Chapter Text
Will Byers
They lost.
The thought lands fully formed, heavy and absolute, and it knocks the breath out of him harder than the electricity ever did.
He was too late.
Whatever he just did—whatever door he forced open, whoever he managed to save in those last, frantic seconds—it doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. Not when the truth sits in his chest like a stone, impossible to swallow.
He didn’t save them.
Those kids. Those poor, innocent kids who never stood a chance.
Vecna had told him as much, his voice smooth and cruel inside Will’s head. He said he chose children because they were weak. Feeble. Their minds softer, easier to bend, easier to break. He said it like a fact, like a lesson.
And then he smiled.
He told Will that he had been the lowest of them all.
The first one.
Will squeezes his eyes shut, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls. He should feel…something else. Relief. Pride. That lightness Robin talked about, that feeling like he could fly once he finally stopped lying to himself. But this—this is bigger than him. Bigger than his identity, bigger than his feelings, bigger than whatever door he unlocked inside himself.
What good is power if you still fail?
They’re back at square one. No plan. No hope. And November 6th is barreling toward them like a freight train. Hell, it might already be here. Maybe that was Vecna’s plan all along—take the kids on the same day he took Will, mirror the trauma, twist the knife just a little deeper.
So Will stays on his knees.
Fire roars around him, heat licking at his skin, red light from the gates reflecting off sweat and rainwater, painting him in blood-colored shadows. His body feels wrong—heavy, hollow, buzzing all at once. Exhaustion drags at him so fiercely he almost gives in to it. Almost lets himself collapse right there on the concrete.
But he can’t.
Now isn’t the time to be hopeless.
He messed up. He knows that. The knowledge sits ugly and raw in his chest. But he can try again. He can tap back into the hive, siphon Vecna’s power, force his way deeper next time. This isn’t over. Not until Vecna is dead and gone.
“Will!”
His mom’s hands grip his shoulders, shaking him gently but urgently as she crouches down in front of him. Her face swims into focus, pale and terrified.
Terrified of him.
The realization makes his stomach twist.
“Mom,” he croaks, his voice breaking under the weight of everything pressing down on him. He tries to stand and nearly collapses, falling into her arms instead. She holds him without hesitation, like she always has, like he’s still her little boy.
She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that it wasn’t just Derek and the other two kids at the Mac Z. She doesn’t know Vecna got all of them.
Joyce runs her hands through his hair, fingers trembling. “Oh, baby,” she murmurs, and the words almost undo him. She pulls back just enough to look at him, keeping a tight grip on his shoulders. “I—I don’t understand. How did you…?”
“He’s a sorcerer!”
Will’s heart lurches at the sound of Mike’s voice.
Mike comes barreling toward them, eyes bright, grin wide, like the world hasn’t just ended. “A real-life, honest-to-God sorcerer!” he says, breathless with excitement.
Then he throws his arms around Will, pulling him into a hug so tight it knocks the air from his lungs.
Will freezes for half a second—then melts.
This is their first hug since he left for Lenora. Since everything. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this until it’s happening, Mike warm and solid and real against him. He closes his eyes and lets himself have it, just for a moment.
“Mike,” he murmurs into his shoulder.
They stay like that a beat longer than necessary, bodies pressed close, and Will thinks he could die right here and be okay with it.
Mike finally pulls back, hands still firm on Will’s arms. “You did it,” he says, voice shaking with awe. “You really did it.”
Will stares at him—his best friend, one of the three people in his film reel, the boy who has always made him feel safe—and something in his chest tightens painfully.
His gaze drops.
There’s a deep red gash on Mike’s forehead.
“Your head,” Will says, panic flaring. “Did you get hurt?”
God. He just killed three demogorgons, and this is what he’s worried about.
Mike’s eyes widen as he touches the wound, hissing when his fingers brush it. “Oh—yeah. It’s nothing,” he says quickly. “I’m fine. Could’ve been a whole lot worse if you didn’t save my ass.”
He smirks, still holding onto Will’s arm.
Will’s stomach drops.
“The kids,” he says suddenly. “Vecna—he’s got the kids.”
Mike’s smile fades. He looks down. “I know,” he says quietly. “Derek, Mary, Glenn—”
“No.” Will cuts him off, voice sharp. “Not just them.”
Mike lets go of his arm. Joyce’s breath catches.
