Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So, why do you want this job?”

The buzzing of the overhead fluorescents filled the tiny, cramped back room of Hawkins Family Video. Will Byers stared at them, anything to avoid eye contact, anything to stop thinking about the sweat beading at his hairline. He shifted in his chair, the too-tight tie he'd borrowed pressing into his throat over an oversized, hand-me-down blue button-up that refused to sit right on his shoulders. His hands shook as his fingers picked at his khakis, searching for something to hold onto.

He needed this job more than he wanted to admit.

“I—uh…”

He swallowed. Hard.

This interview was not going well.

He’d arrived nearly fifteen minutes late after the family car stalled in the driveway, had completely blanked on the store’s name while trying to give directions to his brother, and—worst of all—had spilled a cup of lukewarm coffee all over himself in front of the counter. He was pretty sure the stains would never come out, branding him with memories of this terrible day forever.

The cramped office space was beginning to feel smaller by the second as the walls closed in. Across from him, the girl on the left with curly hair and bright red lipstick had been studying him like he was a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve. Her nametag read “Robin <3”. The guy beside her sat back in his chair, broad-shouldered and relaxed in a way Will immediately envied.

“I like movies,” he blurted.

The words echoed in the small room, naked and insufficient.

You idiot.

Robin’s eyebrows shot up. The guy beside her—Steve, according to the nametag written in thin, looping cursive—nodded slowly, like Will had just offered a perfectly reasonable answer instead of some desperate plea for help.

“I mean,” Will rushed on, heat flooding his face as his fingers curled tighter against his pants, knuckles going pale. He inhaled through his nose, the way his mom had taught him when his thoughts started tangling.

“Uh. Yeah. I watch a lot of movies,” Will said quickly. “Like— really a lot. I’d go to the movies back in California like, every other day. My mom says it’s not a hobby if you do it instead of sleeping, but—" He caught himself. "... I think that’s debatable.”

Robin smiled, cocking her head to one side. She asked, “Any favorites?”

Will paused for a moment. “Depends what kind.”

“Dealer’s choice.”

He gulped once, feeling another bead of sweat running down the side of his face.

God, what's something popular right now? What do they want me to say?

“We watched, uh—the Tom Cruise one, recently” he said quickly. “With the planes. And the pilots. And the—” He paused, the title stubbornly refusing to surface. He hummed a few uncertain notes under his breath. “The Danger Zone song?”

Steve frowned. “Top Gun?”

“Yes! Errr... thank you. That one.” Will flushed. “It was, erm, really good. New favorite. Very loud. Very… confident.”

He hesitated. It was clear from their vacant expressions and side glances how this was winding up. They were definitely going to write him off, probably throw him out, maybe even ban him from the premise.

May as well finish digging my grave at this point.

“But, erm... I guess... the last one that actually stuck with me was probably E.T.”

"Hmm..." Robin studied him. The intensity behind her eyes was terrifying, not in an evil way but in one that was far worse. He felt like she could see right through him, down into the very bones of his soul, down to the things that made him tick.

“I’m betting you cried," she said.

A beat, then Will looked down, nodding once. “A lot.”

Steve snorted—then quickly coughed into his hand when Robin's elbow sharply connected with his ribs.

“Hey,” Steve said, glancing at Will. “That one, uh… doesn’t count. That movie destroys people.”

“He saw it four times in theaters,” Robin added, rolling her eyes. “Don’t let him lie to you.”

Will blinked, caught off guard—and then, before he could stop himself, something in his shoulders loosened. The tight knot in his chest eased just a fraction, like maybe he wasn’t completely screwing this up after all.

Robin leaned back in her chair, smiling. “Alright. Different angle. You think you can handle the boring stuff? Sorting, shelving, inventory?”

Will straightened slightly. “Alphabetically?”

Steve squinted. “Trick question.”

“No,” Will said quickly, the answer coming easier than the others had. “You ignore ‘A’ and ‘The,’ and sequels go in chronological order, not by subtitle. Like Star Wars goes before The Empire Strikes Back, even though ‘E’ comes first.”

The room went quiet. Even the fluorescents seemed to pause their buzzing. Steve slowly turned to look at Robin.

“…Oh,” Steve said. “He’s a nerd.”

Robin smiled, just a little. “Yeah. But, like—” she gestured vaguely at Will, “—a useful one.”

“Is that… bad?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he flushed, suddenly worried he’d tipped the invisible balance somehow. “I just... movies are easier to find when there’s a system,” he added quietly.

