Chapter Text
Chapter 1 - Homecoming
The call comes in at 3:17 p.m., right when Will Byers is standing too close to the canvas, brush hovering uselessly in midair.
The painting has stalled. It’s been stalled for days—colors layered and scraped away until the surface feels bruised. Will can’t tell what it’s supposed to be anymore, only that it makes his chest ache to look at it. The afternoon light filters through his apartment windows in long, slanted bars, illuminating dust motes that drift lazily in the air like they have nowhere else to be.
His phone buzzes on the table behind him.
He ignores it.
The buzzing stops.
Then starts again.
Will exhales, annoyed more than anything else, and turns, wiping his hands on his jeans as he crosses the room. The caller ID makes him freeze.
Jonathan Byers.
For a second, Will genuinely thinks it must be a mistake. A scam. A recycled number. That name belongs to another life—one that exists only in old paperwork and the quiet corners of his mind.
The phone buzzes again.
Against his better judgment, Will answers.
“Hello?”
There’s breathing on the other end. Ragged. Familiar.
“Will?” The voice cracks immediately. “It’s—uh—it’s Jonathan.”
Will closes his eyes.
“Jonathan,” he repeats, unsure if saying it aloud will make it real. “Hi.”
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan says quickly, like he’s afraid Will will hang up. “I know this is out of nowhere. I just—I didn’t know how else to reach you.”
“That’s okay,” Will says automatically. “It’s fine.”
It isn’t. His heart is already beating too fast.
“I found you on social media,” Jonathan adds. “Your art page.”
“Oh,” Will says. “Yeah.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy and fragile.
Then Jonathan takes a breath that sounds like it hurts.
“Mom passed away this morning.”
The words don’t land properly. They hover in the air between them, shapeless.
“What?” Will asks softly.
“She had a heart attack,” Jonathan says. “They said it was quick. She didn’t feel any pain.”
Will sits down hard on the edge of the couch, phone pressed tight to his ear.
Joyce Byers is dead.
His mother—who raised Jonathan alone, who stayed in Indiana, who didn’t fight hard enough, who sent birthday cards that stopped coming when Will was eight—is gone.
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Jonathan continues. “But—you’re her son. You should know.”
“I—yeah,” Will says. “Yeah. Thank you.”
They talk logistics. Funeral dates. Travel. Where Will can stay. Jonathan keeps filling the silence like he’s afraid of it.
When the call ends, Will sits in the dimming room, staring at nothing.
He doesn’t cry.
Not yet.
Two days later, Will is on a plane headed east, staring out the window at a sky that looks wrong. Too gray. Too low.
Indiana smells different when he steps off the plane. Colder. Wetter. Like dead leaves and rain-soaked asphalt. It sinks into him in a way California never did.
He’s never been to Hawkins.
That’s the strangest part.
After the divorce, his father took him west. Courts decided. Paperwork was signed. Joyce stayed in Indiana with Jonathan. Will left with a man who wore smiles in public and rage behind closed doors.
Hawkins became a word. An address. A place he imagined but never knew.
Jonathan is waiting near an old car, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He looks older—more solid, more tired. When he spots Will, his face changes instantly.
“Hey,” Jonathan says, stepping forward.
Before Will can react, Jonathan pulls him into a hug.
It’s awkward at first. Their bodies don’t quite remember how to fit together. Then Jonathan tightens his arms, and something in Will gives way just a little.
“I’m really glad you came,” Jonathan murmurs.
“Yeah,” Will says quietly. “Me too.”
They pull apart, studying each other like mirrors that don’t quite match.
“You look—uh,” Jonathan says. “You look good.”
“So do you,” Will replies.
The drive into Hawkins is quiet.
“This is Hopper,” Jonathan says when they pull into the driveway of a modest house. “Jim.”
Hopper steps out onto the porch, broad and solid, eyes assessing but kind.
“You must be Will,” Hopper says, extending a hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Will shakes it. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Just Jim,” Hopper says.
“And this is Jane,” Jonathan adds.
A young woman steps forward. There’s something about her—an intensity beneath her calm.
“Hi,” Jane says. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
Will feels a strange warmth settle in his chest. “Me too.”
Dinner is quieter than Will expects.
Nancy asks about his art. Jonathan talks about the paper. Hopper cracks dry jokes. Jane listens carefully.
“So,” Jonathan says, glancing at Will. “California. What’s that like?”
Will shrugs. “Big. Loud. A lot of pretending.”
Nancy smiles knowingly. “Sounds familiar.”
Jane tilts her head. “Do you like it?”
Will hesitates. “It’s… safe.”
Jane nods, like that means something to her.
No one asks about his father.
He’s grateful for that.
The funeral comes too quickly.
People line the pews. Faces blur. Jonathan’s eulogy is warm and loving and completely foreign to Will.
“She never stopped fighting for us,” Jonathan says, voice thick. “She loved harder than anyone I’ve ever known.”
Will’s chest tightens painfully.
This isn’t the mother he remembers.
Anger curls sharp and sudden. Before he can stop himself, Will stands and walks out.
Cold air hits his lungs. He walks until the church fades away, until he’s leaning against a tree, breathing hard.
“Will?”
He looks up.
A man stands a few feet away, dark curls falling into intense brown eyes.
“I’m Mike,” the man says gently.
