Chapter Text
The Wheelers' basement was once a place Will returned to at every possible opportunity. The scent of old wood steeped deep into the walls, the soothing glow of warm light bathing the small space above the square table, and an atmosphere of mystery that sparked chills of excitement - all of it elevated this place to the rank of a small, secluded world. In that tiny world, even the strangest fantasies seemed like the most authentic version of reality.
It is in this exact same basement that Will now begins every morning. For a year now, ever since they returned from California, he has lived with Jonathan and Joyce in the Wheeler house. He is surrounded by the same familiar walls, the room is lit by the same yellowish light... but the truth is, nothing here is the same anymore.
Now, it’s obvious that the place itself does not hold a single ounce of extraordinariness.
The drifting whisper of a story told by Mike, the clatter of dice, the look of pure fascination in Dustin's eyes, Lucas's playful jabs, and their shared laughter - always a fraction too loud, enough to wake Mr. Wheeler dozing in front of the TV upstairs…
That was the essence of the extraordinary, of which only a bittersweet feeling remains. None of those things can be found anymore by descending the creaking stairs to the basement. Not since Mike and Will’s paths began to diverge, and now they are so far apart it’s hard to believe they ever ran the same trail.
Even though in California they briefly regained hope that they might erase all those weeks of drifting apart, the silence, the things left unsaid; the collision with reality was like a perfectly aimed blow to the face. It seems that some events can no longer be reversed, words cannot be taken back, and wounds cannot be healed. At least, that is the conclusion carried by the unbearable, suffocating silence that tightens around the throat like an invisible noose, firmer with each passing day.
In the perpetually noisy Wheeler household, this silence lingers between the two of them like a sticky mold, overgrowing the corners of their shared memories. It never had a clear justification; it isn’t the result of some grand argument, though Will sometimes thinks he’d prefer it that way. It arrived gradually, imposing the acceptance of its presence.
After the first few attempts to salvage what used to fit within the frame of their friendship, Will made a clear resolution: he would never again scramble for Mike Wheeler’s notice. For too long, he had internally begged for even a semblance of attention, a bit of understanding, a single truly attentive look. Enough was enough.
Over time, he learned to find comfort in the thought that maybe this was how it was meant to be, that this is the proper course of events... that it would help him forget the nagging feeling that has been ruthlessly drilling a hole in his chest for years. It would help him fall out of love.
—
Will enters the living room, finding one of those rare moments when the space is filled with a long-lost peace. The Wheelers are out shopping, Joyce has just finished her shift and is likely on her way to Hopper's cabin, and Jonathan and Nancy left the day before on a business trip to Michigan. Ever since they got jobs at a newspaper competing with the Hawkins Post, they have constantly had something on their minds. At the same time, they seem to have shed the tension that had weighed on them since Jonathan moved to California.
The basement feels twice as large and far emptier without Jonathan. Usually, they both sleep there, keeping each other company with their almost silent presence. Now, Will feels like he’d go crazy downstairs without the muffled melody of The Smiths tracks playing on loop and his brother’s barely audible humming, which might as well be a low mumble. So, taking advantage of the opportunity, he settles into the living room, holding his notebook. It serves as both a sketchbook and a sort of diary, so it’s hard to define exactly what it is. Given that Will takes great care to ensure no eyes but his own ever see it, it’s not really a problem. For several years now, no one else has managed to even notice its existence.
On the yellow cover are several stickers. One is a colorful "Happy Birthday" with a funny cat he got from Dustin a long time ago; another is a red “Bowie” logo with the iconic lightning bolt, and right next to an Indiana postage stamp. The next is a souvenir from the California roller rink. Will’s gaze lingers on the last one. A sort of grimace touches his lips as he remembers he stuck it there before that place was shrouded in the shadow of a painful memory. Before that fateful day, he used to go there from time to time, Walkman in his pocket and his brother’s dumb mixtapes blasting in his headphones, whenever he wanted to gather his thoughts. Now, the thought of roller skates brings only one thing to mind.
He opens the notebook, and before he finds a blank page, several previously filled sheets flash before his eyes. He feels foolish even to himself when he notices how many of them contain sketches of Mike. He is such a frequent guest in the notebook that Will can draw his face from memory without any trouble. So many times he has carefully studied the way locks of hair frame his face, the specific way he furrows his brows, the bridge of his nose dusted with freckles, the alert gaze of dark, piercing eyes... only the boy’s features seem to sharpen at such a rapid pace that Will is barely able to register the changes. Especially in light of his firm resolution that Will Byers' eyes would rest on that particular face as infrequently as possible.
Precisely at the moment his pencil touches a fresh, clean page for the first time, the silence is pierced by the unpleasantly loud ring of the telephone. Will sighs. He hates answering the phone at the Wheelers'. Every time, it fuels his sense of being an intruder. A persistent insect stuck in a corner because it has nowhere else to go.