Robin’s mouth twitched. She reached for the clipboard, flipped it open, and clicked her pen.

“Well,” she said, already writing, “he knows what he’s doing.”

Steve scratched the back of his neck, then shrugged. “Yeah. And you’re, like, not weird about it.”

Will laughed softly before he could stop himself, then clamped his mouth shut, mortified.

Steve pushed back from the table. "Alright, California." He stood. "You start tomorrow."

The loud buzz of the fluorescents seemed to cease.

Will's brain stalled somewhere between "California" and "tomorrow," unable to connect the two into anything that made sense.

“I—what?”

Robin looked up from her clipboard, grin spreading across her face. "Congrats, Byers. You're hired."

For a moment, Will just sat there, stunned, the hum of the lights slowly fading back into his mind as he processed the situation. His hands had started shaking again but, this time, it wasn't from fear. He nodded, quick and earnest, heart doing a strange little somersault at the nickname.

“Thank you,” he said. “I won’t mess it up.”

Steve smiled, easy and genuine. “Kid, if you can alphabetize this place, you’ll be fine.”

They both stood up as the girl, Robin, grabbed a few paperwork forms from a drawer and handed them to Will. “Just fill these out and bring them back. You start tomorrow, if that works?”

Will grinned big as he stood up and took the papers, “Yeah! Of course.” He glanced at their outfits: Robin in a faded zombie movie tee with a name pin stabbed through the fabric, Steve in some equally ridiculous D-list action film. His was untucked, like the rules had simply… given up.

He asked, hesitantly, “Does it uh, matter what I wear?”

Steve chuckled as he walked past Will toward the door, “Nah, just pick a movie shirt if you’ve got one.” He opened it and held it for Will to exit, “Just, maybe not one you’ve gotten snotty tears on.”

“Uh… right.” Will said.

As he slid past Steve through the narrow gap in the door, he caught a whiff of something crisp and slightly spicy in the air. It was clean and sharp, an alluring citrus-y scene that was unfamiliar to him. He stomach gave a small, unhelpful lurch. He realized it must have been... Steve? Maybe cologne or deodorant? Either way, it was a scent he'd never encountered before. One that had never...hit him like that before.

He… err, that smells... really... He thought to himself. He felt the sweat threatening to bead up again as heat crept up his neck. Quickly, he hurried out of the stuffy store before his brain could figure out why.

He walked into the warm summer sun and the heat radiating off of the chipped asphalt parking lot and headed toward his brother Jonathan’s beat-up old sedan. It was his Mom's old car, and one day Will knew it would be his if it survived that long. He opened the heavy door and immediately heard the loud sounds of wild electric guitar and Steven Tyler screeching out in tandem. He hopped into the passenger seat as his older brother turned the radio down.

“So?” Jonathan said, studying Will’s face for any signs of an answer. He asked slowly, “How’d it go?”

Will wiped the nervous sweat from his forehead as he replied, “Well, um... I kinda got hired on the spot?”

Jonathan burst into a smile and gave Will a high five, “Hey, that’s what I’m talking about. Great job, dude.”

He put the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. He continued, "Maybe you'll get to meet some people," Jonathan said, turning down the Rolling Stones now playing. "You know, who are into the movies and stuff you like? I know you're probably, uh, missing your friends back in Lenora."

Will’s grin began to fade as Jonathan’s words hung in the air. He pressed his forehead to the warm window.

Friends.

He didn't correct his brother. Even though the truth was that he wasn’t sad about missing his friends - he didn’t have any friends to begin with at all back home to miss. He wasn’t ruthlessly bullied or anything, but people didn’t go out of their way to be nice to him.

It’s not that he minded though. At least, not most of the time.

He was mostly left alone to doodle in his notebooks on the benches during P.E. and never got in trouble in class for talking. Every day, he could have lunch under the big eucalyptus tree had always been there just for him, his sketchpad, and his Walkman. That "making friends" stuff wasn't something he'd ever figured out how to do, no matter how many times Mom suggested it, and the times he had tried... well...

Besides, he thought, who’d wanna be friends with a weirdo like me?

Instead, he had spent most evenings and weekends in his room, either drawing and painting, reading some book he'd checked out from the library about filmmaking or a biography about some old movie star, or — his favorite thing to do — watching new movies his brother would bring home from the nearby rental store on his way home. All of those things were always a good time, he knew how they'd play out. He never had to worry about... the things he couldn't control.

