Chapter Text
No one ever noticed.
Not his friends, family, coworkers
Randoms on the street who would glance as he passed.
Nobody.
All of those people in his life, yet not a single one could see what was right in front of them.
It's not like Will had made it easy.
Not like he gave them a glimpse of the slow transition to self-depreciation.
Not like he gave any signs or showed a particular interest in doing so.
The question: When did it start?
He too asked the same, the hypotheticals coming in as a constant stream of synchronized cacophonies.
The answer—the only one he could find himself supplying: He’s not sure.
Will has always known he was a little broken inside.
Maybe it started the day his eyes were seared by the harsh, unforgiving glare of artificial lights. The day the world felt too big, too bright for him to exist in.
Or perhaps it was the day he accepted he held no purpose amongst the people around him.
While life for them carried on, Will was left picking up the pieces of his tattered, damaged soul.
From there sleeves swiftly became a tether. A new skin he could peel back and reattach whenever he pleased.
It felt refreshing, having something so wrong, so hideous hidden in such conspicuous places.
Places you’d have to get all close and personal to reach.
Tainting his skin. Leaving it dark, then fading to a pale, scaly mark.
Call him sick, call him deranged—but the truth was, it made him giddy. The quiet knowledge that he was alone in a world of fables and lies filled him with a strange, dark joy
Here he was—William Byers, the quiet, delicate boy with chipped nails and beat-up sneakers, nimble fingers made for art, hiding something that would surely send his mother into harrowing shock and his friends into frenzied panic if ever discovered.
None of them knew. Not a single one.
Will sat on the cream toilet seat lid, worn and stained from years of neglect. It had become part of his routine, like the thoughts that gnawed at him every day—too familiar, too settled in.
He hated the colour of the plumbing fixture, thought it was, for nicer words, ”the ugliest possible colour for a washroom”.
He’d told his mom plenty of times he could re-paint it—maybe something pretty like the Sky Blue he had been eyeing at the art supply shop downtown. Every time she ignored him as if he was joking.
The colour clashed horribly with the blue walls, giving him the urge to rip down each four cornered layer and surround himself with the plain white beyond.
He wanted to tear it down—see what it was like to be enveloped in the lighter shade.
A place he would surely end up.
Not to Heaven—no.
God no.
Not that wondrous place Churches and long haired Mormons preached on the seventh day, when the sun barely kissed the tip of trees and the birds had not yet sung.
No—unlike Heaven, transparent stairs will never greet him with the promise of ascending.
There will be no bells or calls of angels. No feast or triumphant festivals.
Nothing of the sort.
Where Will was bound to end up was a sterile room, the air thick with antiseptic. White vinyl sheets covering his body, a rigid bed in an 8x8 cell, the walls closing in on him
White layers would cover his body, socks soft and rubbery, contradicting the force of the deteriorating binds on his wrists—once a light wash, now bleeding into a pretty pink from the constant rub he fully induced. The color an almost disgustingly perfect match to fluffed candy, a time when fifty cents could buy the world and more.
Sharp objects forbidden.
Single calls a day. 8:40pm-9:30—but he would let them ring until the sound echoed his ossicles for days to come.
He’d hear frantic screams from newcomers—from those who didn’t want to be admitted, those scared for what was to come.
His sympathy would run dry—untouched. No need to feel bad for those meant to be there.
The differences between him and those others stark:
They wanted to return home.
Will had never felt like he belonged anywhere.
His bare thighs clung to the seat, the suction gripping at his skin with a nice tug.
He stared down at his socks. Snoopy looked up at him with dark ears and a goofy smile.
Will had been debating this all morning.
With one parent gone and the other asleep, it would be easy to sear away the gross feeling rising in his bones.
Let a blade dig in. Let the sweet red juices pool around his forearm.
He took a glance at the area, realizing that if he gave in then he should at least be strategic.
The California heat was no joke. Max Mayfield—a distant memory—had warned him.
God, it had been a while since he’d heard that name. Or even thought of it. He knew he should feel bad, but he didn’t. He doesn't seem to feel much of anything nowadays.
Perhaps the loss of empathy was a side effect to the new pills he’s shoved down his throat. He’d been taking them a lot recently, whenever the sickening ache in his chest left him gawning like some rabid animal.
The unearthly-looking raccoon popped into his mind at the thought—a sight he’d seen during one particularly long stroll through the forest behind his home.
