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A calm feeling washes over Will. The sun is warm on his skin, the rays passing through the leaves of the tree above leaving small dim spots of light on his body. Will is lying in a field, under a tree, watching the clouds pass by. He’s back in Hawkins: the air is familiar, hugging him, welcoming and comforting. It’s been a while since he’s felt so at ease somewhere; California had not been the most accepting in the 6 months he'd lived there. A light breeze is kissing the exposed skin on his arms and calves, chilly enough to cool him down and not let the sun burn him, but not too cold that he needs another layer to warm him up.
Come help me die, my daughter
A babbling river passes nearby Will’s resting spot, the sound of the water gently singing him to sleep. The grass is caressing his legs, and it’s suddenly as if everything was right in Will Byers’ life. That’s probably the first he’s ever said that. The hours seem to be passing by slowly yet Will feels no remorse, no guilt about letting the time pass. It’s as if this was the well-deserved break he really needed; no more insults, no more fighting, no more watching your back as you walk down the street at night on your own. He feels free, light, like a weight has been taken off him. He takes a breath; the Earth swallows him whole.
Walk me beside the river to the beach
He thinks about Dustin — one of his best friends. He’s always felt close to him in a way he hadn't with the others. Something with Dustin felt easier most of the time. They'd spent hours together on the playground, sometimes through rain and mud, still somehow finding it all so amusing. Dustin was the biggest fan of Will's drawing; he'd request pieces for all the most important scenes of their campaigns, and somehow, in Dustin's eyes, each drawing was better than the last. Will always had a hard time believing that. Will giggles lightly, thinking about those times, how much easier they had it back then. Back when all they needed to do to save the world was do their homework and spin a die. Will feels his heart squeeze a little, not knowing why. He sees Dustin in the clouds.
Take a branch with your knife
He thinks about Lucas. He had never been Lucas' closest friend, yet they still entertained a close bond. Lucas was always the reliable friend, an anchor for Will to hold on to when things were rough at home. No matter the chaos, no matter the disordered family, Lucas was always there to listen, a shoulder to cry on. And Will always gave it back. Sometimes, Lucas would invite Will over when he felt things were too much over at the Byers', and alleviate his mind with Dungeons and Dragons one-shots he wrote himself. No matter how strange or badly written they were, they were still the most fun Will would have during the week. He sees Lucas in the clouds.
Take my left with your right
He thinks about Max. Maxine. She's always been fascinating to him. They didn't talk or interact much, but he still admired her; she was strong, independent, and everything he had wished to be at their age. Yet, he was stuck, hoping to one day resemble her. Maybe one day he, too, would stand up to the man he hated the most. He never really understood why she cried in the mall that night, if she had hated him so much. But maybe that was his curse; he was doomed to never understand. Not fully. Not the way everyone else does. When he saw her in that hospital bed, his heart squeezed, and he found himself hoping with all his might that she might wake up soon; that he'd somehow gathered up enough strength in his inspiration to save her. Like she saved him. He sees Max in the clouds.
Don't be afraid, my girl
He thinks about El. Eleven. Jane. He had heard from the Party they had mistaken her for a boy at first; some had even mistaken her for Will. Ironic that she'd end up being a part of his family, his sister. He wholeheartedly believed they were twins separated at birth, reunited through the worst conditions. Sometimes, he'd look in the mirror and see her instead. They had the same eyes; kind eyes, their mom would say. Empathetic eyes. Eyes you'd look into and feel you were safe at home, away from all the evil in the world. Will felt that when he looked at her; he felt it less when looking at himself. He sees El in the clouds.
