Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The streets are empty as Will leaves Melvald's, his feet carrying him home on autopilot. The afternoon sun glows golden, catching on store windows, rusted street signs, and the leaves just starting to turn. It's beautiful in a way that makes Will's chest ache, because Hawkins has always been beautiful in September—the air sharp but comforting, reminiscent of home. It reminds him of before, when the town was full of friends and family and each corner was more than a memory of everything he'd lost. He passes the Wheelers' house without looking at it directly. That's a habit too. The FOR SALE sign has been up for six months now, ever since Karen and Ted finally admitted that Nancy wasn't coming back and Mike wasn't coming home and Holly was already talking about colleges on the East Coast. The grass is long and overgrown, weeds taking over where Karen's garden used to be. Will thinks about mowing it sometimes, but can never bring himself to go any closer than the sidewalk. The apartment building is at the end of Cornwallis, a two-story structure with peeling paint and a front door that never unlocks on the first try. Will climbs the exterior stairs to the second floor, unlocks their door, and steps inside. The apartment is quiet. Mike won't be back from Family Video for another three hours at least, and the silence that fills the small space feels almost luxurious after eight hours of fluorescent lights and the Melvald's radio playing the same rotation of eighties hits. Donald had sent him home early. Business was slow, he'd said. Will hadn't argued. He never argues, especially not when Donald gets that look on his face—the same look Joyce used to get when Will was a kid, the one that says I know that something is wrong but won't ask. Will drops his keys in the bowl by the door. The apartment is small enough that he can see almost all of it from where he stands—the living room with its sagging couch and old TV, the kitchenette with its two-burner stove and the dishes from this morning still in the sink, the narrow hallway that leads to their bedrooms and the single bathroom they share. The walls are thin, the air conditioning barely works, but it’s theirs. It's home. It's been home for two years now, ever since Lucas and Max left for California and it stopped making sense to keep pretending they all still lived in their childhood bedrooms, waiting for something that was never going to come back. Joyce and Hopper had already gone to Montauk by then. Nancy and Jonathan were in New York. Dustin was in Boston, finishing his degree. Robin and Steve had gotten an apartment in Chicago, calling them occasionally, their voices too bright, asking how they were doing in a way that made it clear they already knew the answer. Everyone had left. Mike stayed. Mike stayed because leaving would mean accepting that it was over—that Eleven was really gone and there was nothing left to fight for. Mike stayed because Hawkins was the last place he saw her alive, and walking away from it would feel like a betrayal. Like saying it was okay that El was gone, that he could be happy, that he could wake up one day and not feel the absence of her like a missing limb. Everyone else had done it—packed their grief into boxes and driven away to colleges and jobs and futures that didn't include the weight of being a hero at thirteen and lost by seventeen. Leaving Hawkins meant healing, and Mike couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that. Because if he stopped hurting, what did that say about what they'd had? If he could leave Hawkins and be fine, then maybe it had never mattered as much as he'd thought. Staying was penance. Will stayed because Mike stayed. He's never said that out loud. He's never even let himself think it in words that clear, that damning. But it's true in the same way that the sun rises every morning and sets every night, in the way his heart beats in his chest and his lungs expand with each breath. He has been in love with Mike Wheeler for as long as he can remember, before he had the words to describe it. So he stays. He makes coffee the way Mike likes it. He picks up extra shifts so they can make rent. He sits on the couch and draws while Mike stares at nothing, listens while Mike yells and cries and lashes out. He learns the rhythm of Mike's grief, the patterns of his bad days, the small ways to make things easier. He becomes the person who can disappear into the shadows, who can absorb harsh words in one second and be a shoulder to cry on the next. Living here was painful and perfect. It was everything Will had ever dreamed and the reason for the ache in his chest. It was the last place everyone was together, on the night before Lucas and Max left—a memory that Will holds on to like a lifeline. He can remember it clearly, the way they all crammed into the living room that was barely big enough for two people, let alone everyone. Steve had brought pizza. Robin had brought beer that tasted like dishwater but they'd drunk it anyway. Dustin had tried to get them to play a campaign, one last time, but the dice had stayed in the box because none of them could pretend that rolling a twenty would fix anything. They'd sat on the couch and the stained carpet as Max cried and Lucas had held her and Steve made jokes that weren't funny. Robin had fallen asleep against the