Chapter Text
Hawkins, Indiana. 1984.
Harby is jolted awake by his usual terrors—nightmares of being engulfed in blood-like red, emberlight orange, fluorescent yellow, and void-like black. Phantom pain sears his back and face as blistering heat envelops his arms and legs. He writhes around while the image of hell is still fresh in his mind.
Faded scars litter his arms as he tears the blanket from his long body—revealing a lightly-dye-stained shirt and sweatpants—sweat soaking into his bed. Explaining this to his mother in the morning hadn’t become easier over the years.
A recent lava lamp malfunction event causing a small fire to break out in his room made dreams like these seem to happen much more frequently these days, leaving him fearing and losing grip on reality.
Following the advice of his therapist, his mother urged to moved back to her hometown—hoping to escape the traumatizing memories their previous dwelling brought. Though he’s skeptical that it’s all to align with his mother’s agenda—reopening her bakery that she left behind when he was adopted and moved out into the city.
Harby reaches for the nightstand, grabbing a towel. “Hmm,” he grumbles. The fabric’s texture feels rougher than he remembers, carrying the familiar scent of his mother’s room. Vanilla and soap.
Eyes plastered to the reddened grain of his bed frame, working with the towel’s roughness to wipe away the beading, cool sweat on his forehead. Arms and neck sore from the odd angle his head ended up in: one hand leaning on the floral wallpaper while his head lolled to the left.
The alarm clock beside his bed read 4:17. One hand on its button, he recalls how he usually wakes up during these hours to prepare for school. His previous school being an hour away from their San Francisco apartment meant earlier mornings and shorter nights. But despite the dawnlit routine, he remains a night person, appreciating the peace and comfort it brings.
But with new terrain and a shorter route to school, his mother reworked his schedule to wake up at six, saving more time for rest. This new schedule needs some getting used to—especially with how abrupt they had to move, or more specifically, move back to Hawkins. Though personally, he doesn’t seem to have ties with this nowhere town since he retained no memories from before he was adopted.
After getting up and wrestling the clothes off his form, he rummages through the clothes stuffed in his cedar closet. He pulls out a pair of worn-out jeans, puts it on, and grabs an opened piece of mint gum on his dresser.
Black denim slingbag on his hip, walkman around his neck, he exits his room half-dressed. Tip-toeing through the hallway to keep from rousing his mother who’s probably already awake and setting up shop.
Towel in hand, he sneakily heads for the living room. The kitchen lights are on as he weaves past the kitchen’s still-warm appliances and baking implements—hugging the wall tight to avoid catching his mom’s attention who’s now in the storefront.
The bakery wafts with the smell of fresh bread, adjoined to the back of the house through a sliding glass door. This way, it allows for sunrise to meet the store’s facade first thing in the morning.
When his mother does leave the room, he sneaks inside, grabbing a steaming piece of garlic bread from the mound sitting on the counter display. He takes a sip from the cup sitting on the tabletop—just warm water his mother liked to drink in the morning to fight indigestion.
Bun in hand, he slips into the restroom and relieves himself. Brushes his teeth with the strawberry-lemon toothpaste lying open, washes his face, and grabs a grey sweatshirt with a blue sleeve from the drying machine.
“Harby,” he stiffens, pausing mid-motion. “I thought you were still asleep. Nightmares?” He slumps at the mention of that word.
“Uhm, I had a full bladder, I’m still getting used to the new sched” he says, mouth chewing on what’s left of the garlic bread. “And that nightmare is old news.” He grumbles.
“You still have two hours to explore the neighborhood if you want.” she sighs from behind the bathroom door. “But don’t stray too far from where we are and don’t be late for first period.” She adds.
Keys in hand, he heads for the front door, ties the lace of his dark-brown boots and heads out into the chilly morning air—bleakness assaulting his senses. A sunless morning and pavement wet with rain from the previous night greets him.
Fumbling around his pockets, looking for his mint gum, he feels something foreign in them—a piece of paper? Taped around in what seems to be pink gauze tape, he observes plainly, trying to ascertain if this was just a piece of gum wrapper—because it sure looks like one.