He knew Jonathan meant well. They always mean well.

He watched the green of Hawkins slide by. It was softer than the sharp, sun-bleached yellows and browns of California, the way the trees arched over the roads and the grass seemed almost to sing under the summer sun. It felt quieter, slower, like the world had room to breathe here, unlike the relentless brightness of home, where everything demanded attention and he’d always felt a little too small.

He wondered if he'd ever feel like he belonged in all that green, or if he'd always be on the other side of the glass. Looking in.

"Yeah," Will said quietly. "Maybe."

The rest of the drive was underscored by Led Zeppelin and KISS, with the two brothers sitting in comfortbale silence. After a short while, the engine sputtered as Jonathan pulled into the mostly dirt driveway of their new home. Moving boxes still cluttered the front porch, evidence of their newness, and the mailbox still had the previous resident’s last name on the side. They walked inside and found their mother, Joyce, halfway through opening up a big box labelled both CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS and KITCHEN POTS/PANS, featuring tangled Christmas lights wrapped around various spatulas and spoons actively falling out.

“Oh, boys!” she exclaimed, smiling. “How did your interview go, Will? My coworker said you’d absolutely love the place, and kept recommending how nice all the people who worked there are.” She frowned slightly, “But, even if it didn’t go well, that doesn’t mean you did badly, sweetheart. They probably were just looking for someone older, or with different availability, or —”

“Mom,” Will interrupted, “I got the job.”

"Oh!" She scrambled up, Christmas lights and stainless steel tumbling and clanging down to the floor as she rushed to him. Her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, and she pressed a big kiss to the side of his head. "My baby got his first big-boy job! I'm so proud of you, Will."

After a moment, Will began to squeeze and squirm his way out of her motherly iron grasp. “Please don’t call it a big-boy job, mom” he said, sighing, “I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I know that, baby,” she said, pushing the hair out of his eyes, “But I just know you’re going to make friends there,” she said softly, like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “You always do. People just need time to see you.”

He stepped away, uncomfortable with all the attention, “We just need the extra money, Mom,” he said, “I don’t really care if I make friends or anything like that.” He forced a smile, hoping to make her feel better, “At the very least, I’ll be able to watch a lot of new films for free and can probably bring home stuff to watch every day.”

His mother smiled back, clearly unconvinced but choosing not to press. “Dinner in an hour,” she said, already turning back to the box. “I’ll just be making burgers.

Will nodded and slipped down the hall before she could say anything else, the paperwork folded carefully in his back pocket like something fragile and important, a ticket unlike one he'd ever had before.

That night, Will lay on his back staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, the box fan rattling softly in the corner of his room. The house had settled into its nighttime sounds, with pipes ticking and the low murmur of the TV from the living room. The walls were still mostly bare. No posters yet, no thumbtacks pressed into place, just pale beige paint and the faint smell of cardboard from the half-unpacked boxes stacked near the door. 

He frowned, sighing, It’s definitely not California.

He reached over to the nightstand and unfolded the paperwork again, smoothing the creases with his thumb.

“You start tomorrow.”

It still didn’t feel real. The name sat there in ink, solid and official, like it belonged to someone older. Someone who knew what they were doing.

Will stared at it for a long moment before putting the papers back down and letting his arm fall back onto the mattress. He let his eyes linger on the ceiling, tracing tiny cracks that weren’t there back in Lenora.

Back home.

Well, California had never really felt like home.

Mom had dragged them out there after he turned two, chasing his deadbeat dad's promises of good jobs and a better life. More than a decade of abuse and alcohol later, she’d finally had enough. She’d wanted to put as many miles as possible between them and his father, between them and the memories she carried like weights in her pockets.

When California finally broke her, Mom decided they were coming back.

“Not running,” she said. “Returning.”

She’d grown up in Hawkins. It was small, stubborn, the town she always circled back to in her stories and dreams. Will had been born here too, apparently, but he had no memories of it. All he had of it were the stories Jonathan told him late at night and the nightmares that felt too real to be just dreams. He’d never even ridden a bike down the winding streets. Never climbed the hill behind the school.

To him, Hawkins was just another name on a road sign.

But, he knew his Mom missed it like an old friend.

Returning, not running, huh. he thought to himself.

Will wasn’t sure what the difference was. Maybe there wasn’t one.

