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March 19th, Hawkins Park, 1979
Really, there’s nowhere else Will would rather be than right here on the swing next to Mike.
The swing set they’re swinging on is the one in the park as opposed to the one they met at on the grounds of Hawkins Elementary school.
(It’s spring break so neither Will nor Mike really want to be at the school they spend so much time in.)
The sun is high and warm in the pale blue sky, fluffy white clouds scattered everywhere.
Will doesn’t think there is any place more beautiful than right here, and he really wishes he had his crayons and some paper so he could draw it right now, but he’s content just swinging.
And Mike, his best friend, is right next to him, so yeah, there really isn’t anyplace Will would rather be, especially not home where his mom and dad are probably fighting and Jon’s probably trying not to cry.
“Will?”
He turns to his right to see Mike looking at him, still swinging, but not as high as before. The edges of Mike’s frame are a little blurred by golden light, as if the sun is shining on just him.
“Yeah?” he says, keeping his gaze on the sun-blurred boy.
“What do you think happens after you die?”
Will blinks at the dark-haired boy who doesn’t seem all that troubled at the idea of death, just curious as he continues to pump his legs back and forth, swinging higher and higher.
“What?”
“Like…” Mike turns away from him and towards the sky, dark brows furrowed. “When you die, what do you think happens after?” He adjusts his hold on the chains. “Church says we go to Heaven or Hell, depending on how good you are, but Josh Albin said that it’s just…nothing. Like, when you die, that’s it.” He turns back to Will. “What do you think?”
Will frowns, looking at hands which are wrapped tightly around the warm metal chain of the swing set which he always likes to hold. He knows that a lot of kids don’t like holding onto the chains because they sometimes pinch or stain your palms black, but he doesn’t mind it all that much. If he doesn’t hold onto the chain, he’s afraid he’ll just fly off the swing and land on the mulch, which isn’t very fun.
(Troy has shoved him into the mulch at school enough times that he knows from experience that it sucks.)
“Will?”
He looks back at Mike. “Huh?”
“What do you think happens?” the boy asks again.
Mike knows that sometimes Will gets too stuck in his head, lost amongst the many strings of his imagination, chasing loose threads. He knows he sometimes has to pull Will out of his head and ask his question again or make his point once more, but he’s always kind about it, gentle and understanding.
“Oh.” Will shrugs. “I…I don’t know.”
And he doesn’t know, but if what the Church says is right, then Will won’t ever see the gates of Heaven, just the fires of Hell, and he doesn’t want to believe that when he dies, he’ll just have to burn forever.
On the other hand, Will doesn’t want death to just…be it. He doesn’t want to die and then there must be…nothing. It’s just…it’s sad to think that everything in life, napping with Chester curled next to him, playing Hide-And-Seek with Jonathan, dancing with his mom, swinging with Mike, reading comics with Lucas, watching the sun rise, drawing at the kitchen table, swimming at the pool, swinging, that it all just…ends.
Will’s sure that there are other theories about what happens after, but he doesn’t know them, and he doesn’t know if he believes in supernatural, all-powerful beings because it just feels like D&D, pretend.
“I…I don’t really think anyone knows,” he says after a moment. “But…no matter what, I think people will probably still be around even…after.”
“Whatcha mean?” Mike questions, dark brows furrowed.
“Like…” Will turns his head towards the sky, focusing on a cloud shaped like a d20. “I guess that if you’re dead, you’re still around because…because people still remember you, right?” He looks over at Mike. “Does it…does it matter what happens after?”
Mike frowns. “But it wouldn’t be the same,” he says. “Like, if you were gone…I wouldn’t have you around anymore. I wouldn’t care if I have memories, I wouldn’t have you.”
At Mike’s words, Will feels warm, and it has nothing to do with the sun shining upon him, and he feels…wanted.
I wouldn’t care if I have memories, I wouldn’t have you.
But Will shouldn’t be too surprised by the words because that’s just who Mike is. He makes you feel cosmic and grounded and wanted and safe, so safe.
