Chapter Text
“Often he moved his hands touching the work, whether it/
is a body or ivory, nor does he confess that it is ivory to this point.” – Metamorphoses, Ovid.
Tuesday, May 30th, 1995.
Irish mornings were rather different from Hawkins mornings.
When he would lay in his bed, sunlight streaming through his curtains and seeping behind his shut eyes, he wouldn’t jolt awake. He would slowly rise from his sleep instead, mind foggy and mouth dry. He’d drag his slippered feet across the floor – his shins would meet a purring Paladin along the way, her orange coat leaving fine hairs on the bottom of his pajama pants – and drowsily stumble into the kitchen. He had never been a morning person, even before he was kept awake till ungodly hours by nightmares, and that hadn’t changed. Even at the age of twenty-four he would still find himself dreading the standard wake up call.
Irish mornings had always felt more peaceful. Even back in his tiny Dublin apartment where his shoulders nearly touched both walls he would wake up significantly less… tense. The minute Will passed the Hawkins line, he had made the decision to let go of all his mental baggage; Henry would no longer drag him down to the pits of his subconscious’ hell. Would calling it his renaissance be too cliché? Maybe, but he was an artist in all means of the word, so renaissance it was.
Even nearly seven years later, Will had yet to regret his decision. He had run from Hawkins and never looked back.
This specific morning, two days before the seven year anniversary of his departure, was like every other morning before it. He nursed his coffee (light sugar but extra cream) and gave Paladin all of the attention she required; she would jump into his lap and purr and nudge until he caved. Cleric, her elder, was more reserved. The brown tabby preferred to curl at his feet, his tail swishing and dusting against the exposed portion of Will’s ankle. The comforting routine had never gotten old. Will felt at peace.
After flipping through the newspaper and gulping down the rest of his coffee, he ended up in his at-home studio to pick up his newest pieces for display. He would have to run by the gallery while he was out; Tuesday’s were his days off, but even then the work never seemed to stop. He gathered the three canvases in his arms and crawled out of the house without accidentally stepping on Paladin this time. (Score!) He was still able to wave to Mr. Brady, his neighbor next door, despite having full arms. The old man simply huffed with a nod in return before disappearing into his shed with a bag of chicken feed under his arm. Mr. Brady was obviously not interested in helping, yet Will thankfully managed to shove the three canvases into the rather small trunk of his 1990 Classic Mini without much of a hassle.
It took only a few minutes to travel downtown. Will passed by the similar sights of the lone schoolhouse and Mr. Ronan’s sheep farm, white tufts of growing wool zipping by as the gentle beasts grazed on the grass. The sky was gray overhead with what Mr. Brady believed to be incoming rain – “Praise Mary,” he had gripped at their daily mailbox talk the day before, “she knows my poor tomatoes need it.”
The Damned Don’t Cry thrummed gently through his speakers, and he just barely finished the song when he pulled into his designated parking spot behind his building. The gallery was situated close to a number of other tiny businesses, all the way at the end of what seemed like an endless row of storefronts; sure, the space was tight, but it was grand enough for him. He was able to pay the absurdly cheap rent, and in all honesty, he liked how the arched windows illuminated each of his displayed works.
He carefully transferred each oil canvas through the Employees Only door with a little bit of body contortion and a whole lot of faith. These specific paintings weren’t for sale; instead, they were examples of his commission work – pet portraits (he used a beloved painting of Cleric and Paladin for that one), family portraits, and landscapes. Will discovered those areas to be his strongest back in Dublin, and after beginning his business, they seemed to sell the best as well.
After setting the pieces down with a bashfully winded huff, he took a considering look at what he had out for display at the moment. Irish landscape, random portrait of a visitor, Irish landscape, his friend Lorelai’s beloved King Charles Spaniel that he has painted more times than he can count, another Irish landscape... nothing that screamed original. He avoided acknowledging it like the plague, but this weird artistic slump really had seemed to come out of nowhere. Will had found himself caught in this rut for the past half year, at least. Every time he let his brush touch a new canvas, he ended up painting a variation of something that he had already done. Never anything different. It was almost like Declan took all of his creativity and passion with him. Damn soul sucker.
Don’t talk about him like that, Will reprimanded himself. Declan was a sweetheart, he was. He had bared his soul to Will without a second thought for three whole years, and Will admittedly allowed him to despite the overwhelming guilt he felt just looking at him.
He couldn’t digest another guilt induced breakdown, especially not today, his goddamn day off.