He closed his eyes. He could almost hear the buzz of those obnoxious fluorescent lights. See Robin’s sharp smile and hear the way Steve had laughed — not even at him, exactly, but like Will had just said something funny intentionally, something he wasn't used to at all

It was an odd, new feeling. People didn’t usually pay much attention to him, let alone laugh with him over a joke. Once, a kid in his art class leaned over his desk and asked why he always drew the same sad-looking faces. Will hadn’t known how to answer. He stopped drawing them after that.

He took a deep breath in through his nose. 

You’ll be fine. You got the job. You're not a complete disaster.

Maybe...

...things can be different here.

The words made something warm and strange bloom in his chest, quickly followed by the familiar urge to squash it down before it got too big. Still, it was warm enough to lull him toward slumber.

Movies had always been easier than people. Movies followed rules. They had beginnings and endings, moments you could rewind if you missed them, scenes you could return to when things felt too loud or confusing or bad. You never had to guess what they wanted from you, and you always knew what they had to give you.

But today… today, it felt like he’d walked straight into a scene.

And somehow hadn’t ruined it.

He rolled onto his side, sighing as he pulled the thin blanket up to his chin. He’d told his mom he didn’t care about making friends. He’d told himself the same thing. That this was just a job—money, movies, something to fill the hours that wasn’t sitting alone in his room.

But the knot in his chest said otherwise.

Tomorrow was just shelves. Tapes. Alphabetizing.

With that thought, the tension in his shoulders finally fully eased, and he let his mind wander as it led him to rest.

Will pulled into the bike racks outside of Hawkins Family Video, slightly out of breath and sweating under the hot sun. His damp shirt clung to his back and he cursed under his breath because he knew he was running late. He fashioned the lock around the tire, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and hurried inside.

The front of the store was empty. Other than a small side display TV where he heard a scene from The Karate Kid playing, he didn’t notice anyone or anything else. He stepped further toward the counter before calling out,

“Err, hello? Robin? Or, uh… Scott?” He said, wracking his brain to remember the guy’s name from yesterday.

He heard a crash and bang from underneath the counter as the guy from yesterday shot up from beneath the counter. He was wearing a black and red Terminator shirt with his name-tag pinned to it (“Steve Steve Steve” he hastily tried to put in his memory), with his hair was disheveled and eyes unfocused.

Steve blinked a few times, “Whoa, uh… Hey hey, it's California. Sorry dude.” He said, chuckling, “I was sorta on lunch and I usually take a nap under there. Forgot to lock the door.”

Will chanced a small laugh as Steve came around the counter, brushing his own hair with his fingers. “So, uh, Robin’s out to the bank to drop off a deposit and she’s kinda the one who does the training, so…”

Steve looked around and shrugged, “Why don’t you just sorta walk around the store? Maybe face some of the boxes so they look cleaner on the shelves? Or, I dunno, wipe ‘em down?”

Will nodded eagerly. He turned around to start his first duty as Steve said, “Oh, almost forgot. Here.” He picked up a small trinket from the counter and tossed it at Will. He fumbled his hands as he caught it, barely managing to not drop it. He flipped it over. It was a name-tag, same as Steve's. The front read HAWKINS FAMILY VIDEO in big, bold letters, and underneath it in smaller font team member.

He pondered for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been a member on anyone’s team before.

“T-thanks,” he said as he clipped the name-tag to his shirt, before turning back around to busy himself getting familiar with the layout of the store.

He hadn't noticed during his interview, but the store was dimmer than he expected, the overhead lights softened by rows of plastic cases and cardboard displays. Movie posters lined the walls in various stages of peeling, corners curling slightly as if they’d been there too long. On one wall were a variety of tapes and vinyls of new artists and movie soundtracks, and nearby one of the ugliest couches he'd ever seen sat near to the counter - he couldn't imagine any customer relaxing in it.

The air smelled faintly of carpet cleaner and warm plastic, with something buttery underneath. He figured it was probably popcorn from the ancient machine near the front. A low hum of electronics filled the space, punctuated now and then by muffled dialogue from Mr. Miyagi drifting from the television mounted above the aisles.

Will moved slowly at first, straightening boxes and nudging tapes back into place, careful not to disrupt whatever system was already there.

As the minutes passed, the nervous edge in his chest eased.

The rhythm of the work was simple, almost meditative.

Align, Straighten, Repeat.

He began to notice patterns: which shelves were more picked over, which genres sat untouched, which movies had been returned so often their cases were soft at the corners. It felt good, noticing things. Useful.

By the time he checked the clock above the counter and realized nearly half an hour had passed, he was surprised by how quickly it had gone.

