Chapter Text
Will Byers had experienced many strange things in his life. The Upside Down. Demogorgons. Staying in the same house as the Wheeler's. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared him for the sound currently emanating from Jane Hopper in the backseat of their cab.
"He was just a baby, Will!" Jane wailed. Tears streamed down her face. "A child!"
Will patted her shoulder awkwardly, shooting an apologetic glance at their cab driver. “Jane, I promise you, Harry Styles survived. He's fine. He's very successful and–"
"That's not the point!"
Will sighed, settling back against the worn leather seat. His sister had spent the last week descending into what could only be described as a Harry Styles-induced spiral, and he'd been stupid enough to think a road trip to London would calm her down.
"Okay," he said carefully. "Walk me through this one more time. What exactly has you this upset?"
Jane took a shuddering breath, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her oversized hoodie, that one that, ironically, said Treat People With Kindness across the front. Will wasn't sure she was embodying that message right now, but he kept that to himself.
"I was watching interviews," she said, her voice wavering. "Old One Direction interviews. And Will, the way Simon Cowell treated them–"
"He did say he felt bad about it later," Will offered weakly.
Jane's head snapped toward him. "Screw that! Screw Simon. I'm so proud of Harry for surviving all that," Jane continued, as if Will hadn't spoken. "Can you imagine? Being sixteen and having some, some music mogul basically control your entire life?” No, he could imagine being twelve and getting kidnapped but whatever.
I'm dying in this fucking cab, Will thought, watching Jane's hands gesticulate wildly as she continued her tirade. This is it. This is how Will Byers goes out. Not some interdimensional threat, no, that would’ve been merciful, just my sister talking my ear off about Simon Cowell's crimes against boybands until I cease to exist from secondhand rage.
"And you know he practices that smirk in the mirror," Jane ranted, her voice climbing another octave. "That condescending half-smile he does before he's about to crush someone's dreams? He probably has a team of people whose only job is to tell him how intimidating he looks."
The cab driver made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"And his voice!" Jane threw her hands up. "It's so... so... Every time he says 'I'm sorry, it's a no from me' an angel loses its wings and a puppy cries somewhere. He makes puppies cry, Will."
Will fought the urge to repeatedly slam his head against the cab door. Jane would be standing over his body somewhere between Heathrow and central London, and Mike would have to explain to everyone that his boyfriend perished – because Will's sister has a parasocial relationship with a man who looks suspiciously like their brother.
That was another thing. Will had pointed out – exactly once, and never again – that Harry Styles bore a striking resemblance to Jonathan. Same floppy hair, same lanky build, same tendency to look pensively into the middle distance. Jane had nearly taken his head off.
"He looks NOTHING like Jonathan!" she'd gasped. "Jonathan doesn't have Harry's– essence.”
Will had wisely chosen not to ask what essence meant. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
"So," Will ventured now, "just to make sure I understand the plan here. We're going to Britain's Got Talent to–"
"Defeat Simon Cowell," Jane said firmly, her tears drying as her expression shifted into something that could only be described as vengeful determination. "Obviously."
"Obviously," Will echoed. "And we're defeating him by..."
"Winning," Jane said, as if this explained everything. "We're going to win the show, Will. And we're going to make him admit that he was wrong about Harry, about all of them, and that talent can exist without him crushing people's souls like... like..."
"Like Henry?" Will offered.
"Exactly like Henry!"
The cab driver probably thought they hated some guy named Henry. Anyway, Will couldn't really argue with her logic, and looking at Jane's determined face, puffy from crying but set with that stubborn Hopper jaw, he felt something warm settle in his chest.
"He probably moisturizes with the tears of rejected contestants," Jane continued, on what Will desperately hoped was the home stretch of this rant. "He probably has a special serum made from crushed dreams and the souls of talented people he's dismissed.”
I wonder if this counts as cardio, Will mused. Just sitting here while Jane exercises enough for both of us.
"And another thing!" Jane pointed her finger like she was about to summon lightning, and honestly, Will wouldn't put it past her at this point. "His whole 'brutally honest' persona? Is that code for 'I'm going to be mean and call it constructive criticism!' Angela from high-school was better than this, Will.”
"You've really thought about this," Will observed.
"I've had a week, a whole week to think.” Her voice cracked slightly, and oh no, were the tears coming back? "Harry just wanted to sing. He just wanted to make music and be himself, and instead he got molded into whatever Simon Cowell thought would sell!"
And we're back to Harry, Will noted. This really is about Harry. Simon Cowell is just the villain in Jane's elaborate mental fanfiction where she rescues Harry Styles from the evil music industry.
Not that he was going to say that out loud. He valued his life.
"I bet his autobiography is just pictures of himself," Jane continued, absolutely relentless. "Just page after page of Simon Cowell looking at Simon Cowell, with captions like 'Here I am, being correct' and 'Another day, another perfect opinion.'"
How is she still talking?
Will glanced at the cab driver, who looked like he was reconsidering his entire career. "We're almost there, right?"
"Three more minutes," the driver said weakly. Three minutes. He could survive three more minutes, after surviving a week.
"You know what the worst part is?" Jane asked, and Will wanted to laugh because how could there possibly be a worst part after all of this? "The worst part is that he's successful. People worship him. They think he's some kind of genius, when really he's just a guy with good branding and a complete lack of empathy."
"I mean, he has made some successful acts–"
"STOCKHOLM SYNDROME!" Jane shouted, and the cab driver actually jumped. "That's all it is! He finds talented people, puts them through hell, and then when they succeed IN SPITE of him, he takes all the credit!"
(Author's note: Jane ABSOLUTELY has a point.)
Will rubbed his temples. The cab finally pulled up in front of their hotel, and he had never been so happy to see a building in his life. "That'll be forty-two pounds," the driver said, and honestly, he deserved a tip. Will paid him (generously) and helped Jane with her bags, though she was still muttering who knows what.
His phone buzzed. A text from Mike: How's the El situation?
Will typed back: Currently plotting the downfall of a television personality. So, like, Tuesday.
Mike's response was immediate: I love that for her. Also I miss you.
We've been gone for six hours, Will wrote, unable to stop smiling.
Your point being?
Will loved him, his ridiculous, clingy, perfect boyfriend who thought Will hung the moon and also had very strong opinions about which members of One Direction were attractive (none of them, apparently, except Will had caught him nodding along to "What Makes You Beautiful" last week, so that was suspect).
He looked at Jane, who was absolutely in awe, she looked bright and beautiful and was taking in the London air like this was exactly where she was supposed to be, and with all the havoc settling down, maybe they really were ready to take Britain on.