Chapter Text
Will could feel the cold. It was colder than he'd ever been before. It settled beneath his skin, seeped into his bones, and unlike the stomach-dropping plunge of a rollercoaster, this felt different. Permanent. Like every ounce of warmth he'd ever known had already left him, and there would never be enough left in the world to find it again.
And he knew it. The moment Henry looked at him as his mother brought the axe down again and again, Will understood that he wasn't simply looking through another slide in the View-Master. He was trapped there. Bound to the Upside Down in some impossible, inexplicable way that defied every scientific rule he knew. He understood what was happening long before he could even think to explain it, the knowledge settling quietly inside him without words to accompany it.
So he didn't say anything.
Instead, Will waited. He watched Mike lean instinctively into Eleven as the truck raced across the scarred sodden landscape of the Upside Down, watched Jonathan bump his shoulder against Nancy's in the absent-minded way people reached for familiar comfort without realising they even needed it. Then he turned to his mom.
She looked exhausted. There were new lines etched into her face that hadn't been there a year ago, and older ones carved deeper by too many sleepless nights spent wondering if she'd lose him all over again. The guilt settled heavily in his chest. It had been there for years now, worn smooth by familiarity until it no longer felt sharp but constant.
He reached across and squeezed her hand, trying to steal back some of her warmth. Trying to memorise it before it slipped away forever. She smiled when she felt him shiver, every bit as gentle and maternal as she always had, letting out a quiet laugh before resting her head against his shoulder. She muttered something about the adrenaline finally wearing off, her voice soft enough that she almost sounded convinced herself.
God, he wished that were true.
Because Vecna hadn't lied. That was the truth Will couldn't force himself to ignore. He'd seen them all without him. They'd struggled, they'd cried, but they'd lived their lives. What he'd first recognised as worry hadn't truly been worry at all. It had been grief, carried in the familiar, uneven way his family always handled impossible things until enough time had passed that bearing it became easier again.
This would simply be one more time.
One final loss before they could finally stop wondering what fresh disaster waited around the next corner. His mom deserved that rest. Jonathan deserved it too. A life where every phone call didn't threaten catastrophe, where every silence didn't make them wonder whether Will was still present in the room.
They knew now, after all. They knew what his future looked like. Love. First kisses. Awkward dates. Growing old beside someone who knew every part of him. Happy endings. Those things simply weren't written for him. Not after the Upside Down. Not after Henry. Not for someone who could still feel another world breathing beneath his skin and wanted things the world wouldn't give.
The truck rolled through the gate, and immediately Will felt the pull more than the jolt that sent several of them stumbling. It wrapped itself around his ribs, buried itself deep in his core until every fibre of his being ached with the need to return. It wasn't a voice so much as instinct, something ancient and parasitic calling, tugging him back to the hive.
By the time soldiers were hauling everyone from the vehicle, the world around him had dissolved into a blur of floodlights reflecting across puddles, shouted orders, raised rifles and frightened voices. None of it seemed to matter. Beneath the panic there was only one clear nagging thought repeating over and over.
Go back.
Whatever remained connecting him to the Upside Down had to stay there.
His mom's attention snapped immediately towards the younger kids as military police shoved them roughly forwards, arguments breaking out from every direction. Will barely heard any of it over the metallic taste climbing thickly into his throat. He doubled over as blood rose with a cough, hot against pale lips that had forgotten what warmth felt like. Before he'd consciously made the decision, his feet were already moving. One sneaker quietly stepped in front of the other as he moved back towards the library where Hopper and his mom had found him all those years ago. There was something almost cruelly poetic about it. He'd survived twice in this building, only to return there to die.
Blood bubbled from another cough and dripped down his chin, but he forced himself upright long enough to watch the chaos unfolding as he stepped beyond the Gate. Soldiers slammed his friends against trucks, barking orders at guarded teenagers instead of the lingering threat of monsters.
He caught sight of El slipping unnoticed towards the tunnels he'd carved with powers he'd never wanted, watched Mike notice her a heartbeat later, relief flashing across his face before he shared a look with Lucas. Then Jonathan spotted him. His brother shouted his name, it sounded like a question at first, then louder with his desperation. His mom screamed it. Hopper fought against three soldiers trying desperately to reach him.
They would understand.
They had to.
