Chapter Text
When Will thought of mothers, he thought of the click of heels and the warm smell of cheap vanilla candles. He thought of lipsticked smiles full of straight white teeth and gentle, soft hands. He thought of blonde hair peppered with grey and homemade cookies and shiny red acrylic nails. He thought of the mothers he saw packing their children lunches and waving them goodbye from school, of stained aprons and watercolor paintings taped to the walls. When he was young, Will wished every Christmas for a mother. For someone to hold him, to scoop him up and take him away from the beer cans and harsh slaps.
Now, it seemed that wish had finally come true.
The woman in front of him looked startlingly similar to the one in his head. Gentle, wide brown eyes crinkled with smile lines, brows furrowed in concern and too-cold hands cupping his trembling cheeks. She blinked in and out of his spotted vision, her voice strung taut with what sounded like fear as she spoke rapidly, but Will didn't have the energy to focus on what she was saying. All he could do was try to keep his eyes open. Open so if he did die here, shivering all over and with blood underneath his bitten fingernails, the last thing he would see would be the sage green sweater he clenched between frozen fingers, the smell of perfume and cigarette smoke flooding his senses. The throbbing in his head and legs felt distant, now, as if he was outside of his body, simply perceiving what was happening to him like looking through a foggy window. He didn't think it was a particularly bad way to go.
However, it seemed the universe had other plans, as his body was jostled, sending fiery agony sharp up his veins. He could hardly manage a weak whimper, eyelids fluttering with pain, feeling as if his flesh was being stretched like taffy, bones creaking with the strain. The woman left his line of sight and he thought he might scream, or cry, although he couldn't do either- he couldn't even have this last thing, this beautiful vision, before his soul passed on to hell?
The hair suddenly tickling against his cheek felt like thousands of tiny needles prodding his chilled skin, far too sensitive, and he shivered. Peeling sticky eyes open with great effort, Will thought maybe, just maybe, he had instead gone to heaven. This new face- it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. An angel, surely. Soft ringlets curled around a pale face adorned with freckles, a nose that looked as if it had been broken before, chapped pink lips over crooked teeth; sharp cheekbones and irises syrup thick, so dark they were near indistinguishable from the way they pooled into his pupils. The pale column of his neck was marred with blue and purple, the blurry shape of elongated fingers making themselves known as he turned to the side, gaze still trained on Will. His blue windbreaker fluttered in the breeze, and Will's eyes caught on it for a moment, before his head was being maneuvered into a jean covered lap. And wonderfully, so wonderfully he was certain he was with God now, heat enveloped his senses, warm and coiling in his cheeks, his stomach, the divots in his palms. He curled into it, ignoring the white-hot strips of pain against his sides as he shoved his face into cotton, legs bending into a fetal position as careful hands settled into his hair. They were so light he could barely feel them, as if they were scared of breaking him. He went boneless, melting like butter, stray tears leaking out of his eyes. This has to be the best thing he's ever felt.
From then on, the grotesque claw marks surely crisscrossing his body become background noise in Will's brain as he single-mindedly zones in on the fantastic warmth cradling him. Things are being said, yelled, even, but the heat never leaves. Even as he feels things being wrapped tightly round his legs and ribs, cloth tugged across his shoulders and head spinning as he's moved somewhere new, it stays with him. The brief moments it does go, it comes back immediately, reassuringly, swiping away the saltwater gathered on his cheeks and gathering him up even more securely. He feels like a child again. Everything is floating and honey sweet, and he never wants to leave this place. Maybe he won't have to, he hopes futilely, lashes clumping together as he slumps with exhaustion. Maybe this will be the end. A happy ending, doused in so much sugar he's nearly choking on it. Like a fairytale.
Of course, things are not so simple. With the warmth still anchoring him to the solidity beneath him, cold fingers suddenly press firmly at his temples. His brows furrow, trying to turn away and burrow back into warmth, but the angel hands gently move him back in place. The fingers press again, two points of ice. For a moment, just a brief second, everything is silent. Then pure anguish drills through his skull in an unrelenting burst, and his eyes fly open.
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Will Byers is on his bicycle, riding home from the school, when he sees It.
It's normal for him to stay behind in the classroom for as long as possible, putting off going home until he can't anymore. He has to hide his bike behind the dumpsters every morning so the other kids don't take the opportunity to slash his tires- last time they had, his father had been furious, screaming at him asking if he thought they had the money for such trivial things. Of course, he hadn't been about to ask him for it anyways, Will thought bitterly, hands tightening around rain-slick handlebars. He'd saved up for repairs on his own through odd jobs and errands he was certainly too young to be doing, as had been his plan from the beginning. But of course, the moment the damage was seen, Lonnie had assumed the worst. Any excuse to berate him after a long day of getting drunk out of his mind, he supposed.