Take me into the shore
He thinks about Hopper. Chief Jim Hopper. Once simply the Chief of Police, he was the one that had found him in the library, with Joyce. Jim was the one who brought Will back to life that day, saving him from the cold, sharp claws of death. He had heard about Sara, his late daughter, lost to cancer. Somewhere in the back of Will's mind, he wondered if Hopper had thought about her while bringing Will back from the dead. Hopper had always been a figure in Hawkins; ever since he started dating his mom, he became more of a paternal figure, being there when Will really needed him. He reminded Will that fathers don't have to be absent, or… dead. Will feels a sting, a pinch in his heart thinking about Bob. There's a lingering acidity in his mouth while he tries to not feel guilty over almost forgetting about him, the Superhero, the man who tried to help him against the Mind Flayer back when it was still a strange concept. Yet as hard as he tried to push it down, he couldn't help but blame the man for making him stand up to the Mind Flayer. But Will knows it wasnt his fault. He sees Hopper and he sees Bob in the clouds.
I'm not cold, I'm not cold
He thinks about Jonathan. His big brother. One of the only people he's ever fully trusted. Jonathan was the only person in Will's life who understood him really, for who he was. One glance was all it took; it was as if Jonathan was reading his mind. Will often hoped Jonathan was proud of him, of the man he was becoming. Often, he wondered if Jonathan shared his fear of becoming like their father. But when they listened to music together, everything disappeared in Will's life. For the duration of the song, everything felt right, as if he could take on anything. Will often worried about his brother; they were both outcasts, but Jonathan never had the friend group Will did. His only friends, as far as he was aware, were Nancy and Argyle. Will hoped Jonathan would one day have friends as amazing as the party. He sees Jonathan in the clouds.
Take my hand, take a hold
He thinks about Joyce. His mom. His biggest fan and the person he loves most in the world. He remembers how, no matter what people would say about him, Joyce would defend him. He knew that, through it all, no matter what state he was in or could ever be in, Joyce would be there for him. It was comforting, to have that kind of stability. He feels a small squeeze in his heart when he thinks about California, her lies, her trip to Alaska for a "work conference". He would never hold it against her, but he wished she had been more present for them; for him. He felt selfish. His mom still had a life outside of them. Her life didn't have to revolve around them. But that day, in the van, after his- El's confession to Mike, he would be lying if he said he didn't wish his mama was there to take him in her arms and squeeze him tight, kissing his forehead in comfort, her scent overwhelming and familiar. When he had hugged her again that day back in Hawkins, he felt all the worries on his shoulders get quiet. He sees Joyce in the clouds.
Let me lie on your arms
And now, he thinks about Mike. Michael. His first ever friend. Will remembers distinctly; he had been sitting on a swing all those years ago, alone in kindergarten, knowing in his heart he'd never have friends; his dad was clear on the fact he'd die a queer. He didn't even know what that meant at the time. But that word was burned in his mind, engraved in his identity. At 5 years old, he already knew he would die a queer. It was like a destiny to him. He didn't dare ask what that meant, but he could see his dad's face twist in anger at the word, his mom wince and darting her eyes away from Will, his brother hiding his face in shame. For a really long time he had believed his existence was shameful. And he sometimes found himself believing that again.
I'm weightless in the sea
But that day in kindergarten all those years ago, swinging sadly, a young boy had walked up to him. Introduced himself as Mike Wheeler. His eyes weren't mean, his words didn't cut, and his body didn't go against his sentences. He was being genuine. Mike Wheeler wanted to be his friend. And for the first time in a while, Will actually smiled; not a fake, take-my-picture smile — a real, true one. Mike introduced Will to Dungeons and Dragons, and that was their thing. They would have inside jokes based on their characters, their campaigns; Will would draw their characters together, the Paladin and the Wizard, the Heart and the Mind. Will found comfort in Mike's smile, his stories, his laugh, his hair, his eyes, the way his teeth were slightly crooked; the way he would always put himself between Will and his bullies, even though he'd end up bruised and broken. Sometimes, Mike would bleed defending Will. This usually ended the encounter, and they'd hide together in the bathroom to disinfect their battle scars. The locked stall, too small for two, became for an instant a safe haven, where no one could disturb them. Will would press a wet makeshift cloth — really it was just an old, torn-up shirt — against Mike's forehead and lips. He was bruised, beautiful, and looked at Will as if the world could've ended around them and Mike wouldn't have cared. He sees Mike in the clouds.
