Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Hi.

My name is Will.

Full name, William Byers.

I am twelve years old.

Actually, I turned twelve yesterday.

Mom says I am getting older, but I don't really feel different. I think I look the same. Maybe a little taller? I don't know. I'll ask Jonathan.

This diary was a gift from Lucas. He said I should write down everything that happens in it so I can remember things when I'm older.

He said it would be like keeping all my memories in one place.

I think that's pretty cool.

So I guess this is where I am supposed to start.

Hi, diary.

Okay wait.

I think I should give you a name.

You're going to be my friend too, and I can't just call you diary forever. That would be kind of rude.

What should I call you?

If you're called a diary, then maybe I should give you a name that still sounds a little bit like diary.

GOT IT!!

Dory!!

How does Dory sound?!

I think Dory is adorable.

You are officially Dory the Diary.

See? Much better.

I think we're going to be good friends, Dory.

Mom says I should write about things that happen during the day, so I guess I'll tell you about everyone.

There's Mom, obviously.

And Jonathan.

And my friends.

Dustin talks a lot. Like, a lot. Sometimes I don't even know how he can talk that much without stopping to breathe.

Lucas is really nice. He gave you to me, so he's probably the best gift-giver ever.

And then there's Mike.

Mike is my first friend.

He's also my best friend.

He's really good at D&D, and he always knows what I'm trying to say even when I don't say it properly.

Sometimes I don't even have to explain things to him.

He just knows.

I don't know how he does that.

I think that's probably what makes someone a best friend.

Someone who knows what you mean even when you don't know how to explain it yourself.

Oh!

We played D&D today and Mike said my campaign idea was good.

He didn't say it was really good, but I could tell he liked it.

Maybe next time I'll make the monster even scarier.

I want to draw it too.

Maybe I'll show Mike first.

He always likes my drawings.

Oh no.

Mom is telling me to go to sleep.

I'll be back soon, Dory.

I promise I'll write in you every night.

I'll tell you about everyone in my life and everything I like and everything that happens.

I wish you could talk back, though.

Then you could tell me about everyone you know.

But I guess that's okay.

I can talk enough for both of us.

I don't usually talk that much.

Except with my friends.

Especially Mike.

Mom is yelling again.

I really have to go now.

Goodnight, Dory.

We'll talk tomorrow.

Byeeeeee!!!

*

“It’s so stupid!”

Will threw his brush onto the small wooden table beside his chair. It landed with a wet little slap against the palette, sending a streak of blue paint across the already ruined surface.

He stared at it.

Then at the painting.

Then back at the brush.

“Great.”

He dragged both hands through his already-messy hair and leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

The painting had been staring back at him for three weeks.

Three weeks.

His original deadline had been a week ago, and he’d already asked for an extension. Again.

Again.

That was becoming an embarrassing pattern.

Every time the gallery contacted him, Will promised them it would be finished soon. A few more days. Just until he fixed one thing. Just until he figured out what was wrong.

Except he never figured it out.

And the worst part was that he didn’t even know what he was trying to fix.

He knew there was something missing.

He just couldn’t find it.

“What is it?” he muttered.

He leaned forward, elbows resting against his knees.

“What the hell is missing?”

Nothing answered.

Of course it didn’t.

Will narrowed his eyes at the canvas.

The painting was good.

He knew it was good.

He’d been told it was good enough for the gallery. His agent had called it beautiful. His editor had called it emotionally striking. One of the curators had even told him that his work had a way of making people feel nostalgic for things they’d never experienced.

Will hated that compliment.

Because nostalgia was easy.

He could paint memories in his sleep.

What he couldn’t paint was whatever came after them.

Whatever came when the memory ended and you were left standing there alone.

He picked up his brush again and stared at the canvas.

Dark blues swallowed most of the background. A pale smear of yellow sat somewhere near the center, almost drowned beneath the layers he’d painted over it.

He had no idea why he’d put it there.

He had no idea why he kept trying to cover it.

His thumb rubbed absently against the handle of the brush.

“Come on, Will.”