“Robin and Murray,” Joyce says carefully. “They got out of Hawkins, right?”
Will shakes his head.
“And Lucas?” Mike asks, barely above a whisper.
Tears finally spill over. “He got all of them,” Will chokes. “If I had just acted sooner—if I hadn’t let him—” His voice breaks completely. “I was too late. And now…now he’s got all of them.”
Silence stretches.
“We failed,” Will says. “I failed.”
Mike looks at him for a long moment. “You saw?” he asks.
Will nods. “I saw all of it. Yours wasn’t the only demo, Mike.”
Joyce grips his shoulder, her face crumpling. “You mean—”
“You took out three demos at once?” Mike interrupts, awe creeping back into his voice despite everything.
Will almost laughs. Almost.
Before he can respond, the sound of helicopters tears through the air.
The moment shatters.
They all look up as the choppers close in, lights slicing through smoke and darkness. Reality crashes down on Will all at once: the soldiers, the bodies, the cameras.
They saw him.
“Shit,” Mike says. “We have to go—now. Tunnels. Radio Shack.”
He’s already running.
Will follows—until Joyce stumbles.
“Mom!” He catches her just in time. Mike doubles back instantly, grabbing her other side.
“I’m fine,” Joyce insists, though her face is tight with pain. Will doesn’t let go. Neither does Mike.
Together, they move.
Inside the Radio Shack, Mike slams the door shut and shoves a shelf in front of it. Only then does Will let himself breathe.
Everything hurts.
Everything is worse.
And somehow, despite all of it, Joyce looks at him and says, “I’m okay, baby. Don’t worry.”
Will nods.
He believes her.
He just doesn’t know how to believe in himself yet.
The three of them move through the tunnels as fast as they can manage, boots splashing through shallow puddles, flashlights shaking with every hurried step. The air feels heavier down here, damp and metallic, pressing in on Will’s lungs with every breath.
He told them about Lucas. About the injury. About the slash across his chest.
He keeps seeing it—keeps replaying the moment in his head like a broken tape. The demo lunging. Lucas stepped in front of the kids without hesitation. Will watching it happen from the inside of someone else’s eyes, trapped in that awful in-between where he could see everything and do nothing.
One second earlier, and none of this would have happened.
“Lucas!” Mike’s voice cracks as soon as they spot him.
Lucas is slumped against the tunnel wall, one knee bent, one hand pressed tight to his chest. His flashlight lies forgotten on the ground beside him. Mike is already running, skidding to his knees in front of him. Will drops down right after him, the movement automatic, instinctive.
Will fumbles the bag open with shaking hands. “Oh no, oh no—”
Joyce crouches beside them, her breath hitching. “Jesus…”
“Hey, guys,” Lucas says, forcing a smile that immediately collapses into a grimace. His voice is thin, strained, like it hurts just to get the words out.
Will’s eyes go straight to the wound.
The gash is ugly—deep, red, angry. Blood has soaked through Lucas’s shirt and smeared along his ribs. Will feels stupid, suddenly, for ever worrying about the cut on Mike’s forehead. That had been nothing. This is something else entirely.
“Oh shit,” Mike breathes, hands hovering uselessly in the air.
“It’s just a scratch,” Lucas mutters.
Nobody believes him.
“Mike,” Joyce says sharply. “First aid. Now.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” Will repeats under his breath, the words tumbling out like a mantra. His hands don’t know where to go. He feels helpless in an achingly familiar way.
“Can you—can you lift it?” Joyce asks gently. “Just enough so we can see.”
Lucas nods and slowly lifts his shirt.
All three of them groan in unison.
“It’s—it’s not that bad,” Will blurts, immediately hating himself for it.
Mike jumps in, desperate to help. “Yeah—yeah! Looks like the perfect size for a couple of badass scars.”
Lucas’s face falls.
“I—I’m sorry I couldn’t protect the kids,” he says quietly.
The words hit Will harder than anything else has tonight.
He knows that feeling. Knows the way guilt can sink its teeth in and refuse to let go, no matter how irrational it is. Knows how it feels to replay a moment over and over, convinced there had to be a way to fix it.
“You did everything you could,” Will says, his voice steady even though his chest aches. He rests a hand on Lucas’s arm. “You—you fought. You put yourself in front of them.”
He remembers the way Lucas didn’t hesitate. The way he swung at the demo, even knowing he was outmatched. “Nice swing, by the way.”
