Chapter Text
Will wakes up yet again.
You would think being dragged into a dream-world ruled by a raging psychopath would make him stressed. Uneasy, at least. It doesn’t.
Will lays flat on his back in the soft king bed and sighs through his nose as he stares at the coffered wooden ceiling that’s become so familiar over the past eight months that he could paint it in his sleep.
(Joke not intended.)
He’s so tired, honestly, mostly because this is constant. He’s constantly here. Every single time he falls asleep, he’s waking up in this dream world, and the second that Henry gets bored of him being here and snaps his fingers and has Will fall asleep here, he’s awake in the real world.
Will doesn’t sleep. Even when his body is asleep in the real world, his mind is fully awake here. He doesn’t get a break. And even if his body is becoming well-rested, his mind feels like it’s about to drop dead from exhaustion.
Will allows himself the luxury of resting, staring up at the ceiling for another few minutes, before he does what he always does, what he’s done for the past eight months - get up, make the bed, put on the clothing already waiting on a hanger dangling off the changing screen in the corner, leave.
It’s similar clothes every time. High-waisted slacks, button-up shirt, vest, tie. Will never does the tie. He doesn’t know how. Today’s clothes are colored dark green and white. Just like always, they don’t fully fit, all fabric in some spots and too tight in others. Just like always, Will changes behind the screen while still staring at the ceiling.
Just like always, he sits on the edge of the bed staring out the window at the bright playground across the street and the woods around it. Just like always, he hardly blinks until the bell rings.
It’s probably Pavlovian at this point. The bell rings, Will goes downstairs. It’s the rule, it’s how things work, and if that same bell rang in the real world at this point, Will would probably automatically go down the nearest staircase.
But he’s supposed to here. It’s the rule. He goes down the stairs.
They’re carpeted, even though there’s still the natural hardwood below the fabric runner. Will wonders if Henry put that in for him or if it was always like that. He hates stairs, after all. Has since he fell down them as a kid.
Right. Stairs.
Will’s hand is smoother as it goes down the carved wooden banister than it is in real life. In the real world, it’s the apocalypse, and between pencils and weapons, Will’s hands are calloused and rough and stained - they’re not here, soft and smooth like he’s never had to fight or work a day in his life.
It’s a bit trippy, honestly, same as how it’s trippy that his nails, instead of being stained and bitten-down and too-short, are perfectly manicured and smooth.
Everything here is perfect. Even Will is… well, as perfect as Will can get, which isn’t saying much. He’s far from perfect. He’s the one thing here that’s not.
Even… even Henry is perfect, for an evil psychopathic serial killer. Blonde-haired and blue-eyed and porcelain-skinned and smiley and cheerful instead of the hideous monster he really is.
Everything is perfect except for Will.
The banister is as smooth as his fake palms as his feet land flat, silent, at the bottom of the stairs, and he hesitates for a moment.
He can smell the breakfast cooking. Bacon, he thinks. Well- no, turkey bacon, Henry changed it when Will refused to eat plain bacon because he doesn’t eat pork. It smells like bread and turkey bacon and eggs.
Will doesn’t want to go in.
“Will? Are you down here?” Henry calls, voice almost warm.
Will doesn’t flinch anymore. Not after all this time. He simply shuffles into the kitchen, struggling to not hang his head in exhaustion and misery.
Henry is standing in front of the stove, the picture of domesticity, an apron neatly tied over pressed navy slacks and a perfectly-tailored white shirt, and when Will enters, he looks back over his shoulder and gives a wide, warm smile. “There you are. I was beginning to worry.”
Will doesn’t answer. He just stands there, probably swaying on his feet. He feels better here - less weak, less like he’s being consumed from the inside out, less pains and aches and pangs - but he’s still so tired, so hungry, so weak, even if it’s better here.
“Come sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”
Pavlov. Will knows the reward versus the punishment. He takes a seat. The small breakfast table is set for two, china on the table with blue-and-white flowers painted on the edges of the plates. There are similar flowers in the silverware handles. Will remembers the names of the flowers, he knows he does. They don’t arrive to his tongue.
“How was your day yesterday? Before you fell asleep? I know how hard they’ve been lately.”
