Chapter Text
jonathan’s car smells like pot he swears he quit and the lemon air freshener joyce keeps hanging from the mirror like it’ll cancel it out.
will sits in the passenger seat, sketchbook pressed to his chest so tight it bends a little at the corner. he fixes it immediately, smoothing the cardboard cover like it might get hurt.
“okay,” jonathan says, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his knee. “california high schools are like school in hawkins… just different. but also the same. just hotter. and people talk more.”
will nods. he’s been nodding a lot lately. talking more too, but nodding is easier when his throat feels weird.
he’s dressed the most normal he’s been in… maybe years. just black shorts, a worn out band tee jonathan let him steal, and a flannel tied around his waist because robin said back in hawkins that made him look less like he was “trying too hard” and more like he “accidentally looked cool.” he doesn’t totally get it, but he trusts robin.
the eyepatch is new. well. new to him.
it’s purple. technically it used to be one of el’s blindfolds that she said she didn’t need anymore, and joyce sewed elastic onto it late one night while pretending she wasn’t crying. it sits soft against his scar, less stiff than the other one. less… medical.
less like something happened to him.
more like something he chose.
jonathan glances at him. “people might stare. just… ignore it. or stare back. that works too, just don’t implode them or anything dude.”
will thinks about that. staring back. he’s not sure he’s brave enough for that yet.
“and if anyone gives you shit,” jonathan continues, voice going a little sharp, “you tell me. or you just… walk away. california kids are all talk, mostly.”
will swallows. “okay.”
his voice is quiet but not broken. not like before. the word comes out whole. jonathan notices. he always notices.
“and, uh,” jonathan adds, softer now, “the art kids are usually chill. mom fought pretty hard to get you in that advanced class, so… you’ll probably like it.”
will looks down at his sketchbook again. his fingers tap against the cover, a nervous rhythm. art class. higher level. he’s not sure if that means people will expect him to be good. he’s good when he’s alone. being good in front of people is different.
they pull into the school parking lot and will’s stomach immediately drops.
so many kids. everywhere. sun glaring off windshields, music blasting from open car doors, people laughing like nothing bad has ever happened to them in their entire lives.
he becomes hyper-aware instantly:
of his eyepatch
of the way he holds his sketchbook
of how his shoes sound too loud when he steps out of the car
jonathan kills the engine but doesn’t move right away. “you good?”
will looks at the school. at the people. at the doors that mean something new.
he nods.
he chooses to.
“yeah,” he says, a little stronger this time.
jonathan smiles, small and proud. “okay. you’ll be fine. just… be you. the current you. not, like, sixth grade you.”
will almost smiles at that.
he gets out of the car, sketchbook still death-gripped in his arms, and walks toward the building. every step feels deliberate. chosen. like he’s placing himself into the world instead of being dragged through it.
inside is worse. brighter. louder. lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, people talking over each other so fast it almost makes his head spin.
but no flashbacks. no sudden cold rush. no feeling like the floor is going to open up under him.
just noise. normal noise.
he breathes in. breathes out. keeps walking.
the art room smells like paint and dust and something faintly metallic. it’s quieter than the hallways, just low chatter and the scratch of pencils.
the teacher checks his schedule, gives him a look that’s curious but not pitying, and points him to an empty seat near the back.
“you’re in the advanced section,” she says. “your mother spoke to me. just work on the still life for today. headphones are fine if you’ve got them.”
will nods again. “thank you.”
he sits. carefully. like the chair might disappear if he trusts it too much.
there’s a bowl of random objects on the table: a cracked mug, a fake plastic apple, a bent spoon. he opens his sketchbook, lines already filling previous pages—demos, landscapes, his friends, his family, things he doesn’t show people.
he plugs in his walkman to his cassette playe. music jonathan burned onto a tape hums softly in his ears. familiar. grounding.
his pencil starts moving.
quiet. focused. minding his business.
it hits him about halfway through the first page that he hasn’t had a flashback in over a month. not since they moved. not since the sun and the ocean and the quiet nights where nothing crawled and nothing called his name from somewhere else.
his chest loosens a little at the thought.
he keeps drawing.
he doesn’t notice them at first.
it’s just a shift in the air. a cluster of black clothes and jangling jewelry and messy hair and smudged eyeliner drifting closer like a storm cloud but… not a scary one. more like shade on a hot day.