armrest. Dustin had talked about Boston and his Physics program until his voice went hoarse. Mike had sat next to Will, close enough that their shoulders touched, and said nothing at all. When everyone left the next morning, the apartment had felt enormous and empty, and Mike had looked at Will with something desperate in his eyes and said, "You're staying, right?" Will had never been able to say no to Mike Wheeler. His sketchbook is on the coffee table where he left it this morning, and he picks it up, running his thumb over the worn cover. He hasn't drawn much lately, which is strange because drawing used to be the thing that made him feel like himself, the thing that proved he was still here, still real. But today he has the apartment to himself, and the afternoon light is coming through the window at an angle that makes everything look softer and gentler. He has three hours before Mike comes home—three hours that are just his. He settles onto the couch, tucking his legs underneath him. The cushions are broken in, molded to the shape of his body and Mike's from two years of existing in the same space. He opens the sketchbook to a blank page, the paper smooth under his fingertips. He starts with the window. His hand moves in familiar patterns, muscle memory taking over, and for a little while he doesn't think about anything at all. Not about the way Donald looked at him today, or the exhaustion that has settled into his bones like something permanent. Not about Mike, who comes home angry more often than not these days, who slams doors and snaps over nothing and then looks at Will like he's waiting for him to leave too. Will draws the kitchen chairs, the coffee table with its uneven leg, the stack of VHS tapes by the TV, until the page is full. When he flips the page, his hand stills. He stares at the blank space in the center of the page, and before he can stop himself, he starts drawing a face. El. He begins with the shape of her head, the line of her jaw. That part is easy. He's drawn her before, years ago, when she was still here. But when he tries to add the details—the curve of her eyebrows, the slope of her nose—he hesitates. The specifics are slipping away from him. It's been four years. Four years since the final battle, since Will watched his sister disappear through the gate like she'd never existed at all. Four years, and he's forgetting her face. The realization hits him like a physical blow, sharp and sudden in his chest. He can't remember the tilt of her head or the furrow of her eyebrows, the way she looked when she was listening or when Will showed her his drawings. He can't remember the exact shape of her smile, the one she saved for the people she loved—the one that made her look younger than she ever got to be. He should be able to draw her perfectly, every detail exact, because she was his sister and she saved the world and she died for it. He should be able to close his eyes and see her clearly, not this blurred version of her, no more than a memory of a memory. But his vision is blurring and his throat is tight and he can't remember, can't do anything but set the pencil down and tuck his shaking hands under his thighs. He misses her. He misses her so much it feels like something's been carved out of his chest, leaving a hollow space where she used to be. When Will looks down at the sketchbook, her face stares up at him, half-formed and already fading. He thinks about adding more details, about trying again to get it right. But his hand feels heavy, and his eyes are starting to blur, and the exhaustion that's been creeping up on him is suddenly overwhelming, pressing down on his chest like a physical weight. The light is fading, golden rectangles moving across the floor as the sun drops lower. The apartment is settling around him, the small creaks and sighs of a building at rest. The refrigerator hums. A car passes outside. Someone in the apartment above them walks across their floor, footsteps muffled but audible through the thin ceiling. Will's head tips back against the couch. The exhaustion runs so deep, so complete, that resisting it feels impossible. But it's normal. It has to be normal—needing more sleep, feeling worn down, waking up some mornings with no energy to get out of bed. It must be the job, the routine. After all, he's twenty-two now, not fourteen. Maybe he's coming down with something—the thought drifts through his mind fleetingly—but then it’s gone and the exhaustion is pulling him under. The sound of the front door slamming open jerks Will awake so violently that his sketchbook tumbles to the floor, pages fluttering. His heart is hammering. For a second he doesn't know where he is, doesn't know what woke him, and then he hears it. "Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable." Mike. Will's still blinking sleep from his eyes, his mouth dry and cottony, when he sees Mike storm past the couch. He doesn't look at Will, doesn't even glance in his direction. He's still wearing his Family Video vest and his face is flushed across his cheeks and down his neck. His jaw is so tight Will can see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. The anger is radiating off him in waves. "Hey," Will says, and his voice comes out rough from sleep. He clears his throat, sitting up straighter, trying to shake off the fog. He can feel the imprint of the couch cushion on his cheek, the