It was quite sick, frothing at the mouth, twitching as whimpers left its thin black lips while it withered away.
A surge of something close to sadness rose in his chest before he moved on from the sight. There was no use in feeling bad for those on their deathbed.
The summer heat had left him prickling, forcing him to rip off layers.
His white T-shirt clung to his small frame, the collar dipping enough for a small item to fit.
Jenny did. Just last week.
“Horribly skinny” was what she’d called him, giggling as she placed one of her many tiny stress balls into the divot.
Will had never understood the point of those toys. He could squeeze all he wanted, yet the hold on his lungs never did let up.
His arms, once very light, had seeped into a deeper olive. It was less of a stark contrast to the red on his skin. Will didn’t know if he liked it better than when he’d been sickly pale.
Walks through the park and the large unit of forest surrounding the apartment had saved his complexion.
Five minutes turned to twenty, which bled into an hour. Now Will spent most days off from the record store sitting near the lively creek.
There, the frogs chirped, bellies protruding as they caught their next meal with darting tongues.
Birds danced with colorful feathers as chipmunks scurried from their hiding places.
It was the one place Will felt at peace after his family’s abrupt move to the city.
Besides the old funk of the place he slept, he was happy they were far from loud cars and city life.
That's one positive thing about growing up less fortunate—the shittier areas were often the most isolated.
Although, even after six months, it still felt different from his home back in Indiana.
Mom worked two jobs. One at the small, rundown motel around the block, where he was sure she wasn’t paid enough to scrub the sex and beer from old mattresses. The second—the one she liked a little more—was at the grocery store half a mile downtown, a place where those who lived like them shopped.
She told him she liked the people there. She’d gotten close with a few of the older women who smoked just as much and would slip her a pack of Camels on especially long shifts.
Aunt D—short for Deloris—was one of Will’s favorites among the ladies she invited over. Definitely not his aunt, but she carried the achingly familiar presence of one.
With her deep, rich skin and dyed pixie cut, she was a grounding, constant presence in his living room.
Sweet, honey-dipped scones and bitter black coffee often greeted him on mornings of Mom’s off days, along with her low laugh and dark eyes.
What Will liked most was her silence. Not in a mean way—only that a single glance from her could read him perfectly.
Normally, Will would hate it. He would loathe any show of pity. But somehow he didn’t with her, probably because she never spoke a word about it. He found her silent understanding better than any verbal comfort.
He rarely saw his mom anymore. When he did, it was usually with Deloris. When the two of them weren’t there, he left.
He couldn’t stand the other adult rotting in his home.
Lonnie was back—like a bruise pressing into the skin of his temple, tender even when untouched.
Will learned quickly which doors not to open. The television stayed on all day in his parents’ bedroom, the volume cranked high enough to rattle the walls. His mom never said Lonnie’s name outright. She just told Will to keep his distance, like that wasn’t already instinct.
Schizophrenia was the word she’d finally used a year ago, when his dad was admitted to Bloomington Psychiatric Hospital.
Money from his grandfather—an awful man with an even worse offspring—had paid for the treatment. Later, Lonnie was shipped to a home for people like him.
He lasted a month.
Will hadn’t been surprised when he was kicked out. Alcoholism and a mental health disorder clashed horribly. The home said they weren’t equipped to handle dual diagnosis.
For a while, Will assumed his father had just been an ass, per usual.
He found out the real reason three months ago.
His grandfather had said a big “fuck you” and dumped Lonnie here, into their three-bedroom apartment.
Now it was his mom, his dad, and Jonathan again, like something that had already been broken had been forced back into place.
Occasionally, Will would see his brother slip in the new hookup of the week, the act a foreign sight from his sibling. But Will guessed the move had changed everyone in some way.
His brother was drastically different now. He’d changed his style with the money from some photography job, and let his hair grow just to the nape of his neck. Will noticed he talked less as well, yet carried a new calmness. Maybe being away from the town that hated him had morphed him into this lighter, slightly happier version of himself.
Will was sure his older sibling thought the same of him. With his shoulder-length hair and bangs covering the green of his eyes, he admitted he too looked like a brand new person.
He wore eyeshadow now, something Jenny had introduced him to when she randomly admitted he was “very beautiful for a guy”. He always applied it fairly light, barely noticeable unless you were face to face with him.
She’d also admitted to having a crush on him two months into sharing shifts. Awkwardly, he’d had to tell her he didn’t like women. The two were closer than ever now.
