Work Text:
Will has never hated his doorbell so much until this moment. He glowers at the ceiling as he considers ignoring it. It rings for a second time. Will huffs. Eventually, he takes a deep breath in and out, before mustering up the strength to push the duvet off his chest and stumble out of bed.
He glances down at his watch, as he trudges through the tiny hall in his apartment to answer the door. According to the watch it’s almost half two, even though Will could have sworn that it’s only been like twenty minutes, since he ignored his wake up alarm in favour of rolling over to try and go back to sleep. Though that excuse sounds stupid even to him, because he has never once managed to get back to sleep once he’s already been woken up by something. So, he doesn’t really have an excuse at all. He’s just been feeling rubbish for a while, and the last thing he wants to do is have to interact with anyone. Unfortunately, whoever is waiting at the front door is being annoyingly persistent.
Just as he’s almost reached the door, Will accidentally catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Immediately, he freezes.
Fuck.
He looks absolutely terrible. His hair is still mussed up from lying in bed for too long, and the shirt that he’s wearing is an old one which is covered in paint stains. It’s oversized, so it comes down to mid-thigh but the shorts he’s wearing aren’t much better either since they stop just above his knees. The marks on his bare arms and legs are faded and yet they’re still far too noticeable for Will’s liking. Usually, he aims to cover up as much as his skin as possible, even when warm weather makes it uncomfortable to do so. He doesn’t want to have to receive anyone’s well-intended pity if they happen to catch sight of his scars.
Will blearily rubs his eyes and tries to decide whether he cares enough to run back to his bedroom and quickly change clothes, before answering the door. He does care - a lot more than he’d like to actually - but that doesn’t give him any magical motivation to actually change. So instead he just grabs a woolly blanket off of the sofa and tugs it around his shoulders in order to at least hide the scars on his arms
Then, he takes a deep breath, in and out, in an attempt to feel steadier, steeling himself as his shaky fingers tug at the latch and he pulls open the door.
Dustin is standing there, arms folded, with a concerned look on his face.
Will absolutely does not have the energy to deal with this today.
“Nope.” He mumbles, hand going immediately to the latch, to pull the door closed.
“Yep.” Dustin corrects, sticking his hand out to prevent Will from shutting the door in his face.
Will says nothing, but he shoots a weak glare at his friend. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to be enough to deter Dustin in the slightest.
“Campus called Joyce. They said that you haven’t been to your art classes in over a week.” Dustin says bluntly, getting straight to the point. “None of our friends have heard from you during that time. Except for Mike - when I called him, he said that he called you a couple of days ago, but he practically bit my head off when I asked him to elaborate. So, I thought I’d come over to check that you’re alright. And you’re clearly not alright. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Will says, and he despises himself for how lying has become a reflex. He drags a smile onto his face and hopes that it looks convincing enough. “I’ve just been feeling kind of sick recently. Didn’t want to pass on a bug.”
An infection. Something in the back of his mind murmurs, the thought practically dripping with venom. That’s exactly what you are. And if you let the others in then you’ll be contaminating them as well.
“Anyway, thanks for checking in on me.” Will says quickly, in a cheerful tone, as he starts to push the door closed.
It doesn’t close. Will glances down only to see that Dustin has wedged his heel in between the door and the frame, effectively keeping Will from shutting the apartment.
“No, come on, tell me what’s really going on with you.”
“Why don’t you ask Mike?” Will mutters.
Dustin sighs, like this is exactly the response he’d expected. Will feels like a petulant child, but he doesn’t take it back.
“Mike probably didn’t mean whatever stupid thing he said.” Dustin tells him. “I know he’s an idiot. But right now he’s probably freaking out just like you are. I mean, I don’t know for sure since Lucas is the one checking in on him, but knowing Mike, he probably is.”
“No, he’s not.” Will snaps. If Mike cared then he would have called him since their argument. Or he would have apologised. Or he would have never actually said that in the first place. “He doesn’t. I was fucking delusional for ever believing that he actually cared.”
Dustin’s expression softens. Somehow the look of sympathy is worse because Will knows just how much he doesn’t deserve it. Fuck, he’s so pathetic. Why is he still ruining his life over Mike? Why can’t he just pull himself together?
It’s been years since Vecna and nothing bad is happening to Will anymore. Yet there is still all this anger and bitterness and blame. It’s pouring out of him, from the tears that he can feel streaming down his cheeks. There’s all this blame, but no one around who deserves to deal with it; so Will keeps it, clutches it tightly to his chest like a promise, drinks it daily like poison, lets the feeling of it linger because he doesn’t know how to rid himself of it.
“I told Mike that he should move out of Hawkins.” Will says, “Then, he got mad at me for pointing out how unhappy he is, and I got mad at him because even after all these years, he still won’t tell me what’s really going on. I tried to get him to tell me, I really did try to be patient and understand and not point out what an idiot he’s being. I mean, I told him that I miss him and I asked him to be honest with me, because I need him to tell me the truth.” Will's eyes sting with more tears as he stares at his shoes, remembering the entire horrible conversation, “But then- then he said that I don’t need him at all. And that I shouldn’t keep on acting like I do. And then we started arguing until he hung up on me.”
Dustin reaches out slowly, as if to wipe the tears away, but Will flinches away from the possibility of touch.
“This isn’t really about Mike, though.” Dustin says, raising an eyebrow skeptically. “Is it?”
“No.” Will shakes his head. He was isolating himself from everyone else for a good few days before that phone call. Guilt floods him for blaming his best friend when really, Will knows deep down that this must all be his fault. Somehow, he must have manipulated everyone. Obviously he must have avoided his friends on purpose just because he knows that they would inevitably come to check on him. Maybe he really is growing up to be exactly like Lonnie.