Will tried to speak, but all that came was another wet bubble rasped from his shuddering breath. Instead, hazel eyes finally found warm brown, his eyebrows lifting in a silent apology that he hoped would be understood one day, even if it wasn't today. Mike knew now. He knew what Will was. He knew how he'd felt all these years. Maybe, eventually, he'd even realise Eleven had never liked D&D enough to ask for a painting without herself in it. Maybe he'd understand that this had been Will's final gift: giving Mike the life he'd always wanted, giving El enough of a head start to hide before the military found her, and making sure whatever part of the Upside Down still lived inside him died where it belonged.
The MPs followed his movement fast and yet were a second too late, rifles swinging away from the chaos and settling instead on him. Only now did they realise who that there had always been an additional target. By then, Will had already stepped backwards into the cold. Damp, chemical air filled his lungs, thick with spores, rot and iron, every breath scraping painfully through him, but the relentless pull eased almost immediately. The ache in his soul quietened, giving way instead to the numbness that had lingered beneath the surface ever since that final blow.
He was dying.
Oddly, that thought didn't frighten him nearly as much as he'd always imagined it would. When the explosion finally came, the force of it rushed around him, lifting his hair and tugging at his clothes as brilliant light swallowed the space whole. At least it would be quick. He wouldn't choke beneath vines again. Wouldn't claw desperately for air while something wrapped tighter around his throat. It would be fast. Like falling asleep. And if Lonnie had been wrong all those years ago, then maybe Chester would meet him. Maybe he'd even see his mom again one day.
The light grew brighter until he was forced to close his eyes against it, but even then he could hear them shouting his name— begging him to come back. Begging him not to leave them. It should have been enough. It would have been enough for anyone else, any other day. But something inside him remained hopelessly tethered to the Upside Down, and he felt the world around him collapse as the dimension finally imploded. Demogorgons torn up alongside demo-bats, swallowed by a blinding white that consumed everything Henry had ever touched before casting it into a void that, finally, no longer seemed to be waiting for him.
Then came a flash, and finally silence.
The Gate slammed shut.
Dust drifted lazily through the ruined library as broken shelves settled beneath debris. The room stood empty, save for the echoes of voices that had arrived a moment too late.
Where Will Byers had been standing only seconds before, there was nothing at all.
"...Will?"
"Where did these beasts even come from?!"
The yell rang across the valley alongside the deep twang of a bowstring and the pounding of hooves hard enough to tear clumps of spring grass from the earth in their wake.
"Stick together." The command came calm and measured, threaded with equal parts annoyance and authority as steel sang through the air. A gilded sword carved cleanly through another of the flower-faced creature, its twisted body collapsing into the grass with a wet hiss before crumpling in a black bloodied heap.
The monsters were, thankfully, weakening beneath the spring sun. They snarled and snapped, claws lashing out more from instinct than any kind of intent now, retreating where only moments ago they'd surged forwards. Whatever foul realm they belonged to clearly wasn't this one. They were suffering beneath the suns ray's.
As far as the Paladin was concerned, they were being shown mercy. The kingdom couldn't risk whatever plague or corruption these things carried with them.
"Over there!"
Dark eyes swept across the battlefield until they landed exactly where the bard had pointed. Someone lay motionless amongst the wildflowers. A casualty wasn't unusual but one that was not being harmed by the monsters surrounding them certainly was.
Without thinking, he threw himself from his horse. His boots struck the earth with enough force to jar through greaves and into bone as he broke into a run, armour clattering loudly with every stride. Sword and shield remained raised, slashing and slamming into muscle and bone until he reached the fallen figure, only then abandoning both to the grass without hesitation. They fell with a heavy, metallic clang into the grass. The action itself enough to cause movement behind him.
The familiar rhythm of his companions closed in. Arrows split the air, finding sinewy limbs before claws could reach him, while the bard's hurried chords wove protective magic through every note.
The Paladin barely heard any of it. His blood rushed loudly in his ears, eyes wide in disbelief.
"By the stars..." The words escaped before he realised he'd spoken. His gauntleted hand hovered over the stranger's chest, afraid to touch, afraid not to.
Surely not.
"A glamour..." the ranger breathed from above them.
"And you know a sorcerer capable of weaving one this perfect?" the bard shot back.