Regardless, he typically stayed at the school anywhere from five to seven pm on weeknights. At first, he'd made it by hiding in the bathroom stalls or janitor closets with his sketchbooks, but eventually one of the teachers had found him and took pity on him, letting him stay under the guise of a study hall. It was useful, anyhow. He hardly got any work done at home with the paranoia of an insult or shove coming from any corner, and he couldn't understand the way things were explained half the time besides. It wasn't as if he could ask for help, with the company he had at home.
Unfortunately, he had to be back at the right time every night, lest he drive his father "batshit crazy" scouring the halls for him. Privately, Will didn't believe it was out of any parental concern, but rather an obligation to make sure he wasn't mangled somewhere in the streets. In any case, Lonnie's word was law. So with streams of rain sluicing against his bare arms and soaking his jeans, hair dripping into his eyes and the holes in his sneakers leaving his socks squelching with water, he made his way through the puddled streets.
When he first glimpsed It, streaking through the trees, he dismissed it as nothing but a shadow. But then a flash of lightning illuminated It- leathery gray skin stained with red and rows upon rows of sharp, glinting teeth. Eyes widening with fear and elbows locking up, Will practically felt his throat crumple in on itself. No way this was real. Surely, it was just some hallucination cooked up by the DnD books he secretly read at night, filled with fantastical creatures. It didn't matter. He had seen It, and It had certainly already seen- or heard- him.
Veering off the trail, pedaling as fast as he could towards the trailer park, Will gasped as his tire caught on a root and sent him flying forward into the gravel. Wincing at the new scratches across his palms and knees, he scrambled upwards as fast as he could, peeling off to the distant lights of home. Their trailer was separated from the others, a ways near the woods, and normally he would've scrambled to the closest house instead, but Lonnie's trailer had something they didn't. A gun. Will didn't know what this- this fucking thing was chasing him- but he doubted it would just retreat back home once it sensed the waxy rays of lamplight. It seemed he would have to both fight and flight. Lungs burning, he peeled around the sparse patches of grass surrounding the trailer, slipping towards the collapsing shed Lonnie had built years ago. Slamming the door open so hard he feared it might come off its rusting hinges, he yanked the string light and stumbled towards the weapon. For once in his life he was grateful that his father had forced him to come along hunting so many years, as the experience would finally come in handy.
Whirling around, bangs heavy with rainwater slapping into his eyes as he did so, Will's eyes darted every which way for his target, chest heaving and fingers shaking with fear. For a minute, everything seemed suspended in time- and then he caught It. A flash of pale flesh against the trees. Lining up his aim, he pulled the trigger. A shot rang out, then two more, sound sharp against his ears before it was muffled by the rain. Dead center. A shriek, inhuman and piercing at the back of his skull. It should've died. It should've fallen down and stayed there. Three shots. It should've worked.
Claws shredded his skin, curling off pieces of flesh like wood shavings, and his own scream of pain was lost to the night.
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THE FIRST DAY
November 6th, 1983, 12:37 AM
When Will next awoke, it was like trying to walk through thick mud. Every part of forcing his body to move, his eyes to open, felt like swimming against a strong current, hurt shooting clear up his spine. The second thing that came to his senses, besides the torment shrieking beneath his skin, was the cold. It was unlike any winter chill he'd felt before, somehow otherworldly in its sheer power. It felt as if it was rattling through his veins and freezing his aching limbs into brittle sticks, diving its way down his throat and stomach to spike ice into his chest. With groggy eyes, he watched the white puffs of his ragged breaths swirl into the air. He couldn't breathe through his nose- it felt clogged by something- but even through his mouth he could taste the acrid smell of something rotten. What looked like thick snowflakes drifted aimlessly through the air; but that didn't make any sense, since as far as he could tell he was inside. Teeth grinding with the effort, he slowly moved aching bones into a sitting position. Looking around only left him more confused.
It seemed he was in his own room, but not quite. It was full of grayish light, slick black mold curling around the corners of the window beside his bed and the closet door. Rust coated the spindly legs of his desk chair, and the thin blanket he was laying atop of was damp and full of holes. The ceiling loomed pitch over him, and he realized with horror it wasn't shadows obscuring it- rather, slimy, writhing vines. He shuddered, curling in on himself and gasping when it irritated his wounds. Looking down, he was shocked at what he saw. His old, faded The Cure t-shirt that he'd spent months of savings on was ripped to shreds, hanging off his pale form, and in a moment of hysteria he almost laughed at the devastation he felt at it being damaged, rather than the bloody mess beneath. His torso looked like it'd been thrown through a meat grinder, ugly strips of skin hanging from his sides and exposing raw red flesh to the rancid air. Dried blood flaked brown around his waist and ribs, and he shivered at the cold. Strangely enough, looking down at it, he felt disconnected from the pain, almost numb. He'd read about that before; something to do with blood loss. That thought spurred him into action and he stumbled forward, nearly collapsing on wobbly legs.
