Chapter Text
It was a mild day in early June when Mike's fourth book released to the public, and Will was being totally normal about it.
Alright, he did wake up early, but that wasn't to be there when the bookstore opened. It was just because the local farmer's market closed by noon, and they were always out of the best stuff long before then. He and Carlton had been trying to cook together more, because they figured that twenty-three was getting a little old to subsist from a diet of mostly cheap ramen, and there was this new recipe that needed swiss chard, and it wasn't his fault that his favourite bookstore happened to be on the way back to their apartment.
It would've been weirder to not stop and look, right?
Which was how he found himself standing in a little bookshop that smelled like nutmeg and mothballs, staring at the small display by the front counter.
You Keep the Rain, by M. T. Wheeler.
He picked it up, running his thumb along the spine as he turned the paperback over in his hand to read the blurb.
The Kingdom of Hawthorn is dying, and Mallory doesn't know what to do.
She sits on the throne as queen, but she has never felt powerful. And yet, as all hope is lost, and eyes turn to her for salvation, she has no choice but to take matters into her own hands. With the help of the court's prophet, and the royal gardener, she journeys up the dark mountains, to reckon with the Gods themselves.
A story of adventure, self discovery, and finding a love strong enough to transcend fear.
"He totally sold out, right?"
"I- what?"
The woman behind the counter, with spiked up hair, and silver piercings through her nose and lips, nodded towards the book in his hands.
"Wheeler? I wasn't that into his old stuff either, a little too mainstream for me." She shrugged. "But at least it had heart, you know? Not some sappy, generic romance. It's all so yawn."
"…heart," Will repeated, still staring at the cover, the soulful brown eyes of the queen gazing back up at him, her raven black hair flowing down around her shoulders. "Yeah, um…" he reached into his bag with his other hand, grabbing his wallet. "How much?"
She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Five ninety-nine," she told him, clicking open the cash register with a ding.
Everyone knew you didn't go to Tompkins Square park, where even during the daytime, the grass was littered with sharp, used needles. If you wanted to enjoy the fresh, exhaust-fume-filled air of the East Village, you found a nice stoop to sit on.
If you were really lucky, (or had a boyfriend with a knack for house hunting,) you could climb out of your window onto one of those black metal fire escapes that overlooked the narrow, winding streets below. That was where Will sat now, his legs swinging back and forth where he had them dangled through the bars.
It wasn't as bad as he made it sound.
He had graduated almost a year ago now, and while his art degree hadn't gotten him any farther than a position as a part time cashier at an indie record shop, he liked his job, and he was good at it. It was nice to be able to help people, even if it was in the small way of finding them the right music, that one song that could get them through anything.
Sure, their apartment was tiny, and a little rough around the edges, and he had to lie to his Mom about what part of New York he was living in when she called. But the walls were covered in his paintings, and he had found friends here, weirdos, and freaks, and all sorts of artists like him, the kind of people he could stay up until four am laughing himself stupid with.
He had a nice downstairs neighbour, a woman in her mid eighties who brought them homemade soup, and told stories about her late "close friend" Genevieve, who she had lived with unwed, until they were both old maids.
And he had Carlton. Carton, who loved him, for every inside joke, and every nightmare that he jolted awake from, gasping for air. Who snuggled him back to sleep without question, even though he hadn't gotten around to explaining why that happened to him yet. Not the full truth. He would, someday. It was just… a lot, to ask someone to believe.
The point was, he was loved. He, William Jacob Byers, was free, of Hawkins, of shame, of all of it.
He was happy.
So why was he wasting a perfectly good Saturday on this? He could have been making Carlton breakfast in bed, or getting coffee with one of his friends, or doing literally anything else.
But Mike Wheeler didn't write love stories.
He wrote adventure. Fantasy. He wrote voraciously, having put out three books in the past three years. Three books which formed the New York Times best selling trilogy that had kids all across America dressing up like "Brian the Brave" for Halloween, wearing cardboard suits of armour, and carrying makeshift shields with red hearts drawn on.
