarish images that he could still see, burned into his memory with sharp focus.

Eleven disappearing in a flurry of inky flakes, seemingly disintegrating into dust.

Will flailing in a hospital bed, screaming as a combination of doctors and family members held him down with a voice that was not his own, the false, brown eyes a telltale sign of the monster that had infiltrated his body.

Eleven screaming in agony as she tried to use her powers to remove that…thing from her leg.

Other memories too. Things he wouldn’t even allow himself to think about, things he couldn’t, or Mike knew his few tears would escalate into sobs in seconds.

“I needed that nightlight,” Mike muttered brokenly. “And maybe it was babyish and pathetic, but you have no idea what…”

He let himself trail off. It was an old wound and Mike thought time had allowed it to heal. But it had only scabbed over, and picking at it risked reopening it.

Mike was silent as the memory played through his head like a reel in a projector. He winced when he recalled a separate but related recollection.

It had been a hot summer night and almost every house in town was pumping their air conditioning for all it was worth.

For a brief moment as he lay in bed, Mike’s eyes had been drawn to his nightlight, which peered at him from across the room. His breath had caught.

It was flickering.

It had probably been caused by the overtaxing of the town power grid, but Mike had froze and his brain had gone into overdrive.

Within seconds, he was hyperventilating and in a panicked frenzy, he had stumbled to Nancy’s room, only remembering at the sight of the stripped mattress and blank walls that his sister was gone, that she had been for a while.

He had fleetingly thought about calling her, but it was late, and though he knew she wouldn’t hold it against him once she discovered his reason for reaching out, there was a whispering, niggling voice in the back of his consciousness telling him not to. It was a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father’s and it scolded him for wanting to burden people with his problems.

And so he had curled up in Nancy’s empty room, laying on her mattress in a fetal position, with his face pressed to the surface in a vain attempt to inhale some of her lingering scent.

There hadn’t been much, but the traces of fragrance that did remain (from that goddamn perfume she was constantly spraying) brought some level of comfort and the tears abated.

The earthy aroma of his surroundings brought Mike back to the present and he glared at his father’s headstone as the memory faded.

“I was really fucked up, you know,” he practically growled out. “But you never knew. You never asked. You just thought I was being wimpy.”

His hands were twisting together in front of him and it took a considerable amount of willpower to tear them apart.

Mike took another breath and forged on.

“And then…you found out I was gay,” he muttered with a hysterical laugh. “And everything went to shit.”

He paused and frowned, before amending his statement.

“Well, okay,” he clarified. “I guess it was somewhat better. You weren’t saying stuff anymore. It was just…complete radio silence.”

Mike ruminated for a few moments and, perhaps to balance out what he had just said, he went on.

“But you were so smug,” he spat out, his face twisted into a dark scowl. “You didn’t have to say anything. I saw it in your eyes. You were ashamed but also so goddamn smug. You thought you had been right. That explained everything, didn’t it?! The nightlight? The nerdy interests? The lack of girls in my life? Congrats, Dad! You knew I was gay before I did!”

He was shouting again and without thinking, Mike had shot to his feet, his hands once more balled into fists. Regaining his composure, he contemplated leaving, ending his confession there, but then he anxiously smoothed down the wrinkles that had formed on his pants, and he was reminded of the other object he had brought with him, the one that felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket.

Mike clenched his eyes shut and, counting down from five, calmed himself down. He sat down once more before the grave, though he kept his eyes directed down at the ground.

“Of course,” he murmured, rolling his eyes at the thought. “You thought it wasn’t going to last. Remember?” Here, Mike’s gaze flicked back up to the headstone. “Do you remember? What you said to me? The day I told you?”

He paused before chuckling slightly, feeling stupid. Why had he stopped? Had a part of him actually expected his father to answer him? Assuming he had been listening at all? He had never been attentive in life, so why should death cause him to change his parenting (or lack thereof)?

“You said,” Mike recalled, his eyes darkening, “that what Will and I had wasn’t ‘real love.’ You said it was fake. It wouldn’t last. A ‘cheap imitation,’ you called it.”

He practically sneered the phrase, still in disbelief that his father had uttered something so completely wrong.

“But you were wrong,” Mike informed him. “And you know what? You were the cheap imitation! As a father! As a husband! As a person! That’s all you could do! Imitate!”

He was breathing heavily now. It occurred to Mike that what he had said might be considered harsh, cruel even. But he didn’t care. It was true.