I know what I need, his mind quipped. Inspiration.
He could sniff out inspiration like a bloodhound. Maybe it was the innate artist within him, if he wanted to be spiritual. Or, it could be pure, unfiltered determination. Will didn’t really care – he just needed to get out of this weird funk before he went crazy and cut off an ear or something.
Lorelai was always a source. A sweet middle aged woman, Lorelai had always taken a keen interest in Will. He knew she didn’t have any children, or siblings from what he could tell, so his ultimate conclusion was that she enjoyed having a younger person like himself to look after. She lived across the street from him and, funnily enough, her bookstore just so happened to be right next to the gallery. “What a weird coincidence!” She had exclaimed five years ago, and it was then that Will knew he was in it for life.
The bell rang above his head as he entered the bookstore. At first glance, he couldn’t spot the tall woman right away; her steady voice, however, revealed that she was in the back. She was discussing something with a customer rather passionately, so Will decided to stroll through the bookshelves that he knew like the back of his hand. He thumbed through the titles absentmindedly, most he had already read, flipping through pages and finding rather interesting copyright dates as seconds turned into minutes and minutes into nearly an hour.
Lorelai’s bookstore had always held a sense of comfort for him. When he thought back on it, there was no place like this in Hawkins – no where he could simply thumb through meaningless pages without glaring eyes. In this town, he was Will Byers, the quiet full-time artist who lived in the white house with the yellow door. He was nothing if not just another face you see on your daily stroll to the grocery store. In Hawkins, he was Will Byers – Zombie Boy, a spy, a vessel for a greater evil to use and taunt. He was the ‘weird kid who came back to life.’ Something about being able to simply exist without such a reputation following you was nice.
He was finally tapped on the shoulder while glancing at a copy of Pride and Prejudice.
“Ah, Will, darlin’! Fancy seeing you here!” Lorelai chirped with an arm full of books.
“Hey, Lorelai. Sorry for loitering – I just saw that you were busy… or, heard.”
She tsked, setting down the stack of books on the coffee table near. Her long gray hair had been pulled back from her face in that signature blue headband of hers. “No worries about it, darlin’. I actually was hoping you’d stop by today – I got a copy of something I think you’d love.”
“Yeah?” She absentmindedly disappeared behind one of the bookshelves and Will walked along the opposite side, following her voice as it traveled down the aisle. He let the tips of his fingers drag against the many spines.
“Oh, yes. You know, I’m sure that little artist's brain of yours will find something good in this one. Tell me, you like to overanalyze things, right? Or am I being stereotypical?” Sweet Lorelai, she knew him too well, and he her; he could tell that she was wearing that signature thinking face as she shuffled to look for the book.
They met at the end of the bookshelf, Lorelai peeking out her head to hastily shove a rather thick read into his arms. “Not stereotypical at all.”
“Well, good, because there’s lotsa layers in this thing here.” She flashed him a toothy grin and he watched himself return it in the reflection of her comically large glasses. Lots of layers or lots of pages? “Did you finish the other book I gave you?”
As he examined the spine of the book in his hands he simply hummed, “Dorian Gray? Yeah, I did. Great read, Lorelai… I hope you weren’t trying to foreshadow my future or anything, though.”
“Well, as long as a very handsome boy who you just can’t resist to paint doesn’t saunter in here, I think you’re quite alright, honeybee.”
Will chuckled at that. He finally read over the title of the book in his hands; Classic Myths and Their Retellings. The cover featured what he assumed to be Heracles depicted in Rococo style, draped with the skin of the Nemean Lion and bearing the Girdle of Hippolyta as he stood powerfully on top of a defeated Cerberus. Will was knowledgeable in this area – he loved these sorts of stories, and when he would still write DnD campaigns he would often find himself taking inspiration from many that likely laid between the pages of this very book. “Greek Mythology? Jeez, you really know the way to an artist's heart.”
The woman simply shrugged as she began to sift through the books on the coffee table. “Right? I know you’ve been in a bit of a tizzy recently, so as soon as I saw that come in today’s shipment, I was struck all… eureka like! Something in my mind said ‘wow, Will could probably use this!’... The cover art may have swayed me, though, justa’ bit.”
“Not bad, Lorelai. Not bad.” She had given him some weird recommendations over the past couple of years, the weirdest by far being The Jungle by Upton Sinclair – his notoriously weak stomach never went away and the 1900s dialect did not shield the horrors between those pages. This, however, was definitely up his alley. “I’m sure that I’ll be able to find something here.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Who did that painting of Narcissus?”
