Chapter Text
It's been less than 24 hours since the Byers family, sans Lonnie, made the decision to pack all their things and take the next red–eye to a desolate town in Indiana. Well, Joyce made the decision, Will and Jonathon just went along with it like loyal puppies, agreeing to whatever their master says.
He’s not sure about all the gory details, nor is he dumb enough to ask, but it’s presumed by the two that their dad did something terrible. Scratch presumed. It's definite, because if anything tracks for Lonnie Byers, it's that he’s an impulsive asshole, who never thinks twice about who he hurts, and should have never had children in the first place.
So they didn't question what she meant, when Joyce burst into their cramped cabin, door hitting the wall hard enough to leave a mark, rambling about packing and flight tickets–somewhere far, far away, she muttered, completely sober but still sounding intoxicated as hell.
He wanted to argue, but when he got a good look at his moms face–bottomless fear mixed with sadness but also deep and pure anger, he just climbed to their attic to grab the extra boxes they kept up in the dusty space, and started throwing everything he wanted to bring with him into the cardboard, encouraging his brother to do the same.
He now pulls the last of his painting supplies from the large cardboard box on his bedroom floor. Blowing off a thin layer of dust from the small canvases, he discards them on his floor, too tired to find them a designated home. Surveying the small room he now can call his own, he double-checks that he hasn’t forgotten anything.
All finished.
He collapses the box and places it with the others in a pile outside his bedroom door, knowing Jonathon would take them to the garage for him.
Will flops onto his newly dressed bed, not bothering to change out of his clothes, even though he’d worn them during the entire, much too long flight to Indiana from Lenora. He hugs his pillow, inhaling the scent like a mother would with her newborn baby, until he gets lightheaded and has to break away from the contact to guzzle fresh air, letting out a half groan–half scream of frustration into the universe, like some god out there might be listening.
Cool air dances across his body and blossoms into goosebumps as he stretches out of the bed, letting his limbs dangle off the spacious king. His eyes follow the fast–moving ceiling fan, dizziness slowly forming behind the gaze.
Just as he feels himself drifting into sleep, a soft knock on his door sounds through the room, interrupting his racing thoughts.
“Come in,” he says, dragging his body into an upright position, blood rush hitting him immediately.
The door creaks open, and Jonathon's head pops in through the crack. “Hey, are you finished unpacking?”
“Finally, yeah.” Will tries to ignore the pungent stench that radiates off his brother, a familiar smell that always follows Jonathan whenever he smokes, which is more often than not. Will wants to roll his eyes and point this out, but he thought better of it; Jontahon was too stoned and would take anything Will said with a grain of salt.
“I’m going to take these boxes from you, okay?”
“Knock yourself out.” What Will really wants to say is: if you're too stoned to speak proper English, you're too stoned to haul a hundred boxes down the stairs. But he doesn’t, because Jonathon would figure that out himself.
His brother nods lazily, popping his head out away and shutting the door softly behind him.
Will sighs, lying back down and pulling his covers taught over his shoulders. The unmistakable sound of Jonathon stumbling down the stairs, arms full, bumping between the wall and the railing, echoes throughout the house, and Will found himself tossing and turning, struggling immensely to find a comfortable position.
When he finally drifts into sleep, half an hour later, Will half expects that he’ll wake up, and everything will be as normal as can be–he’ll be in Lucas's basement, and Dustin's feet would be smushed into his face until he, disgusted, swats them away with a groggy hand. They’d just finished a dnd campaign, and were too tired to bike home, so they crashed in the space in the Sinclair residence–Will on the couch , Dustin on the floor, and Lucas on a sleeping bag.
Erica would bang on the door, tell them to wake up, that Joyce was on the phone because Will hadn’t called her–oops. Then they’d eat eggs with maple syrup in them, as gross as it was, and everything would be fine until Will went home.
Went home to his dad and mom fighting because of him, Jonathan high at fucking 8 in the morning, and accusatory language and bruises on his arm after he falls victim to Lonnies aggressive ways.
California wasn’t home for Will, but he’s not sure Hawkins will be either.
Will wakes late that Sunday morning, in contrast to his usual early rising, a direct result of jet lag and his failure to set an alarm. He regrets his laziness from the night before as he slowly rolls his slack body over and meets the piercing sunlight shining through his window and reflecting off his face, entirely his fault because his curtains still lie untouched in a dusty bundle on his bedroom floor. He groans and stretches his stiff body out, limbs hanging off the sides of his bedframe, before forcing his body into a sitting position, his comforter slipping off his shoulders and bunching up around his hips.
