Chapter Text
The dream did not begin with the woods. It began with the itch.
It started deep inside the marrow of his femur, a terrible, vibrating heat that felt less like pain and more like growth. Will Byers was standing in the middle of the Hawkins High hallway, his chemistry textbook clutched to his chest, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead with that familiar, headache-inducing hum. But the hum wasn't coming from the lights.
It was coming from his throat.
In the dream, Will tried to call out to Mike, who was standing by his locker a few feet away. He opened his mouth to say Mike, but the sound that emerged was a wet, suffocated click.
Mike didn't turn around. The hallway stretched, warping like a funhouse mirror.
Will looked down at his hands. The chemistry book fell, hitting the linoleum with a sound like a gunshot. His hands were shaking. No, they were vibrating. The skin across his knuckles—pale, freckled, human skin—was beginning to ripple. It looked like water boiling under a thin sheet of plastic.
Don't, Will begged, trapped inside his own skull. Not again. Please, not again.
But the body did not listen. The body remembered what it had been.
With a sound like tearing wet canvas, his fingers elongated. The bones snapped and re-knit in an instant, lengthening into obsidian talons. The pink flesh turned a bruised, necrotic gray. The slime came next, oozing from pores that shouldn't exist, coating his arms in a cold, toxic sheen that smelled of sulfur and old blood.
He felt his height skyrocket, his perspective shifting violently upward until he was scraping the ceiling tiles. His spine bowed, forced into that predatory hunch.
Time to feed, William, a voice whispered. It wasn't the Mind Flayer’s screech. It was deeper. Vecna. You cannot hide what you are.
Will tried to scream, but his face was no longer a face. He felt the muscles of his jaw detach, felt the skin of his cheeks split open like a blooming corpse-flower. The world fractured into heat signatures. He saw Mike—not as a friend, but as a warm, beating heart. A target.
The hunger hit him like a physical blow, a starvation so ancient it eclipsed everything else.
The monster raised a claw.
Will woke up gasping, his body convulsing on the mattress as if he’d been electrocuted.
He sat bolt upright, his hands clawing at his throat, trying to find the petals, trying to find the teeth. His fingers met smooth, sweaty skin. He scrambled backward, tangling himself in the sheets, kicking blindly until his back hit the cold wall of his bedroom.
"No," he wheezed, the word scraping his raw throat. "No, no, no."
The room was dark, save for the weak pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains. It was his room. His posters. His drawing desk.
He wasn't in the Upside Down. He wasn't ten feet tall.
But the sensation remained.
Will pulled his knees to his chest, hyperventilating. His skin... it felt wrong. It felt tight. It burned with a phantom itch, as if the gray hide was just beneath the surface, waiting to burst through the fragile human shell. He rubbed his arms violently, scratching at his forearms until red welts appeared, trying to scrub away the feeling of the slime.
Four months, he told himself, the mantra trembling in his mind. It’s been four months. Owens fixed it. El fixed it. You’re human. You’re just Will.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to count backward from ten. A grounding technique Dr. Owens had taught him.
Ten. The smell of the room. Pencil shavings and laundry detergent. Nine. The sound of the wind outside. Eight. The ache in his legs.
He stopped at eight. The ache in his legs. Was it growing pains? Or was it the bone-shifting agony of the transformation waiting to happen?
Will threw the covers off and scrambled out of bed, rushing to the mirror on the back of his door. He gripped the frame, staring at his reflection.
Pale. Dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises. Hair a mess. But human. Undeniably, quietly human.
He brought his hand up to his face, tracing the line of his jaw. No seams. No petals.
"You're crazy," he whispered to the glass. "You're just crazy."
But as he turned away to find his clothes, he couldn't stop rubbing his left arm. The skin felt too sensitive, like he had a sunburn, or like he was wearing a suit that didn't quite fit.
The kitchen smelled of bacon and burnt toast—the smell of safety.
Will paused in the hallway, adjusting his collar. He had chosen a turtleneck today. It was too warm for the season, but he needed the coverage. He needed to feel the fabric tight against his neck to make sure nothing was opening up. He took a deep breath, plastered on the mask he had perfected over the last sixteen weeks—the 'I'm Fine' mask—and stepped into the light.
