It was amazing to think that the basement of the Wheeler home had once been a kingdom. It felt boundless. The wood of the central table had been less of a piece of furniture and more of an anchor, say, holding up whatever sprawling, wacky, hand-drawn map they had spread across it that week. Back then, the only monsters they had to worry about were the ones they could easily erase with the back of a pencil, and the space was always large enough to drown out the sound of the water pipes.

Most importantly, it had been a safe space. Now, as the room seemed to have shrunk down to its actual, more cramped dimensions, it was nothing more than a concrete cellar. A waiting room at the end of the world, one could say.

A gritty draft slipped in through the window wells, carrying a very faint, albeit metallic, scent of wet ash. This was hardly surprising; outside, Hawkins was a town split wide open, as strange as it might once have been to think, with all its glowing red fissures. But from down here, the only sign of that rift was the dust that settled on the concrete floor. Inside, the basement was crammed with cardboard boxes, rolled-up sleeping bags, and also the scattered, taped-up belongings of the Byers family. There were quite a few of these around.

And above them, the ceiling creaked under the weight of too many people sharing the same space. Of course, this house was never designed to be a refuge, and the friction of two families trying to coexist there vibrated down the wooden stairs, alongside the muffled clatter of dinner plates. Upstairs, Lucas was currently putting on his most polite, formal voice, trying to engage Karen Wheeler in a conversation about dinner. Well, there was an attempt at it.

“I have to say, Mrs. Wheeler, the use of tarragon in the chicken salad is quite sophisticated,” Lucas’s voice drifted down; it was earnest and also slightly cracking. “It gives it a very… French, avant-garde profile, you see. I read about it in an issue of GQ my dad had. They say it’s very continental.”

A low groan, unmistakably Mike’s, followed. “Lucas, it’s just chicken salad. Stop trying to sound like you’ve been to Paris. You went to Indianapolis once. That doesn’t count.”

“I am showing appreciation for culinary arts, Michael. Unlike you, who eats like a caveman,” Lucas shot back, though his tone remained polite enough to keep Karen pleased.

It wasn't like it was a lie, either. Mike’s table manners were always enough to horrify anyone unfortunate enough to sit across from him. It was rather unusual. Mike didn’t so much eat his food as he did wage a physical war against it. He had a habit of hunching over his plate like a gargoyle, stabbing his fork into his food, thinking dinner might try to escape if he didn’t pin it down first. And sure enough, he was more successful than Wile E. Coyote at it.

“Oh, thank you, Lucas,” Karen’s voice chimed in, so warm and flattered. “It’s actually a recipe from Better Homes & Gardens. I added a little dijon, too.”

Downstairs, Dustin was slumped on the edge of a battered plaid sofa, his chin resting in his hands. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the carpet, completely ignoring the banter from above. He looked incredibly small, smaller than he usually was. To ward off the basement’s cold, he was bundled in a thick, sheepskin-lined denim jacket over a faded red flannel shirt. His signature trucker hat was missing, leaving his curls in a wild, unruly halo around his head. And his left leg, still stiff and bandaged from… uh… whatever happened there, beneath his heavy corduroy pants, was stretched out awkwardly in front of him.

Will sat just a few feet away on the edge of his own sleeping bag, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was wearing a thick, oversized beige knit sweater over a dark turtleneck, keeping his hands tucked deep into his sleeves to keep his fingers warm. He was also watching Dustin.

They hadn’t really talked. Not like this, that is. Since Will had gotten back from California, it seemed everything had been a blur of emergency meetings, military curfews, and also the constant dread of what was waiting in the shadows of the rift. The Party was together, sure, physically, but they all felt miles apart, tiptoeing around each other’s wounds. It was not hard to guess why.

Keeping his knees pulled tightly to his chest, Will adjusted the sleeves of his sweater so they completely covered his hands. He looked down at his lap before speaking, although his voice was barely more than a mutter. “You’re… you’re not going up to eat?”

Dustin didn’t look up immediately. He just let out a slow breath that, admittedly, made him sound like a deflating balloon. It was funny. “Not really hungry. If I have to hear Lucas upstairs talk about gourmet cuisine one more time, my brain is going to liquefy and leak out of my ears.”

Will let out a tiny laugh, but it faded quickly. For a moment, he studied the deep, dark circles under Dustin’s eyes. They looked like bruises, sort of. Dustin may not have always been the loudest, but he was probably the most animated, and definitely one who refused to let the silence settle. Seeing him this quiet, this drained, well, this was more unnerving than most monsters Will had ever faced. Not because the monsters weren’t scary; they absolutely were… but unlike them, Dustin was human.