He dipped the brush into the paint.

Stopped. His fingers lingering.

Put it down again.

“Fuck no.”

He couldn’t do it.

Not tonight.

The deadline could wait.

It always did.

Until, it probably wouldn’t anymore. And, he would be screwed.

The low rumble of thunder outside pulled him from his thoughts.

Will turned toward the window.

New York was disappearing beneath the rain.
Tiny drops slid down the glass, catching the blurred lights of the city before merging together and vanishing beneath the window frame.

He watched them for a while.

There was something strangely comforting about rain.

Maybe because it never asked permission to fall.

Life had been messy.
It had always been messy.

Will had simply gotten better at arranging the mess into things that looked presentable.

He had a career now.

A successful one, even.

His paintings hung in galleries where people stood in front of them with thoughtful expressions and expensive coats. His name appeared in magazines. His work had collectors. He had an apartment in New York, enough money to live comfortably, and a life that, from the outside, looked almost suspiciously put together.

His mother was doing well.

Jonathan was doing well.

Everyone had grown up.

Everyone had moved forward.

So why did Will still feel like some part of him had been left behind?

He didn’t know the answer.

He looked around the apartment.

The canvases stacked against the walls.
The half-finished paintings.
The books he’d bought and never opened.
The mugs he’d forgotten to wash.

The little pieces of a life he’d carefully built for himself.

It should have been enough.

It was enough.

And yet there was always that quiet space inside him.

That stupid, stubborn emptiness.

He had tried filling it with work.

It hadn’t worked.

He’d tried new cities.

That hadn’t worked either.

He’d tried dating.

That had definitely not worked.

Will sighed and turned his chair back toward the painting.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow he’d finally understand what was missing.

He just needs a little sleep.

The telephone suddenly rang.

The sharp sound tore through the apartment, making him flinch.

“Jesus.”

Will stared at it for a second before getting up.

He crossed the room and picked up the receiver.

“Hello? Will Byers speaking.”

His mother’s soft, familiar voice came through the line.

“Hello, my love. How have you been?”

Something in Will’s chest loosened immediately.

He smiled despite himself, leaning his shoulder against the wall.

“I’m good, Mom. How are you?”

“I’m good. You sound tired.”

Will glanced toward the unfinished painting.

Then toward the clock.

Eleven thirty eight.

Then back at the rain.

“I’m fine.”

It was an easy lie.

He’d had years of practice.

“How is the painting, Will?” Joyce asked, her voice muffling a little through the telephone.

“Oh yeah, it’s alright.” Will turned his head towards the still canvas. The blues and yellows meshing into weird shapes. He sighed, “It’s coming together.”

He couldn’t let Joyce know about how drained the painting has made him. She already knew about all his extensions, if she finds about this one too then he would have to write her a three page explanation on why he is slacking at his job.

So, he changed the subject.

Will asked about Hopper, his dad.

He had started calling him Dad after a while of his mom marrying Hopper. At first, it had felt strange. The word had belonged to someone else for so long and then he had no one to call dad for a while that saying it out of nowhere was a little awkward.

But Hopper never made him feel like he had to earn it.

He showed up.

He listened.

He made terrible jokes and somehow laughed at them harder than anyone else. Which Will found extremely endearing. He was there for family dinners, birthdays, bad days, good days, and all the ordinary moments in between.

Eventually, Will decided that if a man could love his mother the way Hopper did, care for Jonathan and him the way he did, and choose to be there every single day, then he deserved to be called Dad.

So Will started calling him that.

And Hopper never stopped smiling when he heard it.

“He’s doing good,” Joyce said happily. “He’s actually outside right now. He said he was going to fix that stupid fence again, but I told him not to because he always makes it worse.”

Will chuckled softly.

“That sounds like Dad.”

“It does! And then he had the nerve to tell me he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Does he?”

“No.”

Will laughed.

“Mom.”

“I’m serious! Your father has never known what he’s doing when it comes to fixing things.”

There was a fondness in her voice when she said it, the kind that made Will smile without even realizing it.

