Chapter Text
Will Byers' thirteenth birthday might be the second worst day of his life.
It turns out that spending the whole night before stuffing his face with Reese's Pieces, watching a dozen horror movies, and counting down the hours to midnight makes for a rude awakening the next morning. It was a tradition Mike made up when Will turned ten and was allowed to sleep over in his basement for the first time. He wanted to be the first one to wish Will a happy birthday. He wasn't sure why, but it made him feel dizzy when Mike got sweet like that.
Will feels dizzy right now, but he assumes that's on account of waking up thirty minutes late and having no time for breakfast. Every scrape of pencil lead or squeak of rubber soles makes his headache pound harder. Will tries to focus on the flittering projection of the beetle on the classroom wall, but his eyes keep sliding shut. A sudden, sharp poke in the back of his head is enough to jerk him awake. He glances around, finding a dingy paper airplane on the linoleum beside his desk. Cautiously, Will plucks it up and unfurls the messy creases.
Zombie Boy, it reads in chicken-scratch, next to a crude drawing of what Will thinks is an eyeball. His lips pull down in a grimace as he crumples up the paper and stuffs it into his backpack. He'll throw it out later.
As Will folds his arms atop his desk and drops his chin down, he tries not to think about the snickering a few rows behind him, nor the dark, worrisome eyes boring into his right temple.
Lucas and Dustin are already leaning against the bike racks when Will steps out onto the pavement. They raise their hands in unison, waving, "Byers!"
A path seems to open up automatically as Will moves across the schoolyard. If he didn't know why, he'd feel honoured. Even with the feeling of stares and too-loud whispers behind his back, Will can't help but smile at his friends waiting.
"What's up, old man?" Dustin ribs, hand tousling Will's hair.
"You're not old 'til you're thirty." Will retorts with a halfhearted eye roll. He's too busy with his head on a swivel, searching the crowd. Before he can open his mouth to speak again, a black mop of curls is weaving and dodging bodies, rushing toward the party.
"You ready to go?" breathes Mike, gaze locked onto Will's immediately. Will smiles in return, skin buzzing with excitement. After begging and pleading all week, his mom agreed to let him bike home today, but only if Mike came with. It was a fine compromise — Will got to feel normal for the day and spend time with Mike. He just wishes it could be like that always.
Dustin crosses his arms, pouting with feigned petulance. "Man, I wanna go to Will's house."
"Best friend privileges, suck it."
"Didn't you say last year that we're all your best fri—"
"Yeah, well, I take it back!"
The sound of the boys bickering joins the orchestra of loud, unruly middle schoolers that prod on Will's migraine. He bends down to unlock his bike, pulling it free from the rack and flipping his stand up. Will's about to mount his bike and ride off into the sunset when Lucas elbows him in the rib. "C'mon, Will. I'm your best friend, right?"
"Bullshit! I knew him first. Tell him, Will. Tell him."
Will just laughs at Mike's aggressive insistence, swinging his leg over his bike seat. He realises, then, that he hasn't said a single word since Mike showed up a full minute ago, and he should probably stop acting so freaking weird and just say something. "If you guys keep arguing, neither one of you are coming over ever again."
The two boys shut up after that, save for the occasional grumble. The rest of the party board their bikes and hit the road. They skirt through the hordes of middle schoolers, steering leisurely along the incandescent street posts. Lucas peels off first, tossing a final "happy birthday" over his shoulder. Dustin leaves not long after, giving a final wave before turning into his driveway.
And then there were two, treadling along Mirkwood, the only sight an endless road and stretches of dead, waifish woods. The view makes Will a bit sick, so he just stares at Mike.
Mike turns his head and meets his eyes. "Will?"
He tries to avert his gaze, feeling caught. "Yeah?"
Mike hesitates, his brows furrowed, "…I'm your best friend, right?"
Will snorts, glancing back to look into those dark, worrisome eyes. The question catches him off guard because the answer is so obvious. "Duh."
The pair toss their bikes in the dew dropped lawn, bounding into the house. Will can see his mom from the entryway as he pulls off his shoes. She's in the kitchen with her hair tossed up, sleeves rolled and covered in flour, a sweet gourmand aroma filling the air. Will feels like a cartoon character floating into the air after catching a whiff of fresh pie upon wandering into the room. He leans into his mom's side and lets her give him a big smooch on his temple — she's mixing up the good Betty Crocker cake mix, even using milk instead of water this time.
Just biding the time until the cake is ready, Will finds himself star-fished on his bed while Mike sits on the floor and rants about the latest comic he read. He's pretending to listen, pulling at a lose thread on his comforter and counting the bumps on his ceiling.