Joyce was at the stove, flipping eggs with a frantic energy that suggested she’d had too much coffee. Jonathan was seated at the round wooden table, a stack of university brochures spread out like a fan of playing cards in front of him.
"Morning, honey!" Joyce chirped, not turning around. "Sleep okay?"
"Fine," Will said. The lie tasted like ash. "Yeah. Good."
He slid into the chair opposite Jonathan. His brother looked up, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth. Jonathan’s hair was hanging in his eyes, and he looked tired—the kind of tired that came from working double shifts at the darkroom to save money, not from nightmares.
"Hey," Jonathan said, chewing. He nudged a brochure toward Will with his elbow. "NYU sent another packet. They have a really good photography program. But the tuition is..." He whistled low.
Will looked at the glossy photo of Washington Square Park. It looked like a different planet. A planet where people didn't turn into monsters.
"You should go," Will said, his voice sounding thin to his own ears. "Mom said we can figure out the loans."
"We can figure out anything!" Joyce announced, bringing the frying pan over. She slid two eggs onto Will’s plate. They wobbled, shiny and gelatinous.
Will’s stomach lurched.
For a second, the yellow yolk looked like the toxic bio-luminescence of a vine pod. He blinked, and it was just an egg. He gripped his fork, his knuckles white.
"So," Jonathan said, clearing his throat. He was watching Will. Jonathan was always watching Will. It was his job. "Big day today? Chemistry midterm?"
"Yeah," Will said, staring at the egg. "Covalent bonds. Ionic structures. It's... it's a lot."
"You've been studying for three weeks," Jonathan pointed out gently. "I think you could teach the class, Will. You're gonna ace it."
"I missed a lot of school," Will murmured. "Last year. I have to catch up."
Missed school. That was the euphemism. He hadn't just missed school. He had been a prisoner in his own body, roaming the woods, hunting deer, terrifying the town. He had been 'missing' in the worst way possible.
"You're doing great, sweetie," Joyce said, pouring herself more coffee and sitting down. She reached out and brushed a stray hair from Will’s forehead.
Will flinched.
It was a micro-movement, a tiny jerk of his head away from her touch. But at the table, it felt like a scream.
Joyce’s hand froze in mid-air. She slowly lowered it, her smile faltering just a fraction. "You okay? You’re a little jumpy."
"I'm fine," Will said quickly, stabbing the egg with his fork. The yolk broke, running yellow over the white. "Just... nervous about the test. Mr. Clarke said this one counts for forty percent of the grade."
"Will," Jonathan said. His tone had shifted. The 'brother talking about college' voice was gone, replaced by the 'brother who hunted monsters' voice.
Will didn't look up. "What?"
"You're scratching," Jonathan said.
Will looked down. His left hand was clawing absentmindedly at his right forearm, his fingernails digging into the fabric of the turtleneck. He hadn't even realized he was doing it. He stopped immediately, putting his hand under the table.
"It's just an itch," Will mumbled.
"You haven't eaten," Jonathan pressed. "And you look like you haven't slept in three days. Did you have a nightmare?"
"Jonathan, leave him be," Joyce said softly, though her eyes were darting over Will’s face, scanning for threats. "If he says he's just nervous about the test—"
"I heard you last night," Jonathan said, ignoring his mother. He leaned forward. "Around 3:00 AM. You were talking in your sleep."
Will’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. "I wasn't."
"You were making sounds, Will," Jonathan said, his voice dropping to a hush. "Clicking sounds."
The silence that slammed into the kitchen was absolute. The refrigerator hummed. A bird chirped outside. But inside, the air had turned to lead.
Will felt the blood drain from his face. The clicking. The Demogorgon’s language.
"I have to go," Will said, scraping his chair back. "I'm going to be late."
"Will, sit down," Jonathan said, reaching across the table to grab Will’s wrist.
The contact was a mistake.
As soon as Jonathan’s warm fingers closed around Will’s wrist, Will gasped. A jolt of electric terror shot up his arm. For a split second, he wasn't in the kitchen. He was in the trap. He was in the bus. He was being held down while the sedatives kicked in.
"Don't touch me!" Will shouted, yanking his arm back with a strength that rattled the silverware on the table.
He scrambled back, his chair tipping over and crashing to the linoleum. He backed up until he hit the counter, breathing hard, his eyes wide and wild.