Joyce continued talking, telling him about everything that had happened over the last few days. What she had cooked for dinner, how Hopper had insisted on helping her even though he had nearly burned something, as usual, and how Barney had apparently decided that Hopper was his new favorite person to chase around the yard.

“Your dad was running after him,” Joyce explained, already laughing. “And then Barney suddenly turned around and ran straight between his legs. Hopper didn’t see him coming and just went down.”

Will covered his mouth, laughing.

“Did he hurt himself?”

“No, no. He was fine. His pride was the only thing that got hurt.”

“That sounds about right.”

“And then he blamed Barney!”

Will could practically picture it.

He smiled as he listened to his mother’s enthusiastic voice fill the quiet apartment.

He missed her.

He hadn’t realized how much until now.

The last time he’d seen her had been four months ago, when they’d all gone over to Jonathan’s house for dinner. It had been one of those rare evenings when everyone managed to be in the same place at the same time.

Jonathan was doing incredibly well for himself now. He had become a very prominent movie director, living a good life in central New York. Will was proud of him. He really was.

His brother had worked hard for everything he had.

And then, two years ago, Jonathan had gotten back together with Nancy.

A year later, he’d proposed.

They were planning to get married sometime this year.

Will was happy for them.

He really was.

Sometimes it felt strange watching everyone grow up around him. People getting married, buying houses, building families, making plans for the future.

He was happy that they had found their happiness.

He just sometimes wondered where his own had gone.

“So,” Joyce continued, completely unaware of where his thoughts had wandered, “I was like thinking, you know, why did she have to talk to anyone when her husband was right there, right?”

Will blinked, pulled back into the conversation.

“What?”

“I told you about the woman at the grocery store, didn’t I?”

Will smiled.

“No, Mom. You didn’t.”

“Well, you should hear what happened.”

He could hear the excitement building in her voice.

Will settled more comfortably against the wall, the receiver pressed against his ear.

“What happened?”

“So, this woman was talking to another lady in the store, just having a normal conversation, you know? And her husband was standing right there. And suddenly he goes, ‘Do you have to talk to everyone?’”

Will frowned.

“What?”

“Exactly!”

He laughed softly.

“And you know what she told me?”

“What, Mom?”

“That he doesn’t like it when she talks too much.”

Will stared at the rain-streaked window.

“He doesn’t like her talking?”

“No! Can you believe that?” Joyce exclaimed. “That’s his wife! His wife, Will. The woman he married after years of being together. The audacity to just shut her off like that.”

Will smiled faintly at his mother’s outrage.

“I felt so bad for that poor woman,” Joyce continued. “She was such a sweet person too. She helped me with the groceries even though she’s five months pregnant. And she was still walking around helping me find the utensils I needed.”

Will nodded even though his mother couldn’t see him.

“Really?”

“Yes! She was so lovely. I couldn’t believe how kind she was. I kept telling her to sit down, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Will smiled as he listened to his mother go on about the sweet woman who she fortunately met at a market.

Joyce has found her footing since she and Hopper moved to live just a block away from Jonathan. She was relieved to be living next to at least one of her sons.

Initially it was Will who she wanted close but he couldn’t take that risk. Her popping in to check on him at random hours of the day was not what he wanted at all. Not with his messed up and slacking life. His horrible, inconsistent and derailed routine would make her go insane which he knew was going to be a disaster for him.

”Anyways, I have this amazing news for you, Will.”

“Oh, really? What is it?” he asked, a little more expectant now, shifting his weight on his feet.

“You know Jonathan and Nancy are planning their wedding, right?”

Will nodded automatically before remembering that his mother couldn’t see him.

“Yeah,” he replied softly.

“And you know what they were talking about?” Joyce continued, her voice already carrying that familiar excitement. “They were thinking about having the wedding in Hawkins! Isn’t that crazy?!”

Will froze.

For a moment, he didn’t hear anything else.

The rain continued tapping against the window. The low hum of his apartment filled the silence. Somewhere outside, a car passed through the wet street, its headlights briefly washing across the ceiling.

