Chapter Text
Will has always hated the cold.
Sure, being possessed by a creature obsessed with it made that hatred worse, but it had been there long before—rooted in memories he'd rather forget.
The cold reminds him of being alone in his bedroom as a kid, shivering beneath thin covers while his parents fought in the living room. His dad's voice would rise, blaming his mom for not picking up more shifts even though she was already drowning. She'd blame him right back for being too drunk to hold down a job.
She was always right. Not that it ever changed anything.
Will was still left to shiver beneath his covers, listening and waiting for them to stop fighting so he could sneak into Jonathan’s room— he would always keep away the cold and the monsters.
The cold reminds him of the night his dad locked him outside in the snow because Will dared to leave his room during one of his drunken rages. That was the first time Will had ever seen his brother fight back against their father.
He used to believe Jonathan could do anything. Could stop anything from hurting him.
How naive he'd been.
Now, staring up at the Wheeler's basement ceiling in the middle of the night, Will would give anything for Jonathan to be there. Even knowing Jonathan couldn’t protect him from everything like he once believed, it would still be a comfort—just having someone there. Someone to make the basement feel a little less cold. A little less lonely.
It's been about a month since they returned to Hawkins, and nearly three weeks since Will started sleeping down here. Jonathan was supposed to stay with him—a temporary shared bedroom while their mom and Hopper searched for a new place.
Jonathan stayed the first few nights. After that, he moved upstairs to Nancy's room.
Will figures that means they worked through whatever tension followed them back from California, but if anything, their relationship seems more strained. He guesses that's something they have in common.
Will tried. Really tried. This might be the most effort he's ever put into any relationship. But no matter what he does, there's always unspoken tension—between him and Mike, between him and the whole Party. But especially Mike.
At first, Will told himself they just needed time. He'd been gone for a year. Things had changed.
They'd lost Eddie—someone Will never got to meet, but who clearly meant everything to them, especially Dustin. And Max is still in a coma, something Lucas refuses to accept. Will understands. He's grieving too, in his own way.
Even so, he hasn't seen Lucas or Dustin in over a week, and even then it was just brief, passing interactions at the community center. Normally, he'd brush it off.
Until he found out they were hanging out together. Just the two of them. Sometimes with Mike.
And Will never got an invite.
He keeps telling himself things will get better—that this is just a transitional phase while they all learn how to fit together again. They're best friends, after all. They'll always be best friends.
Except he's starting to wonder if, while he still sees them as his best friends, they might not see him as one of theirs anymore.
He thought—at the very least—it would be different with Mike.
While the others are his best friends, Mike is his best friend. The last year was rough, but Will believed that somewhere between the desert heat and their search for El, they'd moved past everything.
Sure, Will's still hurt that Mike didn't write or call him a single time during the year he was gone. But he told himself he could live with that. Mike wanted to be friends again, and that had to be enough.
Being friends was better than nothing.
Except from the moment Will moved into the Wheeler's basement, Mike started avoiding him like the plague.
It's beyond frustrating. Lucas and Dustin, he can understand—at least a little. They're busy, and their paths rarely cross.
But Mike lives under the same roof.
And still, Will has seen more of Lucas and Dustin in the past few weeks than he has of Mike.
Hell, El's practically on lockdown in Hopper's cabin, and Will still sees her more.
But he can't be too harsh on Mike. Everyone's been distant lately, even his own family.
Which leaves him here. Alone in the cold basement, with no one to keep him company.
The basement wasn't so bad when it was both of them down here together. It was still cold, but it felt safer. His nightmares weren't as horrifying.
With Jonathan gone, the quiet presses in on his ears. Not peaceful. Just empty.
Will pulls his hoodie tighter, though it doesn't help. The cold feels wrong—not the normal chill of a concrete basement in early spring. This cold feels sharp. Deliberate. Familiar.
He swallows hard.
Logically, he knows it's all in his head. They killed Vecna—or at least injured him badly enough that he shouldn't be powerful enough to bother Will yet.
That doesn't stop the nightmares.
It starts in his chest, a slow, crawling tightness spreading upward. Like invisible fingers wrapping around his throat, squeezing just enough to remind him they're there. Will freezes, breath shallow.
He focuses on the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the paint. Trying to ground himself.
But the air grows heavier with every breath.
The hum of the old freezer in the corner shifts, its low drone warping into something uneven. Wrong. Will's skin prickles. Goosebumps rise along his arms, his neck.
Cold floods his senses all at once.
For a split second, the basement isn't the basement anymore. The walls feel farther away. The shadows stretch too long, too thin. He can almost hear it—the wet, distant sound of something breathing where it shouldn't be.
His hand goes instinctively to the back of his neck.
Nothing's there.
That's somehow worse.