But he didn't write love stories. Strictly. Or, at least Will assumed so, because all the romance between Mike and Jane (or, Brian and the Mage, but who was he trying to fool,) had been carefully redacted before publishing.
So what the hell was he holding?
He eased open the front cover, carefully, as if the book was going to implode, or bite his fingers off for daring to peek inside.
For the only soul I'll ever love, read the dedication. Missing you, always.
So, it was about Jane, then.
If he was finally able to write about it, that meant he must be doing better. Writing seemed like a healthy way to deal with things, as far as coping mechanisms went. Healthier than getting wasted every night anyways.
That was good, right? Good for him. Will wanted him to be happy too, whatever that looked like.
He should have closed the book then. Gone inside, and slipped it onto his shelf, stacked in a neat line with the others Mike had written. His life was a self contained, happy little bubble, drifting lazily on the breeze, and letting himself think about Mike again was like a shard of glass, hurtling through the air towards it.
But he'd already paid the price. Five ninety-nine, to be exact.
He turned to the next page.
Chapter One.
The kingdom of Hawthorn was in a drought, the throats of peasants and noblemen alike going dry as they stared fruitlessly up at the cloudless heavens, praying. The old Gods were angry, and until they were appeased, the crops would shrivel, and the animals would die, and the people would drink up all of their ale, as means to cling onto the dregs of their lives.
Mallory sat tall at the head of the royal table, a queen in title alone.
The crown had been left to her when her parents were taken by the beasts who resided in the dark mountains. But at only seven and ten years, she had no true power over the land. The king's adviser, whose service had been inherited by her when he passed, was the man behind the curtain, pulling the strings.
She was just a girl, to those who thought they knew better. A child.
Looking up from her supper of roasted lamb, she noticed the boy at the other end of the table, nodding subtly over his shoulder.
"I believe I have finished," she declared, setting down her silverware, and standing up from the ornately carved chair. "I would retire to my chambers."
"Rest well," her adviser said. It wasn't a suggestion. "You must address the people come dawn."
She nodded, just the once. "Of course," she promised, the hem of her gown swishing against the stone floor as she strode out of the room, pretending not to notice the presence behind her, trailing her like a shadow.
"He has no plan," she commented, once they were out of earshot. "We are all sitting idly, waiting for a miracle."
"What else can one do?" Elliot asked, slipping his hand into hers. "When faced with the anger of the Gods."
Elliot had not joined the court in any customary way.
Mallory had found him, when they were just no more than twelve, lost in the woods that bordered the back wall of the castle's gardens, trembling from the cold. He'd had no memory of where he had come from, or how he had gotten there, and so had no known home to return to.
She'd hidden him in the stables, feeding him scraps until he was caught by the staff, and dragged by his ear in front of the Kings throne. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she begged for his life to be spared, pleading with her father. But it was not the pain in her voice that had saved him.
It was the strange mark on his forearm, like an intricate, swirling star. From the Gods, they declared him. A chosen one, a prophet, to be protected. And so, he was scrubbed clean, and dressed in the finest of clothes, made into one of them. Noble.
"There was rain the day we met," she hummed. "Do you recall?"
"Every drop," he replied. "Perhaps that was the Gods, telling us they approved of our union."
She stopped dead in her tracks, spinning around to face him. "Elliot," she said, eyes going wide. "Of course. We must go to the Gods ourselves."
From inside the apartment, the phone rang, startling Will out of his deep concentration. Mike's storytelling did that to him, teleported his mind to lands far away, until he forgot where his real body was. It always had, ever since the first time they cracked open their new D&D manuals, and Mike's pencil hit the paper, his messy handwriting building universes from scratch, just for them.
Over the years, his audience had expanded to include the entire party. Now, he wrote for the whole world.