ache in his neck from the way he was lying. Mike doesn't answer right away. He's standing in the middle of the living room now, hands on his hips, staring at nothing. His chest is rising and falling too fast, like he's been running, and Will watches the way his fingers curl and uncurl against his sides. "Keith's a fucking asshole," Mike says finally, and he's not talking to Will so much as talking at the apartment, his voice too loud for the small space. "I swear to God, I don't know how that guy still has a job." Will's brain is still catching up. "What happened?" Mike laughs. It's sharp and bitter and nothing like the way it used to sound, when they were kids. "What happened?" Mike repeats, and now he's moving, yanking the vest off with frustrated movements. "What happened is I spent six hours dealing with people who don't understand how late fees work—" He throws the vest toward the kitchen. It hits the counter and slides to the floor in a crumpled heap. "—and then Keith—Keith—has the nerve to tell me I'm not being friendly enough." Mike's voice is getting louder, sharper. "Me! Like he doesn't spend half his shift in the back room eating Cheetos and reading porn magazines." Will's hands are resting on his thighs, his palms pressed down flat, grounding himself. This is familiar. This is most days now—Mike coming home wound so tight he's practically vibrating with it, needing to expel all the frustration and helplessness somewhere, and Will is here, so Will gets it. He always gets it. "That sucks," Will says, and he keeps his voice soft, even. "Did he—" "And then," Mike continues, like Will hasn't spoken, and he's pacing now, back and forth in the space between the couch and the TV, his hands gesturing sharply. "Then this guy comes in, wants to rent Back to the Future, which is fine, whatever, except we don't have it because someone never returned it, and he starts yelling at me." Mike stops moving for a second, turning to look at Will, and his eyes are bright. "Like I personally stole it. Like it's somehow my fault." Mike says, and his voice cracks slightly on the last word. Will's chest tightens. This isn't really about Keith or the customer or Back to the Future. It's never really about those things. "Mike—" Will starts, but Mike is already talking again. "And Keith just stands there." Mike's moving again, faster now. "Doesn't back me up, doesn't say anything, just lets this guy go off on me—" Mike pauses, breathing heavily. “So I told the guy if he wanted Back to the Future so bad, he should try Blockbuster,” Mike says, laughing once without humor. “And Keith wrote me up.” The words hang in the air between them. "I'm sorry," Will says, and he means it. He always means it. "That's not fair." "No, it's not." Mike stops pacing. He's standing in the middle of the living room now, arms crossed tight over his chest, his fingers digging into his biceps. "Nothing about this is fair," Mike says, and his voice is quieter now. "I'm twenty-two years old and I'm getting written up by Keith at Family Video for not smiling enough at people who yell at me." The silence that follows feels heavy. He wants to say something that will help. He wants to find the right words, the ones that will make Mike feel better, that will ease some of the tension out of his shoulders and bring him back to himself. "Do you want to talk about it?" Will asks. It's the wrong thing to say. He knows it the second the words leave his mouth, knows it in the way Mike's expression changes, the anger morphing into something cold, something worse. "No, Will, I don't want to talk about it," Mike says, and his voice is quiet now, each word precise and cutting. "I don't want to talk about my shitty boss at my shitty job in a shitty town that everyone left except us." The words feel like a slap. Will feels them in his chest, right between his ribs where it's hardest to breathe. Everyone else got out except us. Like this wasn't a choice Will made deliberately, consciously, because the alternative was leaving Mike alone and that was never really an option at all. "Okay," Will says quietly. His voice doesn't shake. Mike stares at him for a second longer, his jaw working like he's trying to find more words—but there’s nothing left to say. He turns away, his steps urgent as he retreats to his bedroom and closes the door behind him. The apartment is quiet again. Will sits on the couch, his sketchbook still on the floor where it fell, and he doesn't move—he can't. The exhaustion is back, heavier than before, pressing down on his chest and shoulders until it’s all he can feel. It's always heavier after Mike leaves like this. The light outside has changed. The golden September afternoon has faded into evening, and the patches of light on the walls have faded to shadow. He knows he should get up, should make dinner, or clean the kitchen, or pick up his sketchbook and finish the drawing he started. He should pick up Mike's vest from where it's crumpled on the kitchen floor. He should do something productive, something that proves he's not just taking up space and making everything worse. But he can’t do anything except lie there on the couch in the fading light and let the exhaustion pull him under like water—filling his lungs and his chest and the space behind his eyes until there's nothing left but the weight of it. Will lets himself drown. He’s gotten very good at that.