Chapter Text
At thirty, Will Byers lived in California, in an apartment that smelled faintly of paint and salt carried in from the ocean. The light there was different—gentler, warmer—and it settled over his canvases as if it understood him. His work had begun to gain quiet recognition. Nothing overwhelming. Nothing loud. Just enough to know he was being seen.
Will liked it that way.
Most mornings, he painted near the window, barefoot, music playing low in the background. His brush moved slowly, carefully, as if rushing might break something delicate inside him. Faces came easily to him—expressions half-formed, eyes filled with something unspoken. What never came easily was knowing why his hands always reached for the same kind of sadness.
Carlton would usually wake up while Will worked. He was kind, thoughtful, the sort of man who remembered small things and never raised his voice. He loved Will in a steady, uncomplicated way. They shared breakfasts, quiet laughter, a life that felt safe and intentional.
And Will loved him. He did.
Their relationship was peaceful, built on understanding and patience. It was the kind of love people talked about when they spoke of growing up, of choosing stability over chaos. Will told himself he was lucky—and he was.
Still, there were moments when that wasn’t enough.
Sometimes, when Carlton left for work and the apartment grew quiet again, Will would stare at his unfinished paintings and feel a strange tightness in his chest. As if there was a color he could never quite mix. As if something important had been left behind in another place, another time.
He told himself it was nothing. Everyone carried ghosts. Everyone had a past.
Yet late at night, when sleep refused to come, Will would lie awake and feel the weight of an absence he could not name. Not grief. Not regret. Just a longing without a clear shape.
He had built a good life. A calm one.
But something inside him still felt unfinished.
That morning was different.
Will didn’t wake up with the urge to paint. The familiar pull toward the canvas was absent, and the radio remained silent—no song filling the apartment the way it usually did. He stayed in bed a little longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling an unusual restlessness settle into his bones.
Instead of reaching for his brushes, Will decided to go outside.
He put on a jacket, slipped his keys into his pocket, and stepped into the California morning. The air was cool, softer than usual. Will walked without a clear destination at first, letting his thoughts drift, until a craving formed—simple, specific.
Tea.
Will loved tea. He loved the ritual of it, the warmth between his hands, the quiet comfort it brought. There was a small café near his apartment that served a special blend he hadn’t tried yet, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, that felt important today.
As he walked, something caught his attention.
He looked up.
After many days—maybe weeks—Will noticed the clouds.
They moved slowly across the sky, pale and uneven, soft against the blue. He stopped walking just to watch them. For some reason, his chest tightened. He realized, suddenly, that he had missed them.
In Hawkins, the sky was rarely empty. It rained often, the clouds heavy and familiar, always present. They had followed him through childhood, through bike rides and late nights, through fear and growing up.
In California, the sky was almost always clear.
Too clear.
Will stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching the clouds drift by, feeling a quiet nostalgia settle over him like a memory he hadn’t invited.
Eventually, he kept walking.
The café was only a few minutes away, but on the way, he stopped.
A bookstore stood in front of him—small, unassuming, its window filled with softly stacked books and handwritten signs. Will hadn’t planned to go inside. He hadn’t even noticed it before.
But something pulled him toward it.
Something gentle. Insistent.
Before he could question it, Will opened the door and stepped inside.
Warmth wrapped around him immediately. The scent of paper—old and new—filled the air, rich and comforting, carrying that quiet mystery only bookstores seemed to have. It felt like stepping into a pause in time.
He noticed a lavender incense burning in one corner of the shop, the smoke curling lazily upward. The scent was faint but soothing, mixing with the smell of ink and pages.
Will breathed in deeply.
He began to walk through the aisles slowly, his fingers brushing along spines without reading the titles. His gaze wandered, drifting from shelf to shelf, as if searching for something he didn’t yet have words for.
Will moved slowly through the bookstore, letting instinct guide him rather than intention. The aisles were narrow, the shelves tall, and the quiet felt intentional—respected. Every step he took seemed to sink deeper into something warm and intimate, as if the space itself was asking him to slow down.
Then he saw it.
The book didn’t stand out.
Its cover was black, simple, with white details that mirrored countless others around it. It didn’t demand attention or promise anything extraordinary. It looked ordinary. Safe.
And yet, Will stopped.
What caught his eye wasn’t the cover, but the name printed on it.
M. Knightheart.
Will frowned slightly, tilting his head. A pseudonym. He was sure of it immediately. And not just any pseudonym—one chosen carefully, lovingly. There was something poetic about it. Something almost painfully sincere.
Without realizing it, he reached out and took the book from the shelf.