His feet meet the cool, sticky flooring. All he wants to do is curl back into a ball, pull his blanket over himself, and sleep for days at a time. Still, the unmistakable sound of bickering travels from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into Will's room, so he forces himself to hunker towards his dresser, change into the warmest clothes he has, and leave the sun-lit room.
As his socked feet pad down the stairs, rubbing against the carpet runner on the wooden steps, the quarrel grows louder and more coherent. He pauses at the end of the steps, so as not to alert the pair of his arrival, and listens.
The first voice he hears–his mother–is talking a mile a minute, and at first Will can’t wholly understand the babble, but she slows down and sighs, pausing before she continues her rant.
“I just–I know that you're…processing–” She starts, talking in a specific tone, a tone that Will has become familiar with lately, a tone that says, I’m not mad, I just want to understand, and Will immediately knows what they’re fighting about. It was bound to happen eventually. Jonathan wasn’t exactly the best at hiding it, always smoking in his room, cracking a window as if it would completely rid his room of the putrid smell.
His brother interjects, “I'm not processing, Mom! It’s just weed–it's not a big deal.”
“Just weed? You're supposed to set a good example, Jonathan! I can't keep–ignoring it just because of everything that's happened.” Joyce is whispering now, not wanting anyone else to hear her words, not wanting Will to hear her. Still, that ship had already sailed, and Will realises he should probably reveal himself sooner rather than later, before he overhears more than he already has.
“He already knows, Mom… he’s sixteen, he’s not a kid anymore–”
Before he can finish, he spots Will, who has now ventured into the kitchen, hovering beside the entryway, feet resting against the cool tile while he shifts awkwardly. Jonathon presses his lips together and his eyebrows quiver, like he’s sorry Will had to hear the bickering, but not totally surprised; it happens more often than not.
Joyce is about to say something, likely a lousy excuse, but before she can form the words, the piercing sound of someone calling the Byers’ landline interrupts, a repeating riiiinggg! In the midst of the awkward silence.
A quiet click sounds when Jonathon picks up the phone from the receiver, leaning his shoulder against the wall and crossing one leg over the other, toe drumming against the floor rhythmically. He listens for a second, stoic expression clouding his stubbled face, and he grunts a response into the mouthpiece of the device, holding it out towards Joyce while using the palm of his hand to cover the speaker.
“It's Lonnie.” He hissed, which was an odd thing to say, because it was unlike Lonnie to call, to care, even tho they’d packed up and left in the middle of the night, Will half expected him to just go about his daily dead-beat life, smoking cigarettes and drinking till he passed out cold on the couch, planted in front of the blaring TV every night. “You gave him this number?” Jonathon raised an eyebrow, eyes full of anger.
“I–I just,” Joyce started, but Jonathon didn’t let her finish, handing her the phone and storming out the room. His boot-clad feet echoed down the hall–the whipping sound of the garage door being forced open then shutting so loud that it rattled the dusty painting hanging on the wall beside it. Will didn’t have to, didn’t want to guess what he was doing behind the blockade, He only glared at his mother, who was whispering into the phone, holding it with both shaking hands, a newly lit cigarette hanging from in between her lips, glowing as she inhaled between words, a thin ribbon of smoke circling her head, as though the previous conversation had never happened.
Normally, Will would venture to the cabinet to have himself a bowl of cereal or a piece of whole-wheat toast, but they hadn’t shopped, so each cabinet was empty, as well as the fridge. And with the direction that things seemed to be heading, Will doesn’t want to be in the house anyway.
Sighing, he finds himself at the coatrack, his intentions consisting only of fleeing the scene. He grabs his freshly-bought jacket from one of the wooden pegs, stuffs his boots on as quickly as he could manage, and pushes open the front door, the harsh winter wind whipping at his face before anyone could stop him.
-
“Sinclair residence, state your name and reason for calling.” A bored, bossy voice sings from the other end of the line, and Will rolls his green, sleepy eyes, leaning against the metal pole of the telephone booth, a slight rattling sounding from the device. He’s lucky–even after running into Jonathon, who had been blowing off steam in the garage, on his way out and having to come up with some blatant lie about getting the mail, as though they’d even been able to change their mail address yet. Thankfully, for Will's sanity, Jonathan let him go, probably the most trust the older boy had put into Will's maturity in years. He’s lucky that he found a few old quarters in the back pocket of his pants, courtesy of his many nights spent in an arcade with Lucas and Dustin back in California.