“... Caravaggio?” Narcissus had been depicted countless times – how was he supposed to know?
“Caravaggio,” Lorelai hummed in affirmation. She had that far off look in her eye. “He threw a plate at a waiter’s head over some artichokes.”
Will was still laughing at her remark, even now as he stood in front of the artichokes at the grocery store.
He was positively thrumming with the prospects of an artistic endeavor, the new book burning a hole through the faux leather of his satchel bag. He thankfully only had a few groceries to pick up – his hands were itching to get on some tools as soon as possible. Will hadn’t felt nearly this excited about a work in, hell, half a year? Maybe he would do an Atlas inspired piece (holding the weight of the world on your shoulders, a feeling he knew well) or even Tantalus (reaching for what you want as it grows further away, most could relate), but he was certain that Lorelai’s book had given him the spark he needed.
“Do I even like artichokes?” He mumbled before shoving three in his cart.
The ride home was easy. Only a few droplets of rain knocked against his windshield, the sweet promise of a cozy afternoon of reading to the soft sound only adding to his sudden creative high; another thing about Ireland, it had always seemed to rain more than Hawkins and definitely more than Lenora. Something about a light shower rubbed Will the right way, so he pressed the gas a little harder.
Paladin chirped and nipped at his feet the moment he stepped in the door. He had to maneuver around her to set down the groceries before picking her up and letting her nuzzle all over his shirt, leaving her signature mark of shed orange fur. “Hey, pretty girl,” he mused as he ran his fingers along the column of her neck, “you didn’t bother your brother too much, did you?”
Cleric was glaring daggers toward him. He was puffed up on the arm of the sofa, tail whipping the way only an old cat would. “Oh, you poor thing.” He tried to pull away from Will’s hands but as soon as the tabby was gathered in his arms, there was no use. “No worries, big guy – you’ll always be my special boy.” That seemed to calm him down a little.
“Artichokes, artichokes, artichokes…” He mumbled to himself while sifting through the many recipe cards Joyce had sent with him. Will wasn’t the best chef, but hey, he could whip something up without much of a fuss. Maybe he should call her. She should have been awake by now, as it was around 9 o’clock in Indiana, so when she picked up on the other end he wasn’t shocked by any means.
“Hey, baby.” She hummed, sleep evident in her voice, “Good morning – er, afternoon.”
“Hey, momma.” He splayed the recipe cards out in front of him, thumbing across a few of the titles, “I had a question. What’s the best way to cook artichokes?”
Joyce let out what sounded to be a spluttering laugh on the other end of the phone. “‘What’s the best way to cook artichokes?’ Honey, you hate artichokes.”
“I’m trying something new. Caravaggio liked them.”
“Cara-who-ggio?” He gave up his defense after that. They began to chit chat back and forth (apparently it was easiest to steam artichokes, but Joyce preferred them baked, so that is what he ultimately decided on) and Joyce filled him in on what he had missed in the last two days they hadn’t talked; Hop had somehow managed to lock himself out of his car again, Jonathan’s work was published in yet another National Geographic issue, and Jane had told them that Max had gotten into law school.
“Make sure you’re taking some time to yourself, momma.” Will mumbled against the receiver as he spread the halved artichokes on a baking sheet, sprinkling them with some salt, “Don’t get too caught up, ok?”
Joyce hummed in affirmation. “Ah, I know. Don’t worry about me.” Easier said than done, but he let it go. ”Enjoy your artichokes, baby.”
“Say hi to Hop for me.”
Will was finally able to crack open the book about thirty minutes later. Sat on his loveseat under a gaudy quilt donated by Mr. Brady, he began to flip through the pages, scanning the index for anything that caught his eye. Paladin tried to knock the plate of artichokes from his hand. “Hey, I worked hard on those, young lady.” She jerked her head in what Will interpreted to be a cat eye-roll.
The basics appeared to be at the front of the index – various creation myths, the rise and fall of Kronos and the usurping of Zeus, Hades and Persephone, the like. Most listed near the top were ones he already knew, so he began to scour rather desperately toward the end of the list, eyes flicking over unfamiliar names and titles. “Atalanta… Ganymedes… Calydonian Boar?” He read further down, already feeling his creative flow coming to a skidding halt before a specific title caught his eye.
‘The Artist and His Greatest Art: The Story of Pygmalion and Galatea.’
