Chapter Text
Will wakes up feeling wrong.
He wakes to silence—a thick, unmoving kind—rather than the chaos that characterises the Byers household. No music, no shouting, no kettle whistle. Just darkness and the steady tick of a clock filling the room. The air smells of dust and old paper, dry and unfamiliar.
He blinks up at the ceiling; it’s wrong—a dull white, cracked near the corners rather than the colourful illustrations he’s adorned his own with.
He brings his hands up to his face; they aren’t his—they’re too large and rough. He sits up quickly, his gaze sweeping over the room. It’s a disaster: D&D notes everywhere, sheets tangled on the floor, a half-open drawer spilling clothes onto the floor.
His stomach twists and his heart pounds in his head, like it will burst open at any moment. He turns to the window; the wrong curtains, the wrong view, the wrong town.
No.
He stumbles out of bed, the motion sends his vision reeling—like his body forgot how to function—his gaze lands on the mirror that’s fixed to the closet door, and he is greeted by the sight of his best friend, Mike Wheeler.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then he whispers, “No…”
He stares at his reflection, Mike's face moving when he does, perfectly in sync—terrified, pale, wide-eyed.
“Oh, god,” he breathes, stumbling backwards until he falls back onto the bed, feeling like the world tilted sideways. He squeezes his eyes shut, his heart pounds so hard he can hear the rush of blood in his ears. He pinches the inside of his arm—it hurts, a bright, real pain, but he keeps hold until he can feel a bruise forming. He checks the clock—normal time. He blinks at his reflection again. Still Mike.
Panic rose fast, white-hot and dizzying. This isn’t possible. It can’t be.
Maybe it’s a dream or something from the Upside Down. Maybe he’s lost his mind. But everything is too normal and too real—the air tastes stale, the floor is cold beneath his feet, the smell of pencil shavings and detergent fills his nose, all of it is too normal and it just makes everything worse.
He takes a long, deep, shaking breath. “Okay,” he whispers to himself. “Okay. Just… think.”
He’s dealt with worse. He can handle this for now.
A knock on the door snaps him out of his spiral, “Mike!” Karen Wheeler’s voice calls. “Breakfast!”
He stares at the door, his throat working, “Uh—” he swallows hard, “coming!”
He bites his lip, the words sound wrong in his borrowed voice—too deep, too smooth. Mike’s voice. He waits, listening for the receding footsteps until they’re gone.
He exhales shakily, forcing himself to stand. “Okay,” he mutters. “Act normal. Pretend."
Every motion feels foreign. He grabs the first shirt and jeans he finds and pulls them on. As he gets dressed, he can’t help but glance at his reflection every now and then, but he only sees Mike. He just hopes whatever this is ends soon.
Downstairs, the Wheeler kitchen is like a photograph—all neat corners, polished surfaces, and cold air.
Karen smiles at him from the stove, Nancy scribbles in a small notebook, glancing at some photographs, Ted quietly reads the newspaper with a blank expression, and Holly kicks her legs beneath the table, poking at her food in boredom.
“Morning, honey,” Karen says. “You look tired.”
He forces a nod. “Didn’t sleep great.”
He sits, trying to act normal. He picks up his fork, staring down at his plate. The silence in the room is heavy. Nobody talked—no laughter, no clatter of dishes—just chewing and the faint scrape of cutlery. It made him ache for his mum’s voice, Jonathan’s music, El’s excited rambling about whatever new thing she learned or things Mike wrote to her in his letters.
Karen sits down, placing a jug of orange juice in the center of the table. “Did you ever finish those letters for Will?” She asks casually, and it’s a slap to the face.
He freezes mid-bite, gaze slowly moving up to look at her, “letters?”
She smiles faintly, “you said you were writing to him. Did you ever send them?”
He swallows heavily, looking back down at his plate. “Oh. Right. Uh… I haven't sent them yet.”
“Alright.” She nods, satisfied with his answer.
Will forces another bite. He chews slowly, they’re good, but he feels like he can’t eat. His heartbeat thuds in his ears.
Mike had been writing to him.
He finishes breakfast in a blur, his mind elsewhere while he keeps up his act, and he slips out the door as soon as he can.
He’s glad to finally be out of the house, the air like a glass of cold water on a hot summer day.
‘I can do this,’ he thinks. ‘I know Mike, I can just pretend until it’s fixed.’