Will wondered if he was still somewhere on that list, far down at the very bottom, buried under the dust and rubble. Part of him wished that he wasn't, that it was the whole world, minus one. At least then, he would still mean something to him, despite the strangers they had become.
Not that he cared.
Tucking the book under his arm, he climbed back through the bedroom window, and over Carlton's legs, who was grumbling into his pillow about the loud noise of the ringer.
"Sorry," he apologised, making his way to the combined living room and kitchenette, grabbing the phone off of the receiver. "Hello?"
"Will? Hi, honey, I'm glad I caught you."
"Mom?" He hoisted himself up to sit on the kitchen counter, setting the book down beside him, and balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder. "Is everything okay? It's not Tuesday yet."
When he first left Hawkins, she called him every day. Sometimes twice, once in the morning, once at night. And look, he was so totally grateful to have a parent who cared that much about him, and it was nice to have someone to vent to about classes, and professors, and shitty cafeteria food.
But then his life had morphed, transformed into- well, a life, instead of him clinging desperately to something fragile, trying to hold all the pieces together on his own. He loved the party, he always would. He still talked to Lucas, and Dustin, and Max, visiting them whenever they could all find the time.
It was just, there was something special about being surrounded by people like him, people who got it.
Well, not the nightmares, or how he dressed in layers to combat his lingering fear of being too cold, or why he hated being drunk (it felt too similar to being pushed back inside his own mind to make room for someone else's, and besides, it reminded him of the scent of Lonnie's breath when he would get right in his face to scream at him.)
But the other stuff. The not fitting in, the guilt and shame. He liked having friends that made him feel seen.
So, he was glad that he had widdled his Mom's phoning schedule down to once a week. Especially because that meant they had actual things to talk about when she did call, instead of the weather, and Hopper's seemingly endless supply of ways to mildly annoy her. It did have her turning her attention to Jonathan, and in return him complaining about how it was all his fault, but he loved it, really, Will could tell.
"Oh, no. We're all fine, don't worry. I was just wondering if Jonathan talked to you?"
"About what?"
"Him coming home to visit in a few days. Well, and to use the woods for filming some movie, something about bugs?"
"Beetles," he corrected, huffing out a quiet laugh. "Apparently it's going to be revolutionary."
"Right." Her tone was skeptical. "Well, creepy crawlies aside, I figured since he was driving up anyways, and you two live so close to each other, it would be easy for you to just get in the car too, and…"
"Mom," he interrupted gently. "I have work."
She sighed audibly. "Don't they give you any vacation time?"
"Yeah," he relented. "But-"
"I haven't seen you in so long, Will."
He winced a little. "I know."
It was true. He used to come home for every holiday without fail, but this year he'd found excuses to miss each and every one, spending Christmas with his friends in the city for the first time.
Hawkins brought back memories. The nostalgia he could handle, breathing in the bittersweet ache just to exhale slowly, letting it filter away. But there were streets where he could still see the Mind Flayer looming, waiting for his return, and that was enough to make him want to stay far, far away.
It was nothing but his his irrevocably fucked up imagination, he knew. But still.
A sleep rumpled looking Carlton wandered out of the bedroom, yawning as he planted a kiss on Will's cheek, leaning against the counter beside him to fill the coffee pot.
"Listen, Mom, I have to go," he said, resting his head against his boyfriend's shoulder.
"Just… think about it," she urged. "Talk to Jonathan. Please?"
"…Okay," he reluctantly agreed. "I'll talk to him. I love you."
"What'd she want?" Carlton asked, once he'd slotted the phone back onto the hook.
"For me to visit." He grabbed two mugs out of the cabinet, an old, chipped Star wars one, and a newer branded one, from Carlton's medical school. "My brother is going in a few days, so…"
He dumped some instant coffee into the filter, setting the pot to brew. "You don't want to?"
