Chapter Text
William Byers has gotten himself into a bit of a sticky situation. He thinks about it as he stares out the train window into the September landscape.
He made and offered a painting to his friend, Michael Wheeler. His best friend, as he had so aptly stated (Will grimaces at the memory of the hope he felt on that tower—he pretends it never happened). The one he was (and is) in love with. The one who dated his sister Jane for several years, and who was still dating her at that point. He delivered it with a speech, a profession of deep and undying love. A need, an ache for Mike.
And then, William Byers lied. For the first time ever or as far as he can remember, Will lied to Mike. He pretended that Jane had commissioned the aforementioned painting, that his emotions were hers. He thought there was no chance for him to ever have Mike and so, even though every cell in his body was screaming in pain, he thought he might as well save his relationship (and the world along with it). He lent his sensitivity to the cause.
The simple thought of it makes him shiver, because he meant it. He meant every last word of it, and Mike seemed so overjoyed to hear his tale attributed to a girl after refusing to listen to it from his own mouth for months.
He thought he’d come clean, eventually, about the painting at least. It’d be in everyone’s best interest. This way Mike and Jane could figure themselves out while Will finally moved on from the waste of time that had been this love.
It's not like Hawkins was a place where Will could've had many sexuality-related experiences regardless of Mike's existence, but Lenora Hills could've been that new beginning for him if the sole memory of Mike and their conversations (or lack thereof) hadn't been enough to make him physically ill and emotionally unavailable, similar to his brother when experiencing withdrawal. Will has wasted enough of his youth. He's had it stolen, he's had it tampered with, and he's had it wasted, and whether they like it or not, and regardless of intentionality, Michael was apart of the last phenomenon.
Or so he thought.
And then he moved back to Hawkins.
Will was a changed guy. Not by much, but still. Back in California where he was no longer Zombie Boy, Will was hit on a consequent amount. He was desirable, to girls anyway. It took a while for the dust to settle, but 18 months was far more than just a while. Will felt pretty confident in his looks. Pretty confident in his wits and charms. But more than anything, after the year mark of his return in Hawkins and Mike's catastrophic profession of love to Jane, Will felt confident in his ability to read clues. It had been so obvious, they'd been living in the same goddamn house. It was an onslaught of signal after signal that, whether or not Mike was conscious of it, there was something there. Between them. Thick and constant and undeniable. It was driving him crazy, that he was seemingly the only one to notice.
Until meeting Robin. Getting to talk to her about it had been everything Will needed to finally be sure he knew what was going on. He liked Mike. Mike liked him. However, given the... occasionally mixed signals, and the stakes at hand, he'd have to proceed with caution if he wanted to get the outcome he wished for. That's fine. He was patient, and confident.
He was confident in his understanding of Mike and his sad, conforming, repressed ass. When his relationship with Jane had been in a state of stagnation that everyone perceived as being a breakup for long enough, and once he had Robin to support him through it, Will slowly but surely started taking. Taking risks. Taking what he wanted, and could have, if Mike allowed him.
Then Vecna happened, and William Byers was outed. It was not in his plans to come out, but when the devil's incarnate might use your homosexuality to destroy the world, your plans are no longer the priority. And so Will was outed, and he was upset, but content. It went well, and it should have been what it took for Mike to finally get it. And Mike did understand that Will likes him, he thinks, but that's about as far as the understanding went.
God forsaken Michael Wheeler, who is a fucking imbecile, never connects the rest of dots. He might someday, in some twenty years when the reality of his situation sets in, but by then, Will hopes to be long gone. Or, as in, well... Not literally long gone. Just no longer an option. He aspires to get over Mike as soon as humanly possible.
The prospect of waiting endlessly for Mike used to seem romantic, back when the likeliness of the scenario within which they'd get together felt inexistent. Somehow, there's a comfort to be found in waiting for something which won't happen. That past comfort now tenfolds his despair. Waiting for the inevitable is hell by comparison, so Will pulls back.
To be fair, Will felt at that time like it was somewhat his fault. He was the one who downplayed the special nature of their bond and of his love to an entire room of people that included Mike. But Vecna had shown him things. Things so cruel, so painful. Things that felt so real then, and feel so real now, that Will feels his omnipresent anger melt in favor of a profound terror, and that familiar pressure form at the base of his throat. He inhales shakily and looks out the window. They'll be reaching New York City soon.
Mike never touched him again. Never hugged him again. Will couldn't understand why. Can't understand why.
It's not that he didn't expect some weird reactions, but from Mike?
Will tilts his head right, grimacing as he recalls. "It's not my fault you don't like girls!" Repressed, stupid or just homophobic? Who's to say. Maybe Will has been giving Mike too much benefit of the doubt.