“I’d still be there,” Will tells the other boy, ignoring the way his heart soars. “You could…you could just close your eyes and still see me, right? It would be like pretending.”
He and Mike do that a lot. They pretend to fight dragons with three heads and packs of wolves or pirates. It’s fun because it’s like…like they can actually see what they’re fighting or who they’re saving. It doesn’t feel like pretending at all when he and Mike play.
“We could still be friends,” Will continues, “you just…you just have to pretend.”
“But…if I can only see you when I close my eyes,” Mike starts, voice soft and frowning, “I’d have to keep my eyes closed forever cause’ I don’t want to miss you.”
And once again, Will feels warm all over, and he forgets to worry about his dad and mom fighting or the boys at school or really anything, because all he knows is Mike, his best friend, will miss him forever.
Will thinks that every feeling he’s ever had has only been a shadow compared to how it feels to be missed by Mike Wheeler.
“I’d keep my eyes closed too,” he tells the other boy, smiling shyly, “if you weren’t around anymore.”
Mike smiles back. “Okay.”
And the idea of living the rest of his life with his eyes closed is much better than the idea of living without seeing Mike again.
“Okay,” Will says, turning back around.
And they keep swinging, the idea of death and a life without your best friend far away once more.
November 6th, 1987, MAC-Z
When the blood was pouring out of Will’s chest and onto the cold ground, when his vision was blurry with tears and the edges of his vision were black and fuzzy, he didn’t remember much.
Will didn’t remember how many hours he spent drawing nor did he remember the sleepover he had with the Party for his tenth birthday. He didn’t remember the feel of a crayon in his hand as he drew his friends or the smell of wet paint or warm grass. He didn’t remember the sound of his friends’ laughter or the trick to beating the hardest level of Dig Dug.
He didn’t remember a lot of things he probably should’ve.
Will didn’t remember the sound of his mom coming home after a long day at work, the keys jingling as she unlocked the door. He didn’t remember the sound of Chester running through the house, his nails clicking against the wood floor and his tail thumping against the wall or the soft feel of his fur against his hands. He didn’t remember when he and Mike first learned to play D&D or his first (and only) homerun. He didn’t remember eating burgers at Benny’s or listening to music with Jonathan or hanging out in the arcade with his friends.
But what was best about Will not remembering was that he didn’t remember the bad parts of his life.
Will didn’t remember his parents fighting or his dad’s shoves. He didn’t remember the boys at school who called him names or hit him. He didn’t remember the fear of his friends and family hating him if they found out he was gay and the panic attacks he’s had from thinking about it too much. He didn’t remember getting chased by the Demogorgon or the cold of the Upside Down. He didn’t remember Vecna and the things he did to him. He didn’t remember coughing up slugs or his body being taken over by the Mind Flayer and feeling him everywhere. He didn’t remember Mike’s words that summer or all the people he watched die or caused to die. He didn’t remember the terror, the helplessness, the crying, the pain.
Will didn’t remember any of that, but he did, however, in his time of death, remember the swings.
Will remembered the way the metal of the chains felt in his hands, warm and staining his small hands black. He remembered the way the soft plastic seat felt under him. He remembered the warm sun on his face and back, making his shirt stick to his skin. He remembered the way his chest felt light as he swung higher and higher. The way his legs pumped back and forth, his muscles straining as they worked harder and harder. He remembered the wind on his face and the way he felt like he was flying.
The reason he remembers the swings at all may be because death feels like flying, to him at least.
Once the initial pain is gone, adrenaline takes over, that little boost of power that’s there for you to get out of the situation, call for help, fix yourself. The adrenaline doesn’t remove the pain but it does dull it. Then the endorphins come, your body’s natural painkillers. The adrenaline and endorphins make you feel good. They give you a pleasant, warm feeling like a buzzing under your skin, it numbs you to the pain, and it probably feels different for everyone, but to Will, it feels awfully like falling from the apex of the swing set, whether it be the one he and Mike met at in kindergarten or the one in his backyard or the one in the park.