Now that piqued his interest.
The story had the classic characteristics of a Greek myth – fantasy circumstances, ill-fated love, divine intervention. Pygmalion, ever an artist, stupidly fell in love with his art; a beautiful sculpture of a woman unlike any in the land. He would speak to her, shower her with love and affection only worthy of the most divine form of being… but he began to wither at the fact that his Sweet Galatea was art, in every sense of the word. Her lips were cold like the ivory she was born from, her eyes stone as they stared back into his, her nose turned up toward his weak mortal form from where he kneeled at her pristine feet. His Galatea was unfathomable, untouchable; even he, her creator, could not have her.
Well, until he sacrificed a bull to Aphrodite. Gods were funny that way; they appeared to turn a blind eye to most prayers until something in it for them was involved. What Aphrodite had to do with a bull was a mystery to Will, but whatever it was, it worked in Pygmalion’s favor.
Sweet Galatea became attainable. Her white skin grew pink, pale lips red, stone eyes brown. She had grinned down toward him like he had hung the stars in the sky, for he was her creator after all. Pygmalion had not risen to her goddess among men status, but instead she had sunk to his – human, in every sense of the word.
And like that, Will was struck ‘all eureka like.’
He scrambled to dig into the drawers of his coffee table, shoving past random magazines and old grocery lists, hand finally latching onto the pamphlet he was looking for. The latest catalog from the closest art store, about forty-five minutes away in the heart of Dublin; he was already flying through the pages before his sudden idea had fully processed in the forefront of his mind. Why not try to create his own Galatea? Not to fall in love with, no, no, but rather to depict as his rendition of such a being that Pygmalion saw Galatea to be.
He glanced out his opened curtains and pondered how large of a polyurethane block could fit in the trunk of his car.
TWO DAYS LATER – Thursday, June 1st, 1995.
Seven years.
Seven years have passed since he left Hawkins for the last time.
Somehow, the thought almost made him giddy. Hawkins was rooted deep within his past, always following him as his hometown, where he grew up – but Hawkins was by no means his home. That title had been stripped away the second he returned in ‘83. Arms were open, sure, but few and far in between. Beyond the hospital, there was certainly no welcome wagon. He would rather compare it to a hearse instead.
Despite it all, despite everything he had going against him, Will had made it out. He had run and he had done it fast.
Getting a case worker was easy; when you had the U.S Government tied around a leash as tight as Joyce Byers and Jim Hopper did, getting what you wanted turned out to roll rather smoothly. Will mentioned the idea over dinner early that May – what he expected to receive was chimes of protest and an outright no . But, funnily enough, the family mulled over the idea with undoubtedly somber consideration.
“It’s just – Ireland is so far, baby.” Joyce murmured while flipping through different pamphlets with her baby by her side, an arm draped around his shoulder. “Why not, ooh – Canada! Canada is far, right? But still on the same continent? You could easily visit for Christmas or Thanksgiving–” How was he supposed to tell her that far was the point?
“Dublin has the best school, momma.” A hand carded through growing his hair tentatively, “I’ll be happy there.”
Joyce smiled, but the look pulled at his heart in all of the wrong ways. “I know, baby. I know.”
Jane took the news horribly. She was rather distraught, fat tears rolling down her face as she wiped at her nose and clenched the pamphlet in shaking hands. “... I won’t see you again?” Her breath had grown rapid and her face turned hot. The only thing that eventually calmed her down was Will pulling her in for a bone crushing hug, his own tears misting in his eyes. “Will… I don’t know if I can do it without you…” And, yes, he would be a complete liar if he said that her soft mumble into his tear-stained shoulder didn’t shatter his heart into a million pieces. God, Jane was like the other half of his soul at this point in his life – they were not just similar in looks, but in character, in history. She was more than his sister, rather his twin; he was convinced that they were made from the same cosmic dust and that each atom in their bodies was a perfect copy. Their bond was wound tight and that’s why he was so sure in his decision. Distance wouldn’t break them apart. Nothing that the world threw their way was capable of doing such a difficult task.
“You’ll be ok, El. We’ll be ok.” Comforting, or he attempted the words to be, at least. Jane’s sniffles had grown quiet. So, he merely swayed with her, standing in their little bubble at the center of their very own universe. El the Sun, Will the Moon, rising and falling in their personal equilibrium.