Maybe he'd been wrong, for the past year, thinking that something would happen between them if he gave Mike enough time to figure himself out. Maybe there was nothing to figure out.
Will's back aches and the sun sets outside. He suddenly feels the need to cry, to slam his head into the window. He can't tell if this is the end or the beginning of something, and doesn't want to think about it any longer. He pulls at the collar of his shirt, feeling so claustrophobic, and yet so lost in this big wide world.
From a distance, Mike kept looking at him in that special way, smiling in that special way, speaking gently in a whisper right into his ear, or with that affection-heavy tone he'd sometimes use. It was no longer comforting. Will was confused. Robin looked confused too.
At the time, they'd had a year left to go before college, and so Will imagined how that year would be. He made up these scenarios when he couldn't sleep at night, scenarios within which the nightmare was over. Everyone was safe, everyone was happy. Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Max, Jane. All of their relatives, all of their older friends. In that hypothetical future, Mike would slowly grow into a more confident and comfortable man. Broaden his circle, meet new people, mature. Maybe then he'd realize why and how he and Jane's relationship hadn't been the best, and maybe he'd comprehend that there was something about he and Will's friendship that wasn't quite friendly. Maybe Will would grab his sister and best friend by the arm, drag them into his room and tell them about the painting, and that would serve as a catalyst.
William looks around himself at the near empty train. He's sat at a table. There was a lady in front of him, but she left without a word a bit over an hour ago. Jonathan went to the bathroom, he should be back anytime now. He imagines instead that Mike walks back and sits besides him. He's coming with him to study creative writing at NYU. He thinks of how he could've held his hand. He doesn't feel any type of way about that thought.
Maybe in this scenario Jane stayed back in Hawkins to better her written English, to figure herself out, so she can go ahead and live for the first time, rather than survive. And do what she wants, and be a normal girl, before becoming an amazing woman. Maybe party with a recovering Max, maybe go to her first concert. He'd never seen her try out make up, maybe that could be fun.
There's a persevering pit in Will's stomach, because he knows. It's easier to dream of a better future than it is to rewrite the past.
The Party did not go untouched by their final adventure. Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Max, maybe. Their relatives, their older friends, sure. But they lost Jane. The nightmare is not over. It will never be over, because Jane will never come back. And yet she'll never fully be gone.
She'll never have a funeral. She'll never get a tombstone. Will scoffs humorlessly at himself, angrily wiping at his own tears before they get a chance to fall. It's stupid. Jane is gone, more than anybody ever. No records, no name, no family. It's funny how, because she's gone too silently, it feels like she isn't gone at all. Jane was always quiet.
Maybe Will had expected for a chunk of stone on the ground to carry his grief for him. Or maybe, given the complicated nature of their relationship, he hadn't expected to grieve much at all. Stupid.
How he misses Jane.
Perhaps the problem isn't actually how Jane lacks a tombstone, or how she never had a funeral. Maybe the problem is Will.
Jane is gone. He watched her go with his own eyes. Jane died.
The implications of that settled in Will as a weight he's sure he'll carry the rest of his life. Past events fell into place in his head slowly like a game of Tetris, or a cursed puzzle forming the most painful picture he'd ever laid his eyes upon.
Oh no. That's the first thing he thought, back when it happened.
He made a painting. He delivered it with a speech. To Mike, the man he loves. He delivered it—both the painting and the speech—on the behalf of his sister. She never found out. Mike never found out. Will's plan had been to tell them. But then Jane died.
She suffered so much, life was so unfair to her. Today she's gone, and little remains. Mike thinks he's doing the heavy lifting in carrying her memory, but what he's carrying is a lie. An idealized version of Jane that never was.
Oh Lord.
Michael has that painting in his office. He speaks about Jane and attributes to her the things which Will knows were his. It's too late to withdraw them now. He's pondered on the merciful nature of it. Would that finally put Jane to rest? Truthfully? But she's already dead. She is resting, or so Will likes to believe. Only would it complicate everything for he and Mike's already fragile friendship, and for Mike's complicated grieving of a person that never fully existed, this perception of Jane that he has built around himself like a wall, thick and strong.
Will doesn't think he can bring it down. He doesn't know if he even wants to. And so now he's stuck. He can't do anything but give into the horror of the situation he's in. He stays in that state of petrification for a year. He can't do anything but leave and abandon Mike Wheeler to his own demons. He'd wanted to help him so desperately.
Will leave for college to study at the NYU Tisch school of the Arts, in the hopes of crafting a picture so beautiful it somehow manages to overshadow this disgusting mess he's created. This choice he's taken out of Michael's hands. This mask he's thrust upon Jane.
Will knows Mike likes him. Will knows he could've had Mike. Will also knows that he can no longer do anything about it in good conscience, because that would imply messing with what remains of Jane.
What have I done?