Death feels like the sun on his face, the wind in his hair, his feet dangling in the air, his hands holding onto the chains like they’re the only things keeping him from flying away because, as a kid, you think they are.
Distantly, he feels his mom is holding him and begging for him to stay, but Will just smiles, the smell of warm grass in the air and the sun beating against his back.
Will remembers the swings and then nothing.
November 9th, 1987, Roane Hill Cemetery
Mike tugs at the sleeves of his too-small, itchy dress shirt. “When we were younger,” he says, looking down at the paper in his hands, “I asked Will what he thought would happen after we die.”
The sun is beating down on them all in their stuffy suits and black dresses and Mike has to squint against it as sweat pools under his collar and at the base of his spine.
“He told me…” Mike rubs the tears from his eyes. “He told me that even if you’re gone, you won’t really be gone because you’ll still be in people’s memories.”
He looks up and his eyes scan the crowd of familiar faces, friends and parents and classmates, and he is suddenly reminded of that day in ‘83 where they did this exact thing, but this time, it’s real.
There is no fake body, no government coverup, no way to save the boy who Mike watched bleed out in his mom and brother’s arms.
Once they’re done here, the cemetery workers will lower the closed casket into the ground and cover Will with cold, dark dirt, and the cemetery will keep him captive forever.
“I told him it wasn’t the same, but he said…” he swallows, looking down at the paper clutched tightly in his hands, “…that all someone would have to do to see who they lost was close their eyes and pretend. But…but I don’t know how to do that anymore.”
Mike is eighteen, and he doesn’t know how to pretend anymore, especially when his best friend is no longer here to pretend with him.
“There are some…some moments in life where you know everything is diff-different,” he continues, throat tight, “moments in your life where you know nothing will ever be the same, and this…” he swallows, “this is it for me.”
His fingers curl around the paper, crinkling it, but he doesn’t really need it, not anymore.
“So I can’t—” he pauses, focusing on the sound of the wind and how it ruffles the leaves of the trees. “I can’t pretend.”
Mike looks at the simply designed wooden coffin behind him that holds the boy he’s known since he was five, and it hurts more than anything else ever has.
“I told him…” he swallows again, not looking away from the wooden box. “I told him I would keep my eyes closed forever because I didn’t want to miss him. So…” he swallows the glass in his throat, “I’ll just miss Will until I close my eyes.”
And there is more to his speech, but they’re just fantasies of a life where Will didn’t die and memories that he’ll just spend the rest of his life reminiscing on, so he doesn’t continue.
He knows everyone is waiting for him, for him to continue or to completely break down or to run off, but Mike just looks at the closed casket.
He wonders if it will ever get easier, living without his best friend, and he thinks about Nancy.
He thinks about how sometimes he’ll see her stare off into the distance, gone from this world. He thinks about the times he hears her cry at night and the way she can’t bring herself to go to the places she and Barb used to frequent. He thinks about how she used to have dinner with the Holland’s. He thinks about the way that even now, four years later, she still misses Barb.
So Mike thinks that no, it probably won’t ever get easier.
Every breath will still feel like breathing through cracked ribs into punctured lungs.
Every step will still feel like walking barefoot through glass.
Every heartbeat will still feel wrong and misused, full of guilt.
Every time he wakes up, the act of getting up and out of bed will still take far too much effort.
Every thought will still come back to Will.
Everything will still feel pointless.
Mike knows with utter certainty that he will still grieve and feel lost and sad and heartbroken and angry, no matter how many years pass.
And he realizes that he lied to Will all those years ago, and he doesn’t want to lie to his best friend, not again.
“I’ll…I’ll miss you even when I close my eyes, Will,” he admits to his best friend, voice barely above a whisper.
The coffin doesn't reply, but the wind picks up, tousling Mike's hair, and it feels almost like...like he's flying through the air.
And then it's gone, leaving Mike thinking distantly, in the back of his mind, of the swings where he first met Will.
With one last look at the coffin, Mike heads back to his seat.