Up to my ears the salt sits
The more Will thinks about his past, the more he feels his throat start to close up. His chest feels heavy, his heart sinks in his chest and it's as if someone was reaching their hand through his stomach and up into his ribcage, squeezing his already beaten heart. Angry gray clouds start surrounding the sky around him, darkening what was once the soft sun that had glowed on him. He sits upright, placing his hand on the grass; fresh and slightly cold before, it was now dry and dead. The babbling river is silent now, only faint sounds of water droplets dripping from a rock and hitting the one underneath it can be heard, if one were to listen closely. And Will is listening. A deafening silence engulfs him and he once again feels that sadness and loneliness he had felt all these years. He starts looking around, hoping to find a saving hand; anyone that could bring him the peace he felt earlier. But alas, only the wind seems to be answering his call.
In a circle around me
A blade of grass cracks behind Will; he looks back, calmly, as if expecting the presence. A man steps forward, towards the boy, holding his hands behind his back in a way that made him seem wise, deep in thought. He walks to Will, standing next to him, in silence. Will doesn't look up; he knows who it is. He puts his hand up to his neck as a shiver runs down his neck. The man takes a moment to observe the scenery, then goes to sit down. As he does, Will feels the ground change; he is no longer sitting on the grass, but on a swing. He balances lightly, somehow feeling both weightless and heavy with the burden on his shoulders. The swings are familiar to Will; the breeze kisses his forehead and the leaves of a purple weeping willow tree let pass the soft glow of the sun through them. It was under that tree that Mike and him had their first conversation about Dungeons and Dragons; under this tree that they talked about their biggest fears and hopes for the future. Under this tree that Will revealed his difference to Mike. That tree held memories Will had never shared with anyone.
Take my life into your life
The man is sat beside Will, lightly swaying back and forth on the swing; Will can tell he's not comfortable on it, as if he had only observed this childish play from afar. The two don't look at each other, don't say a word. They watch in silence the wind dance with the weeping willow, an unnatural sense of calmness breathing through them. A swift breeze brushes through the man's blond hair, moving it away from his eye.
"Does it feel heavy, to think about them?" The man finally speaks up, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, stern, and Will can feel a sense of familiarity in his tone; they've lived similar lives. The man's eyes follow a leaf dancing in the wind, his gaze slowly turning towards Will. The latter doesn't meet it.
"Your friends, your family. Do you think they care about you the way you care about them?" Will's throat starts to close up, a knife perforating his chest in a way he's used to, by now. His heart stopped bleeding a while ago. The boy's gaze is stuck on the weeping willow, as if hoping the tree would land him a branch to rest on and take his worries away.
"We're the same, you know, you and I." The man speaks in a low voice; not monstrous, but almost caring. Will finally turns his head to the man, a glimpse of fear in his eyes. His heart starts beating faster and he almost feels his blood coursing through his body, which tensed up upon meeting the man's gaze. He's…pretty. Will notes the way the shortish blond hair frames the man's sharp features; his blue eyes seem to pierce through Will, as if part of the man wants to care for him, and the other wants to abuse him, ruin him. Will can feel which one is winning.
Take a branch with your knife
The man shifts his gaze back to the weeping willow, and Will follows it. The leaves of the willow move slightly, a hand passes through, and suddenly he sees Mike. Mike? Will holds on to the swing to get up, but a force pulls him back down. Mike comes closer to Will, looking at him with that familiar gaze; one that says "It's okay, I'm here", a gaze almost like a caress on Will's soul. Mike's soft black hair is cut shorter than it used to be, and it now frames his sharp jawline in the most perfect way. Will likes to believe Mike was sculpted by the gods, sometimes. Especially right now. The young man stands in silence, a few feet from his best friend, eerily still. Even a ghost of Mike wouldn't have stood so still.
"Is there anything you'd like to say to him, William? He's here for you." The man speaks up again, his voice a little deeper than earlier; he nudges Will lightly, pushing him to answer.
"What would you say to him, if you were to never see him again?" Will feels fear creeping up his throat. Would he tell Mike everything?