Before he could decide whether he should open it, his muscle memory opted to toss it onto the nearby trashcan. It bounces off the lid and lands behind the bin.
Brushing the lint off the gum, he tosses it into his mouth.
Eventually, he lets the paper go from his mind and grabs his keys from his jean pockets. Unlocking the lock on his bike’s chain, it makes a thudding sound as it drops to the ground.
He rides into the darkness, headed for Melvald’s as a row of Eastern pine accompanies him into the mist. The trip is plainly shorter than when he used to ride the bus on his way to school. Though this time, he can pass by a store on the way.
When he touches down on his destination, he pays a glance to the decorations littering the stores in Main Street—Halloween is just right around the corner. Not that he cares. It’s not like he has any friends to go trick-or-treating with.
Leaning his bike on the side of the store, a sigh lets out of him. Right across the street, he notices a movie poster plastered on it.
The Witch. A green lady with a sharp nose and yellow, crooked teeth, burning at a stake.
Right, because it’s Halloween and everything. Though he doesn’t feel too fond of the idea of burning people. A chills crawls up his spine as a temporary flash of flames confront his mind’s eye.
It feels warmer inside the store. Incandescent lights do emit a certain kind of warmth after a long period of prolonged use. He grabs a can of Coke before checking out, popping its tab and tipping it into his canteen.
He checks his watch. Just a little more than an hour left before classes begin. Just a little more than an hour left before he meets the people whom he’ll be spending the rest of his year with.
Vitriol builds up in his throat as the familiar feeling of spite and frustration comes to greet him again. Leaving behind the life he knew in the city for small-town America left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Letting his head cool off, he bikes around downtown for a while and eventually arrives in Hawkins Middle School just in time for first period—completely avoiding any human contact.
But isolation is cut short when he sees a certain boy huffing and sighing, just three lockers away from him. What a weirdly cute bowl cut.
Will opened his locker and found a piece of paper inside that wasn’t there before. He grabbed it and froze at what he saw.
It was from one of the newspapers that announced he was alive, but someone had written ZOMBIE BOY and drew x’s over his eyes. He looked around for anyone who might’ve been watching him, but didn’t see anyone—except for a boy standing across from him.
Harby, whose locker was three spots away from Will’s, witnesses its entirety, internally scoffing. “ZOMBIE BOY, huh? That’s so lame,” the taller blond chuckles plainly, face immediately straightening in realization when he sees Will droop at the comment.
He clears his throat. “As an insult, I mean,” trying to ease the other boy’s soreness. Shit, I’m so screwed if he cries right here, right now.
“I mean, name-calling tends to start with facts. But, you don’t seem so…dead, in contrast to that nickname,” Harby, flashes him a grin.
Before he could butcher the conversation any further— “Anyways, see you around.” —he leaves without letting Will say a single word in the whole exchange, leaving him dumbfounded. This is why hermits should stay as hermits.
“Um… what was… that about?” Will scratches his head. The fact hits him last, “Was that a way of trying to comfort me?” he stares even more perplexed. “I mean, it worked, but… so weird,” the boy mutters.
In science, Mr. Clarke set down a brain replica with a smile.
“Meet the human brain.” The entire class was basically asleep except for the Party, who looked on with interest. But even Will was distracted.
“I know. It doesn’t look like much, a little gross even, right? But think about this, there are a hundred billion cells inside of this miracle of evolution,” Kids were passing notes around.
“All working as one.”
Harby, still chewing on the stale gum, eyes a certain boy with a bowl cut intently. Bored to hell and back.
So that’s his name—Will Byers. Harby finds that out when they first introduced themselves earlier. He hugely regrets not asking his name earlier, but at the same time, he prefers being alone.
The door suddenly opened and every single kid looked over to see who was entering. It was the principal, along with Max who very clearly did not want to be there. Scratch loneliness, some cool-looking girl just entered.
“Ah, this must be our new student.” Mr. Clark says in amusement.