"It's not that, it's…" he shook his head. "You know. Small town Indiana isn't exactly the most… friendly."
He hummed, noticing the book on the counter, and picking it up. "Is this one of Mike's?" he asked with idle curiosity, flipping absentmindedly through the pages.
"Um. Yeah." He cleared his throat. "It's new."
"Cool."
Okay. So, there were two things, that Will had never fully explained to Carlton. Everything about the upside down, and…
Mike.
He knew about his existence, in the same way that he knew about the rest of the party's existence. He'd just left out a few tiny details.
He could half convince himself that the reason why was because his dumb childhood crush had been so insignificant that he'd never thought to mention it, but if he was honest, he kind of wanted to keep it just for him. Tucked away in the back of his mind, fuzzy and slowly fading away, but safe. Safe from prying eyes, and outside opinions.
Everyone had memories they returned to, from time to time.
That was what they were made for.
It was almost two in the morning, and Will couldn't sleep.
As it turned out, Jonathan was more than eager to have him tag along to Hawkins, both for company on the ten hour drive, and as a certified Joyce-buffer. Which meant he would have to say no to both of them, and he didn't want to seem like a crappy brother, or an ungrateful son, not after everything. The tug of war inside himself made sleep impossible, and so he'd slipped out of bed, tiptoeing to the living room to lounge with his knees hooked over the armrest of the sofa, holding the book up above his face.
He needed a distraction, and he'd already read everything else on hand in the apartment. Besides Carlton's med school textbooks, because he didn't really feel like learning about blood, and guts, and all the things that gave him flashbacks to puking up slugs in the bathroom sink.
He wasn't doing anything wrong. It was just a book. He'd only gone to the other room in case turning on the reading light woke Carlton up. He was nothing if not a considerate boyfriend.
And, the story was getting good.
Queen Mallory and Elliot the prophet had found an old book about the ancient ways of the Gods, and how even mere mortals could coax them into answering their prayers, should they complete quests to prove their worthiness. Tucked into the yellowed pages was an old map, marking the path to a temple at the peak of the dark mountains, a bridge between earth, and the world above the skies.
Chapter Two.
"We must make haste," Mallory said, as she tugged Elliot with her through the sprawling castle gardens, the sky cast in brilliant shades of violet and gold as the sun started to rise above the horizon. "If we are still here by the time the guards wake, they will never let us leave."
"Leave to go where, pray tell?"
They froze, Elliot instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword. But it was only Winslow, the young gardener.
Mallory looked away, tightening her grip on her satchel.
She had grown up alongside Winslow, when his father was still the one who tended these grounds, and he was a boy running about in them. The gardens were her only escape from the strict disciplines of her nurse, and so she spent as much time in them as she possibly could, which led to Winslow becoming her first friend.
When they were children, they spent hours laying on their stomachs under the tall weeping willow tree, her watching peacefully as he drew masterpieces onto the blank sides of the parchment she'd brought him from lessons with her tutor.
Will sat up, suddenly a lot more awake than he'd been a minute ago.
But that was before she understood the differences between them, why she was scolded for dirtying her fine dresses climbing trees, while his father just laughed, and pulled out a needle and thread when he tore the knees of his trousers doing the same.
It was before she understood what was so wrong with them tangling their pinkies together, promising they'd run away together one day, as soon as they were old enough.
That was a promise she'd broken, without even intending to. She'd grown taller, her hems lowered, and corsets tightly laced. She'd learned how not to love the boy who came from no money, whose blood was not royal. That life was never destined for a girl like her.
Even if her heart still carried the scent of fresh earth, and wet paint, and grass warmed by the sun.
Heart pounding in his chest, he re-read the last sentence again, two times, three, as if he kept expecting the words to change. But no matter how hard he blinked, or scrubbed at his eyes, the ink remained unchanged, as good as set in stone.
Her heart.
Winslow.
Mike Wheeler didn't write love stories.
Until, without warning, he did.