Jonathan had smiled at him like Will won the lottery. “I knew you could do it,” His brother had murmured before pulling Will close, holding tight and never letting go, “You’re amazing, Will.” Will didn’t miss Jonathan’s last comment, ‘Get out of here while you still can’ sticking with him when he laid in bed that night.
Hop merely gruffed, sipping at his coffee from across the table. “Y’know that you’ll always be my boy too, right?” Those words made tears fill his eyes, Will nodding and rubbing his nose with a sniffle, “Good, because you became a part of my family the moment I saw Joyce in my office that morning.”
“I’m gonna go to art school,” he murmured to the gathered party on the morning of their high school graduation. They were all draped in their green gowns, adjusting their caps just right. Class of ‘89. Jonathan gathered them for a picture; Will didn’t try to peak his head from behind the shoulders of the others. This was their time to shine. This group had been through hell, mentally and physically, and god did they deserve to walk across that stage.
“Art school?” A hand clapped on his shoulder. “That’s great, man.” The hand belonged to Lucas, who was grinning down toward him like everyone else didn’t matter. “Proud of you.”
The whole party was looking now; he stood his ground instead of letting himself shrink. “Yeah… sometime soon.” His dress shoes suddenly became quite interesting as he avoided a certain pair of dark eyes.
That’s all they got. Sometime soon. Soon was closer than the majority of them realized; soon was a mere week from that very day. Will didn’t have the heart within him to say that just yet. He would have his goodbyes, he would let his tears run free, but not today. Not on a day where they were supposed to be celebrating.
“You’re gonna do amazing in art school, man.” Dustin found his way to his side at the after party. Steve’s house was pulsing with unrecognizable music and Will eyed the red cup in his friend's hand, a probably lethal drink concoction sloshing around with Dustin’s wobbly legs. “Absolutely phenomenal… they won’t know what… what hit ‘em!”
“Thanks, Dustin.” Will hid his guilty smile with a sip from his own drink. His friends were having a good time, at least; Jane and Max sloppily dancing to whatever trendy song was blasting, Lucas messing around with some of his basketball friends, Dustin hanging back with him in a drunken stupor. “Hey, where’s Steve?” Dustin merely mumbled something into his shoulder, so Will made sure to leave him with a trusted supervisor (Eddie would do fine) before retreating from the house in favor of the backyard. Ask Dustin and Lucas then and they would tell you Will was outback, probably taking a smoke break and dipping his feet into the pool.
Ask Dustin and Lucas now and they wouldn’t be able to tell you where Will was. They’d likely respond with the fact that he hadn’t called in a while (seven years, give or take).
Mike wouldn’t know, either.
To Will’s grim satisfaction, where he ended up was a mystery to Mike. He told himself that it was better that way. Mike was still as stubborn as they came and Will still found it difficult to say no to him, those fatal facets of themselves never changing with age. Will wasn’t an idiot; he knew that Mike would do everything in his power to get him to stay. He would give Will those eyes, let his lips turn into that signature grimace, and shift his tone to that sort of voice that Will delusionally believed was saved just for him. That damned soft rasp had always hurdled him straight back into his seat on that swing set, a nice dark haired boy finding his way next to him. 'Do you wanna be my friend?' Even after Mike changed, Will would always see a glimpse of his younger self when he spoke to him like that. He would see him in his eyes and in his toothy smile.
If his departure was going to happen at all, Mike couldn’t know – simple as that. The secret exchange between him and his appointed case worker ended up being the best way to approach the idea. No one outside of the family had to know, Will would be out of their hair in less than a week, and his seat was already saved at the National College of Art and Design in Dublin.
He had his last meet up with Mike two days before he left. Will never gained the courage to reveal his little disappearing act, so Mike was as oblivious to the urgency as he was to everything else that surrounded him. Will wasn’t leaving him out on purpose – no one knew about his approaching last days other than Jane, so that certainly wasn’t the case. Mike just so happened to be a part of those who… didn’t need to know.
They sat at the top of the quarry, basking in the rays of the late May sun. Silence surrounded them for a while. Will’s stomach had remained as tight as it was the moment he climbed into Mike’s car, coiling more taut with what he could only describe as guilt even as he nursed a fresh Marlboro between his quivering lips. Mike, his opposite in every step, looked more relaxed, pointed shoulders hunched as he leaned back on his hands. Will couldn’t help but stare at the slope of his nose. The sharp line of his jaw cried out for Will to reach and touch like a cursed spindle.