Will opens his mouth, and Mike raises his eyebrows, intently listening. But Will doesn't say anything. His throat is closed up, his mouth dry and empty and the hole in his chest feels more and more lonely. Mike doesn't need to know, he doesn't deserve to be confessed to, he doesn't deserve the burden it is to be the object of Will's affection. He knows what people do to those like him and he can't inflict that on Mike.
"I'm sorry, Mike." Those three words escape Will's throat like tiny daggers. He's always felt this need to apologize for his very existence. He closes his eyes and puts his head down, unable to face his best friend.
"Is that all? Go on, keep going. Tell him the truth." The man presses Will — he wants him to confess. Will feels tears creeping their way into his eyes; they know the feeling. He swallows his pain and looks up at Mike again, who's walking closer to him. When he gets to Will, he gets down on one knee and reaches for his hands, holding them and pressing his thumbs on the back of them. Will had missed this kindness, the one Mike used to show him before California. His eyes are tender and understanding and suddenly Will is 5 again, meeting his best friend for the first time. Something within him is telling him to stop hiding, to finally break free and tell Mike how he feels; they've always understood each other. If it leads to nothing, maybe it can at least help Will move on. Right?
"Mike… I think I like you." Will looks at Mike with a small smile, and is met with one back, the young man's face slightly blushing. Will looks away for a second, trying to calm his beating heart down, feeling his face flush — He did it! He told him! — a feeling of relief washing over him. He looks back at Mike, hoping to have an understanding conversation with him.
Come help me die, my daughter
Mike's face is twisted with disgust and anger. He pushes Will's hands away and gets up, slowly backing away, looking down at him with disdain and fear. There's a pain in his eye that sends a bullet through Will's ribcage, entering and blowing up in Will's heart, leaving fragments to rot in his soul. He sits in silence as suddenly more people walk forward, all people he knows. His friends, his party looks at him with disgust and shame, as if a disease had taken hold of their best friend. His mom seems scared, disappointed, and from behind her the figure of his dad appears, with the same look he had all those years ago. He puts his hands on Joyce and holds her close, offering her comfort, as if finally he had been proven right about his son. Will can feel the fear creeping up on him, tears forming droplets of salty acid burning his eyes and falling down his cheeks, a torrential pour he cannot seem to stop. Beside Mike, is Eleven. Her gaze quickly shifts from Will to Mike, dumbfounded, unable to believe Will would do this to her, his sister. He really was a monster, wasn't he? Riddled with an illness that, judging by the growing chasm forming between Will and the people he knew, was contagious and dangerous. As if just touching him would spread something alike a locust swarm, tearing through the nice nuclear American families just trying to be normal.
Will feels his heart pounding in his chest, his ribcage tightening and his head reeling as he tries to make sense of what has happened. His vision gets blurry, his ears ringing and body failing under him. Every insult and bully's snarky remarks over the years are repeating in his head, going circles like a murder of crows coming to feast on his decaying body; rotten to the core, diseased. The eyes of his loved ones pierce his body, tearing down the walls he had put up for so long to protect himself. And now he has no defenses, nothing left. He can feel a dark hole sucking in everything he's ever cared for, taking one by one all of his friends and family. The world goes dark around him, the weeping willow disappearing behind a dark fog as with the rest of his loved ones. Yet a figure stays.
"You see, William?" The voice speaks again, deeper than before; there's a growl accompanying his every words. Will can't get himself to look at him.
"No one can understand you. Not like I can." Will calms down slightly, trying to listen to the figure. He can't be right, can he?
"We're the same, you and me. I can make you so much more." There's almost a reassuring undertone in his words, as if the figure was an old friend, someone Will had known in a past life. He looks up at the man; his face is now disfigured, bloody, and burned. Half is still the way it was, pretty and blond. But still, Will doesn't feel scared. He looks up at the man, eyebrows lifted in a pleading face, like he's waiting for heaven to finally take him. The man's hand lifts up, and Will slowly closes his eyes.
A calm feeling washes over Will.