“Indeed it is, all yours.” The principal left, no more words said.
Max tried to go to a seat, but Mr. Clarke stopped her. “Hold up, you don’t get off that easily. Come on, don’t be shy.” She reluctantly stood in front of the class.
“Dustin, drum roll?”
Dustin complied and lightly tapped his hands on his textbook.
“Class, please welcome all the way from sunny California, Maxine!” Mr. Clarke smiled.
“Max…” She muttered.
Harby fixes his gaze on Maxine–Max. Finally! Another California dude-gal.
The Party’s eyes widened.
“Sorry?” Mr. Clarke frowned, having not heard her, eyes filled with befuddlement.
“Nobody calls me Maxine, it’s just Max.” She explained shortly, hands shifting against that sick skateboard.
“Mad Max.” Lucas whispered to Dustin, who shared his awe.
Mr. Clarke ushered Max to sit down in the corner next to Harby, and the boys in the Party blatantly turned to stare at her.
She stared right back, probably wondering what was wrong with them.
“So,” Harby starts. “Where exactly in California did you use to live?” Please don’t be a bitc—
The redhead looks at him flatly and turns her head without answering.
“Geez.” He rolls his eyes. Maxine catching the sass in his voice.
“Yeah, Blondie… I’m not exactly here for a good time.”
“What a bi—big-headed chick.” Maxine’s head shoots to the side in bewilderment. “It’s just… I’m from Cali too. And now I’m stuck here.” Harby gestures around—to Hawkins. Maybe establishing familiarity might ease her up.
Max lets her guard down at that. “Stuck here… just like me.” Max stares at him gently, frustration evident in her facial expression. Is it working? Only one way to find out.
“Yup. We should… uhh… ’birds of a feather, stick together’?” the blond stumbles in idioms, prompting a smile from the girl.
“You’re never beating the blond allegations.” Max snickers.
Harby feigns offense, clutching his non-existing pearls. “Hey, I can be smart if I want.”
The party grimaces at that. Lucas, in particular, feels worse than the others. What a natural.
During recess, the boys were watching Max skateboard. Harby sat by the landing, his walkman blasting to the point where the sound bleeds out.
“Creeps. 3 o’clock.” Harby murmurs quietly, face devoid of any emotion that would reveal that he spotted the Party’s stalking.
Max’s head nods slowly, suggesting silent agreement.
“There’s no way that’s Mad Max.” Mike deadpanned.
“Yeah, girls don’t play video games.” Will added.
“Even if they did, they couldn’t get 750,000 points on Dig Dug. It’s impossible.” Mike scoffed.
“Green eyes over there,” he points to the blond. “They seem close, must be her boyfriend.”
“Her name is Max.” Lucas protested. “And what does their ‘relationship’ have to do with Dig Dug?”
“Maybe he’s MADMAX! MAD-ly in love with MAX?” Mike retorts.
“Uhm, no. They just met today too.”
“So what?” Mike asks. “Even if they didn’t know each other, some other Max could be MADMAX!”
“How many Maxes do you know?” Lucas asked, face contorted in inquiry.
Mike shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Zero. That’s how many.”
Max drifts closer to Harby, hand reaching out.
“Do you have something I can write with and on?” She requests.
With that, the boy reaches into his backpack, grabbing a piece of parchment that was used to wrap the bread he packed for lunch. She stares flatly.
“What? My mom bakes.” he shoves the pen and parchment into her arms.
“Really? Sourdough?” Max scribbles something quickly and crumples it up as she gestures to Harby. Time to go.
“She shows up at school the day after someone with her name breaks our top score? I mean, you kidding me?” Dustin urged.
“Exactly. She’s gotta be Mad Max.” Lucas grinned.
“And she skateboards. She’s pretty awesome.” Dustin smiled.
Mike scowled. “Awesome? You haven’t even spoken a word to her!”
“Yeah, but that guy there seemed to connect with her just fine, he seems awesome too.” Lucas raises an eyebrow, eyes looking at Harby pointingly.