Lucas blinks. “You saw?”
Will nods.
“He didn’t just see,” Mike says, grinning despite himself.
Lucas’s eyes widen. A smile tugs at his mouth, faint but real. “Will the Wise,” he mutters. “But, like. For real.”
Will shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
Mike, of course, cannot help himself. “He’s more like a sorcerer than a wizard. His powers are—”
“Innate,” Will finishes.
Their eyes meet.
Despite everything—the tunnels, the blood, the helicopters surely still circling above—Mike looks happy. Genuinely, irrepressibly happy. It makes something warm and painful twist in Will’s chest.
“Uh…okay,” Lucas says, brow furrowing.
Joyce finishes bandaging him, hands quick and practiced. “That should hold for now. Does it feel secure?”
“Yeah.” Lucas exhales. “Thanks, Miss Byers.”
She helps him to his feet. He hisses but manages to stay upright, bracing himself against the wall. “And thanks, Will the sorcerer.” He gives Will a quick pat on the shoulder.
Then he looks at Mike.
Says nothing.
Mike’s face twists into exaggerated offense. “What, you’re thanking him? I’m bleeding solidarity over here.”
Lucas snorts. “Last I checked, you were geeking out over Will’s powers while I was bleeding on the floor. I’m not thanking you for shit.”
They keep moving.
The walk back to the Squawk feels longer than before. Will stays close to his mom, watching her carefully, ready to catch her if she stumbles. She seems steady enough. Lucas does too, somehow, even with the bandage pulled tight across his chest.
At some point, Mike falls into step beside Will.
Their elbows bump.
Just barely.
Will’s breath stutters.
Bump of an elbow.
He shoves the thought away immediately. This is not the time. The world is ending. People are hurt. Kids are missing.
Mike is smiling again.
“What?” Will asks, trying for teasing, a little bite in his tone. “You wanna maybe tone it down?”
Mike exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Nothing, just—God. That was so fucking cool.”
Will feels heat creep up his neck.
“I thought I was dead,” Mike continues. “Like, actually dead. And then the demo just—freezes. I turn, and you’re standing there with your hand ou,t and it was just…”
Will swallows.
“Amazing?” he offers.
Mike shakes his head. “Magical.”
The word lands heavily.
“You were absolutely magical.”
Their eyes lock. Will forces himself not to smile, not to react, because if he does, he might combust on the spot.
“You’re just happy you were right,” Will says, bumping Mike’s elbow back.
Mike flushes. “Maybe a little.”
Will hesitates. “Robin helped. She said some things, and something just…clicked.” He fidgets with his hands. “I stopped being so goddamn scared.”
Mike stops walking.
“What?” His voice is sharp—not angry, exactly, but tight. Guarded.
Will freezes.
“Well—I mean—” He backtracks instantly.
“Home sweet home!” Lucas calls out, yanking open the trap door above them.
The moment shatters.
Will exhales, grateful and unsettled all at once, and moves toward the ladder, leaving Mike a step behind.
Some conversations, he realizes, are only being postponed.
Not avoided.
“You need any help?” Will asks, the words coming out a little too quickly, like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts.
Lucas nods, already wincing as he shifts his weight. “That would be great.” His grin is sheepish, apologetic in that way Lucas gets when he hates needing help but knows he can’t argue.
Before Will can move, Mike steps forward, brushing past him with barely a pause. “I got it.” He grabs the ladder and starts helping Lucas climb, steady and careful, his hands sure despite the tremor still running through him.
Will lifts his foot to follow—
—and stops.
A hand wraps around his arm. Familiar. Warm.
“Will, I need to talk to you.”
His stomach drops a little. He exhales through his nose and steps back off the ladder, forcing himself to turn. Joyce is looking at him with that expression again — the one that makes his chest tighten. Worry, raw and unguarded. Not fear of the situation, but fear for him.
He hates that he put that there.
He shifts his weight, suddenly too aware of his body, of the damp clothes clinging to him, of the way the cold seems to sink straight into his bones. “What is it?” he asks, resting his elbow against the ladder like he needs the support.
Joyce presses her lips together. For half a second, Will’s brain fills in the worst possibilities — that she’s about to tell him they’re done, that she’s pulling him out, that she can’t risk him again. Old instincts flare, sharp and unwanted. The part of him that remembers being wrapped in too much fear, too much protection.