“Erica, it’s Will–is Lucas there?” He asks, and the familiar sound of plates rattling and forks clicking against china comes through the crackling static of the line, along with an exaggerated "Mhmm" from Erica.
“Yeah, he’s here alright,” She sounds condescending, not to Will's surprise, and he lets out an aggravated groan, turning his head away from the crown of the phone and against the plastic wall behind him. “I just don’t think he deserves to speak to anyone right now, not after he ruined my research–”
“Erica! Is that for me?!” Lucas yells from behind her, causing another round of static to blare through the speaker, and Will's patience starts to run thin.
“Yeah, and it's that bowl-cut loser that left you–” she snaps back, and Will furrows his eyebrows, not sure whether he should feel offended or not.
“Will?” a shuffle from the other line, like he’s actively trying to wrestle the phone from her grip, and Will has to hold the screaming device away from his ear to prevent irreparable damage. “Give me the damn phone–” a pause, then Lucas shouting, “Mom!”
For a few minutes, the fighting continues, and Will has half a mind to hang up the phone now before he’s hung up on the other end of the line for another ten years, but Lucas voice finally sounds from the device, breathy puffs filling the silence.
“Will?...” A sharp exhale, “Sorry bout’ that,” He laughs, then swallows, more that of a gulp, and then the sound of the line pulling tight and Lucas settling down on a couch.
“It’s fine,” he’s forgotten entirely why he called in the first place, tucked inside a random frosty phone booth in the middle of Hawkins, nothing but unrecognisable buildings and pedestrians surrounding him. At first, he was just cold, fingers feeling frostbitten in contrast to the usual California weather, but settling inside the booth warmed him plenty. He felt the urge to dial his best friend's number, or he felt sort of obligated to, after leaving him nothing but a goodbye phone call in the dead of night.
“So… How's Indiana?”
“Cold.”
A laugh, then an awkward silence.
“So, should I save these digits? Finally got your telephone up and running?” Lucas asks after clicking his tongue, and Will almost says yes, having forgotten where he has for a brief moment.
“Ah, no…I’m in a phone booth. I’ll give you my real number later.” No response for a minute, and Will can feel the tension even between lines.
“I sort of have practice soon, if you can make it quick.” Will checks the beeping clock on the telephone's small screen. 10:34 am is pasted in small, blinking letters.
“Okay, I’ll call you later then, from my actual number this time.” They both know that Lucas doesn’t have practice this early, and especially not on Sundays, but Will doesn’t point this out, only assumes that Lucas has a good reason for lying. He hangs up before Lucas can answer, a small click in the midst of the chilling silence.
He stands there a minute, leaning against the foggy walls of the enclosure, watching small droplets race down the plastic. His eyes follow the water until they drip down to the floor, and he averts his gaze to his surroundings.
There aren’t many buildings that interest him, except for a small, light blue establishment tucked between a hardware shop and a convenience store, with small icicles hanging from the striped awning above the door. His eyes roam to the flashing sign above it, which reads Melvad's Diner in glowing, cursive letters. He traces it for a moment, and thinks about going home, or walking for another hour or so, but his stomach interrupts the thought, growling like a lion. He remembers the empty fridge at home, the pungent smell of the cigarettes Joyce smokes, and the weed Jonathon uses, and makes up his mind.
The plastic door pushes open, and he almost retreats when he steps straight into an ice puddle, slipping like a maniac before catching his balance on a nearby wooden bench, doubling over and inhaling the prickling wind, eyes watering.
He double–and triple-checks his surroundings before setting off again, winding through the small opening of black, cracking road between puddles and large mounds of snow, wondering if anybody in the town knows what a damn shovel is, and finally makes his way to the front door of the diner.
Considering it's a Sunday morning, one would be led to believe that a Diner would be packed to the brim with customers, loud conversation filling the space, but as Will enters the place, pushing the door open as a small bell above him signals his arrival, he’s met with a mostly empty room. Only ten or so customers sit at the yellow booths that line the walls, and the counter is starkly empty, workers nowhere in sight. The only thing that feels right is the drifting smell of coffee beans and grease wafting around the air and into his nostrils.
He debates sitting at the counter, since he shouldn’t take a whole booth when he has no one joining him. But Will prefers the comfort that a small restaurant booth provides, and he doubts the deserted diner will get many more customers, definitely not enough to make anyone care where he sat, so he slides into the nearest seat, scooting down until his body hugs the window.
He tucks his legs under his body until he shifts into a comfortable cross-legged position and tugs the thick wool scarf stuck to his skin by a thin layer of sweat off, bundling it up in his lap in a fuzzy ball. He decides then that he will give himself at least half an hour–thirty minutes to clear his head, to give it a break for once, away from the situations of his home life.