“hey.”
will looks up.
three kids are standing there, all dressed in different variations of dark and layered and effortlessly cool in a way that makes will suddenly aware of his own outfit again.
“you’re jonathan byers’ brother, right? he said he had a little brother, but they didn’t live together. are you him?”
the voice is gentle. curious, not prying.
will looks up slowly.
will blinks.
“…yeah,” he says quietly. “i’m will.”
“we figured,” the girl with the pin says, smiling a little. “jonathan showed us your old drawings once. the dragon one? with the three heads?”
will’s ears go warm. “oh.” he forgot all about that one. he was 10. joyce had hung it up in melvalds for the longest time.
another kid leans forward, squinting at his sketchbook like it’s something sacred. “dude, your lines are insane. they’re, like, confident. but also soft? that’s hard to do.”
will glances down at the fruit bowl like it might betray him. “i just… draw what i see.”
“yeah,” the first one says easily, pulling out the chair. “and we see a quiet art freak sitting alone. tragic. unacceptable.”
will opens his mouth.
closes it.
they sit down anyway.
just like that.
no ceremony. no big thing. just… inclusion like it’s obvious.
“i’m renee,” the girl with the pin says, tapping her chest. “that’s marcus, and that’s liv.”
marcus gives him a lazy salute. liv offers a small wave and then, without asking, slides a pencil toward him. a nicer one. heavier. better.
will hesitates.
“…thanks.”
they don’t ask why he’s quiet. they don’t ask what happened to his eye. they don’t ask anything big at all.
instead, marcus tilts his head at the purple eyepatch.
“…that’s actually really cool,” he says casually. “like, the eyepatch. not pity cool.”
will startles.
“oh. um. it’s just—”
“no, seriously,” liv cuts in, matter-of-fact. “it works. very mysterious tragic artist. you’ve got a whole vibe going and you don’t even look like you’re trying.”
will doesn’t know what to do with that. he presses his lips together so they don’t accidentally smile.
renee nods toward his walkman. “what do you listen to?”
“…a lot of stuff,” will says carefully. “my brother plays music a lot. i just kinda… hear things.”
“that tracks,” marcus says. “jonathan has good taste. so you probably do too.”
will shrugs, but he doesn’t deny it. robin said the same thing.
they let him sit in silence after that. not awkward silence. just… shared quiet. pencils scratching, pages turning, the hum of a classroom where he is not a ghost story.
for the first time, strangers don’t look at him like he’s fragile. or cursed. or returned from somewhere he shouldn’t have come back from.
they just look at him like he’s a quiet weird artist.
and something in his chest shifts. small, but real.
it becomes routine without anyone announcing it.
they save him a seat. they slide new bands across the table written on scrap paper.
bauhaus
r.e.m
the cure (obviously)
siouxsie and the banshees (non-negotiable, apparently, a rite of passage)
“start with the cure tape,” renee tells him one day, pushing a tape toward him. “that’s, like, entry level sadness.”
will turns the tape over in his hands like it’s something fragile and important.
“…okay,” he says softly.
another day, liv squints at his face for a long time.
“can we ask you something?”
will immediately stiffens. “um. okay.”
“your scar,” liv says gently, tapping under their own eye to indicate. “is it from something cool or something boring?”
will’s brain short-circuits for half a second.
dog bite.
the lie slips out easier than he expects.
“…a dog,” he says, shrugging a little. “when i was younger.”
marcus winces. “oof. that sucks.”
renee nods solemnly. “dogs are either angels or absolute demons. no in between.”
they accept it instantly. no suspicion. no follow-up.
will feels something unclench in his ribs.
the dog bite lie works.
it actually works.
one afternoon, renee leans across the table with a pencil like it’s a weapon.