“You… you look exhausted, Dustin,” Will said, as his tone softened. “Like, really worn out.”

“I’m fine,” Dustin muttered automatically. He shifted his leg, wincing slightly as he did. “Just… haven’t been sleeping great, that’s all.”

“Well… why don’t you just stay here tonight?” Will suggested, gesturing to the open space on the floor. “I mean, we have extra blankets. We can set up a spot. It’d be like… well, not a campaign, um, but we could just hang out. You wouldn’t have to walk back.”

Dustin finally looked up, his brow furrowing as he looked around the basement. He sighed as he rubbed his temples. “Will, look at this place. It’s like a human jigsaw puzzle.” He pointed toward the stairs. “Your mom is crammed into the guest room. Jonathan’s practically living on the living room sofa, and I wouldn’t ever sit down there anymore. I really don’t think Nancy will love me sharing a room with her, and I know Mike won’t budge either. Plus, if I stay here, Ted is going to start charging my mom rent for the floor space I’m occupying. And uh… quite frankly… I don’t think I have the mental capacity to handle Ted’s monologues tonight.”

“He does lecture a lot,” Will admitted.

“Oh, it’s an art form for him,” Dustin said, as a ghost of his usual humor flicked across his face before vanishing. He looked down at his hands again. “Rationally speaking… it’s too crowded. Unless you want to share a single sleeping bag, which, no offense, but I kick in my sleep. And my mom’s house is… well, it’s empty. It’s just me, her and little Tews. Far more room to breathe, if you think about it…”

Dustin paused, looking at Will. A thought seemed to strike him, and he tilted his head. “Actually… why don’t you come to my place?”

Will blinked. “To your house?”

“Yeah. Why not? My mom has been worried sick about everyone, especially you. When was the last time she saw you anyway? And honestly, I could use the company. We can actually talk without, you know, Mike and Lucas hovering, seeing if we’ll put our hands in the cookie jar… I’d never do that.” Dustin shrugged. He tried to make it sound casual, but there was a faint note in his voice that he couldn’t quite hide. He didn’t want to go back to that house alone.

Will hesitated. The thought of leaving the relative safety of the Wheeler house, even if it was crowded, made a cold knot form in his stomach. It seemed like an odd idea, given everything they’d been through. Yet it was far more normal than the things they had gone through in the past couple of years. Looking at Dustin, and seeing the slight desperation in his eyes, well, Will knew he couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” Will said. “Yeah. Let’s do it. But we have to convince my mom, she’s not gonna let it slide so easily.”

“Ah, easy,” Dustin said, pulling himself up with a grunt, favoring his good leg. “We just have to present it logically. Safe route, early return, we’ll be fine.”

Getting permission, however, proved to be more delicate for him than he’d expected.

They walked up the stairs into the bright, warm kitchen. The smell of Karen’s chicken salad was thick in the air, and it was a good smell. Lucas was, unsurprisingly, still talking, gesturing with a fork while wearing a neatly pressed, patterned wool sweater over a collared shirt. It was not his typical choice of attire, sure, but it was among his best attempts at looking mature.

Right beside him, Mike rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. He was slumped low in his chair in a dark winter jacket that he hadn’t bothered to unzip, and his chin was tucked deep into the collar. He didn’t seem too happy. Meanwhile, Joyce was sitting at the kitchen table, with a mug of tea clutched in both hands, talking with Jonathan. Her eyes immediately snapped to Will the moment he stepped into the light.

“Hey, sweetie,” Joyce said. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Mom. Everything’s fine,” Will replied. He stared down at his sneakers to avoid drawing the rest of the kitchen’s attention, as he pulled his shoulders up slightly. “Actually… Dustin and I were just thinking. It’s really crowded down there, and his house is empty anyway. I-I was thinking I could just stay at his place tonight. If that’s okay with you.”

Joyce’s hands tightened around her mug. “Oh. Will, honey, I don’t know. It’s late, a-and the curfew—”

“Oh, the curfew doesn’t start for another hour, Mrs. Byers,” Dustin intervened, stepping forward with his hands in his pockets, and adopting his most reassuring, polite-boy persona. Maybe that would work. “And we’ll take the back streets, don’t worry. It’s only a ten-minute ride.”

“I don’t like you boys being out there in the dark,” Joyce said, her eyes darting to the window. The sky outside wasn’t completely black; it had a strange, bruised-red tint to it, which one could easily attribute to the rift. Or maybe the devil. Perhaps both. “Maybe… maybe Jonathan can drive you? Or I can call Steve?”