"Will?" Joyce was up in an instant, her hands raised, palms out. "Baby, what is it? What’s wrong?"
"I can feel it," Will whispered. The confession spilled out before he could stop it. The dam broke. "I can feel it happening."
"Feel what happening?" Jonathan asked, standing up slowly, moving around the table like he was approaching a frightened animal.
"The change," Will choked out. He began to rub his arms again, harder this time, frantically kneading the skin. "It’s not gone. Owens said it was gone but it’s not. It’s under my skin, Jonathan. It’s itching."
"Will, look at me," Jonathan said, his voice steady, anchoring. "Look at your hands. They’re human hands. Look at them."
"For now!" Will cried, tears hot and fast spilling down his cheeks. "But last night... I dreamt it. I felt the bones breaking. I felt the hunger. It was so real. And when I woke up..." He grabbed his shirt, pulling the fabric away from his neck as if it were choking him.
"My skin feels too tight. It feels like it’s going to split open."
"It’s a panic attack," Joyce said, her voice trembling but firm. She moved closer, stepping into Will’s space. "Honey, listen to me. It is somatic. It’s your brain playing tricks on you because you’re stressed. You are not turning."
"How do you know?" Will sobbed, sliding down the cabinets until he was sitting on the floor, pulling his knees up. "Vecna is still out there. He’s in my head. I can hear him sometimes. Just... scratching at the door."
Joyce dropped to her knees in front of him. She didn't care about the spilled coffee or the overturned chair. She grabbed Will’s face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.
"Because I am your mother," she said fiercely. "And I would burn the world down before I let that happen to you again. You hear me? We check the temperature. We check the lights. Everything is normal. You are safe."
"I don't feel safe," Will whispered, shaking. "I feel like a bomb waiting to go off. What if I turn in the middle of the exam? What if I hurt someone? What if I hurt Mike?"
"You won't," Jonathan said, sitting on the floor next to him. He put a hand on Will’s shoulder—gentle, telegraphing the move so Will wouldn't flinch. "Remember what happened? Even when you were... like that... you didn't hurt us. You protected us. You’re in there, Will. You’re the strongest person in this room."
"I'm tired of being strong," Will said, his voice breaking into a whimper. "I just want to be normal."
"I know," Jonathan whispered, pulling Will into a side-hug, resting his chin on his brother's head. "I know."
They sat there for a moment, a tableau of trauma on the kitchen floor. The morning sun streamed in, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, indifferent to the fear in the room.
Then, a heavy knock pounded on the back door.
Will jumped, a sharp gasp escaping him.
The door swung open, and Jim Hopper filled the frame. He was wearing his uniform, holding a box of donuts and a thermos.
"Alright," Hopper boomed, oblivious to the scene he was walking into. "I got glazed, I got chocolate, and I got... whoa."
He stopped, lowering the box. He looked at the overturned chair. He looked at Joyce on her knees, and the boys huddled on the floor. His eyes went instantly to Will.
"Code Red?" Hopper asked, his hand drifting instinctively toward his belt.
Joyce let out a shaky breath, wiping her eyes. "No. No Code Red. Just... a rough morning."
Will scrambled to his feet. He couldn't do this. He couldn't handle Hopper’s pity, or the way Hopper looked at him like a tactical objective to be secured. He felt exposed. Flayed open.
"I'm fine," Will said, his voice brittle. He grabbed his backpack from the counter. "I'm really... I'm going to be late for the test."
"Will, you don't have to go," Joyce started, standing up. "I can call the school."
"No!" Will backed toward the door, past Hopper. "No, I have to go. I just need... I need to do the chemistry. I need to think about covalent bonds. Please."
He looked at Jonathan, pleading silently. Let me go. Let me pretend.
Jonathan hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay. But I’m picking you up. Right after the bell. No bike riding."
"Okay," Will said. He looked at Hopper. "Morning, Chief."
"Hey, kid," Hopper said softly, stepping aside to let him pass.
Will burst out the door into the cool morning air. He didn't wait. He threw his leg over his bike and pedaled hard, his lungs burning, the wind whipping against his face.
He pedaled away from the house, away from the worried looks, and away from the smell of eggs. But as he rode, he couldn't stop scratching his left arm. The itch was still there. Deep. Persistent. And terrifyingly familiar.