With that peace of mind, Will pulls his black, scratchy bag into the empty stretch of leather beside him, unclasping the holsters and digging through its contents. He pulls out the small, brown sketchbook he so often uses, as well as a few pencils and pens from the bottom of the sack.
He undoes the elastic holding the book close and opens to the nearest available page. He starts to sketch, pen hovering over the blank space, but his mind's a mess, and he just ends up drawing repeated lines on the paper, indenting the stark pages and leaving bits of graphite springing from the utensil. He closes his eyes, orange and yellow sunlight dancing across his vision through his skin, and takes a deep breath, probably the first he has in a while, letting himself relax against the cushy, sticky seat behind him.
Maybe Indiana isn’t so bad, just give it a try. Stupid thought, he knows. Will kind of hates it already, even though people say not to judge a book by its cover. He’s not a big city kind of guy, nor is he the surf and sunrise dude, so that only leaves small towns and diners. Hawkins is cold, and deserted, two things he’s not used to, and it's racking up by the minute.
Change is never good, no matter what coming of age movies tell you.
Doodling aimlessly, anything really, the metal napkin holder beside his left elbow, the salt and pepper shakers, one half empty, the other full, he’s not sure how long he sits there, but it’s definitely breaching his thirty-minute rule.
He doesn’t want to leave tho. At some point he remembers that his walkman is in his bag, and he slips the device onto his freezing ears, songs from The Cure filling his headspace and drowning out the outside world, until it's just him and his art.
His silence is interrupted when someone clears their throat in front of him, a sharp noise that causes Will to flinch, like he’s accidentally grazed his hand upon a hot skillet.
The interruption belongs to a boy, seemingly around Will's age, though by his sharp features, he could easily be seventeen or even eighteen. His dark, unruly curls cover parts of his face and hang, frizzy, past his ears, like he hadn’t looked in the mirror or made any attempts to tame them, thankfully, because it looks handsome on him. His dark, sunken eyes roam over Will's face–why that makes him blush? He isn’t sure.
He’s dressed in an oversized knit sweater, a deep red that complements his pale skin, and he’s holding a small yellow notepad, pen hovering over the vibrant pages. He raises an eyebrow. “You’re staring,” The words are blurry, muffled through the raging lyrics of Just Like Heaven. He must have been standing there awhile, because his expression is impatient, annoyed.
Will doesn’t immediately respond, no quick remark like he usually would, just stares dumbfounded for what feels like a century before he reaches up to slip his headphones off, letting them fall around his neck.
“No, I was just–”
The boy doesn’t let Will finish his excuse, cutting him off with a slight chuckle. “No? Well, okay, but your eyes told otherwise.” His gaze lingers on Wills for a moment longer before traveling down his chest and onto the open book in front of him, curiosity sparking his features. Will immediately slams the cover shut, using a hand to veil his messy sketches from him.
Both eyebrows raise at this, and he retreats, focus landing back on Will. “Are you going to order something, or just gawk at me like I’ve done a magic trick?” He jokes, lips curling into a teasing smile, eyes glinting from amusement, any unpleasantness gone.
“I wasn’t gawking, I was–” A pause as he searches his brain for the right words, “-I’ll just have coffee, thanks.” He gives in, appetite suddenly gone.
“No, thank you,” he annunciates, smiling to himself. He clicks the pen shut, tucking it into the back pocket of his dark blue jeans. “That’ll be right out.” He turns to go, but pauses before setting off, turning to Will with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Say, have I seen you before?” his eyes are squinted, and he’s searching Will's face again, which is redder than ever before.
“N–No… I just moved here.”
“Right, I’d remember a face like that,” He actually leaves this time, giving Will no room to respond, who just stares at the space once occupied by the strange boy, wondering what in the world just happened.
I’d remember a face like that? Like his?
The hell does that even mean?
Will's thoughts have spiraled so far that he starts to wonder if the interaction even happened, or if he’s going insane, but eventually the dark-haired boy comes rushing back from behind the counter, coffee cup in hand, as well as a mysterious plate balanced on the crook of his arm. His hair is tousled, and he pushes it away from his face as he sets the items in front of Will.
“I–didn't order this…” Will points to the plate, glazed donut resting upon the ribbed china.
He smirks, resting his hands on the plastic surface, leaning his body weight towards the confused boy, just enough to inch the table forward, only slightly so. “As I always say, what's a cup of coffee without a donut?” He exudes carefree confidence, like he brings every customer bribery donuts. What he’s bribing for? Will can’t really tell, but he’d damned it's not just out of kindness. “It’s on the house–unless you don’t want it that badly?”