“What Will and I have-” he broke off, overcome with emotion. He started to speak a few times and stopped himself each time. There was no way he could ever express in words how much Will meant to him, how much they meant to each other.

“That’s love,” he finally said and left it at that.

Mike took a few moments to orient himself. Silence hung in the air. Shifting, Mike raised his head and glanced at the parked car. Nothing about it had changed. Will was patient as ever.

Mike looked back at the grave and he took the time to reread the words that were sunk into the stone.

He thought about the day he had gotten the phone call telling him that his father was gone. He thought about what happened in the months after, what he had discovered.

“But,” he whispered, his voice low, his words more for himself than Ted Wheeler. “I guess you figured that out eventually, huh?”

He smiled then. It wasn’t much of a smile. Just a slight quirk of the lips. But it was something.

Returning to Hawkins to sort through his father’s possessions had been a task Mike had wanted to put off, but Will had insisted they take care of it as soon as they had time, for both practical reasons as well as (Mike knew) a sense of closure for himself.

While there, they had discovered a treasure.

A final gift from Ted Wheeler.

A scrapbook. Filled with pictures. Of him and Will.

It had been his father’s way of tracking how their love for each other had been evident through the years, and had only grown as time went on.

It had been his way of telling Mike that he was sorry. Sorry for not believing his son when he had protested that his love for Will was real, was stronger than the fiercest ocean storm.

“I…I wanted to thank you for the photo album, Dad,” Mike stammered, wincing at his broken speech. “It was a really nice gesture. But…”

He stopped. Should he keep going? He didn’t want to sound ungrateful. But, well…

“Why didn’t you just call?” he asked, begging for an explanation. “Why couldn’t you tell me?”

Mike didn’t get an answer. It didn’t matter. He knew why.

“Stubborn bastard,” he muttered irritatedly, pursing his lips to keep from smiling. “You just couldn’t say the words, could you? Had to wait until you knew you’d get the last word.”

Mike chuckled now. Now, he was doubly glad that Will had waited in the car. He just knew his husband would have teased him for that comment. He could picture the smirk on Will’s mouth, could hear the words falling from his lips:

And you say you’re nothing like your father.

“Thanks, Dad,” Mike said at last, feeling better than he had when he had trekked out here. Will had been right. He had needed this. “But…why didn’t you say it? Why couldn’t you?”

Some of the good cheer left Mike as he thought more about his father’s apparent inability to say…what he had wanted him to say for so long.

“I can count on one hand, you know,” Mike said. “The number of times you said it. ‘I love you.’”

Silence fell once again. For a few seconds, the only sound was the rustling of the grass as it was gently stirred by the wind.

“Maybe you thought it was implied, I don’t know,” Mike mumbled, lost in thought. “But that’s not good enough. You need to say it, Dad.”

Mike brought his hands together, entwining them and resting them both in his lap. As his fingers brushed against his pants, he was reminded of the object that still waited in his pocket.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Mike reached into his pants pocket and pulled out…

A picture.

“I have a photo of my own,” he said, snickering a bit. “To give to you.”

Hesitating slightly while he looked for a place to rest it, Mike ultimately decided to tuck his gift between the gravestone and the flowers he had brought.

With that completed, he observed the picture. He smiled at the happy, no, ecstatic expressions on both his and Will’s faces, at the joy that sparkled in their eyes.

Both men weren’t entirely looking at the camera, but also not toward each other. Instead, Mike and Will had their gazes fixed on the small, grinning boy that was nestled between them. They both had a protective hand on their newest family member, flanking his shoulders.

“His name is Jonas,” Mike revealed, his voice suddenly sounding raw. A lump had formed in his throat, a lump that only grew as his eyes lingered on the boy.

On his son.

“He-” Mike started before his throat caught and he was forced to stop. He swallowed and went on, his voice still noticeably croaky. “He’s…he’s six now.”

Mike’s eyes remained fixed on Jonas, mesmerized, as he continued.

“He’s allergic to peanuts,” Mike added, rambling. “He likes to wake up to listen to the birds. And he has this…this Spiderman backpack that he insists on carrying everywhere. He likes to read. And he’s-”

Mike’s words were interrupted as something between a sob and a laugh was torn unwillingly from his throat. He once again found himself swiping at his eyes to remove the traces of tears.

