Chapter Text
It’s quiet, but it’s the kind of quiet that comes right after the storm when he finds his dead snake buried underneath Eddie’s grave.
It’s blood.
Fresh raw blood that has Dustin opening his mouth to scream when he realizes he can’t. He can’t because when he turns around, there’s blood on his hands and it’s Eddie.
Eddie’s corpse.
He screams, scrambling back and freezing when Eddie’s corpse rises, arms twisting, snapping, like something out of a nightmare. The joints bend wrong, fingers cracking in ways they shouldn’t, and a low, wet sound slips from his throat as his legs refuse to move.
Eddie’s head tilts, eyes wide but unseeing, staring past him. His mouth opens and it’s wrong. It’s all very wrong when Eddie croaks. “Dustin.”
It’s not Eddie, he tells himself, slowly moving, it’s not Eddie, it’s not Eddie, it’s not Eddie, and yet, “never change, Dustin Henderson, promise me?” It sounds so much like him. He trembles, screaming and suddenly, there’s a sound ringing in his ears.
No.
No.
The blood on Dustin’s hands pulses, as if beating like a heart. Every drop drips upward, leaving streaks that whisper his failures, his fears.
You couldn’t save him. You’re alone.
He trembles. Tick. Tock. A clock, hollow and metallic, chimes from all directions at once. Dustin flinches and the hallucination sharpens. Eddie’s face splits into a thousand versions, mouths opening and closing silently, eyes staring through him. He reaches for them, but the hands are heavy, like they belong to someone else, dragging him toward the twisting corpse. Tick. Tock.
Dustin’s chest heaves. He wants to run, to scream, to wake up, but the hallucination curls tighter, folding the graveyard into his mind, and somewhere in the shadows, he feels it.
Watching. Waiting.
Vecna.
Then sharp. Hard. Pain.
Something crashes into his jaw, and the hallucination shatters like glass. Stars explode behind his eyes. He tastes metal, tastes blood that isn’t his own. He hits the ground hard, the world snapping back into reality with a jolt that makes him gasp, wheezing.
Another blow lands before he can even lift his head.
A boot catches his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs in a sharp, ugly whoof. Dustin curls instinctively, arms coming up too slow, too weak. Laughter crashes over him, loud and cruel, cutting through the ringing in his ears.
“Look at him,” someone says, Andy. “What’s wrong, freak? See a ghost?”
He blinks hard, vision swimming. The graveyard is still there, headstones tilting, dirt smeared across his face, but it’s warped now, fractured by pain. The clocks are gone. Eddie is gone.
It’s just shadows, boys, and fists.
Another punch slams into his shoulder. Then his back. He groans, teeth clicking together as he hits the ground again, cheek scraping against dirt. His jaw screams in protest, blood pooling warm on his tongue.
“Stop!” He tries, but it comes out broken, barely a sound.
Hands grab the collar of his jacket and haul him up just long enough for a fist to connect with his stomach. White-hot pain explodes through him, stealing his breath. He folds in on himself, gagging, vision flashing.
Tick.
No, just his heartbeat. Too fast. Too loud.
He hears Eddie’s voice in his head anyway. Run, Dustin. He can’t. His legs won’t listen. They kick uselessly as he’s shoved back down, shoulder slamming into the base of a headstone. Stone bites into his spine, grounding him in a way the hallucination never did.
This is real. This hurts. This is happening. He repeats those words as a shoe presses into his chest, pinning him there. Dustin gasps, eyes burning, staring up at a blur of faces warped by shadow and anger. For a terrifying second, one of them is Eddie again—eyes empty, mouth wrong—
He squeezes his eyes shut hard, forcing it away.
Not him. Not now.
Another kick lands, and he cries out, the sound ripping free before he can stop it. Dirt fills his mouth. Tears streak hot down his face, mixing with his blood. Finally, the pressure lifts and footsteps scatter.
Dustin stays curled on the ground, shaking, breath coming in thin, ragged gasps. His body hurts everywhere, but he clings to it anyway, the ache, the sting, the reality of it, because the pain, at least, meant he wasn’t hallucinating.
He sleeps before the morning grows cold.
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The ground is cold.
That’s the first thing Dustin registers. The way the chill seeps through his jacket, through his jeans, straight into his bones. Dirt presses against his cheek. Real dirt. Damp. Smelling like rot and grass instead of blood and clocks and—
He coughs hard, sucking in air like he’s been underwater too long. His lungs burn. His jaw throbs where something—someone—had hit him, pain blooming sharp and undeniable. Not Vecna. Not a nightmare.
He’s real.
He’s alive.
He says this as he grunts, picking himself up from the ground, and bringing the walkie talkie close to his mouth. He should tell them. He clicks the walkie talkie on and swallows.
His thumb hovers over the button, trembling so hard the plastic rattles faintly against his teeth. Static crackles when he presses it by accident, a sharp burst of sound that makes his shoulders jerk like he’s been shocked.
No. Not yet. He turns it off. Not until he’s figured it out. He can’t. He won’t.
His mouth opens anyway, breath hitching, words stacking up behind his tongue—Eddie, Vecna, the clock, the blood—but none of them feel real enough to survive being said out loud. If he speaks, it might all rush back in. If he speaks, someone might hear the way his voice is still shaking apart.
So he turns it off.
Dustin moves and immediately regrets it. Pain flares along his ribs, bright and nauseating, and he has to pause, head tilting forward while riding it out. His hands are shaking again. He curls them into fists, nails biting into his palms, grounding himself in the sting.
Cold. Wet. Solid.
Real.
He forces himself upright inch by inch, pushing himself up by leaning against the headstone behind him. Eddie’s name stares back at him, carved deep and permanent, the darkened red letters cutting into the stone.
“Sorry,” Dustin whispers, before he can stop himself. The word feels small. Useless.
His vision blurs again, but this time, it’s just tears. He wipes at his face with the heel of his hand, smearing dirt across his cheek, and lets his head thunk back against the stone. It’s cold enough to make him hiss, but he welcomes it. Anything that keeps him here.
No clocks.
No whispers.
No breathing that isn’t his own.
Just the distant rustle of trees and the faint hum of the world still moving on without him.
Vecna’s gone. At least for now.
He knows the pattern now, the way the hallucinations slide in, the way they hook into guilt and fear and twist until you can’t tell which way is up. He presses a hand to his chest, feeling his heart hammering, counting the beats like he was taught. One. Two. Three.
Still his.
Dustin drags himself to his feet, swaying. His legs threaten to fold, but he locks his knees and stands there stubbornly, breathing through clenched teeth. He won’t stay on the ground. Not here. Not again.
With the walkie still in his hand, he leans against his bike and starts on the path.