“And hey, I don’t have to, look at her- shit I lost the target.” Dustin froze when he looked back, Max and Harby were out of sight.
“Oh, there.” Will spotted them heading inside, but before she did she dropped something in the trash.
The boys scrambled over and Dustin dug through the trash while the others tried to look natural. It didn’t work though, girls were giving them looks when they walked by.
“Got it.” Dustin held up the wad of paper and unfolded it.
“The hell was that?” the blond blurted, hand gripping the pen tightly.
The boys scrambled over and Dustin dug through the trash while the others tried to look natural. It didn’t work though, girls were giving them looks when they walked by.
STOP SPYING ON ME CREEPS.
“No shit?!” Harby exclaims out loud when Max reveals her scheme, catching a teacher’s attention. “Sorry, Missus… Fieldings.” unsure of what to call her based on her nametag.
“Well shit.” Dustin muttered.
“William Byers?” They turned to see the principal waiting expectantly.
And soon began the humiliating walk through the school as everyone stared at him. After all, it’s not everyday someone is escorted by the principal. Except for Will, who had been all year long.
“You guys think he’s okay?” Dustin asked when he left.
“He always gets weird when he has to go in.” Lucas frowned.
Mike and the others were spying around the corner as Will left with his mom. “I dunno, he was quiet today.”
“He’s always quiet.” But Mike didn’t seem satisfied.
Will stared out the window as Joyce drove. The smell of the chocolate-scented air freshener reminded him of that boy's smell. Melancholy—that’s one word to describe the feeling.
“You feeling any better?” Joyce hesitated when he didn’t answer. “Will?”
“Huh?” He snapped out of it. “Yeah, yeah sorry.” He muttered, hands picking at the leather seat.
“Hey, what did we talk about, huh? You gotta stop with the sorries.” Joyce insisted.
“Sorry,” Will shook his head. “I mean yeah, I know.”
Joyce hesitated.
“Remember, there’s nothing to be nervous about. Just tell them what you saw and felt last night. I’m gonna be there the whole time, so it’s gonna be fine, okay?”
“Okay…” But that didn’t seem to make it any better.
“I feel better today,” Will started. “Some new boy came to comfort me earlier. It felt…refreshing. When someone other than the Party talks to me.” Will’s lips curl at the thought of another person willing to be nice to him.
“Comfort you? For what?” Joyce’s voice filled with worry.
“Uh… it’s nothing. Just about me going missing and some.” He tries to avoid the question as much as possible.
Joyce catches on.
“So, what’s his name?” Joyce pats him.
“Harby, I think,” Will ponders. A new friend, if he could even call him that.
Will’s focus shifts to the puddly reflection on the window, a smile threatening to tug at his otherwise sad lips.
Outside the arcade, Dustin and Lucas were watching for Max with binoculars. Though the lookout is also open for a certain new boy.
“Ugh, my mom’s gonna murder me.” Dustin grumbled when he checked the time.
“So go home, I’ll radio if she comes.” Lucas insisted.
Dustin smirked. “Nice try, you just want me out of here so you can make your move.”
“Oh cause you’re such a threat.” Lucas snorted.
Dustin grinned. “She can’t resist these pearls.” He purred to show off his front teeth.
But that’s when they noticed Billy’s car and quickly looked back to see Max leaving the car, but stopping to shout something.
“They’re arguing.” Lucas realized.
“Oh my God, I see that.” Dustin snapped. “I don’t even know why you need those.”
Max barely had time to shut the door as Billy sped off. She flipped him off before storming inside the arcade.
They slipped into the arcade and watched from a distance as Max played Dig Dug like a pro—alone.
“She’s incredible.” Lucas whispered. He and Dustin sat down against the wall.
Dustin grinned. “She’s…”
“Mad Max.” They breathed in unison.
Now’s their chance.
They pad slowly, ducking behind a stall. But next to Max was Harby again, now dressed in a black and yellow sweater. Eyes focused on the console.
“Him again.” Lucas grumbles.