Will flinches as Henry stands over him to deposit breakfast onto his plate. Strangely, it might be one of his least favorite things about the man - Henry is tall, even taller than Mike (who’s already a solid six foot despite being almost-sixteen), and for Will, who can be kindly called fine-boned and unkindly called small at just under five-foot-five, it’s intimidating to have Henry loom over him, even more so when Will is sitting down and shorter.
Will doesn’t answer. He just stares at the plate in front of him. Scrambled eggs, two strips of turkey bacon, toast cut exactly diagonally and freshly-baked and warm with butter slowly melting into the browned surface, even a small bowl of fruit on the side, fresh and clean and good enough that the skins of the berries and the surface of the cut watermelon and apple and such is glistening.
That’s part of what tipped him off that it wasn’t just a dream the first time. He thought he was having a very, very strange nightmare, but then he went to eat, and it was so, so good, and he immediately knew that he wasn’t dreaming, that he was just in a mindscape.
The food would taste good if he could bear to eat it. Any food, real or Camazotz, would taste good if he could just bear it.
“Will, you need to eat.” Henry says, voice so gentle and warm that it’s patronizing as he plates his own, sets the pans aside, sits down across from Will in the breakfast nook. “You need something.”
“I’m not hungry.” Will says flatly, the same response in every universe, every world, every single conversation now. “I’ll eat later.”
Henry sighs, taking a bite of his own eggs and chewing slowly before taking a bite of the bacon, chewing both deliberately, like he’s trying to prove to Will how easy it is to simply eat. “Will, you know better than to lie. You’re always hungry. Choosing not to acknowledge hunger doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
Will holds his tongue. He picks up the fork, takes a small piece of cantaloupe, then starts pushing the eggs around just to make a nuisance of himself against the clean, pristine china. “I’m eating.”
“Hm.” Henry sighs, almost affectionately. “You really should clear your plate. In many cases, food is portioned the way it is in order to provide just the right amount.”
“I can’t. Because I’m not hungry.” Will says, probably too flatly.
Henry sighs again. “Always difficult.”
He starts talking, starts doing the thing he always does where he tells a story and twists it into a lecture on how Will needs to act or think or do things, and Will can’t help that he zones out, blankly eating the fruit and letting the sound of Henry talking fade, let it fall back to a million miles away as he lets his mind take him to safely hide away somewhere gray and empty and safe, where there’s only the distant hum of Henry speaking and the sound of the fan in the kitchen and Will’s own breathing, far louder than it should be in the gray place.
“Will, are you even listening to me?” Henry asks, leaning over to rest his hand on Will’s arm.
Will jolts back before he can help it, surprised at both the touch and being dragged back to the table, but he also knows how to avoid what comes next when Henry’s brows furrow like they do - he quickly shakes his head and murmurs an, “I’m sorry, I’m so tired.”
Henry smiles, patronizingly, almost fatherly, even though Will doesn’t really know what that last bit is supposed to look like. “Well, in that awful apocalyptic world, it’s only about ten at night. If you’d like, you can go upstairs and get a few hours of rest before you wake up there.”
Will, anxious for even five minutes of actual sleep, is already scooting his chair back when Henry says, half-scolding, “After you’ve finished eating. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the weight loss, William.”
Will just wants to go to sleep. He’s so tired that Henry telling him to wait brings him near to tears.
However, he’s not in reality, when he’s allowed even a modicum of free will. This is Henry’s world. Henry has the power to do anything. Will knows better than to disobey.
Even though the thought of eating makes his conscious mind just want to be sick, Will scoots his chair back in. Hesitantly takes a bite of the turkey bacon. It tastes good.
“See? It’s not that hard.”
Will ignores him, letting himself go back to the quiet gray place as he takes bite after bite after bite.
Apparently, it does help his case, because when he’s finished that plate and his body is thrilled and his mind is horrified, he scoots his chair out and goes upstairs without asking to be excused, without offering to clean up, without doing anything, and instead of getting annoyed and frightening, Henry just laughs and tells him to sleep well.
Will doesn’t even manage to get under the covers of that too-soft, too-wrong bed before he’s lost to the dark of the deep blue sea of sleep.