Mike was close, shoulder pressed against his own, their ankles locked. The breath was caught in the back of his throat at the way Mike ran the tip of his shoe along the side of Will’s foot. Strangely intimate, but lines like this had always been blurred between them.
“I never really thought we’d make it here,” Mike had mumbled.
“No?”
He shook his head. “Y’know, years of interdimensional monster fighting can really give you a reality check…” Mike was smiling now, “I thought we’d stay in Hawkins forever. But now, we’re all leaving, and it just doesn’t feel… real.”
Years of aforementioned interdimensional monster fighting and yet the idea of growing up feels foreign to him?
Will had been in his shoes once. He remembered their fight that July; then it was Will who was afraid of growing up, terrified at the idea of his friends leaving him in the dust, hiding that shameful part of himself that longingly yearned for their lives to go back to normal. Will had no interest in trying to catch up with his friends, not until Mike’s snide remark. Was the thunder that rumbled across Hawkins the storm or the manifestation of Will’s stomach churning in agony instead? He wasn’t sure how, but Mike knew. Mike knew and Mike had probably always known. In that moment, standing across from the boy he knew he was never meant to have, Will had finally faced the ineffability of growing up. The words 'It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!' simply served as the catalyst for the funeral of his inner child.
“Sorry – that probably sounds really stupid.” Mike’s bashful words ripped him out of the memory. Will noticed his stare, his eyes boring in the way they did when he knew Mike wanted validation. He gave it to him. Of course he did.
His lips quirked as rolling smoke curled across the planes of his face. “No, you’re right.”
“Promise you’ll call? Y’know, when you go to art school?” Mike’s ankle locked tighter around his own, a simple touch that anchored him there. Mike didn’t even need to use his words. His mere presence made the idea of leaving feel impossible.
When it came to Mike Wheeler, he certainly wasn’t the best liar — but now was not the time to show that sort of weakness. The words felt heavy in his mouth. Will yearned to tell him, say that this was the last time they would ever share a moment like this again, but refrained. He opted for something simple.
“Yeah. Sure.”
He didn’t call.
Now, in the present, Will was unsure why his mind was suddenly clouded with thoughts of the familiar freckled face. As he sat on the cushions of his bay window, drowning in sudden emotions that he thought he would never feel again, his coffee tasted bitter. Mike’s freckles were the same color as the drink in his cup, the soft lull of rain tapping on the window the same sweet song as his voice – he was an artist after all, and he could only think of Mike in such terms.
He blamed the occurrence on the anniversary. Declan had explained to him the psychological importance of anniversaries once, something about the subconscious being acutely aware of time and pulling thoughts and memories out of the vault as dates grew close. “See, my degree is worth something after all!” Declan had joked, freckled dotted face lighting up with a wide grin, and Will wondered where the butterflies in his stomach were hiding.
The coffee tasted sour now. Today was a day like any other, nothing different about it, so he wasn’t going to treat it as such. Ignoring the ache in his chest, Will moved along. Sure, it had been seven years, but seven years clearly wasn’t enough. He still caught himself thinking back, grasping onto the good memories that never outweighed the bad, trying to push down the guilt that rolled within him. Hawkins didn’t need him, he thought. Hawkins never did.
Here, they needed him. Mr. Brady needed him to make sure the chickens didn’t get loose. Lorelai needed him to look after, not just as a friend, but as a guardian. The grocery store needed his business, his flowers needed his tending, his cats needed his care. He was never someone there, but here, he was. He was no longer a walking corpse, nor the shell of who he once was; here, in Ireland, he was Will. Just Will, and Just Will is all he needed to be.
That’s what he told himself, at least.
ONE WEEK LATER – Thursday, June 8th, 1995.
Turns out only a block just big enough for a bust could fit in the back of his car.
That was fine, he could work with that. He was unbothered by the limited space, all he needed was a medium to get his itching hands on, and god was Will determined to turn the heap of polyurethane foam into his magnum opus. Sure, he was overestimating himself – he knew he had plenty of time left in his artistic career to continue creating masterpiece after masterpiece, but something within him screamed for a career-defining work. Something he would never be able to replicate, preferably, a piece that stuck with his audience and never let go.
The myth really had struck the right chord within him. Pygmalion projecting his idea of the perfect being upon a canvas further confirmed Will’s belief that art was the only way to truly represent human thought. Words were never enough, Will believed. They weren’t enough when that dark being had taken over every inch of his body and bled into the folds of his mind; Will didn’t speak, he drew, and that worked. The urge to convey his every thought through a medium other than his shaky words warmed him from the inside out, and letting his hands explain what his mind couldn’t would always continue to fascinate him.