Will winced at the realization that said legs were near torn to pieces too. Luckily it seemed they looked worse than they were, mostly surface scratches that didn't go too deep. However, his left ankle was twisted at a weird angle, and it throbbed with a constant ache. He used the feeling to ground him, taking a deep breath and trying not to throw up as he limped towards the hallway.
The door was rotting in places, black lines creeping up the wood like veins, and somehow the fact that it made no sound at all upon opening scared Will more than a rusty creak would have. The hallway looked like the perfect horror movie setting, deep shadows coiling around the walls, covering what Will assumed to be cracked photo frames. A deep sense of wrong permeated his senses with every step, the carpet squelching wetly beneath his sneakers. He wrinkled his nose at the rotten smell oozing from the living room as he walked in, bringing up a hand to cover his mouth, only to gag when he saw it, too, was encrusted with blood and slime. His eyes widened in disbelief as he gaped at the broken windows, jagged teeth of glass sticking out sharp against a backdrop of bluish light. Scampering up to the view and letting out a yelp as it irritated the gashes along his side, Will found it only got worse as he got closer. The trailer park looked like a much worse side of itself, straight from a DnD campaign. The scraggly trees that sprung up around his home were leafless and lifeless, skeletal and blackened, hunched over like they couldn't bear to hold themselves up. Even more worryingly, out in the treeline at the edge of the forest, Will could see what looked like clusters of something perched together on the branches, glints of teeth showing when they moved. There seemed to be no grass here, but more of the inky vines he'd seen earlier crept slowly across the barren ground. He thought he might be sick. Everything here was so uncanny, dead and rotten, nothing like it's counterpart. He considered rubbing at his eyes to see if he was dreaming, but decided not to as he remembered the gunk still clinging to his fingers. Swallowing thickly, he took shaky steps backwards, until his shoulder blades hit a wall and he scrambled for purchase, stomach lurching at the dampness that met him.
Waves of nausea roiled through Will's stomach and he let out a sound embarrassingly close to a whimper, suddenly all too aware of the situation he was in. Sweat and blood keeps his clothes tacky against his skin, and he can feel pain crashing back into his numb body, like a dream wearing off after a long sleep. This can't be real. Surely, he's hallucinating, going crazy, anything other than this. He doesn't know a single thing about survival. Much less against some eldritch creature he's familiar with no part of other than its unfathomable amount of teeth. He knows he should be looking for a way out, food, a weapon, but just the thought of getting up fills him with terror. He feels like a little kid, hiding in his room after waking up from a nightmare, hand pressed over his mouth to stifle his whimpers. Curling his fingers white-knuckled into his hair, he tries to focus on the sparks tingling across his scalp, but it's useless. His brain is swamped with fear and there's not a single thing he can do about it.
Will's memories of the next few hours are spotty at best, fragments of panic attack after panic attack, wounds alternating between a sort of woozy, nausea causing ache, and agonizing pain that caused him to make himself as compact as possible and try not to scream. There's no one here to save him, and he knows it. He knows he's making all the wrong choices, that he should be preparing, something sounding suspiciously like his father's voice telling him to get up and be a man, but he can't. Even blinking seems impossible right now, his face sticky with grime and escaped tears. Everything is a blur of sharp hyperventilating and eyes peeled for danger so long they're burning from the lack of blinking and fingernails digging bloody crescents into his arms and pain pain so much pain he can't take it HE CAN'T TAKE IT-
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Will wakes up for the second time in as many minutes to a ringing in his ears and a wet warmth on his face, panting heavily as everything comes rushing back to him all at once. Is he reliving everything again? It's so ridiculous he almost wants to laugh hysterically, but he can hardly focus on breathing as is. The cold fingertips on his forehead dissappear, and are replaced by gentle warmth cupping his cheeks. Squinting his eyes open, he feels such strong relief crashing over him he nearly pukes. The angel leans above him, brows creased with worry and eyes flitting over him in a panic, and blessedly, wonderfully, Will can feel the heat coming back to him, thawing his frozen limbs once again. He nuzzles his cheek against the rough denim below him, breathing in the earthy musk of sweat and something sweet, turning to it like a flower to the sun. Inexplicably, he feels even more exhausted than before, and it seems like every time he blinks is longer than the last. He knows he's being moved, taken, perhaps, by strangers he does not know, but he stays calm through it all. Calmer than he's ever been. Because throughout it, the angel stays, wiping gently at his face and cooing at his strangled sounds of pain and pushing the hair out of his eyes. He thinks, maybe, it never left.