Something about him makes Will feel seen.
They talk. Quietly. Honestly.
“I don’t know how to feel,” Will admits.
Mike listens like it matters.
“She loved you,” Mike says. “She never stopped.”
Will swallows.
Maybe.
The house settles into silence the way old houses do—slowly, reluctantly, every creak and sigh announcing itself like a memory that doesn’t want to be forgotten.
Will lies awake in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. Moonlight filters through the bare branches outside the window, casting skeletal shadows across the walls. The bed is too soft, the blankets too heavy. The air smells faintly of laundry detergent and something else beneath it—coffee, maybe, or old wood. Not his.
He turns onto his side, then onto his back again.
Sleep refuses him with stubborn precision.
His mind keeps circling the same images: Jonathan at the podium, voice breaking on words Will couldn’t recognize as truth; Mike’s eyes, steady and searching; the way Jane had watched him like she was cataloging something important.
Most of all, his thoughts keep snagging on the word mother.
Joyce.
The woman who sent him postcards with shaky handwriting and drawings of flowers. The woman who let the calls stop. The woman who didn’t come for him.
She loved you, Mike had said.
Will presses the heel of his hand into his sternum, as if he can physically push the ache down.
Eventually, he gives up on sleep.
He slips quietly from the bed, careful not to let the floorboards creak too loudly, and pulls his sketchbook from his bag. He sits on the edge of the desk chair, knees drawn up, pencil already warm between his fingers.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to draw.
That’s usually how it starts.
His hand moves anyway.
At first, it’s just shapes. Lines. Pressure and release. He doesn’t think—he lets the graphite lead him, lets the feeling in his chest guide the motion. A curve here. A shadow there. Something vast is taking shape without his permission.
Halfway through, his breathing changes.
The room feels colder.
He pauses, pencil hovering, heart suddenly racing.
“Get a grip,” he murmurs to himself.
He looks down.
The shape on the page is unmistakable.
Long, branching limbs like twisted roots. A mass of shadow at the center, looming and intelligent. Empty space where eyes should be, yet somehow watching. Will’s breath leaves him in a sharp exhale.
“No,” he whispers.
His fingers tremble as he drops the pencil. A familiar sensation crawls up the back of his neck—cold, electric, wrong. Goosebumps rise along his arms.
He hasn’t felt this since he was a child.
Since the nightmares.
Since the nights he woke up screaming in a house where no one came.
He snaps the sketchbook shut and stands abruptly, pacing the small room.
“It’s just stress,” he tells himself. “Grief. Memory.”
But his skin doesn’t believe him.
The sensation lingers long after he climbs back into bed, staring at the dark until dawn finally bleeds gray into the sky.
The days after the funeral blur together.
People leave. The house empties. Life, impossibly, resumes.
Will helps with small things—washing dishes, folding blankets, carrying boxes. It feels strange, participating in a family rhythm he was never part of. He watches Jonathan move through the house with practiced familiarity, watches Hopper linger in doorways like he’s unsure what to do with his hands.
Jane brings him coffee one morning without asking how he takes it.
“You remembered,” Will says, surprised.
She shrugs. “You didn’t add sugar yesterday.”
Something warm settles in his chest.
They sit together at the table, quiet but comfortable. Jane asks about his art. About California. She doesn’t pry, but she listens in a way that feels intentional.
Later that afternoon, there’s a knock at the door.
Jonathan answers it with a tired smile. “Hey.”
“Hey,” comes a chorus of voices.
Will peers around the corner of the living room and sees them—people he met only briefly at the funeral, now standing awkwardly in the doorway with casseroles and paper bags.
Dustin Henderson is the first to step inside, grinning brightly. “Hi! You must be Will. I’m Dustin. Science teacher extraordinaire.”
Will blinks, then laughs despite himself. “Nice to meet you.”
Lucas Sinclair follows, offering a firm handshake. “Lucas. P.E.”
Max Mayfield gives him a small wave. “Registrar. And professional paperwork wrangler.”
Mike Wheeler hangs back, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. His gaze flicks to Will, holds for a beat too long, then shifts away.
“Mike,” Jonathan says, gesturing. “English teacher.”
Will nods. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Mike replies, voice soft.
They settle into the living room, chairs pulled close. Conversation flows easily—about work, about the school, about Hawkins gossip. Will listens more than he speaks, absorbing the dynamic.
They’re close. Comfortable. A unit.
Dustin keeps glancing at him, brow furrowed.
“Can I ask you something?” Dustin says finally.
“Sure,” Will replies.
“Do I know you?” Dustin asks. “Because I swear—you look really familiar.”
Will hesitates. “I don’t think so. I grew up in California.”
“Huh,” Dustin says. “Weird. Déjà vu, I guess.”
Mike doesn’t say anything, but his shoulders tense.
As the group disperses later that evening, Mike lingers by the door.
“Hey,” he says quietly, once the others have gone. “I—uh—sorry about earlier. At the funeral. If I overstepped.”
“You didn’t,” Will says. “It helped.”
Mike nods, relief flickering across his face. “Good.”
There’s a pause.
“If you ever want to talk,” Mike adds, “I’m around. We all are.”
“Thanks,” Will says, meaning it.
Mike smiles faintly and leaves.
Will watches him go, feeling something stir he can’t name.