But this isn’t that.
She rubs his elbow gently and leans her weight against the ladder beside him, grounding him. “I’m just… so proud of you, baby.”
The words hit him harder than anything else tonight.
Something inside his chest loosens — a knot he didn’t even realize was there until it gives way. The relief is almost dizzying. He blinks, swallowing thickly, and immediately feels ridiculous for ever doubting her. Of course, she’s proud. Of course she is. And still — it matters. It always matters.
He smiles, small and crooked, fingers fidgeting like they always do when he doesn’t know where to put the feeling. “It’s really nothing,” he says automatically. “Mike keeps talking about how they’re innate, but… but they’re not. They’re siphoned. From Vecna.”
The name hangs heavy in the air. Joyce’s eyes widen just a fraction — enough that Will notices.
“Well,” she says after a moment, trying for casual and not quite succeeding, “last I checked, no one else can do that.”
Will huffs out a quiet laugh, staring down at the ground. “Hey, all I’m saying—” She cuts him off by leaning in and cupping his cheek, her hand warm despite the cold soaking into everything else.
He leans into it without thinking.
“You didn’t fail,” she says firmly. “Okay?”
He nods because it’s easier than arguing, even though the word fail still feels like it’s stitched into his bones. She keeps going.
“You saved Mike. You saved your friends.” Her thumb brushes his cheek. “You did that. Not Vecna. Just you.”
That’s what breaks him.
His eyes sting again, and he hates that he keeps crying tonight, hates how raw everything feels, but the tears come anyway. “I can make it right,” he says, voice quieter now. “We just need… a new plan. A better plan.”
Joyce nods immediately, like the idea never even crossed her mind to doubt him. “We’ll figure something out. You kids always do.”
A grin tugs at his mouth before he can stop it. “We are still the reigning champions of the Hawkins Science Fair.”
She squints at him, that look that’s all love and pride and knowing him better than he knows himself. “We’ll fix this,” she says. “Siphoned or innate, we’ve got ourselves another superhero.”
The word sends his thoughts straight to Mike — to the way his eyes had lit up, the way he couldn’t stop smiling.
“Or sorcerer,” Joyce adds, amused. “As Mike would say.” She tilts her head. “He’s very energetic about all of this, isn’t he?”
Will lets out a breathy laugh. “He’s the biggest geek I know,” he says softly. “I’d be offended if he wasn’t.”
She laughs with him, and for a brief moment — just a heartbeat — things feel almost normal.
Joyce studies him again. “You look like you’re thinking.”
He shakes his head instinctively. “No, no, it’s just—” A shiver runs through him, sudden and sharp. He inhales, trying to shake it off, but the cold clings. The same cold he felt at the Mac Z. The same cold that always creeps in when something from the hive gets too close.
He likes it cold, he thinks, and the realization settles uncomfortably in his chest.
He breathes in slowly.
“The hive mind,” he murmurs. “I’ve never felt this connected to it before.” His thoughts start racing now, pieces sliding into place. “That’s how I siphoned his powers. Because I’m connected. Because he is.”
Joyce’s brows knit together, then lift. “Just like the demogorgons.”
“Yes.” His heart starts pounding. “I’ve seen through his eyes before. I can get to him. Get into his mind and do exactly what I did with the demos.”
Hope flares — fragile, dangerous, bright.
“One blow,” Joyce says softly.
“One blow,” Will echoes, lifting his gaze to the slice of night sky visible through the trap door.
She squeezes his arm before letting go. “Sounds like a plan.”
“It needs tweaks,” he admits. “But if we’re right…” The words trail off, awe creeping in. “We could finish this. Tonight.”
The idea feels unreal. Impossible. Close.
He steadies the ladder as Joyce climbs, watching until she disappears above. For a moment, he’s alone in the tunnels, surrounded by damp stone and echoes. These tunnels have saved them more times than he can count. Eighteen months of hiding, running, surviving.
They’re empty now. Stripped bare. No vines, no spores. Just hollow paths.
He shivers again. Being down here always makes him feel wrong — cold to the bone, disconnected, like part of him belongs somewhere else. Like he’s only half here.
He pushes the feeling down.
Tonight, he tells himself as he climbs. We end this tonight.
And for the first time in a long time, the thought doesn’t feel like a lie.