But all Will could hear was one word.

Hawkins.

His stomach dropped.

Hawkins, Indiana.

The little town he’d left behind ten years ago.

The place he’d promised himself he would never return to.

Ten years of distance.

Ten years of building a life somewhere else, far enough away that he could pretend the memories belonged to someone he used to be.

He had gotten good at that.

At not thinking about the woods.

About the old house.

About the school.

About the quarry.

About the arcade.

About the mall.

About the people.

Him.

Will swallowed, his fingers slowly tightening around the telephone cord.

Hawkins wasn’t supposed to be a place he went back to.

It was supposed to stay where he had left it.

In the past.

“Will?” Joyce’s voice pulled him back.

He blinked.

“Yeah?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“You’re awfully quiet.”

Will forced a small laugh.

“Sorry. I was just… surprised.”

“I know! Isn’t it exciting? It’ll be so nice having everyone together again. You haven’t been back in years.”

A decade.

He almost corrected her.

Almost.

Instead, Will looked toward the unfinished painting sitting across the room.

Ten years, and somehow Hawkins still knew exactly where to find him.

“I know,” he whispered.

And for the first time in a very long time, Will wondered if leaving Hawkins had ever really meant leaving it behind.

Hey Dory,

Sorry I couldn't write to you yesterday. I was sleeping over at Mike's. He was so desperate for me to stay even though I told him I had to go home.

You are a part of my routine now and I missed you, Dory. I know you're just a diary, but I think it would feel weird if I didn't tell you what happens everyday.

Anyways, yesterday was way too much fun.

We learned about parallel universes in Mr. Clarke's class! He said there could be another universe somewhere that is almost exactly like ours but maybe everything is different there. Like maybe there is another me who is a really good basketball player or something. Lucas said there is probably another Dustin who actually knows how to be quiet, but Dustin said that was impossible because he is already perfect.

I think I would like to see another universe.

Maybe there is one where monsters don't exist.

Or maybe one where we never have to grow up.

After class, we talked about it all the way home. Mike wouldn't stop asking questions about what would happen if you could actually travel between universes. He kept coming up with all these crazy ideas and Mr. Clarke probably would've been proud of him.

Then Mike made me go back to his house because he wanted to show me something.

He wouldn't even tell me what it was.

He just kept saying, “You'll see.”

I asked him at least five times.

He wouldn't tell me.

So obviously I followed him.

It turned out he had been working on something in the basement.

He made a new campaign map.

It was huge.

He had drawn this whole kingdom with mountains and rivers and forests and little villages. He even made a castle in the middle.

He said he wanted me to see it first because I was the best person to show it to.

I told him Lucas would probably be mad.

Mike said, “I don't care. You're my best friend.”

I don't know why, but I liked hearing that.

We played for hours.

At some point, it got dark outside, but Mike asked me to stay a little longer.

So I did.

We ended up sitting on the floor beside each other, looking at the map while Mike explained all the places he had drawn. His shoulder kept bumping against mine whenever he pointed at something.

Neither of us moved away.

I don't think he even noticed.

We were there for so long that my mom eventually called and told me I had to come home.

Mike complained.

A lot.

He said I could just sleep there.

I told him I couldn't.

He said, “Why not?”

I said because my mom would worry.

Then he said, “Fine. I'll ask her.”

I laughed so hard.

He really would've. And, he did. Mom was hesitant at first but she eventually agreed.

We played a little more before dinner and then a little more till Mrs. Wheeler told us to get to bed as it was getting late.

Mike took me to his room and we both laughed and talked as we got into his bed. We always shared his bed whenever I slept over. He was on the left and I was on the right. Always.

I woke up early and left without even having any breakfast as I was scared mom would yell at me. Mike was really upset.

Before I left, he walked me all the way to the door.

He gave me the map.

I told him I thought it belonged to him.

He said, “I made it for you.”

So now it's under my bed.

I think I'm going to keep it forever.

Anyway, I'm tired now.

I'll write tomorrow, Dory.

Goodnight.

Will