Their voices faded beneath the thundering pulse of his heart filling his ears. Slowly, almost reverently, one steel-clad hand reached towards the boy's face. His fingertips brushed away stray plates of meadow grass and strands of chestnut hair, revealing pale skin and the small mole above his lip.
His breath caught.
No.
No, it couldn't...
It wasn't enough.
It had to be more than a face. His hands moved with increasing urgency, fumbling at the unfamiliar deep coral material fashioned into some kind of tunic until he managed to slide one sleeve down from the boys shoulder. Above him, nervous glances were exchanged with a slow shake of the rangers head. Beneath coral sat another strange tunic of olive green, softer and finer than any cloth he recognised.
Then skin.
Too pale and uncomfortably cold.
Black veins crawled beneath the surface like ink spilled through water. His heart lurched, but that wasn't what made him stop.
There.
Just along the bicep.
A birthmark. One sweeping stroke of darker pigment, like a painter had dragged a brush across untouched canvas. The paladin forgot how to breathe.
"It's..." the ranger whispered, staring with widening eyes, skeptical but hopeful nonetheless. "It's really him."
"How is he older?" The Rogue looked confused between them, red brows knit together.
"It's been four suns," the bard answered automatically, though confusion furrowed his brow just as deeply. "Of course he's older."
"No," the ranger murmured. "I mean..." They knew what was unsaid. Even the paladin. This was impossible.
Because he hadn't looked like this when they'd buried him. He'd been smaller. Younger. Still soft around the edges with all the awkwardness of twelve summers.
This boy... He carried the same face. The same birthmark. The same impossible familiarity that settled beneath armour and flesh, deep in the other boys ribs until it ached.
As though some forgotten part of him had spent years searching for a missing piece without ever realising it may have changed shape.
"Is he poisoned?" the rogue asked, wiping one of her twin blades clean against the end of her dark emerald cloak.
"Cursed." The answer came immediately from the bard as the paladin tore free the worn strap securing his gauntlet before wrenching the leather glove from his hand and throwing both aside. His bare palm landed flat against the boy's chest, golden light flooding instantly between them, pouring warmth into cloth covered skin that felt far too cold.
The curse remained.
Three pairs of eyes met over the still body. Everyone present understood the same cruel truth. A paladin could mend flesh. He could drive back darkness with divine light. Yet he could not lift a curse. For that...
They needed a cleric.
His helmet hit the ground with a heavy clang as he ripped it free, dark curls tumbling loose beneath the spring sunlight. His composure cracked so completely it startled even him. "We just need to wake him," he said quickly, desperately. "We can heal him once he's back. We just... we have to wake him."
It was always about bringing him back. Even when there'd been nothing left to save. After the funeral procession had long disappeared over the hill and after everyone else had returned home. The Paladin had remained standing before that weathered stone until the sunrise painted the kingdom in gold, until the roses laid at its base had begun to wilt beneath the passing weeks, until every letter carved into its face had become another prayer committed to memory.
Please.
It had always been the same prayer. "Please..." His voice broke. "...William." One trembling hand cupped his friend's cheek. "Wake up."
Silence answered him.
Long enough that hope began to splinter.
Then—
A ragged breath tore violently into desperate lungs.
The body jerked beneath his hand as milk-white eyes snapped open, clouded and sightless for one terrible heartbeat before colour slowly rolled back into them.
Deep moss-green encircled rich earthen brown flecked with warm amber. Witch eyes. The Paladins own breath deserted him.
He'd forgotten.
Forgotten how impossible those eyes were. How alive they looked. How easily they undid him.
He found himself leaning closer without meaning to, sunlight catching the edges of his armour while his own shadow fell gently across the boys face.
"M-Mike?"
Oh.
The world stopped. His name had never sounded like that from another soul. Soft in it's familiarity and relief yet so terribly uncertain. Like a prayer spoken by someone who already believed they'd been answered.
Something inside him, ancient and unnamed, finally loosened its grip around his heart. He hadn't realised until that moment how tightly it had been holding on.
He smiled before he could stop himself.
Not the restrained smile expected of a paladin of the crown. Certainly far from the tight courteous one offered to nobles or priests.
It was wider.
Younger.
The smile of a boy who'd spent four years kneeling beside a grave, only to find the heavens had returned what they had borrowed.