Chapter Text
Author's note-
Hi it me, this was a really confusing reread and I felt terrible that this was representing the first Byler fic anywhere. The comments created an unrelenting guilt that festered, and festered, and. . . Well, yeah.
Also, now that there are more seasons out which I have watched, and am up to date with, I feel like I could make this make more sense and be more accurate because we’re no longer in the 2016 netflix oneshot era of shows. Still thinking about you, The OA.
Any who, I don't know if I can confidently say I'll rewrite the second chapter anytime soon because I'm far too old to have even rewritten this lol, and this is an embarrassment to my entire lineage to be well into my twenties writing a Byler fanfic, but welp.
Also how could the first Byler fic contain no. . . Byler?
Worthless tag user I am, for the pair hasn't even been written into the story yet.
Unfortunately, events kind of limit the idea I saw with this since we see Will get captured with his fucking backpack on lol, and it clearly happens pretty early.
Skip this if u want to not spoil my shitty fanfic:
My spoiler for this story of mine so far is:
I want to include one successful escape after he's seen captured in the show so that Will can talk to his mom, and open up more of this to what I had planned.
At first, it had been so easy to sprint away from the black figure he couldn't quite make out in the dark, after being ripped from the sidewalk on his way home, but when its detailed face came into view. . . A
flowering, pink maw filled with spiked teeth, hosting with fat, steaming ropes of saliva that dripped down its triangular mouth, Will had decided it was not as easy as it had been necessary to run. It wailed after him, with a roar as an inhumane screech bellowed from deep within its being, and it seemed to come all around Will, his hands flying to cover his already ringing ears. The floor was wet, filled with mud that had been far colder than even the snowiest winters back in Hawkins. It was perpetually snowing, but Will couldn’t tell if those were flakes of flesh, or ashes from fire.
Will pinches his arm once, then twice, then three times. He's not waking up. The air whipping through his hair as he runs is unlike any kind of frost he’s ever felt, biting at his skin where it’s exposed, and seeping through his clothes where it isn’t.
He's so scared.
He’ll starve to death if not from frostbite, or that. . . Thing.
Will could hear every single one of those unnatural, guttural sounds coming from that splitting mouth of its, every screech and cry as it scampered through the sludge below, chasing after Will like a starved lion. God, and his backpack is so heavy. It’s weighing him down, tugging on his arms as he runs with desperation he’s never felt.
“MOM!!! JOHNATHAN!!” He couldn’t keep the words from ripping out of his throat, desperation clawing his every syllable as tears blurred the corners of his vision, threatening to fall.
Will had already known where he was, of course, on his walk home, from playing a session with Mike and the guys, and yet. . . This was not the Hawkins he knew. Everything was slicken in a layer of dust, reconstructed it seemed, and somehow fragmented. Changed. Black tendrils covered most buildings, a squelching sound emitting from them as they visibly pulsed and squirmed and somehow every home looked dilapidated. Like they couldn’t support the weight of the growths that had now gripped their foundations, bled into their living rooms. A perpetual storm of lightning sounded overhead, striking the sky with zig-zagged stripes of red, in stark contrast to the billowing, grey clouds that provided them. There was no expanse of sky that was clear, no way to see if there were stars, and his breath puffed out in front of him in plumes of white, quickly dissipating behind him.
The smell was another thing entirely, like fish that had been left out for way, way too long, and then scorched with the rays of a sun. It smelled like laundry that hadn’t ever seen a washer, or when Dustin ate too many chips in one sitting. At first, it had been nauseating and Will had to stop every few moments to keep from hurling, even though there was a monster scrambling after him with the most primal instinct to kill that Will’s ever seen in his entire life.
So, of course Will ran. He was not the tank in their DnD campaigns, quite the opposite, live to fight another day, y’know?
Will’s sneakers slapped into the wet earth, and somehow, he detested their poor insulation even more than usual as the mud and snow seeped in, soaking and staining his socks, chilling his toes, his bones even. He used his arms to push through cobbedwebs, no, that’s not quite what they are. They’re like strange thickets of white rope, seemingly webs that were spun from flesh that was stripped, and then dried, and then remoisturized, and then planted meticulously in a way that would attempt to both trip and snag Will. But he was small, clever, and used his height to every advantage he could.