“No!” Dustin said, a little too quickly, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. “N-no, don’t call Steve. He’s… he’s had a really long week, he’s tired. And I tell you, he gets this look in his eyes like he’s a secret service agent or something, and it’s really tiring. I mean, Super Secret Agent Steve… uh… not a good idea. A-and we have our bikes. We’ll be quick, I promise. I’ll call you the second we walk through the door.”

Jonathan looked up from his seat, studying Dustin’s face, then Will’s. He seemed to recognize the need for space in both of them, seemingly, and he reached out and lightly touched Joyce’s arm. “Mom, it’s okay. They’ll be careful. Dustin’s house is close, and, um… it really is crowded here.”

Joyce looked at Jonathan, then back at Will. She reached out, running a hand through Will’s hair, as her eyes scanned his face as if looking for any sign of distress. Will gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“Okay,” she sighed, though she still looked incredibly reluctant. “But you ride straight there. No stopping. And Dustin, you call me the second you get inside. If the phone doesn’t ring in fifteen minutes, I’m calling Hopper.”

“Deal,” Dustin said, letting out a breath he seemed to have been holding. “Thank you, Mrs. Byers.”

Before heading out, they bundled up further against the late chill outside. Will pulled a heavy windbreaker over his knit sweater, winding a dark wool scarf around his neck, while Dustin zipped his denim jacket all the way to his chin and grabbed a pair of fingerless gloves from his pocket. And so, they stepped out into the freezing night.

---

The ride through Hawkins was quite eerie.

Sure enough, under normal circumstances, a night ride through their neighborhood would have been filled with the sounds of lawn sprinklers, distant television sets, the occasional bark of a dog, yup, pretty normal-sounding sounds. Tonight, there was none of that. Many houses were dark, their windows boarded up with plywood, and their driveways empty as families fled the town or sheltered elsewhere. The air felt thick, almost gritty, and left a faint taste of dust on Will’s tongue as he pedaled.

In the distance, the reddish glow of the rift cut through the trees like an open wound. It cast long, dancing shadows across the asphalt. Jesus, when were they going to seal all of it? He tried not to think about it. Will kept his eyes glued to Dustin’s back, watching the rhythm of his pedaling. Dustin was riding slower than usual, with his left leg not quite pushing down with the same force as his right.

They didn’t speak.

When they finally pulled into Dustin’s driveway, they were very much relieved. The Henderson house was also dark, save for a single porch light that cast a yellow circle on the concrete. They parked their bikes against the side of the garage and slipped inside through the back door.

Ah… the smell of sweet floral air freshener. And cat food, too. Both were pretty normal smells, especially for Dustin’s house. Plus, it was incredibly grounding.

“Mom?” Dustin called out softly into the dark hallway.

There was no answer, aside from a fairly faint sound of snoring coming from the master bedroom down the hall. A fat, orange cat trotted out of the darkness, letting out a quiet meow.

“Hey, Tews,” Dustin whispered, bending down with a slight wince to scratch the cat behind its ears. He looked up at Will. “Yeah, mom’s out. She took one of her sleeping pills. Having a hard time sleeping lately, too. She won’t mind you being here, though. In fact, she’ll probably make us a mountain of pancakes tomorrow. But first…”

Dustin gestured toward the kitchen wall phone, a pale-yellow rotary model hanging near the pantry. Dragging his leg forward, he jerked his arms in a bit of a weird mechanical march.

“Take… me… to… Mother,” he droned in his best, robotic-sounding voice. He gave Will a quick, goofy wink as he reached out and lifted the receiver.

While Dustin dialed Joyce, Will stood near the entryway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. It had been a long time since he had been inside Dustin’s house — not since before the Byers family had packed up their lives and moved to Lenora. In many ways, the house felt like a time capsule.

He scanned the small living room just off the kitchen. The shelves were still crowded with countless porcelain cat figurines — Claudia must’ve really been a fan of those! —, gleaming faintly in the moonlight filtering through the blinds. There was a framed photo on the side table of Dustin in middle school, wearing a familiar Ghostbusters costume. Those were the days… sort of. There was also a thin layer of dust on the coffee table, and a stack of unopened mail sitting by the door. A long time ago, this place used to be a lot cozier; it was a shame to see it feel a bit lonelier.

Eventually, the whir and click of the rotary dial pulled Will out of his thoughts.