When he picks up the receiver, before he can even recite the memorized phrase, Wheeler residence, hello, a familiar voice rings out on the other end.
"Hey, is Will there?"
"Jonathan? It’s me. Are you guys there yet?" It’s a silly question, as only about three hours separate Kalamazoo and Hawkins, but his brother’s hurried tone gives Will a gut feeling that something is wrong.
"Yeah, we’re at the hotel," comes the voice on the other side. Jonathan sighs, then adds in a low voice, "I’ll tell you everything later, but I have a... favor to ask."
"A favor?" Will doesn’t hide his surprise. He can’t remember the last time his brother had a favor for him that didn't involve passing the salt or turning up the radio. He holds the receiver closer, as if he’s about to hear highly classified information. The voice on the other end answers in a flash, as if not wanting to waste a single second. The low voice turns into a whisper.
"Yeah, listen, there’s a note in one of the drawers in the basement. I forgot to take it with me, and I damn well need it. I need you to find it and dictate exactly what’s written on it to me, okay?"
"A note in a drawer? Can you be a bit more specific?" Will snorts playfully at the strange request. It’s not the note itself that’s unusual, but the aura of mystery that exceeds even his brother’s standard level of secrecy.
"Um, I think th—" On the other side, the muffled sound of a door opening is heard, followed immediately by Nancy’s voice as she enters the room. Jonathan doesn't finish his sentence. "Sorry pal, I gotta go. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes. Can you handle this?"
And before Will can say anything, the line goes dead.
—
Will sighs, looking around the basement. The soft pools of light framing the room stand in stark contrast to the chill that lingers there. Even though it's already spring, it seems to be embedded deep in the cracks and corners. Or perhaps it’s just Will’s growing resentment toward this place. The way it reminds him day after day that he is a mistake...
He can't wait until he can finally leave this damn house, and more specifically, this damn town. Ideally, the whole state, if he’s able to. He has understood for a long time that his future isn’t written in Hawkins. Even with all the sentiment tangled up in the trauma, Will knows that boys like him have nothing to look for here. He sees no other option than to go somewhere far away, as far as possible, where no one has yet passed judgment on his happiness.
Following that thought, he began seriously considering getting a job some time ago. He even brought up the topic with Jonathan, who promised to ask an old friend if he needed anyone at his record store. However, Will will have to wait for that conversation until his brother returns from Michigan.
By working after school and regularly through the summer, he might be able to save up a decent sum by the time he turns eighteen. It might not be much, but it feels like a beginning. All he really needs is enough for a start in some yet-undefined, better place. He always told himself that wherever he escaped to, he would be able to see a million constellations in the sky. It was silly, even ridiculous. There aren't even that many constellations to begin with. And even if there were, it wouldn't be possible to see them all at once. But that didn't stop Will from holding on to the fantasy. He made a promise to himself that one day he would somehow find his million constellations.
—
So, the note.
Without much enthusiasm, he begins opening the drawers of the large pine dresser one by one. Even as a child, he was impressed that it was still in one piece, as it looked like it remembered times from before Hawkins was even founded. Every pull of a handle carries the risk that it might end up in his hand instead of staying in place.
Pillowcases, candles, old textbooks, unused picture frames... but no sign of the note.
When Will opens the second drawer, he feels as if his stomach is about to turn inside out. His eyes slowly study the faded letters on the battered box that spell out Dungeons and Dragons. No photo album in the Wheeler house carries as many memories as this time-worn piece of cardboard.
With a trembling finger, the boy gently traces the familiar graphic of the dragon. For a moment, instead of his own, he sees the hand of a small boy touching this lid for the first time, with his voice caught in his throat with excitement.
He remembers so clearly the commanding voice of twelve-year-old Mike, begging his mom for an extra twenty minutes of play just so they could finish the campaign. Every time Mike took on the role of the storyteller, he commanded every gaze, even the most distracted ones. It was as if he were born for exactly that role.
And just like that, he could throw it all aside the moment a girl came into view. Suddenly everything became "childish" and "unimportant," and only Will was immature enough to plead for even a single evening spent playing.
At that thought, he wants to slam the dresser drawer shut with all his might, along with that damn game - and he likely would have if his gaze hadn't been caught by a scrap of paper resting in the corner, written in red ink. Jonathan’s note.
From the messy handwriting, he could make out a phone number and an address, labeled with the caption: "Unique Antique Jewelry – Kalamazoo."
Given the address, there was no doubt this was the note his brother mentioned. But why would Jonathan need the address of some jewelry store? Was that supposed to be the whole reason they were sent to Michigan? No, Nancy had mentioned something at the table about a suspicious company from Kalamazoo buying up land on the outskirts of Hawkins. They were going there to talk to former employees before the Hawkins Post could break the story.