When his home finally came into his view, the monster dutifully had trailed him all the way there, its cries loud as it followed him. Will had done his best to hide every chance he got, allowing the monster to sometimes even sprint past him entirely. Other times, he just simply ran with all his might, the creature somehow seemed exhausted, slow. Like it had poor control, it needed more to properly move its muscles and limbs as fast as it wanted to.
The familiar sound of his shoes hitting his home’s stairs was not comforting, and his hands practically flew for the doorknob, twisting it open and scrambling inside, throwing it closed behind him with such force it rattled what remained of his mom’s furniture and decor. He had no time to spare though, and Will made ample speed towards the shed. The creature could be heard encircling the house, as if it didn’t quite want to destroy it yet, and when Will heard that? He came scrambling to a stop, just before reaching the backdoor, and ducked. The creature seemed to peer in, and then quickly lost interest again, moving around the house as it screeched out.
“Holy. . .” Will breathed in. “Shit.” then out.
Will hopped to his feet, making it past the screen door and practically all of his adrenaline went into powering his sprint to the shed beyond. He managed to slide inside the already opened doorway, and didn’t waste any time shutting the door behind him, its flimsy material even more of a debuff against that thing that was currently bounding towards him. Will’s fingers shook as he fumbled with the shotgun kept along the wall, and even more when he took the reddened bullets and placed them inside, loading it. He never liked these things, but in this case? He was more than grateful for it. The monster, or as Will had come to call it later on in his life, the Demo, practically hissed with rage, ripping through the shed’s wall as if it was nothing but paper, the previous hesitation nowhere seen now as it slashed through with little remorse. If it had eyes, Will figures its probably got them narrowed on the gun in his hands, but that doesn’t deter him from cocking it, pointing it, and firing straight into the Demo’s ugly face. The Demogorgon reels back, waving its thing, taut arms as it tries to grab for anything, but ultimately falls on its back, and doesn’t move. A shotgun pellet falls to the floor with a couple resounding taps, and Will is already off, like that was his queue to head back into his home.
Will wastes no time in boarding up every window, every door, every possible entrance with furniture, bedframes, mattresses, everything he can find, except for the lights. He doesn’t touch the lights, because around them a strange, glimmering glow can be seen, something Will has never seen in the entirety of his life. It’s like literal magic.
And when his hand does eventually brush by one of the glimmering anomalies, the light becomes brighter, and then blinking as he taps it over and over. It feels oddly warm, so warm in contrast to all the frigid wetness that surrounds him, that he’s practically submerged in. Will swears, no, promises he hears his mom’s voice call for his name, somehow distorted, beyond the walls of his fucked up house when he taps the light -- so he does it again, and again, and suddenly more lights have appeared, and they’re moving to his room so he goes with them. He plays with them, listening to his mom, and they’re truly, truly communicating until. . .
It wakes up with the loudest, most guttural screech Will has ever heard something make. A mixture of agony and rage, and it rushes for the house, and Will rushes to hide, ducking in the corner of his room as horror fills his expression. The Demogorgan didn’t come for him, no, it is ripping the very fabric of time and space, pulling it apart into a hot, lavalike mess, that spills molten energy out as the creature screeches more violently, but it seems to somehow be coming short, like it can’t make it through that last piece of reality, that last layer that stretches over it like a blanket.
Mom.
But Will doesn’t have time to worry about her, and takes the opportunity while it’s distracted with trying to claw its way through time and space itself, to go towards the front of the house, and back into the depths of what Will no longer doubts is probably Hell, and yes. In his panic, he abandons the gun on the floor of his room.
The anxiety in his chest is very real though, swelling his entire ribcage, and each strike of lightning seems to propel his legs forward even faster. He knows he’s burning a lot of calories, he knows he hasn’t found anything near a sustainable food source, yet. . .