Will curls in on himself, heart pounding. He tells himself it's stress. Grief. His imagination spiraling in the quiet.
The cold creeps deeper anyway.
He's been having these nightmares—waking and asleep—since the moment they stepped foot back in Hawkins. At first, he thought he should tell someone. Nightmares could be a sign that Vecna's reaching for him again.
But he told himself Vecna had already opened the four gates. That he'd be too weak to toy with Will's mind anymore.
Still, he considered telling Jonathan. But Jonathan left to stay with Nancy.
He thought about telling his mom next, but she worries enough without him adding to it.
Mike would have been the next choice.
But that obviously hasn't worked out.
Will sits up slowly, pulling his hoodie tighter. It doesn't help. His hands are still shaking, just a little, and no matter how much he rubs them together, the chill clings to his skin.
Eventually, exhaustion drags him back down. He doesn't so much fall asleep as surrender to it, and the cold follows him into his dreams.
---
Morning comes too bright and too soon.
The cold lingers in Will's bones as he drags himself up the basement stairs, shoulders hunched, hoodie pulled tight. He feels hollowed out—sleep-deprived and wired all at once, like his body never got the message that the night is over.
The kitchen is already busy when he steps into it. Sunlight spills in through the window, too bright, making his eyes ache. He blinks a few times, steadying himself against the counter.
Mike passes through almost immediately.
He doesn't stop.
He grabs a bowl, pours cereal, and moves past Will like he isn't even there, disappearing down the hallway with barely a glance.
Will's chest tightens, sharp and familiar.
He focuses on his breathing instead. In. Out. Don't think about it.
Jonathan notices him a second later. He pauses mid-step, keys in hand, eyes narrowing. "Dude," he says quietly. "You okay? You look—"
"Tired," Will says too fast. His teeth chatter slightly, and he presses his lips together to stop it. "I'm fine."
Jonathan frowns, stepping closer. "You're shaking."
Will shrugs, trying to play it off. "Basement's cold."
Jonathan looks like he wants to say more, but then his eyes flick to the clock.
"Shit," he mutters. He squeezes Will's shoulder, quick and distracted. "I'm late. We'll talk later, okay?"
"Yeah," Will says, even though he knows later never really comes.
Jonathan is gone moments after that, the door clicking shut behind him.
Will pours himself breakfast he barely touches, hands still trembling. Every sound in the kitchen feels too loud, every movement too close.
Holly wanders in next, already dressed but with her hair still messy from sleep. She stops when she sees Will hovering by the counter.
"Hi, Will," she says brightly, like he's always been there and always will be. "Mom says we're having spaghetti tonight."
Will blinks, surprised despite himself. "Oh. Okay."
She nods seriously, like this is important information, then tilts her head at him. "You look tired."
"Yeah," Will says, managing a small smile. "Basement."
Holly wrinkles her nose. "You should sleep upstairs. Basements are creepy."
He almost laughs. Almost.
Before he can respond, Karen calls Holly back into the living room, and she gives him a little nod before disappearing. Will stares after her. She's grown so much in the year he was gone. Seeing her now reminds him more and more of the Party when they were her age.
The same age they were when all of this started.
Will grabs his jacket and forces himself out the door before the cold can settle back in. The walk to the community center does him some good. The sun is higher now, and the movement loosens the tight coil in his chest just enough that he can breathe again.
The community center smells faintly stale, a mix of cleaning supplies and old mildewed clothes. But it's become something familiar to Will. Something safe.
He signs in, tucks himself behind one of the stations, and gets to work without anyone asking too many questions. Sorting flyers. Organizing clothes. Helping when needed, staying quiet when he's not.
Here, at least, no one expects anything from him.
The last of the cold fades into the background. His hands stop shaking. His thoughts slow.
For a little while, Will almost feels normal.
Dustin passes through later that morning, talking animatedly to someone Will can't quite see. He laughs at something, loud and bright, the sound carrying across the room.
Will looks up instinctively. He hasn't heard Dustin laugh in a while, not since he's been so angry over Eddie's death.
Dustin doesn't see him.
He keeps walking, still talking, still smiling—already gone.
Will looks back down at his work, fingers tightening around the stack of papers in his hands.
Normal, he reminds himself.
This is normal now.
But even as he tells himself that, his mind drifts. He notices how quiet it is around him. How he doesn't really belong anywhere—not even here. Not with the Party, not with Jonathan, not even with Mike. People assume he's fine because he's quiet. Because he hides it. Because they don't know how to look closer.
Always alone. Always the odd one out.
Everyone always thought he was a freak anyway. The boy who saw things nobody else could see. The boy who felt things nobody else could feel. The boy who never fit.