“Hey, Mrs. Byers?” Dustin said, as his voice dropped to a hushed but clear tone to avoid waking his mother. “Yeah, we’re here. Safe and sound. No soldier, no curfew patrol, or… well, anything else. We rode straight here, just like we promised.”

He paused, listening. Even from a few feet away, Will could hear the buzz of his mother’s voice vibrating through the receiver. No surprises here.

“Yes, I checked the lock,” Dustin said, rolling his eyes slightly at Will but keeping his tone patient. “I turned the deadbolt, I even rattled the handle. It’s secure, I swear. Yeah, yeah, the windows are locked too. Hold on, I’ll let you talk to him.”

Dustin held out the yellow receiver. Will stepped forward and took it, pressing the cold plastic to his ear.

“Mom?” he said quietly.

“Honey, are you okay?” Joyce’s voice was breathless. “You’re inside? Didn’t see anything on the road?”

“We’re inside, Mom. I’m okay,” Will tried his best to reassure her. “The streets were empty. We’re just in the kitchen. We’re going to get a quick snack and then go right to sleep.”

“Okay. Okay, good,” Joyce sighed, and Will could practically picture her leaning against the kitchen wall at the Wheelers’, rubbing her temple. “Look, if anything happens, anything at all, you call me immediately. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll have Jonathan come get you.”

“I will, Mom. I promise,” Will said, his heart aching slightly at how much she carried. “Get some sleep, okay? I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetie. Put Dustin back on.”

Will handed the phone back to Dustin, who took it with a nod. “See? Whole and hearty, Mrs. Byers. We’re going to hit the hay now. Goodnight.”

Dustin carefully hung up the receiver. He leaned his back against the counter, letting out a long sigh that seemed to release the last of the tension from the ride. The kitchen went quiet again. After a brief moment, Dustin turned, pulling the fridge door open and letting its pale light flood the room as he began to look for ingredients.

“Alright,” Dustin said, as his voice regained a bit of its spark as he peered into the fridge. “Are you hungry? Because unlike Karen or Lucas or whatever, who thinks adding a leaf of tarragon to chicken makes them Michelin-star chefs, I actually possess superior culinary knowledge. Despite what some of our bastard friends said…”

“Like who?”

“Mike.”

He chuckled. “Oh yeah?” Will leaned against the dining table, watching him. “Well, what’s your specialty?”

“Heh. I call it The Henderson Gourmet Melt,” Dustin announced, pulling out a loaf of white bread, a tub of margarine, and a package of Kraft American singles. (Not a fantastic name, to be honest, but still.) He also reached into the back and pulled out a block of sharp cheddar and a jar of garlic powder. “It’s all about the molecular structure of the cheese, Will. You can’t just use one type, no. What you need is the meltability of processed cheese combined with the flavor profile of the cheddar. And a pinch of garlic powder on the buttered crust, it’s science.”

“Sounds… uh, healthy,” Will said, as a genuine smile broke across his face.

“Close enough to it,” Dustin declared.

He set to work, and his movements were surprisingly deft as he buttered the bread and heated up a cast-iron skillet on the stove. For a few minutes, the only sound was the sizzle of butter and the scraping of a spatula. The smell of frying bread and melting cheese filled the kitchen, pushing away the lingering scent of ash from outside, and when he was done, Dustin slid two golden-brown sandwiches onto paper plates. He turned around, presenting them with a small, tired flourish of his spatula.

“Voilà! Behold,” Dustin murmured, with his voice holding a trace of his usual pride. “The… uh… pinnacle of gastronomy, something like that.”

“Well, it smells amazing,” Will admitted, taking his plate.

They sat down at the kitchen table, and for a few minutes, they just ate. The sandwich was actually good, Will had to admit. It was salty enough, and surprisingly not too greasy. The crust had a perfect, golden crunch, and the hint of garlic powder sure cut through the richness of the melted cheese. Will hadn’t realized how hungry he actually was until the first bite hit his stomach; he found himself eating quickly, almost defensively. It was a habit born from the journey on the way back from California, though one that didn’t bother him (well, not as much as the other things that came from that trip).

Dustin took a large bite of his own, chewing slowly as he leaned back in his chair. “See? The cheddar,” he mumbled around a mouthful of food, pointing a finger at Will’s plate. “It gives it that necessary kick. But if you just use American, well, it lacks the… uh, what is it? The, um, integrity of flavor. Yeah, I think that’s it.”

Will nodded, with a small, genuine smile on his face as he swallowed. “Yeah, yeah. You were right.”

“Never doubt the method. My method, that is.”