He runs with a fury he’s not sure he himself has ever been capable of before now, the backs of his heels reaching high into the air as each movement tears his muscles, his unused muscles.
When Will finally comes to a stop, gasping for air, legs burning, he’s sure he’s going to turn around and the Demo is going to be right there, but it isn’t. Just more night, more of the familiar buildings he’s grown up with now lost to millennia, which haven’t even happened yet. To Will, it looks like some dream reality, like someone really, really hates Hawkins.
It’s kind of funny, really, that he’d be the one to end up here. Be the one to be taken by some fucked up, alternate dimension’s demon. Yet, it was him. He was taken, and here he is, surrounded by storms and, it’s so strange it’s like the sorrow is palpable in the air. It’s so thick, like years of torment that haven’t even happened yet are his, and he can hear the faint call of something, no, someone. He can’t quite make out every word, like they’re submerged in liquid, yet sometimes a word does escape.
“Give. In.”
“Give. Up.”
“You’re too weak.”
It’s like all those words do is break him down bit by bit, his twelve year old brain not very resistant to the insults of an unknown being beyond the mists in which he can see. Sometimes, he thinks the voice sounds like a strained man, sometimes, he can’t tell.
But Will talked to his mom through inter dimensional fucking lights, not only that, he felt like he was playing with the very makeup of the universe itself when touching them, and something about that fills him, no, swells his chest with determination and hope.
Hope is a helluva drug when you have nothing else.
Should I stay, or should I go?
Will finds a crevice in a nearby house, one that his body tucks into perfectly, and waits, having removed his pack from his shoulders now resting it defensively in his arms.
He waits for the familiar thumps of the monster’s wet feet smacking in the mud to pass, and waits even longer, hours maybe. There’s no way to tell time down here, and Will is practically holding his breath with anticipation. He can’t wait to get back home, can’t wait to finally do something other than run away. He swears, it looks silly-string whatever this stuff is, the way it just sticks to everything and seems to shed whenever it’s touched.
The stench is pretty much the same everywhere, thicker whenever the Demo is nearby. It’s like rot, decay, and misery all swirled up in a tight ball that burns his nose and throat. If he ate, he most likely would’ve thrown up by now, so Will is grateful for what appears to be a small mercy.
Will is patient, and lets another several (what has to be) hours pass, before making his way back outside. It seems there is no definitive time here, no weather change, as specks of white continue to drift overhead, and the air remains the same frosty barring temperature as when Will first. . .
Was he really ripped into an alternate reality?
He’s not really sure what to refer to this place, isn’t even sure if this is a place. Maybe he hit his head and is undergoing the most intensive surgical operation of his entire life, or maybe this is the worst, most vivid nightmare a twelve year old has ever gone through.
Yet, the little hairs along the nape of his neck that prickle whenever he looks over his shoulders, or the chills that raise bumps across his arms and back, that all tells him this is very, very real. That, and the bright red scrape he got on one of his knees, probably from sliding into the shed. He hadn’t noticed at first, but now, the fabric of his stained pants stood out with splotchy red patterns mixed with black deposits of mud, and Will faintly wondered to himself if the Demo could smell him.
This time, Will does not barrel through the streets, doesn’t run with all his might, doesn’t scream for his mom or brother, doesn’t faintly think about dad, and creeps quietly, using the naturally occurring lightning as a soundshield, staying low to the ground below him.
He does this until he is eventually back in his room, although it isn’t really his room. The wall in which the Demo had tried to rip through, just to the left of his pale, green dresser, hosts an odd, discolored stain now.
Will tends to his knee to the best of his ability, which is mostly just wiping it on the inner fabric of his shirt, before pulling his pant leg back down. He knows to keep pressure on it, to keep it from bleeding more, so he does that, but they’re not deep wounds, just tiny scratches.
--And Will waits, with practically still breath, for another chance to talk to his mom using those lights.
Will considers tucking himself under his bed, but when he drops down to his knees to investigate the idea, he realizes he would be far too easily spotted here. If the creature had any kind of intelligence, it would surely think to check under the bed, and even then, Will’s bleeding, so he probably is attracting that thing with every droplet of blood.