His dad was so out of it half the time he didn’t even notice the makeup. Will was pretty sure he could take him in a fight now anyway, so he didn’t care much if he ever did.
Physically—Will was different, but in some ways the same.
Like the way a notebook and pen have always called to him when his mind feels too crammed, how he finds himself over explaining too much yet still not saying enough, or even the way his nail beds without a fail are always left bleeding and bitten when stress arises.
Lonnie didn’t do much anymore. He stayed slumped in his parents’ bedroom, sleeping through the day and eating most of the food in the fridge, even if it was half rotten.
His mom had dragged home some tattered old mattress from the side of the road and shoved it onto the floor. Lonnie had been sleeping on it ever since. She said she couldn’t stand his presence, let alone share a bed with him.
Whatever was wrong with him, it had never stopped him from drinking. Will could smell it seeping out from under the door most days.
Will tried not to think about it too hard, but the diagnosis made sense if he turned it over long enough in his head.
Depression, he decided. The scientific word for it.
It was a likely reasoning for the way Will had been feeling for the last year and a half.
He knew it made him a shitty son, stealing pills that weren’t meant for him. But Lonnie barely took them anyway. The bottle never seemed to empty.
Three white tablets usually did it for him. On other days he would take five, but not often. Only on bad days when he wants to rip his skin off.
Clozapine was what the label said. He didn’t know what it was, nor did he care. Will told himself they helped. That was reason enough to continue.
Will felt the familiar sting behind his eye as he decided.
With shaky hands, he pulled them from his lap, twisting his torso slightly to reach his pocket. The seat scraped softly beneath him before settling again.
The dark blue stared back. Once shiny, now dulled with time, rust and grime circling the metal from months of being shoved into pockets and bags. It wasn’t perfect anymore. Neither was he.
He flipped it open.
For a second, he caught his reflection in the metal—warped and blurred from use.
The familiar dread began to seep in.
He felt bad every time. He really did.
Because what was the point?
Inflicting pain, hurting yourself—for what? Attention?
Will didn’t like to think he did it for that.
Although… it would be nice for someone to notice. To care.
It had been months of the same thing. Locking himself in this room with its mismatched colours and dingy appliances, pulling the navy tool from his pocket like it was part of a routine.
Still, it never stopped a tear or two from slipping.
Today, with the harsh sun and the gross forecast of fifty-two, he knew he had to be smart.
His shorts were already short enough, riding high when he sat. They emphasized the plush of his legs—something that never seemed to shrink despite his drop in weight. His ribs were sharper now, his face thinner. He thought he looked healthier than last year.
His mom disagreed. Said he should eat more.
Lately she was always talking about prices—croissants on off days with Deloris, fifty cents for toilet paper like it was the end of the world.
She claimed the rent was better here than whatever bullshit she’d paid in Hawkins. Food came more steadily, too.
Will just hadn’t been able to stomach much of it.
He lifted the hem of his shorts, eyes lingering on skin that rarely saw sunlight. There was enough space between what showed and what didn’t.
He took a slow breath and braced himself the way he always did.
The pain came sharp and fast.
He held it in for a moment.
It hurt—but that was the point.
The sting grounded him. Something real. Something measurable.
Pain meant he was alive. That he was still here.
He exhaled slowly, the air warm against the stuffiness of the room.
This was his favourite part—the after.
The moment when everything quieted just enough. When his thoughts loosened their grip. When focusing felt easier.
He squeezed his eyes shut, brows pulling tight as tears slipped free.
It felt steady.
It felt manageable.
For a moment, it felt quiet.
Will stayed still until silent drops rolled down the length of his thigh.
Green met red as he glanced down.
It felt nice in some weird twisted way. Reminded him of his secret, that there was more to him than what met the eye.
Reaching to his left he pulled a long strip of toilet paper and placed it over the area to soak.
He’d always found it satisfying to watch the white bleed to dark.
Three strips later and the red seemed to slow. His fingers found pockets again, fumbling until he secured an item.
He ripped and placed three medium bandaids on the skin. Not a perfect fit, but good enough.
For no evidence he wrapped and tossed everything before leaning back into the seat.
Will sighed, letting his gaze wander to the ceiling. He spotted a spiderweb to his left, over towards the corner of the entrance. He could see something move—a tiny spider making its way through, weaving its home with practiced skill.