When he began to carve away at the block, he let his hands do what they did best. He didn’t have references laid out, no sketch to shoot off of; he merely wanted to let his hands run free. They were the real tools, after all. Calloused hands from years of late studio nights were worth the result. Will was not humble when it came to his skill, no, not at all, he knew he was great; making the world see that was the issue. This piece, Will told himself, would soon be displayed proudly in the center of his gallery, on a pedestal where the arched windows basked the bust in only the most organic light. This piece would be displayed in a way that onlookers would have no choice but to gawk at the sheer beauty of it.
Months of pent up creative flow led to where he was now, carving away at the general layout of the sculpture's eyes. He had finished the jaw and the high structure of his cheeks. A strong brow and deep set downturned eyes stared blankly back at him, and yet Will felt as though he was breathing life into the piece. If he looked hard enough he may just catch the twitch of an eye or the raise of a brow – maybe Pygmalion wasn’t as crazy as Will believed him to be. How could you not fall for the spitting image of divine essence?
He had been working on the sculpture for a week now, dedicating most of his free time to peeling away layers of foam and crafting together what was beginning to look almost human-like. The two years of sculpture classes he took in Dublin were coming in handy now; truth be told, he hadn’t dabbled in sculpture work once in the past three years at least, but for him in things like art, you simply learn and never forget. The moment the tools landed in his hands he was transported back to studio classes, hours of perfecting pieces to gain the approval of his harsh professors coming back so quick he got a head rush. His talent ran through him, it pulsed in his blood and flowed to each crevice and spilled from the groves of his fingertips, and three years out of practice would not stop him.
Will decided to begin shaping the nose. If he was asked, he would always say that his favorite feature on the human face was the nose. Most characteristics were unique nonetheless, but noses tended to come in more variations than, say, eyes or lips. No nose was the same which, to him, always meant something new to depict to the best of his ability. He did not believe in the perfect nose; when he approached the area on the middle of the sculpture’s face, he continued to let his mind drift and let his hands do all of the heavy lifting. Will fell into that same comforting flow; a random Visage tape was playing in the background as pieces of foam began to fall to the ground, skilled hands quick and precise.
Remembering the last time he felt so passionate about a project was miserably difficult. But alas, art was no longer just a hobby, it wasn’t like he could walk away from it. Art was now his sole source of income, and like any form of work, burnouts came and went. But oddly, the last half year didn’t feel like a typical burnout. For the first time, he had lost his passion for his work – painting began to feel more like a chore than anything else, and when he began to dread picking up even one brush, he knew that something was wrong. Despite the lock that had been placed tight around the door to his creative thoughts, Lorelai had somehow placed a perfectly feeble battering ram between his twitching hands. The book had nearly pulsed the moment he had the cover between his palms and it was then Will knew the dam was on its last legs; Pygmalion and his Sweet Galatea were the simply the final crack, allowing Will to let his energy flow.
The nose was starting to take what Will would describe as an aquiline shape; a broad bridge that sloped down to a point, flared nostrils… inherently stunning. The curved shape was comparable to only that of an eagle's beak; they were stubborn animals with an innate sense of leadership, Will’s mind supplied rather randomly. Eagles weren’t common in Ireland, but maybe Will saw them more than he remembered back in Hawkins. Once he began to dabble in portrait work, only a few months before his departure, he could only ever seem to depict one shape of nose – the exact shape that he was slowly picking away at now. Return to your roots, he supposed. Maybe he saw an eagle once, and maybe his subconscious hung onto that alluring slope, leading to the portrayal of all his nose depictions in such aquilinus ways. He felt that strange sense of familiarity wash over him staring at the sculpture now.
His hands jerked back like he had touched something hot. After shakily placing the rasp on the worktable, he raised a finger to gently trace the bridge, eyes watching intensely as the slope turned into the tip. He swirled his fingertip around the left nostril, then the right; as he turned the sculpture to the side, first basking in the pronounced brow and deep eyes, he couldn’t help but focus on the nose that was continually luring his eyes. Look, something whispered deep within his ear, look harder. I am more than Galatea, Will. I am much more.