Under the desk is a similar scenario. In the closet? Well, it’ll just wait for him to leave if it can’t break the doors down first, and based on what happened both in the shed, and against the very fabric of reality, that’s not a chance he’s willing to take. His best bet would be the drawer, the one that’s a bit fat and long, but creaky and loud. It's his only option though, and he takes what he can get.
Will opens it with a slowness he’s only replicated when his dad was asleep, and waking him would mean punishment.
The drawer comes open, sloshing with cloudy, greenish liquid that causes Will’s stomach to churn as he considers climbing inside. He places a couple of his lankier-than-usual fingers into the mixture, which chills his skin and makes the pads of his skin sticky. Gross. He does his best to empty it, the movements needing to be slow and precise to avoid making too much noise, and potentially agitating the creature that undoubtedly is making its way to him now, or sniffing him out.
Will doesn’t get in right away, doing his best to scour the cabinets for any kind of food, even the fridge, but it’s all spoiled, rotted away into dust or powders, no power sustaining anything here. So, starvation is what is going to take him.
Will does have that fleeting sensation of hope though, that Joyce will find a way to him, that she’ll rip that wall in similar fashion to the Demo, and pull him right back into his reality.
Then, it’s gone when he hears that familiar cry of its triangular mouth splitting open to scream, and rushes to clamber into that drawer, depositing his backpack to the side with a throw.
The Demo breaks through the pathetically barricaded frontdoor, and then practically demolishes everything in its path as it searches for the child. It rips the fridge apart, the cabinets, even the couch, strewing apart fabric and the stuffing innards of a previously well-loved ottoman. It smacks through Johnathan’s room next, its movements getting increasingly quicker as it seems to be urged by an invisible force. It drags its wet feet, like it’s losing strength, like it doesn’t have an infinite amount of time to catch him.
A few more things crash in the distance, vases, lamps, anything that the Demo deems in its way, or worth checking for life in, under, or around. The Demo does eventually rip Will’s bedroom door off its hinges, tossing it somewhere behind it. To the back left of the creature’s body a series of crashes can be heard, a consequence of the tossed door, and making Will hold his breath at the sheer proximity the Demo has to him now. It takes long, exaggerated steps, each thumping with weight that spindly thing surely does not have, and yet pretends to exert. It rips Will’s blankets off his bed first, then the mattress itself goes up, then is shredded, and then the bedframe is crushed when Will isn’t under that, either.
The closet, which at one point had been Will’s trustier hiding spot, is quickly invaded by the Demogorgan’s arms as it punches through, ripping clothes out with its grasp, through the holes it punched through the closet’s door. The creature discards the shredded fabric behind it, before pushing its fingers through the space where the door shuts and peels them back and open, a sickening crunch of wood as it splinters beneath the sheer force, and now there is no more cover. The Demo rips through clothes, boxes, absolutely everything, a type of thoroughness Joyce doesn’t even have when making sure his room is clean.
When it’s sure Will is nowhere to be found, it lets out another annoyed series of cries and chirps, before leaving once more, through the gaping frontside of Will’s home.
Will doesn’t move for what he is most certain is infinity.
Will’s gotten good at being quiet, even when he’s stuffed himself in a space meant for half of his size. He thinks he might’ve heard someone else cry, or scream for help in the distance of this voided plane, he selfishly doesn't care. He manages to scoot himself out of his hiding spot, the drawer jostling with his every shimmying movement, and the way it scrapes. . . Will inhales, but persists, he’s going to die from being cramped at this rate, plus his stomach is practically gnawing on itself.
Everything is mossy in his room, destroyed, and now there’s a good inch of water overtaking his bedroom floor that hadn’t otherwise been there.
What water Will failed to get out of that drawer is dripping off his nose and hair, and his teeth clatter together as chills mercilessly harass him in perpetual waves of freezing.
The leathery beat of wings overhead makes Will stiffen, growing silent as he waits for the sound to pass, which it does. Will has come to the conclusion that, if this place is so massive to be a perfect replica of Hawkins, and then some, then there are most certainly even more terrifying things out there he just has yet to encounter. If this is like any of the campaigns Mike puts them through, then Will knows better than to go stumbling out there, fumbling around for help.