“okay, important question,” she says. “have you ever tried eyeliner.”
will chokes on air. “what?”
“not, like, heavy,” she clarifies quickly. “just a little. subtle. messy-on-purpose. you’ve got the eyes for it. they’re all downturned and pretty.”
will instinctively touches the edge of his eyepatch.
“…i don’t know how.”
“perfect,” marcus says. “that means you won’t overdo it.”
they show him during lunch in the art room mirror. not making a big deal out of it. not laughing when his hand shakes a little.
“don’t make it perfect,” liv instructs gently, guiding his wrist. “perfect looks like you’re trying too hard. smudge it. yeah, like that. softer.”
will watches his reflection carefully.
the line is thin. a little uneven. but it makes his eyes look darker. sharper. like he’s someone who chose this instead of someone it happened to.
he swallows.
“…okay,” he whispers.
“see?” renee says. “cool. effortless. baby bat initiation complete.”
“baby bat?” will repeats, confused.
marcus grins. “new goth. learning the ropes.”
will huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself.
it surprises all of them. it surprises him most.
joyce notices first.
on the drive home, will talks.
not a lot. but more than he has in months.
“…we did still lives again,” he says, staring out the window. “but this time i used charcoal instead of pencil. it made the shadows better.”
joyce grips the steering wheel tighter so she doesn’t cry.
“that sounds really good, honey.”
“…and there’s these kids,” he adds, like he’s testing the words. “they’re… nice. they like my drawings.”
joyce nods quickly. “i’m glad. you deserve nice friends.”
will shrugs, but he keeps talking. about bands. about how one of them dyes their hair with coffee. about how they think his eyepatch is “cool,” said like it’s the strangest compliment in the world.
he almost sounds normal again.
joyce blinks rapidly at the road and pretends the sun is in her eyes.
she doesn’t say anything that might break it. she just lets it be normal.
at home, tutoring still happens at the kitchen table. grammar worksheets. reading out loud. correcting little things gently.
will’s speech is smoother now. less halting. he still pauses, still thinks carefully before he talks, but the words don’t feel like they’re stuck behind his teeth anymore.
between questions, he draws. constantly. lines more confident now. darker. less scared of being seen.
one evening, he’s heading to the bathroom to shower when he hears joyce on the phone.
“…yeah, he’s doing better,” she’s saying softly. “he actually likes it here, hop. the art class helped a lot. he’s made some friends.”
will pauses in the hallway, heart skipping.
hopper. and el. in the background of the call, faint but there.
“yeah, we’re at a rest stop right now,” hopper’s voice crackles through the receiver. “middle of nowhere nevada. we’ll be there in a couple days to pick him up.”
el says something muffled. joyce laughs quietly.
will’s chest tightens. hawkins. the party. mike.
he slips into the bathroom before she can notice him listening.
the fluorescent light buzzes overhead.
he looks at himself in the mirror.
black shirt. slightly oversized. sleeves pushed up. eyeliner smudged just enough to look intentional. purple eyepatch stark against his skin.
for a second, doubt creeps in.
imposter.
like he’s wearing someone else’s costume. like the goth kids were just being nice and this version of him won’t survive five minutes back in hawkins. no one there knows he’s healed.
his stomach twists.
then he imagines it.
robin grinning wide and saying, “oh my god, will, you look so cool.”
max raising an eyebrow, impressed. “about time, zombie boy.”
dustin yelling something extremely loud and supportive.
el touching the eyepatch gently and nodding like it makes sense.
mike—
will’s face heats up. he looks away quickly.
“…he’ll think it’s weird,” he mutters to himself. then, after a beat, quieter: “but not bad weird.”
he straightens a little. adjusts the eyepatch. smudges the eyeliner just a touch more, like liv showed him.
not hiding. not copying.
choosing.
will takes a breath.
“…okay,” he whispers to his reflection.