“He’s funny,” Mike said with a watery chuckle. “And not…not like ‘mean-funny.’ Some kids act like you have to be mean in order to be funny, but he’s not. He’s got a brutal sarcastic streak, I swear to God! Especially since he’s, you know, six. Reminds me of Will. But he’s also…nice. Sweet.”

Mike finished his description, sniffling.

“You see, Dad?” he said after a moment, unable to stop himself. “I know him. I want to know him. I…I love him.”

Mike’s voice broke at the word and he didn’t even try to stop the tears this time. They fell freely down his face, cascading down his cheeks.

“I love him,” he repeated, smiling softly. “And I tell him that every day. I make sure I do. Because children need to hear that, Dad.”

He let that declaration hang between them and then, nodding to himself, Mike got to his feet.

He had said everything he needed to.

With a final glance at his father’s headstone, Mike imagined that the man himself was standing there and flashed it a smile.

“Happy Father’s Day,” Mike whispered and with that, the paladin set his sights on the parked car and strolled back down the path, pausing only at the gate, which he opened and then closed gently, paranoid about disturbing the relative quiet.

He stopped and mopped at his face one last time before reaching for the handle and, swinging the car door open, took his place in the driver’s seat, sealing himself in with a thud.

Almost immediately, Mike felt a hand tap against his leg and glancing sideways, Mike met his husband’s concerned look.

“Are you okay?” Will said gently, a near whisper, barely moving his lips.

Mike thought for a moment, then nodded.

“Yeah,” he assured him, using his thumbpad to wipe away the last few wet spots near his eyes. “I’m good. Promise.”

Will opened his mouth to reply but was cut off.

“Why are you crying, Daddy?”

Mike felt another smile stretch across his face and he turned his head to see his six-year-old son looking anxious in the backseat.

“I’m fine, buddy,” he said soothingly, seeing Jonas’ worried expression. “I was just…thinking about some stuff. That’s all.”

Jonas frowned in thought, digesting this, before reaching his hand up and bopping his surprised father on the nose, as though scolding him.

“Don’t think about it,” the boy proposed, sounding proud of himself for thinking up such sagely advice.

Next to him, Will snorted and a laugh bubbled up in Mike’s chest, causing him to snicker.

Jonas grinned, knowing enough to realize that his words had been the reason for his fathers’ amusement.

“I’ll try that,” Mike promised, causing Will to chuckle again. He extended his hand and offered his pinkie to his son, who entwined it solemnly with his own. “Promise.”

Jonas nodded, his eyes serious, before dropping his hand. He believed Mike. Why wouldn’t he? The man had pinkie-promised. Everyone knew you couldn’t break those.

Still…

“Read to me?” Jonas asked shyly. “Reading to me makes you happy.”

Mike smiled at his son again.

It certainly did.

Exchanging glances with Will and communicating all they needed to say with a look, Mike got out of the car, passing (and high-fiving) Will as they crossed paths in front of the car.

As Will got into the driver’s seat to assume command of the wheel (and, Mike also knew with resignation, the radio), Mike himself got into the backseat, quickly finding a book being shoved in his face by a demanding six-year-old.

Shaking his head fondly, Mike settled into position, taking Matilda from Jonas and flipping to where they had left off. He smiled when he felt Jonas snuggling up to him, allowing his son to rest his head on his shoulder as he started to read.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, Will smiled at the sight. He decided to leave the radio off, instead letting Mike’s signature cadence, shifting as he gave voice to the various characters, just as he had to his own in the Wheeler basement years ago, fill the car and accompany them home.

“Jonas?”

Mike pushed open the door, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkened room.

Across the room, Jonas, who had been lying in his bed facing the window, rolled over and faced his father.

“Hi,” he greeted him, his voice noticeably absent of its usual gusto. It sounded hollow, worn.

“Hi,” Mike said back, feeling awkward. His hands were in his pockets. He wanted to look away from Jonas, but couldn’t. A lack of eye contact might speed up the conversation, but Mike couldn’t stop scanning his son, taking in his blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes, his mussed hair. “Everyone’s waiting on you downstairs.”

“Do they all hate me?” the fourteen-year-old whispered, sounding distressed.

“What? No!” Mike exclaimed, floored. How could his son ever think that? Mike winced when he recalled what he had said. Jonas probably thought the Party members were fuming, ready to chew him out the second he came down. He rushed to dispel that fear. “Jonas, they could never hate you. No one who ever takes the time to get to know you could ever hate you.”