Will is about to stammer a rejection to the offer, but he’s then reminded just how hungry he is, and he curses his stomach as it feels the need to remind him and all of Hawkins loudly, and turns his head away to hide his embarrassment.
He smiles at that, craning his head to get a better view of Will. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me to sit with you–as a thank you?”
“Do I…have a choice?” His hand still rests upon his sketchbook, and he grips it tighter, knuckles turning pale white. In his imagination, Will is slapping himself atop the head, manners forgotten in front of a boy being nothing but nice to him, even if a part of his gesture feels deceitful.
“Well, sure–just say the word, and I’ll go back to counting pennies at the register, this whole conversation forgotten.” He raises an eyebrow in wait, turning his lips in a smirk that makes it almost impossible for Will to imagine saying no, and he wonders if the boy knows the effect he has on people, or if Will is just helplessly weak. He rolls his eyes and gestures to the empty seat across from him, which becomes occupied before his eyes as the boy slides his lanky body into the tight space.
“Crazy question, but don't you have to… uh–work?” He asks faintly. He waits for an answer, which doesn’t surprise him to any extent.
“Only when I feel inclined to,” a pause, “why, trying to get rid of me so soon?”
Will lifts the blue and yellow checkered mug to his lips, taking a long, slow sip before answering. “You say that as though I invited you here–which, to set it straight, I didn’t.”
He hovers a hand over his red woolen chest, feigning offense. “You wound me, greatly.” He mocks an English accent, a cheesy one at that, but Will's lips twitch, a hint of a smirk, but he’s just as quick to cover the act with another sip of lukewarm coffee.
The boy opposite hims eyes light up. And his eyebrows twitch, like he’s remembered something he’d previously forgotten, “Shit, I almost forgot, what's your name? It bothers me that there's a face in Hawkins I’m unfamiliar with–such a small town, very uncommon,” he asks simply, rendering that his intentions ended at just that.
Will's fingers are still wrapped around the mug's handle, and he brings his free hand to cradle the opposite side of the mug, warming his chilled hands. “Will Byers… you?” he offers hesitantly.
“Ah–cool name, Will Byers, mine's Mike Wheeler.”
Mike Wheeler. I wonder if it's short for anything, perhaps Michael, or Mitchell. Michael Wheeler. Michael Bye–
He kicks his shin to cease the thought, pain shooting through his leg like a burst of lightning. Don’t be stupid.
“Why did you move to Hawkins, Byers?” he waits for Will's response. When it doesn’t come, he adds, “Don’t get me wrong, I grew up here, but I just can't see why someone would actually want to live here.
Will hesitates before answering, deciding on a half-truth, half-lie. “I guess it’s just complicated.” His sentence ends in a laugh, more of an exhale, forced–sounding.
Mike looks like he wants to ask something, probably Complicated? How so? But he doesn’t push it, to Will's relief. It's his turn to ask questions now.
“I’m figuring out the next possible way to ask this, but why are you talking to me right now?” Will imagines that from afar, he looks unapproachable, headphones shoved on his dopey ears, The Clash blasting from the device, and scribbling furiously in a sketchbook.
“Well, considering you just moved here, I’m assuming you don’t have anybody to hang with? Correct me if I’m wrong.” Mike clasps his bony hands together on the cool, plastic surface of the table, and Will's focus is turned to the silhouette, to the way that the long, pale fingers wrap around each other, veins spreading underneath the skin.
I bet he plays guitar. The unwelcome image of Mike Wheeler playing guitar enters his headspace, the tall, messy boy strumming his fingers along the cords, a soft melody surrounding him. Will is quick to push the thought away, imagining himself shoving the picture into the depths of his memory.
“You're right, I don’t.” Will's voice is skeptical, questioning as he takes a small chunk of the donut in front of him, crumbs littering the smooth porcelain. “Do you?”
He's not sure why he asks that; the answer is obvious. Obviously, he does, how couldn’t he?
Mike sucks his bottom lip in, biting it and leaning back into the booth's red seats. He nips at the flesh, a smirk overtaking. “Believe it or not, I’m not exactly the most popular guy…”
“Shocking.” Sarcasm.
Mike laughs, a warm sound straight from the chest, a high-pitched and deep all at the same time. When he stops, he peers at Will underneath his curling bangs, all dark glossy eyes. “I like you, Byers, you're funny.”
I like you, Byers, you’re funny.
I like you, Byers.
I like you.