So why unique jewelry? The moment Will's face takes on an expression of sudden realization, the phone rings.
"Did you find it?" A shadow of desperation is audible in Jonathan's voice. A random person would think they were talking to someone completely unbothered, but Will knows that every deviation from his brother's usual restraint has a reason. Registering such nuances is almost a brotherly duty.
Jonathan silently writes down the information dictated to him. On the other end of the line, only the sound of a pen scratching chaotically against paper can be heard. When that sound stops, it’s time for the questions burning on Will's tongue.
"So, antique unique jewelry, huh? What’s that all about?"
"Listen, that’s... that’s something we’ll talk about at home, okay? Better tell me, what’s it like finally having the whole room to yourself?"
Will is well aware there’s no point in pushing. One of the foundations of the strong bond between him and his brother is their mutual acceptance that they don't have to be ready for every conversation right here and now. In the Byers family, everyone knows the unspoken rule: accepting boundaries is the simplest path to honesty.
"It sucks," he answers truthfully. Too truthfully, for something that should have been easier. Even when Jonathan occasionally slips out at night to sleep at Nancy’s, the fact that he’s there in the Wheeler house with him is comforting. The intruder label retreats further inside him. "Did you have to take all the best tapes with you?"
For the next fifteen minutes, they laugh, talking about Mr. Wheeler's absurd comments, Joyce spending so much time at Hopper's she might as well move in, and the school art competition where Will won first place. This trivial small talk is enough to release the tension in the boy's body that seems to reside there daily. The conversation is only interrupted by the sound of the door opening, signaling that the family has returned from shopping.
—
It’s hard to say how long ago unpacking groceries became a grotesque ritual. Will first waits until he hears Mike's footsteps on the stairs, signaling that he has already gone to hole up in his room, and only then does he go out to help Karen with the bags. Mrs. Wheeler hasn't questioned this for a long time; she just smiles every time, saying her children could follow his example.
Holly quickly gets bored of putting yogurts in the fridge and spreads her crayons out on the table. Will likes sitting with her and watching her draw, because the little girl often asks him to help her choose the perfect color for fairy wings or flowers in a magic forest. Being the "crayon oracle" is quite pleasant, so when all the kitchen work is done, he sits on the neighboring chair and watches the page fill with colorful shapes.
"What’s this?" he asks, tilting his head slightly in an attempt to decipher the masterpiece.
"It’s a villain from the comics Mike was telling me about today. He kept going on and on about how amazing and strong the main hero is, but I decided he wouldn't be as interesting to draw. Not enough colors."
As usual, the sound of that name acts on Will like a small, unpleasant sting.
"What comic is it?" he asks after a short while.
"He didn't tell you? He couldn't shut up about it the whole way home," the girl chirps, not looking up from her picture.
From the kitchen, Mrs. Wheeler’s voice pipes up instantly: "Holly, language!"
No, he hadn't told him. It's hard to recall the last time Mike rambled about his nerdy interests. Will had always listened gladly to the multi-layered plots of fantasy stories. Even if he sometimes got lost in the intricate events, the sight of those excited eyes searching his own for a reaction was enough motivation for him to soak up descriptions of great battles and terrifying creatures for hours.
The knowledge that Mike is still enthusiastically devouring his comics is, in a way, soothing. It even brings the ghost of a smile to Will's lips.
Shortly after, he heads back downstairs, knowing that procrastination won’t make his physics assignment magically disappear. Halfway down the stairs, he notices the drawer he forgot to close earlier. The lid of the box still stands out, despite its faded colors. He can't help but walk over and look at it one more time.
He takes the miniatures out and turns them in his fingers. He and Mike had painted them together once, so they would better reflect the characters they played. Well, actually, it was mostly Will who did the painting, since he had “a more precise hand for it." He didn't mind, though. He felt almost honored that Mike "I-know-best" Wheeler had entrusted him with such an important role.
Next, he pulls out the dice, which clatter satisfyingly in his palm. It's hard to believe they haven't been lost yet, considering the force with which the boys used to throw them during games. The only things that suffered were the slightly worn edges, but Will thinks that adds a little character.
I have to draw these, he thinks, picking out the nicest of dice to be his muse. He carefully puts the rest back in the box, treating the game with almost sacred care. Before he places the box back in the corner of the drawer, his gaze fixes on a stack of papers lying directly underneath it. There would be nothing extraordinary about them - plenty of papers of all sorts were scattered around the dresser - but for a quarter of a second, his eyes caught a familiar handwriting. And in that handwriting, there was written something that made drawing dice instantly unimportant.
At the very top of the graph paper, filled from top to bottom, were two words. Written with exceptional care in dark blue ink, they formed:
"Dear Will”