Jonas chewed his lip, thinking. He slowly sat up and scooted over and, seeing the invitation, Mike sat down on his bed.

“Buddy, what happened?” Mike asked, hoping to finally get an answer to the question that had been eating him up. “What happened today?”

Jonas was staring at his lap, picking anxiously at his painted blue fingernails.

“I’m sorry,” the teen finally said, voice cracking. He looked up at Mike, looking…broken. Vulnerable. “Dad, I’m so sorry!”

“I know!” Mike said, nodding. He reached out and started rubbing Jonas’ back, hoping that would help calm him. “But…what happened?”

There was silence again and for a moment, Mike debated pressing him on it, asking again, but then found that he didn’t have to.

“When I…picked up the cake,” Jonas explained, sniffling. “At the bakery. There were…these guys. Assholes I know from school. They…well, they know about me, our family. And they said…just a bunch of shit.”

Mike’s heart was aching. This wasn’t fair. He had gotten out of Hawkins! Things were supposed to be better now. His son shouldn’t have to grow up in a world where people walked around and degraded people for just living their lives.

Part of Mike didn’t even want to know. But then…

“What kind of shit?” Mike asked, already dreading the answer.

Jonas hesitated before he sighed.

“You know,” Jonas replied. “Stuff like…how it was Father’s Day and so they wanted to know how you guys would…celebrate. Wanted to know if you’d…put on a show. If I’d be involved.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mike muttered, revolted. He wondered if his son could be persuaded to impart these kids’ names and possibly their home addresses.

“Yeah,” Jonas said miserably. “I just…I just got so mad. They were saying all this shit about you and Dad. About m-”

He cut himself off, taking a deep breath.

“And then,” he went on. “I came home and saw you guys kissing and…well…”

He looked up at Mike and the man nodded in understanding, smiling reassuringly for good measure.

“I’m sorry,” Jonas said again. “Really.”

“Not your fault,” Mike countered, shaking his head. “You didn’t mean it.”

Jonas shrugged and then sighed.

Silence hung in the space between, betwixt the two of them like a layer of fog before Mike, deciding that they had both had a rough day, elected to break it and take steps toward improving both of their conditions.

“Come on,” Mike said, standing and gesturing that his son should follow him. “Let’s go downstairs. Someone brought cake, you know.”

They both snickered at that as they descended the stairs. Mike saw Will and Maia look up at their entrance. Both looked relieved when they saw Jonas.

Mike took his spot on the couch in front of the camera, while Will walked out of earshot so that Jonas could fill him in.

“Mike!” Lucas spoke up, pausing in the middle of bickering with Max. “How’d it go?”

“It went well,” Mike informed them, smiling when he glanced over and saw Will hugging Jonas, looking sympathetic.

Lucas made to inquire further but his jaw snapped shut when Jonas came around and revealed himself to the Party.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” El said quickly, seeing Jonas’ nervous expression.

Jonas, though, shook his head.

“No, it’s okay,” he assured her. He swallowed as he thought about how to phrase things, eventually deciding to keep it simple. “Um, basically…I ran into some homophobic douchebags from school. I…got upset.”

Nothing more needed to be said.

“Aw, jeez,” Dustin complained, shaking his head in disgust, his expression mirrored by everyone else. “Of course.”

“I’m sorry, Jonas,” El said, smiling sadly from her place next to her husband. She was tapping a rhythm on the table with her fingers as she studied him.

“It seriously pisses me off that we still have to deal with assholes like that,” Max added, looking displeased, like someone who was unhappy with the way things were and wanted to change it.

“Yeah,” Jonas said, agreeing. He felt better now, but the hurt was still there. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” Lucas said simply. “It’s not.”

After the silence that followed his statement, Mike spoke up.

“You know what?” Mike said. “We have one thing those assholes don’t have.”

“What?” Will asked, already rolling his eyes, expecting his husband to say something corny like “love.”

“Cake,” the paladin stated smugly, gesturing grandly to the box.

Everyone burst out laughing. The mirth filled the room and as he looked around, Mike was reminded of something Lucas told him once.

There were always going to be assholes out there, always going to be bad people.

But there were also good people and, as Mike took in the sight of Maia and Jonas thumb wrestling over an apparent larger piece, he remembered the confidence in Lucas’ eyes when he had assured him that he personally thought there were a lot more good people.

Looking around at his family, Mike knew he was right.