“You’ve been worrying about me, when that guy was the one actually making moves on her.” Dustin teases.
“Oh, shut up! I’m not here to make…moves,” Lucas barks. “Just… observing.”
The two turn to leave, hoping to maybe get the chance to talk with her the next day.
“So, how’d you end up here?” Max begins, eyes probing gently so as not to agitate something personal.
“Some therapist’s fault. She advised we come here for my… rehabilitation.” Harby’s focus on the game unchanging.
“But mom took that as a chance to return to this nowhere town.”
“Wait, you’re from here?”
“Yep. You?” Harby returns the initial question.
“Nah, pure Californian right here.”
“No. I mean… why are you here?” The boy’s eyes remain on the screen.
“Nothing, we just had to move.”
Heading home emptyhanded, two boys bike down the road, Lucas and Dustin… just getting off a call with Mike. Mike does not care enough to let Max in the group.
“What do we do now?” Lucas frowned.
“We stick to the plan.”
Lucas hesitated. “Mike’s not gonna like it.”
“Last time I checked our party is not a dictatorship, it’s a democracy.”
“And if Max says no?”
Dustin grinned. “How could Max say no to these?” He purred again.
“I told you to stop that.”
“Maybe we could recruit the boy first, Max would come running in no time.” Dustin adds.
Lucas deadpans as they two split off to go to their own homes.
Harby, just having finished hanging out with Max, feels like he finally found the best part of being in Hawkins—a friend.
Shadow following his form trails him as his headlight’s focus illuminates the area in front. He hums a song, one that Max taught him at the arcade.
All was going well when he passed by the theater. He pedaled back to smell the fragrant scent of butter and fresh popcorn, gaze lingering at the title board too long.
“The Witch” Now Premiering.
The same poster he saw this morning. The same movie that he so lacked the fondness to entertain earlier.
Leftover bread in hand, he hops off his bike and parks it by the alley behind the theater. Small steps were all he needed to close the distance.
Small steps to enter the theater unnoticed. Small steps to avoid the doorman. And small steps to not make any sound on the theater’s posh carpet floor.
The rain’s influence is present as the floor behind him gradually turns darker with the wetness.
His shoes make a squelching noise as he pads across the gloomy and eerie hallway, its energy seems muffled and matte. Oozing with tepidness and dimly lit due to the bulbs old age and poor maintenance.
But not one bit of those uncomfortable feelings made him turn back.
The distant screams of the audience quickens the beat of his heart as something else arises in his chest to pull at his heartbeat. Fear from the movie’s content? Conscience from sneaking and dragging his wet shoes in? Or is it the feeling of his gut tugging him away—out of here, leading him away from something he’s not ready to see?
He eyes the arch ahead. Maybe heading home would be a better idea. But he continues.
Standing atop the stairs, the distant screams are now clearer and sharper. Behind the curtain is something macabre and violent—things he can manage due to years of indulging in horror films.
But the idea of burning people—though he admits he does not have any fondness of—doesn’t faze him so much, even joking when he gets the chance to. But the scene in front of him is different.
Too different.
Harby’s hands tremble at his side, bread dropping and tumbling down the stairs. Eyes wet with something of fear, disgust, and pure doom. Chest heaves in thick breaths as the air gradually finds it harder to enter his lungs.
The sound of thudding reaches his ears first. Then follows the pain of his knees hitting the ground full-force. But that pain is muffled under something more dominant—excruciating even. Burning.
Fire seems to envelop him, eliciting a guttural scream. It syncs with the witch’s feral hocking on the screen.
The audience’s eyes shoot up to find the source of the external sound, locking gazes to the top of the stairs where Harby was supposed to be—no one’s there.
Instead, something on the theater’s floor—beside a piece of sourdough—catches their attention. A boy convulsing as a dense sound of choking escapes him, shifting and oscillating into screams and back.
IT BURNS!!! MOM!!
The film’s dimming light makes him harder to see too. And as the movie ends, it takes his consciousness with it—leaving it to scatter and float away—ashborne.