It was interesting to think that, for those few moments, the kitchen felt like a normal kitchen, and they felt like two ordinary teenagers having a late-night snack after a long day of school or riding bikes. If only their lives could be as boring as this every day…

And this illusion was thin, they knew this. Will’s chewing slowed, and he looked across the table.

Dustin had stopped eating. He was holding his half-finished sandwich, but his gaze had drifted away from the plate, staring blankly at the salt shaker in the center of the table. Slowly, he set the sandwich back down. He didn’t look up. Instead, he just stared at the greasy smudge on his paper plate, as his thumb slowly traced the ridged paper edge, over and over again.

“I’m just so tired, Will,” Dustin said quietly. The humor from moments before had completely vanished, leaving his voice flat and raw.

Will set his sandwich down. Sensing that Dustin didn’t need a response yet, he didn’t say anything.

“I’m tired of looking at the sky and wondering if it’s going to start raining monsters or something again,” Dustin whispered, as his eyes were fixed on the plate. “I’m tired of all these curfews, military trucks and shit. But mostly… I’m just tired of the deaths.”

He paused, his chest rising and falling in a shaky breath.

“Sometimes, I think… I don’t know, if everybody we lost were like you,” Dustin said, a faint, sad smile touching his lips, though his eyes remained dark. “You know. When you came back from the dead and they were all like ‘oh hey, it’s Zombie Boy,’ and stuff. Like, if they just crawled out of the ground and showed up again, like you did, wouldn’t it be nice?”

Will flinched slightly at the old nickname, as a cold spike of memory hit him. God, Zombie Boy. What a terrifying nickname. The kids at school had yelled it at him in the hallways for weeks. It had been a badge of freakishness, a reminder of how broken and weird everyone else thought he was —, and, sometimes, how isolated he felt because of it. This was something he really didn’t want to be reminded of. But looking at Dustin, Will saw there was no malice in it.

“I mean, sure,” Dustin continued, his voice cracking slightly. “It was creepy, we had a whole funeral for a dummy filled with like cotton or latex or… it was traumatic. But you came back, Will. You were alive. If they all did that… even if they came back wrong, or like, as the antichrist or whatever… it would be so much better. It would be so much less worrying.”

Dustin’s fingers tightened on the edge of the plate.

“But they don’t,” Dustin whispered. “They just stay gone. Not that I was close to them, but, I mean, you know. It stings a bit. Chrissy, Patrick, that guy’s name… Fred? And…” He swallowed hard, as his voice dropped to a jagged and barely audible register. “And Eddie.”

Will felt a heavy ache in his chest. He hadn’t known Eddie Munson. By the time Eddie had become a part of the group’s lives, Will had been thousands of miles away in California, dealing with his own battles. He had only heard the stories afterward — the older boy who played guitar, who ran the Hellfire Club, and who had died in the Upside Down while Dustin watched.

“He was the coolest person I’ve ever met, Will,” Dustin said, and now, the tears were starting to spill over his lashes, tracing shiny paths down his dusty cheeks. “He didn’t care about what anyone thought of him. He was just… he was so brave, something I never could be, and he died protecting a town that literally thought he was a devil-worshipping murderer. Look at how they fucking treated him.”

Will reached across the table, with his hand hovering for a second before he gently placed it over Dustin’s trembling fist. “Dustin… I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dustin sobbed, and his head dropped as he let the tears fall freely now. He pulled his hand away from Will’s, but only to press his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the flow. “It’s just… we wasted so much time, Will. We spent so much time apart. You were in California, and I was so wrapped up in Hellfire, but Lucas was too involved with basketball, and so it was just me and Mike and… well, it wasn’t the same. And now everything is breaking, and I feel like we’re barely even friends anymore. We’re just…  it’s like we’re just soldiers in some stupid, invisible war. I miss playing D&D. I miss when the worst thing that could happen to us was losing a campaign instead of… all this. I hate it.”

And the grief was pouring out of him now. Oh, the confident boy who always had a plan, and who always had a scientific explanation for everything, was long gone. In his place was a terrified, heartbroken kid who had watched his hero die in his arms. Things would never be the same.

Will got up from his chair. He moved around the table and, without a word, wrapped his arms around Dustin’s shoulders.