Will had never been afraid of the bugs. Simply thought of them as creatures navigating a cruel world just like him.
Despite it being early in the morning he still felt sluggish. His eyes closed again, the familiar sting flooding his nerves as he breathed in soft shampoo and windex.
He didn’t work until 2:00pm that day, a 2-9—one of his favourite shifts as he knew Jenny would be there.
On their last shift the two had been thinking of having a sleepover that weekend, realizing a proper hangout had been long overdue.
Wills never liked having them at his place, but he guessed it was time to host after three months of backing out.
Her place smelt of cinnamon and vanilla, something calming and sweet that left a warm ache in his chest long after he returned home. It was only Jenny, her mom and younger sister Allie in the small apartment.
Her mom was a kind woman, often offering them home baked apple fritter or securing popcorn for their movies.
Her sister, only five and so adorable, would constantly barge into Jenny's room to ask the two teenagers to draw or play dress up. Over the months Will’s been dragged into many renditions of house, having to act as dad or other various characters of Allie's little imagination. Despite the initial annoyance, Will finds himself enjoying every moment of it.
And of course, the unfortunate, yet very common burden to every warm, loving mother is a gross narcissistic asshole hot on their trail.
Jenny’s father was not an alcoholic like Will’s, but just a man who didn’t care enough to love them in the way a real father should.
Dean’s the type to drop in for Christmas’s or birthdays just to deliver gifts he picked up at random, hoping the girls would like them yet not caring in the slightest if they didn't.
Wills’ never met the guy but he knows for a fact he hates his guts.
In some ways the two friends could relate, in others Will kept to himself and prayed she didn’t try to play detective.
Even through his haze he could hear the snores pouring through the walls.
Lonnie had always slept like a hibernating bear. He kind of was similar to one, only ever leaving the confines of his room for food or to ask for battery changes on the TV remote like the rest of them were some maids to wait on his every need.
Sometimes Will wished he would sleep in for an entire season, maybe then their home would feel more like a home rather than a temporary living situation. Or maybe, if Will was hopeful enough, he would never wake up.
Will shook his head at that thought, hand coming down to pinch his thigh until it stung.
He doesn’t hate his dad, no. Maybe he hates the things he’s done. Like how he made simply living a hard task for his poor mother, or how he left his brother to cover bruise marks at the age of ten.
Even with knowing everything he could never truly hate his dad. And as much as he tried, Will could never tame the part of him that cared.
It's not his fault he has a mental disorder, not his fault he can’t seem to function properly.
Will’s not sure if his dads actions throughout his childhood were simply outcomes to whatever is going on in his head or if he truly just hates the thought of being a functioning parent. Will hoped it wasn’t the latter; it would be more shitty.
And even if it did play a part, even if Lonnie came to him now and apologized for everything, Will thinks at this point it's too late to form any semblance of a relationship. Too late to take back the words and fists thrown, to pretend like it never happened.
With that knowledge, Will just continues what he does best—avoiding and silently blaming the world for the cards he’s been dealt.
When the snoring suddenly came to a stop, Will's heart did too.
His eyes shot open, breath caught in his throat as he listened.
He heard a door creak, someone clear their throat with robust force then a slam.
Footsteps came.
One, two, three. They were loud, bare feet slapping wood towards where Will sat.
His dad was coming into the washroom now.
With a jolt, his ass was off the toilet seat.
He ignored the sting of his thighs and the way his legs wobbled as he crossed the tile flooring.
He looked back once to make sure he hadn’t left anything.
A moment too long.
He turned back.
Suddenly his sunken eyes met a void. Either that or his dad was drunk out of his mind.
Lonnie made a low grunt, a sound made more of phlegm than anything—a clear sign for Will to high tail it out of there.
Green met tile flooring as Will slipped past the tiny pocket and dashed down the hall.
Once he reached his room he shut and locked his door with practised ease—the fear of slamming and their consequences still engraved—and then sank to his sheets.
He let the tang of week-old garments and smoke fill his lungs.
God, Will needs a cigarette.
Maybe if he sees Deloris this week he can swipe one off of her—she’s always been the type to share.
Exhaustion tugged him down once again, his eyes drooping with satisfaction.
With a huff, he lifted his head and grabbed his alarm clock.
He set it to 1:25pm—his normal work preparation time.
Then he pressed his head into his pillow once again, letting the harsh exhale of the toilets flush lull him to sleep.