Will is growing used to this dread that takes his hunger from him, used to the adrenaline that his body is riding on to survive each passing hour. Has it been a day? Two? Three? Will doesn’t even know, the concept of time completely lost.
Panic swells, and - he won't get to listen to Jonathan's mixtapes ever again, or build cool hidden camps in the woods, he won’t get to go to school, won’t see Dustin or Lucas -
Or Mike.
Will’s fingers move to the straps of his backpack, pulling it back towards him from the corner where he isn’t sure if he threw it, or the Demo pushed it. He digs through it, mostly useless textbooks that don’t instruct how to survive interdimensional travel or aliens, and most certainly don’t instruct how to make onset hypothermia go away, but what it does provide is the half eaten granola bar that spreads joy across his face like a perfect dice roll, and he eats the damned thing in two or so bites, crumbs dropping into the muddled water below.
Then, he makes sure to grab the shotgun that is now buried beneath rubble, his grip extra tight.
He searches his room for whatever else he might possibly be able to use, but nothing is in good enough shape to realistically be a weapon. It all somehow seems like it’s made out of clay, not yet fully formed.
Thump.
It's coming, he's out in the open. He'll be found. He'll die. He'll die. He’s going to never have a first kiss or a girlfriend. Never going to see prom or highschool, he’s going to have his head wrenched from his neck, going to have his blood feasted on by a billion, swarming beasts that surround his home in the night -- and he feels like he’s six, not twelve.
Feels like he’s crying, scared of a monster that’s under his bed, or a witch that’s caressing his window with menacing taps (that aren’t really tree branches being blown by gentle, night breezes).
It’s like the memory slices his very essence in half, shattering some part of him he didn’t even know was left to break.
Warm blankets as the three of them, Joyce, Jonathan, and Will, all snuggle up in a massive blanket, a large book sprawled out as Jonathan begins to read from it, lulling them Will and his mom to sleep.
Will remembers a game of monopoly that’s been laid out on the basement table in the Wheeler residence, Lucas is winning. Will’s never been good at this game and is almost entirely flat out broke. The table is a series of laughter and grins.
“This is bullshit!” Dustin yelps as Lucas steals another of his properties.
“Don’t try and buy everything at once, Will. That's how you lose. Take your time, back track if you have to.” Mike helpfully instructs, and Will only nods his head, trying to reconsider his options.
It’s another tremendous roar that rips Will back into his body, back into wet, damp clothes, and - the window!
Will noisily climbs onto the top of the dresser, kicking whatever objects were placed there by alternate (probably dead already) him, and white strands of goop stick to him, tug at him, yank and pull at his clothes, at his limbs. The gun is now in the way, so he throws it behind himself, it plops in the water below.
He tugs the window open with a loud screech, the window practically biting into his fingers with how cold it is, and how hard he’s forcing it open. He won't die. He'll live.
When he falls from the window he hits his head first, and it’s a kind of pain that blooms splotchy, black balls across his vision. It’s the kind that even when he knows he needs to get back up, and tries, he ends up toppling back over.
Warm wetness trickles from his nose down his lips.
His eyes begin to narrow, but he flies them open, as if trying to ground himself in reality, the darkness is too much though, and they return to slits again, and again.
He doesn't want to die. He never wants to die.
The thought feels childish, foreign even, he’s only ever wanted to run away to live. To escape whatever burden or miserable feeling he couldn’t deal with. Maybe if he’d made sure to hold onto that gun better, maybe if he’d just tucked himself in that drawer and kept himself there, he wouldn’t be blacking out while the Demo closes in on him, its movements slow and cautious.
Maybe it’s the last drive you get before you die, maybe it was the flurry of memories that whipped through his mind, but he forces himself up anyway and runs.
He runs through a series of trees, and as the Demo is on his tail, he manages to scramble up one, but it isn’t enough, he’s eventually captured and drug back to Vecna’s hivemind, dazed and injured.