Dustin stiffened for a fraction of a second, then collapsed into the embrace. He buried his face in Will’s shoulder, his chest heaving as he wept. He shook violently, as his fingers clutched the fabric of Will’s flannel shirt, as if it were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

Doing his best to hold him tightly, Will knew that his own throat was tight with unshed tears. This was terrible. He felt a sense of sorrow, not just for Eddie, but for all of them. They had been stripped of their childhoods, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but their scars and survival instincts. Will just didn’t know what to say. He rubbed Dustin’s back, letting him cry, offering the only comfort he knew how to give; he had, more times than he wanted to, walked through the dark and come back.

After several minutes, the heavy, gasping sobs began to slow. Dustin pulled back, his face red and blotchy, and his chest still hiccuping occasionally. He grabbed a paper napkin from the table and blew his nose loudly, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” Dustin muttered, his voice hoarse. He wouldn’t look Will in the eye. “That was… that was really selfish of me, I’m so sorry. You’ve been through way worse. You literally got dragged into that place, and you had these things in your head, a-and… I’m here crying about—”

“Dustin, stop,” Will interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. He sat down in the chair next to him. “Don’t do that. It’s not a competition. What happened to Eddie… what happened to you… it was horrible. You’re allowed to be angry, you’re allowed to cry. It’s human nature.”

Dustin wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, letting out a wet, shaky breath. “Yeah, well. Still. It feels stupid to break down like that when we’re supposed to be preparing for… whatever is coming next.”

“It’s not stupid,” Will said. “We’re human, Dustin. If we don’t feel this, then what are we even fighting for?”

As he looked up, Dustin’s watery eyes met Will’s. He gave him a tiny nod. “Thanks, Will. Honestly. There’s… there’s not a lot of people I can talk to about this. Steve tries, but he just gets this sad, guilty look on his face, like he thinks he should have been there instead of me. I feel bad for him. And Mike and Lucas… they’re trying to deal with their own stuff. You… you get it, I think. Cliches and all, but you know what the dark feels like.”

“I do,” Will said softly. “And you can always talk to me. Always.”

Dustin let out a shaky breath, as the tension slowly left his shoulders. He then looked at Will, really looked at him, as his swollen eyes searched Will’s face in the dim kitchen light.

“Well, enough about me. What about you, Will?” Dustin asked softly. “How are you holding up? I mean, you’ve been living in Mike’s basement with everyone. How is that?”

Will quietly dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands; this pressure anchored him against the sudden, cold surge of anxiety in his chest. He pulled his shoulders up toward his ears, hunching forward slightly as if trying to shrink away from the question, to make himself as small and invisible as possible. Did he really need to answer this? No, no, this isn’t good. He stared down at his plate, desperately avoiding eye contact.

“It’s… it’s not good,” Will muttered, as the words slipped out before his internal filters could stop them.

Dustin’s eyebrows knitted together. “Not good? What do you mean? Is something happening?”

Panic flared in Will’s throat. Why had he said that? It was so stupid. Pathetic, really. Dustin was sitting here grieving, carrying the weight of a friend’s death, and Will was about to make his own stupid, complicated problems their center of attention. He didn’t want to cause trouble. He didn’t want anyone worrying about him. And look what he had done…

“I just mean— the basement,” Will backtracked rapidly. His voice was casual, but slightly strained. “T-the conditions. I mean, it’s just hard living like that, you know? There are so many of us packed into the Wheelers’ house, and there’s no privacy. Jonathan is always on the couch, a-and my mom is stressed, and the floor down there is freezing. It’s just… it’s hard to sleep. That’s all. I’m fine, really.”

Dustin didn’t look too convinced. He leaned back slightly, studying Will’s posture for a moment. “I mean, you’ve slept in basements half your life, right? It can’t be that bad.” He let out a soft sigh, his voice dropping into a quiet, gentle register. “It’s not just the draft down there, is it? Well, I-I mean… uh, I’ve seen you guys upstairs. You and Mike.”

Will froze. A sudden, involuntary tremor ran through his hands, and he quickly tucked them into his lap, pressing his fists against his thighs to hide it. God, no. His throat felt dry, scraped raw, as if the mere mention of Mike’s name had swallowed all the air in the room.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, he really couldn’t.

His mind immediately drifted to the reality of the last few weeks. Living in the same house as Mike had been a blessing as much as it had been a curse. Recently, it had been more of a slow-burning torture for him. Will had memorized the exact pattern of Mike’s footsteps on the floorboards directly above his head; he knew exactly when Mike was pacing, when he was heading to the kitchen, when he was leaving. Down in the basement, they walked on eggshells around each other; it was unnerving.