Will was a few shelves deep into the store now, running a rag along the nooks and crannies of the movie shelves to pick up dust, when he heard the jingling of the bell over the front door.

First customer, huh, he thought.

He froze.

His heart rate kicked up immediately. Thoughts ricocheted: What if they ask where something is? What if they’re mad about a late fee? Worse—what if they want a recommendation? What if they think my taste is stupid?

He decided to keep quiet and try to stay out of sight, minding his own business. The rhythm of cleaning and organizing was the only thing keeping his hands from shaking, anyway.

A couple minutes passed. He heard low voices at the counter, one definitely Steve, then the soft beep of the register. Will exhaled.

Probably just a return. Bullet dodged.

He finished the action-movie row, straightened the last crooked Rambo box, and stood.

And turned straight into someone.

“I’m—I’m really sorry,” he blurted, stepping back fast. “I didn’t see you there. Uh, welcome to Hawkins Family Video, err…”

His brain caught up.

The guy was roughly his age—tall, all elbows and long limbs, messy dark hair falling over darker eyes. He was wearing a faded blue tank top, black athletic shorts that showed pale thighs (too pale for August), scuffed sneakers. He looked like somebody in one of those summer-time comedy films the studios loved to churn out.

His hands were restless—fingers tapping lightly against the plastic cases as he scanned spines. Those dark eyes were curious eyes, Will thought, with a face that didn’t settle into any one expression.

“It’s no problem,” the guy said, voice soft but steady. He bent down to check a lower row without looking back.

Will turned away fast, cheeks burning.

Great first customer interaction, idiot.

He turned away to escape, to busy himself with some menial, distracting task, but heard the young guy behind him ask, “Do you know if you guys have Day of the Dead yet?”

Will turned, feeling himself anxiously picking at one of his fingernails, both of his hands shaking terribly behind his back. “Err, I’m not sure, really. I didn’t see it over here.” He paused, thinking. “Didn’t it just come out on VHS like last week?”

The guy’s hands, in contrast, moved smoothly when he talked. Not big gestures, just small, restless motions, fingers tapping lightly against the plastic cases like he couldn’t quite keep them still. Will felt his stomach give another small, unwelcome churn, sharp and disorienting.

He didn’t understand it. The guy wasn’t doing anything special. He wasn’t even really looking at Will anymore, crouched low and scanning spines like he belonged there. He handled the tapes carefully, thumbs brushing over the cracked edges of the cases like he knew how easy it was to ruin something if you weren’t paying attention.

Will’s thoughts stuttered. The shaking in his hands was spreading.

“Yeah,” he said, a beat too late. “The effects are… intense.”

The word landed flat. Inadequate. Everything about this felt inadequate.

He forced a smile. “Well, uh, just let me know if you need help or anything.”

“Totally. Thanks.” The guy stood, picking out a copy of Conan the Barbarian. “Do you think you guys could call me when you get a copy of Day of the Dead in?”

“Oh—uh, sure. Just, erm, tell the guy at the front and give him your number.”

The guy smiled, almost hesitant. Will returned it.

They held each other's gaze for a moment.

Then another.

Then, he turned and walked toward the counter.

Will heard Steve and the guy talking at the front. The ding of the cash register. A jingle of the door’s bell.

And then, he was gone.

Yet, Will stayed rooted.

He watched the space where the guy had been, the same way he watched the easy slope of his shoulders, the way his shorts rode up slightly when he moved, his medium-length hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He shook it off, resuming staring at the empty aisle, as if that guy might reappear if he looked hard enough. His chest felt constricted, his heart almost beating arrhythmically, like he’d missed a step on stairs he didn’t know he was climbing.

The bell jingled again.

Robin walked in holding an empty deposit bag and a Fanta, beaming. “Oh, hi!” She crossed to him, then frowned. “You alright? You look like someone rebooted you.”

“Oh—err… fine,” Will said. “Steve had me doing some cleaning.”

“Well, this place needs it.” She smiled, tilting her head. “You wanna get started for real?”

Will nodded. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. He followed her around the counter into the back room where he’d interviewed. As they passed the black computer screen, the transaction was still up, along with the account information for the rental.

He stopped.

Blazing at the bottom of the screen, in pixelated, capital letters written in a glowing green, blinking phosphor:

M I C H A E L    W H E E L E R

“...He’s got good taste,” Will thought.

He didn't notice his hands had stopped shaking.

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