Mike sits up with a grin, crashing straight through Will's train of thought with a clap. "Hey. I got you something." He starts to dig through his backpack, yanking out various crumpled tests and assignments in the process. "Close your eyes."
Will obliges, covering his face with his palms. The anticipation churns in his stomach, sending him reeling. After a few more seconds of rustling papers and a whispered curse, Mike clears his throat. Will keenly through his fingers. There, in Mike's outstretched hands, is a pointy purple wizard hat, adorned with shimmering silver star cutouts, and a thick embroidered trim. Will's jaw drops in awe as he accepts the gift, turning the thick felted fabric over in his hands. Some of the thread is already fraying, some stitches tight to the fabric while others hang loose.
"Nancy helped me make it. I thought it would be a nice upgrade." Mike babbles, his hands accentuating his syllables. "You can wear it for our campaigns, or whatever, y'know? You'll be like, Will the Wise for real."
Will looks up at him, eyes gleaming. "Thank you," is all he can muster as he stands from the mattress, arms looping around Mike's shoulders. Will presses his ear to the other boy's chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
"Yeah? You like it?" Mike questions as he hugs back, smile audible in his tone.
"Definitely."
"Good, because I'm making a cloak too. Wait, shit! I almost forgot," Mike pulls away, the warmth where his body was sublimating to cold. He turns back to his bag and pulls a small paper packet from the pocket, showing it off to Will. He puffs out his chest and clears his throat again, employing his Dungeon Master voice. "Wishing dust. To make all of your birthday wishes come true."
Mike takes the hat and places it atop Will's head, like a crown on a king. Then, he rips the pack open, sprinkling the glittery powder all over him. Will will probably find the shimmering bits in his room and on his clothes for the rest of his life, but he thinks he can live with it. He brushes the remnants of the shimmering substance from his face and makes for the door.
"We gotta test it out, make sure it's magical," declares Will.
Mike smiles ear to ear. "Let's go."
The snap of small twigs and whistle of early spring wind distract Will from the shifting shadows in the sticks. It's not quite daytime anymore but also not night, the sky a light indigo from residual light.
Mike pulls off of the sodden trail to inspect a branch. Will doesn't have the same props that he does, accrued from years of extravagant Halloween costumes and school plays. Mike ends up having to improvise, but he never complains. He smacks the 'sword' against a tree trunk, accenting it with a verbal whoosh. Seeming satisfied, Mike turns around and hands the branch — 'sword' — to Will, before falling to his knees. "Ennoble me, oh cleric."
Will shakes his head in disbelief, adjusting his grip on the 'hilt' of the 'sword'. Carefully, he taps the tip of the 'blade' to Mike's shoulders, like a king to his knight. "With the power vested in me, I declare thee a worthy paladin."
Mike stands and takes his sword back, swiping the dirt off of his knees. "Y'know, you look like a real cleric. Really."
"Maybe I am," Will shrugs wistfully, resuming his trek forward, scanning the floor for a suitable wand. He swiftly bends down to snatch one up and whips around to face Mike.
The gnarled stick in his palm falls back to the ground as Will's eyes dart around the trees. The forest around him seems to have been placed in a vacuum, the sound and light slowly sucking out. The dark presses in around him, neck prickling with the sensation of being watched.
Mike is nowhere to be found. Will's feet are rooted among the brush for only a few seconds more before he takes off. He tries to follow his footsteps in the mud, but the vines snaking towards him steal his attention. His eyes prickle with helpless tears, breath coming out in short, panicked bursts.
"Mike? Mom?" His cries echo against the dull bark of oak trees, falling upon no ears but his own. A vine shoots out in front of his stride, knocking him to the ground. He's about to give into the void forming in his chest when he spots his one reprieve through the deep blue fog. A white flag blowing in the breeze. The entrance to Castle Byers.
Slowly but surely, Will pulls himself up and approaches. The structure is half caved in and partially rubble, but it radiates a familiar warmth. He pulls the ripped, dirty curtain to the side and climbs in. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he takes a deep breath of particle ridden air. He yanks his wizard cap down until it covers his eyes, blocking out the swirling vines in his peripheral.
Will has never been one to pray, but now is as good a time as any. He folds up his knees and hugs them tight, hands clasping together tightly. All he wants is for it to be over — to be able to play in the woods without feeling like he has a ball and chain on, to only associate running with gym class and forget what it's like to run for his life. All he wants is to not be thirteen.
"Thirty, nerdy, and normal," he whispers to the wind. "Thirty, nerdy, and normal."