Will went out of his way to avoid any physical proximity. He remembered passing a bowl of soup to Mike just yesterday, keeping his wrist stiff, and making sure their fingers didn’t touch even by a millimeter, fearing that any contact would shatter the fragile wall he had built between them. He spent his days trying to be a ghost, hiding in his drawing pad, sketching anything — trees, buildings, the sky, wacky cartoon characters —, just to avoid drawing the familiar profile and freckles he had memorized so perfectly.

“You guys barely even look at each other,” Dustin added quietly, though his voice was completely devoid of his usual teasing edge. “I mean, sure, we’re all hanging out together, but uh, but it’s like there’s this weird tension whenever he’s in the room. He’s been acting incredibly weird since we got back, and you… well, I guess I could say the same thing.”

Will kept his head bowed, staring at the crumbs on his paper plate. He felt strangely exposed. Hell, he wanted to pull a blanket over his face, and retreat into the dark where nobody could see the ache in his eyes. He squeezed his hands tighter in his lap, and his voice came out as a faint whisper.

“It’s just… complicated, Dustin. We’re just different now.”

Dustin watched him, taking in the rigid line of Will’s shoulders, the way he was shrinking into himself, and the slight tremble he couldn’t quite mask. Hmm. He felt a prickle of regret; perhaps he shouldn’t have pushed so hard. Aside from the misery in his friend’s eyes, though, there was a grain of truth in Will’s words. They had been, after all, separated by thousands of miles of highway and, like, a year of almost total radio silence?

Maybe they had just become different people, sure. But he would’ve expected them to have gotten closer now that they were living on the same roof, not the opposite. Nevertheless, Dustin knew when a line had been crossed, and he knew that forcing Will to dissect these pieces right now would only make him retreat further into his shell.

“Hey,” Dustin said softly, as he tried his best to shift into a warmer tone. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it, really. We’re all… we’re all pretty messed up right now. I shouldn’t have pried.”

Will let out a quiet breath, slowly relaxing his shoulders a fraction of an inch. “No, it’s… it’s fine.”

“Tell you what,” Dustin said, deliberately shifting the subject to ease the suffocating tension in the room. He looked up at the cat-shaped clock on the wall. “It’s midnight now. For real-real, not for play-play. Which means we have successfully survived today, and we have, obviously, a culinary masterpiece currently digesting in our stomachs.”

Dustin pushed himself up from the table, letting out a soft grunt as he put weight on his good leg. “I think it’s time for a retreat to bed. Nap time. We need to conserve our energy if we’re going to face tomorrow.”

Will felt a wave of gratitude wash over him for Dustin’s quick pivot. “Agreed,” he said, as his voice returned to its normal register.

“Come on,” Dustin said, heading toward the hallway. “I’ll find you some spare clothes. You definitely can’t sleep in those jeans.”

---

They walked down the short hallway to Dustin’s bedroom. His room was a chaotic museum of science camp trophies, dinosaur models, and ham radio equipment. (Some things just never changed!) Dustin rummaged through his dresser, tossing a pair of grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt at Will.

“Here. These should fit. Though uh… admittedly, you’ve had a massive growth spurt, so no guarantees.”

Will took the clothes and went to the bathroom to change. When he looked in the mirror, he couldn’t help but let out a snort.

The t-shirt — which had a cartoon of a beaver on it with the words “It’s just one dam project after another.” —, was actually wide enough to fit two of him, but it stopped several inches above his waist, exposing his midriff every time he lifted his arms. Awkward. The sweatpants, on the other hand, were drawstring-tight at the waist but ended abruptly halfway down his shins, looking more like capris than pants. This was ridiculous.

He walked back into Dustin’s bedroom, holding his arms out. “Dustin, if only you were a fashion expert. I look like a scarecrow here.”

Dustin, who had changed into a pair of flannel pajama pants and a green tee, took one look at Will and burst into a fit of giggles. It was a high-pitched, snorting laugh.

“Oh my god,” Dustin gasped, clutching his stomach. “It’s perfect. It’s like you’re wearing clothes designed for a, um, very wide, very short hobbit.”

“They’re yours, smartass,” Will pointed out, though he was smiling widely.

“Hey, I have a very robust build,” Dustin defended himself, tossing a pillow and a heavy quilt onto the small futon couch in the corner of his room. “I’m not fat, just big-boned. And you are like freakishly tall now. Not my fault you decided to grow three feet while you were in California.”

“I did not grow three feet,” Will said, climbing onto the futon and pulling the quilt up to his chest.

Dustin turned off the main bedroom light, leaving only the soft glow of a turtle-shaped nightlight plugged into the wall outlet. He climbed into his own bed, as the springs groaned under his weight.