“You’re right, I’m just being stupid.” Will admits. Fuck, he really does hate himself for being so self centred. “I don’t know why I didn’t just go to my art class, I mean it’s literally one of the only things that makes me happy anymore, and I just ditched it because I’m selfish and-“
“It’s not your fault.” Dustin interrupts. He says it so gently that it causes yet another piece of Will’s insides to shatter. And he’s lying, even though ‘friends don’t lie’ (except Will never stuck to that saying, did he?) and it’s all probably in a feeble attempt to try and help Will to feel better, but it isn’t working. And Dustin should stop trying so stupidly hard to help Will because he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t deserve to feel better, he doesn’t deserve anything-
“Shut up!” Will bursts out.
“What?” Dustin looks a mixture of confused and annoyed “I’m sorry, I’m simply saying that-“
“Will you shut up!” Will bites out. And the thing in his head doesn’t shut up- it just doesn’t. It gets louder and harsher instead. Everything is far too noisy and it really hurts, and he knows that he should calm down because his anger isn’t directed at Dustin at all, but it’s coming out sounding that way. And there’s a loud gloating laughter ringing painfully loud in his ears, expect it’s not really in his ears, it’s in his head, it’s all in his fucking head, and it won’t stop, and-
“Shut up!” The shriek tears itself from Will’s throat, like it’s clawing its way out of his body, like there are still nails scraping across his skin in the same way that they did all those years ago.
“Shut up!” He can’t seem to stop himself from repeating it.
“Shut up!” The words are a threat and a promise all at once and it feels like the only thing he has left to defend himself with. “Shut up! Shut up!”
Dustin reaches out in what should be a pacifying motion, and Will immediately stumbles backwards, cowering away until his back hits the wall with a thud. He leans his weight against it, chest still heaving with the effort of breathing, and then slides down to sit on the floor.
“Shut up.” It’s a whisper now, since his voice has become raw from shrieking. “Shut up.” He draws his knees to his chest and then presses both his hands over his ears tightly, as if he can possibly block out all the noise that’s bouncing around inside his head, “Stop it.” He mumbles, mostly to himself. He’s desperate, helpless, tired, and yet he’s still filled to the brim with such a terrible amount of anger. And he doesn’t know how to handle any of it. “Please just stop it.”
He isn’t saying it to Dustin at all anymore, but there’s no one else around to hear it. He’s saying it to everyone in his life who didn’t hear him, because back then, he didn’t dare to raise his voice above a whisper.
Suddenly he’s twelve years old again, pleading with a merciless monster to stop hurting him. He’s thirteen, tied down and writhing, all too aware of the evil that has slipped under his skin. He’s fourteen, running out of the basement and into the rain after the argument. He’s fifteen, too softly spoken, and all too ready to try to think the best of everyone, out of the fear that if he allows himself to feel even a little indignant then the people who he loves the most will leave him. All throughout his life, he’s let the sweet lies slip from his tongue, because it’s easier for people to listen to, rather than forcing the ugly truth through gritted teeth.
“Will, can you hold my hand?” A voice - Dustin? - asks, breaking through Wills’ haze of memories. “Please, can you do that for me?”
Will tries to take a breath. He’s well away that it’s far too shallow, yet even the attempt makes him shudder. He reaches out, grasping for something to latch onto, only for relief to wash over him when he finally finds Dustin’s hand. Will is drowning and yet the touch manages to anchor him. His grip on Dustin’s hand tightens, unable to try to do anything else other than cling on for dear life.
“It’s okay.” Dustin whispers, “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” His thumb brushes over the back of Will’s hand. It’s grounding. Will doesn’t deserve this comfort but he receives it nevertheless.
“Breathe with me.” Dustin instructs. Then he draws his breath in, holds for a few sondes, before exhaling in an exaggerated manner. Will tries to copy him even though he can’t get himself to stop shaking. Dustin’s fingers tap out seconds lightly against Will’s wrist; in for four, hold for four, out for four. Will keeps on trying his best to copy his friend’s pace of breathing. He isn’t very good at it but what matters more is that he keeps on trying. And gradually, his breathing begins to become more even again.
“It’s going to be alright.” Dustin says.
Will doesn’t know if he fully believes him. Then again, maybe he was wrong this entire time, because it seems that Dustin’s calmness is stronger than Will’s anger.
“Why is it always like this?” Will whispers, as if there’s a chance he’ll get an answer that finally makes sense to the question that’s plagued him since before he even knew what answer he wanted to hear. “Why do I always have to be either really sad or so terribly angry?”
“I don’t know.” Dustin replies, quietly. His expression is oddly uncertain; eyebrows drawn together and lips forming a concerned frown.
“Can I have a hug?” Will asks, softly.
“Of course.” Dustin replies, moving forward and wrapping both arms around him. His hold is somehow both gentle and secure. Will finds himself practically melting into it, gripping Dustin’s shirt like a lifeline.
It’s odd; the way that he barely knew how much he needed this until now. Sometimes, Will gets so used to pretending that he doesn’t mind being alone, that he almost forgets how much he always craves the reassurance that comes with kind words and simple touches. Sometimes he isolates himself for so long that he assumes that he’s successfully suppressed his craving for affection. But then he gets it. He gets it, and it feels like being undone.
And it’s so strange; to feel overwhelmed by something as simple as allowing himself to relax against someone else; to feel a lump forming in his throat and more tears creeping into his eyes from the way that Dustin massages slow, soothing circles into his back; and the strangest part of it is how Will allows himself to fall apart completely and Dustin keeps holding him despite it.