Mike wakes up too warm.
That’s the first thing he notices and he automatically kicks the blanket off his body. Sunlight spills across his face, not the thin gray Hawkins kind, but the heavy golden kind that feels alive.
He groans, dragging an arm over his eyes. The window must be open; he can hear birds.
The bed is soft, the pillow smells like laundry detergent and paint. And when he rolls onto his side, his arm looks… off. It’s thinner and tanner.
His eyes snap open.
The posters on the walls aren’t his—hell, the walls aren't his, they’re yellow! The walls are covered in drawings and posters of bands he doesn’t recognise. The stand next to the bed has a stereo receiver that he knows isn’t his with multiple vinyls set up next to each other.
He sits up so fast his head spins. “What the…”
The sunlight is way too bright, Hawkins doesn’t get light like this. He squints at the window, greeted by the sight of a suburban street lined with palm trees
Palm. Trees.
“Nope. No way.” He mutters, rubbing his temples.
He scans the room again—the scattered art supplies, the easel, the messy desk, Mike’s stomach twists.
He rubs his face—his jaw is softer, his hair shorter, no longer brushing against his neck. He doesn’t need a mirror to know.
He’s in Will’s body.
The house is loud. So unlike his own.
He can hear Jonathan’s music blaring down the hall, the TV is on in the living room, the radio buzzes outside.
Then Joyce’s voice cuts through it all, loud and bright: “Guys! Breakfast!”
Mike jumps.
“Uh—coming!” He shouts, his voice strained. Not his voice.
He runs a shaky hand through his hair and looks around for clothes, muttering under his breath. “Holy shit, holy shit…”
He finds Will’s closet, he grabs a shirt and jeans and throws them on. “Okay,” he tells himself. “Just act normal. Pretend.”
Outside is chaos in a way that almost feels magical.
El is setting the table, humming to whatever Jonathan is playing, Joyce moves quickly around the stove, multitasking, and Jonathan moving with her, grumbling about her resting and relaxing.
Mike stops in the doorway, completely thrown. It’s so unfamiliar.
El looks up immediately. “Good morning, Will!” She chirps, smiling brightly.
Mike blinks. “Uh—morning.”
Before he can step back, she walks over and stands close, her eyes narrowing. “Are you sick?” She asks, looking up at him. “You look weird.”
Mike’s brain halts. “No, I—uh—just tired.” His voice is awkward, he laughs nervously.
Joyce glances over with a small smile, turning off the stove. “Leave him be, El, he just woke up.”
El shrugs and goes back to setting the table.
Mike takes the chance to sit, forcing a weak laugh. The smell of coffee and pancakes fills the room, warm and sweet.
The food is warm, the coffee smells amazing, and the chatter is loud. It’s perfect—the kind of breakfast he’s only seen other families have. El chatters about her project, Joyce replies every now and then, but she mainly lets El speak. It’s so unlike the silence of his house.
Mike barely says a word. He just nods when addressed, poking at his food, feeling like a ghost in someone else’s life. His chest aches in a way he can’t name.
It feels like an eternity until he’s freed from the clutches of the torture that was breakfast. He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. School should be easier, right? He wouldn’t have to do much talking. Unless Will has made so many close friends while here that he’d be found out instantly… he shakes his head, not knowing why his heart sank at the thought. He should be happy if anything if that is true.
Jonathan and El are already heading to the car. Jonathan drives, El rides shotgun, and Mike takes the backseat for himself, it’s easier where he won’t be seen. The smell of coffee and motor oil hit him like deja vu. The windows are down, letting in the warm California air.
Jonathan hums along to the song playing before speaking. “Will, you okay?” He asks, his words laced with concern. “You’ve been quiet all morning.”
“What? Yeah, totally fine.” He replies quickly, his voice cracking.
“Alright…” Jonathan glances at him through the mirror.
“I’m just tired,” he replies, wishing that he could sink into his seat and disappear. Thankfully, Jonathan leaves it at that and turns up the volume.
Mike exhales and slouches against the seat. The sky outside is too blue. The sunlight too gold. The whole world feels too loud. He watches the palm trees blur past, mind racing just as fast.
‘If I’m here, then Will is…’ he thinks, leaving the thought unfinished.
Because if Will is in Hawkins, in his body, then this isn’t a dream.
It’s real.