For a few minutes, the room was quiet. Dustin’s cat, Tews, eventually padded into the room and jumped onto the foot of Will’s futon, curling into a heavy, purring ball against Will’s ankles. The warmth of the cat and the  weight of the quilt made him feel a little bit safer.

“Will?” Dustin’s voice came out of the darkness, quiet and thoughtful.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” Dustin said. “And… I’m really glad you’re back in Hawkins. Even with everything being completely ruined.”

Will stared up at the ceiling, where a few glow-in-the-dark stars were stuck in the shape of constellations; he couldn’t recognize any of them. “Me too. I missed you guys, a lot.”

“I care about you, you know,” Dustin said. His voice was steady now, though filled with a bit of earnestness. “You, and Mike, and Lucas, and El… everyone, really. When you went missing… back when we were kids… that was the worst week of my life. I remember sitting in that basement, looking at your empty chair at the table, and just… feeling like the world didn’t make sense anymore. It hurt. It really, really hurt.”

Will swallowed down a lump in his throat. He had spent so many years feeling like he was a burden to his friends, like his disappearance and his subsequent connection to the Upside Down had made him a freak, an outsider. And hearing Dustin say it, just hearing the sheer value a friend of his placed on his existence… oh, it warmed a part of Will’s heart that had been cold for a very long time.

“I don’t ever want to feel that again,” Dustin whispered. “So… we have to stick together. No more keeping secrets. We do this together.”

“We will,” Will said, his voice soft but unwavering. “We’re going to make it through this, Dustin. All of us. Together, as a group, just like we always have.”

Dustin didn’t answer right away. He shifted under his blankets, as his mattress let out a slow squeak in the quiet room.

“You know, back then…” Dustin started, though his voice was barely louder than a whisper. “When you were gone. It wasn’t just me, Lucas was there, too. We were both terrified, but we kept each other going. And—and even now, after everything… with Max in the hospital and him practically living in that waiting room, he still had my back. He’s been so incredibly strong, Will. He kept me from completely losing my mind when I didn’t know what to do.”

Will nodded in the dark. He’d never thought about this, at least not in a long while, and stammered a response. “Yeah. I-I mean, he’s always been like that, stronger than any of us realize.”

“Yeah,” Dustin sighed. He turned onto his side, and his face was silhouetted against the dim glow of the nightlight. “It just… it really makes you think about how much we take for granted. Especially the people we… well, the, um, people we love. Or the people we want to love… even when it’s hard or… like it’s tearing you apart.”

His chest tightened slightly at the word love. What a strange word. Will stared up at the plastic stars, letting his fingers lightly grip the edge of the quilt.

Dustin cleared his throat, a bit awkwardly, clearly trying to tread very carefully around a subject he didn’t want to explicitly name, hoping to keep his advice subtle. “I was reading some stuff. You know, old French poetry, all that crap. And this guy, this whatchamacallit, I forgot his name, he wrote a lot about that kind of thing. That is, uh, feeling that way about someone, and how it’s this crazy, double-edged sword.” Dustin sighed. “We really are blessed and cursed.”

The room fell quiet again. Will let out a slow breath, opting to absorb Dustin’s clumsy but deeply sincere attempt at keeping him safe. He didn’t know how to respond directly, but he felt some gratitude that Dustin was trying so hard to understand. For all his inconsistencies, he was still a good friend.

“Same things make us laugh, make us cry,” Dustin murmured into the darkness. “But seriously, Will. We love you, man. I love you, man. Don’t let anyone change you or… or make you feel like you have to hide. Especially not… well, anyone.”

“Well… thanks, Dustin,” Will whispered. “Me too. And I won’t, I promise.”

“Good,” Dustin said, sounding thoroughly satisfied. “Now, seriously. Let’s agree to actually talk more often. No more of this silent-treatment, distant-universe crap. I want to know what you’re drawing, I want to know if you’re okay.”

“I will,” Will said. “I’ll try.”

“Great, great. Let’s wrap this up. Goodnight, Scarecrow,” Dustin murmured.

“Pfft. Goodnight, Henderson,” Will replied.

As Will closed his eyes, the cat purring and vibrating against his feet or the distant red glow of the Hawkins sky didn’t seem quite as terrifying anymore. The world outside was still broken, sure, and the battle ahead was going to be the hardest one yet, he knew this well. But lying there, the chill in Will’s chest began to fade a bit, giving way to a more gentle, steady warmth that pulled him down into a sleep entirely free of shadows.

This, to his relief, was a blessing.