It was light in his hands. Comfortably so. When he opened it, the pages revealed a soft, warm tint—slightly toasted, easy on the eyes. Will smiled without thinking. Those had always been his favorite kind of pages.
He ran his fingers gently over the paper. It felt strong, textured, real. And the smell—
That familiar scent of ink and aged paper wrapped around him instantly, pulling him back in time.
Back to being a child.
Back to afternoons spent lost in the Hawkins library, wandering between shelves with Dustin, whispering excitedly about finding the next magical story. Back to moments where the world felt smaller, safer, and full of possibility.
Will swallowed, suddenly emotional.
He closed the book slowly, holding it against his chest for a brief second before exhaling.
He didn’t read the synopsis.
He didn’t need to.
If there was one thing Will had always loved, it was surprises.
And whatever waited inside those pages—whatever words M. Knightheart had left behind—Will wanted to find them on his own.
With a quiet certainty settling into his bones, he carried the book to the counter and bought it.
Will walked back home slowly, a warm cup of tea resting carefully in his hand. The steam curled upward, brushing his face, carrying a soft herbal scent that grounded him. The book was tucked inside a simple paper bag, pressed lightly against his side, as if it were something fragile—or something precious.
The morning felt gentle. Almost kind.
When he reached the apartment, the sound of movement greeted him before anything else. Carlton was there, already dressed halfway for work, moving easily through the familiar space. The sight of him made Will smile without thinking.
“You’re back already,” Carlton said, turning toward him.
Will lifted the tea slightly. “I got distracted.”
Carlton laughed softly and stepped closer, placing a quick kiss on Will’s cheek before leaning in for something slower, warmer. Will let himself melt into it, the way he always did. Their foreheads touched. Hands rested where they belonged. It was easy. Natural.
Carlton brushed his thumb along Will’s jaw, affectionate and absent-minded all at once. “Have a good morning?”
Will nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
They shared a few more quiet moments—small touches, a stolen kiss, soft laughter that lingered between them. It was the kind of intimacy built over time, comfortable and real.
Then Carlton checked the time.
“I have to go,” he said reluctantly, grabbing his bag.
Will walked him to the door. One last hug. One last kiss. The sound of the door opening, then closing.
And just like that, the apartment fell silent.
Will stood there for a moment, staring at the door Carlton had just walked through. The warmth lingered in the air, but something else settled in its place—a familiar quiet.
He exhaled slowly.
Setting the tea down on the counter, Will placed the paper bag beside it. His fingers lingered on the edge of it before pulling the book out, careful, almost reverent.
The silence didn’t feel empty.
It felt like it was waiting.
Will was just about to open the book.
His fingers rested on the first page, the paper cool and inviting beneath his touch, when his phone rang.
He paused.
For a brief second, he considered ignoring it—just long enough to read a line, maybe two. But when he saw the name on the screen, his expression softened immediately.
Jonathan.
They spoke every Monday. Without fail. No matter where either of them was in the world, they always found the time. It was routine by now, almost automatic.
Will answered.
“Hey,” he said, his voice gentle.
“Hey, little brother,” Jonathan replied. There was background noise on his end—traffic, distant voices, the sound of movement. He was probably somewhere new again. “You busy?”
Will glanced at the book, then away.
“Not really.”
They talked the way they always did.
About small things, mostly. About work that didn’t quite matter, about places Jonathan had been, about how Will’s paintings were doing. The conversation wandered, losing its structure halfway through, looping back on itself. Some sentences went unfinished. Some silences stretched longer than necessary.
But the feeling never faded.
There was care in every pause. Importance in every question asked and not asked.
At one point, Jonathan sighed. “I’m heading out again next month.”
Will leaned back against the counter, listening. He wasn’t surprised. Jonathan was always leaving.
“There are some things at the house,” Jonathan continued. “Stuff I can’t really put off anymore. Family things. I could really use some help.”
Will’s grip on the phone tightened slightly.
Hawkins.
The word wasn’t spoken, but it settled between them anyway.
“I was thinking,” Jonathan added carefully, “maybe you could come for a few days? Just to help me sort things out.”
Will didn’t answer right away.
He looked around the apartment—the quiet, the steady life he had built. His eyes drifted back to the book resting on the counter, unopened, waiting.
Something clicked softly inside him.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think… I think I can do that.”
Jonathan smiled through the phone. Will could hear it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Will repeated. “A change of air for a few days won’t hurt.”
After they hung up, Will stayed where he was for a moment, phone still in his hand.
He glanced once more at the book.
It would wait.