Even when he had friends, he'd always felt a step behind, watching from the edges. Now, in this sunlit, familiar room, it's impossible to ignore.
Mike had always been the one to really see him. He always knew when something was wrong, no matter how hard Will tried to hide it.
Will had hoped that Mike might notice something was wrong and—even though things had been weird between them—he might put that aside to help like he always had.
There's no way Mike hasn't noticed Will isn't doing as well as he lets on. But then again, maybe they've grown so far apart that they can't read each other like they used to. Will certainly has no idea what's going on in Mike's mind these days.
Or maybe Mike finally clued into how much of a freak Will actually is. This all started after Will gave him that stupid painting, after all.
The tight coil in his chest spreads, creeping up into his throat. He forces himself to focus on the mundane—sorting papers, straightening tables—but the thought lingers.
Maybe this is just who he is.
Alone. Always alone.
The cold creeps back in, not from the basement now, but from somewhere deeper. Something familiar, like a shadow pressing against the back of his mind.
Will swallows hard, trying to ground himself in the here and now, in the hum of the fluorescent lights and the quiet shuffle of chairs.
Afternoon sun slants through the windows by the time Will decides to leave. He needs to see El—needs to check in, needs to feel less alone. The walk to Hopper's cabin is longer, but he doesn't mind. The movement keeps him tethered.
The cabin is warm when he steps inside. Too warm, almost. The smell of coffee and something frying fills the air. Joyce is at the stove, moving between pans with practiced ease.
"Oh—hi, honey," she says, glancing over her shoulder. Her smile flickers for just a second when she really looks at him. "How are you doing?"
Will hesitates. Just for a beat.
"Good," he says finally, forcing brightness into his voice. "I've just been hanging out with the Party lately. I can't stay too long—we have a game planned for tonight."
The lie sits heavy in his chest.
Joyce studies him, but then smiles softly and ruffles his hair. "Okay," she says gently. "I'm glad you kids are taking some time to have fun and enjoy yourselves. It's about time you all get some peace. Do you want any food? I was just finishing up dinner."
"Maybe later," Will says. "I'm gonna see El for a bit."
"Alright," Joyce replies, watching him go.
El's door is open, faint sunlight spilling across the floor. Will knocks softly before stepping inside. El is sitting cross-legged on her bed, notebooks spread out around her, pencil tucked behind her ear.
"Hey," she says, smiling. "You came."
"Yeah," Will says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Mom said you've been... busy."
El huffs a small laugh. "Training. Hopper hates it. Says I need to rest more." She gestures vaguely at the notebooks. "But I need to be ready."
"For Vecna," Will says quietly.
El nods, her expression sharpening. "When he comes back."
Will's fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans. He notices her use of the word when instead of if, but doesn't try to correct her. "What kind of training?"
"Different things," she says. "Focusing. Pushing my limits. Physically, we've been working on my endurance. But we've also been looking at ways of trying to reach him without... letting him reach me." She hesitates, then adds, "I think if I can connect to his mind—just enough—I might be able to control him. Or hurt him. Stop him before he hurts anyone else."
Something cold slides down Will's spine.
"You mean... like when you found him before?" he asks carefully.
"Sort of," El says. "But deeper. More precise." She frowns. "It's dangerous. But it might be the only way."
Will nods slowly, though his thoughts are already racing. He keeps his voice steady. "And... when you connect to him like that. Does it—does it hurt?"
El shrugs. "Sometimes. It depends. I haven't tried to connect with him like this before, so I'm not sure. The hardest part will be making sure he doesn't invade my mind instead."
Will doesn't say anything after that. He can't. Because suddenly, memories crash into him all at once—fire, screaming, the way his body folded in on itself when the Mind Flayer burned. Pain that hadn't been his, except it was.
He stays a few minutes longer, listening as El talks about Hopper and her routines, nodding in the right places. But his mind isn't really there anymore.
When he finally leaves the cabin, the air outside feels colder than before.
He walks back toward the Wheeler's house slowly, every step heavy with realization.
El was talking about her mind connecting to Vecna's. But Will had never needed training for that.
When the Mind Flayer burned, he'd felt it. When the bones were destroyed, his body had reacted like it was happening to him. The pain. The nausea. The cold.
If Vecna hurts someone... does Will feel it?
And worse—if Will is hurt...
Does Vecna feel that too?
The thought makes his stomach twist.
If there is a connection—real, undeniable—then maybe that's what it means. Maybe that's why Vecna never fully let him go. Why the cold never leaves.
Maybe the way to kill Vecna isn't through El at all.
Maybe it's through him.
Will stops at the edge of the street, breath fogging in front of him.
The idea is terrifying.
Because it makes sense.
And because a part of him wonders—quietly, desperately—if that's what he's been for all along.