The voice, like soft tapping rain, sent goosebumps rising across his skin. The tremors grew worse and made the sculpture vibrate in his hands. Look harder? His eyes slid down the bridge over and over, wracking his brain for what he couldn’t see, what he was looking for feeling heavy in his stomach. No, no, no – now was not the time for the dormant caterpillars to turn into butterflies. He hadn’t felt them rise this way in what, seven years? A laugh echoed within his ears, and he couldn’t tell if it was his own or his taunting, all knowing subconscious spitting directly in his face.
No, the laugh didn’t belong to either. Standing there, in his home in the Republic of Ireland, he was suddenly catapulted back to where he wanted to be the least – Hawkins, Indiana.
It was December of their senior year, snow piling high and frosty winds whipping in the air. Will had already had the thoughts of leaving at that point, even sitting with his friends on Christmas Eve; if anything the event made those thoughts stronger. The party was holding their annual Christmas get together, passing gifts around and catching up after busy Christmas break festivities. Nothing supernatural this time, thank god, but there was always a chance. Will had never let his guard down.
Jane was sitting right next to him on the sofa in the Wheeler’s basement. They had on their matching Christmas sweaters, courtesy of Joyce, and were quietly talking to themselves as the others did what they did best. Lucas, Dustin, and Erica were bickering about something DnD related, Max and Mike were bothering the adults who were nursing their beers with unhideable grimaces. Jane had looked toward him expectantly, “Have you given him the gift yet?”
“What gift?” Stalling, of course, stalling was what he did best.
“You know what gift, Will.” Jane was holding onto his hand now and squeezing tight, “He’s gonna love it. I know he is.” Her wide grin calmed some of his nerves, but the rest only a bad habit could handle.
“I’ll be right back,” He mumbled toward her before rising from his seat. Heavy gift bag locked in his grip, he sulked out to the back door, finding refuge from the bustling group in the cold Hawkins night.
Snow fell around him in chunky flakes, landing on his eyelashes and the red tip of his nose, and his shaky hands had trouble igniting the lighter. The Marlboro hung between his lips and all he wanted for Christmas then was the stupid flicker of fire and the sweet taste of smoke. Gathering his jacket around him even tighter, he finally was hit with that addicting flavor and he took a long, deep drag.
His head thumped back against the brick wall and he simply allowed flake after flake to rest on his warm face. The cigarette felt snug between his fingers and even though he had to block off the wind himself, the moment had been quite peaceful. He glanced toward the gift bag – maybe if he left it out here, one of the Wheeler’s would find it tomorrow, and he wouldn’t have to deliver it himself. No, the contents would be too easily soiled by all of the snow…
The sudden creak of the door jolted him out of his smoky haze. His heart was racing in his chest, and before he was about to curse, he caught a glimpse of the intruder.
Mike held his hands up in a sign of surrender, a smile spreading across his lips. Will felt his heart pick up ten times faster. “Hey – sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“S’okay…” He mumbled. Mike had shoved his hands into his pockets now and began approaching him quicker than Will could comprehend. Proximity was something Will needed getting used to, but Mike had seemed to want to speed run past that stage. The cigarette found its way back between his lips as he took another nerve calming drag.
“It’s cold, Will. Why are you out here? You’ll freeze.” Even though Will had looked away, Mike hadn’t. Will knew him well enough that he could tell Mike was hoping to find the answer in his face – he would find it there long before he would verbally squeeze it out of him. Mike, a constant in his life even when there was a slight falter, had always been able to read into him in such ways. They were best friends after all, even if they didn’t act like it anymore. Mike’s eyes were able to bore into him and expose every piece of his soul, and Will couldn’t fight back; he wasn’t a fighter. He would always let him in, trust unscathed, because he would always trust Mike.
“Smoke break.” The answer was flat. Mike sighed, lips twitching like he was about to say something, but his eyes landed on the gift.
“Who’s that for?” His voice was soft, so soft Will wanted to cry. He could feel them, the tears that welled in his waterline and threatened to fall, but Mike had seen him cry too many times. Will held back like he always had, wiping off the fallen snow from his face.
“It’s… it’s for you.” Will mumbled. He had turned to face him now, cemented to where he stood by his smile, toothy and bright, absolutely delighted. Will nudged the bag with his shoe, sliding it across the way to gently knock against Mike’s, an invitation. Open it, he said inaudibly, and Mike understood. His best friend snatched the present like he was still ten, shoving through the tissue paper to land on a hefty box, a glance of confusion crossing on his face. Slowly, Mike exposed the gift to the light.
“Will…” Mike turned the box set in his hands, pulling out The Fellowship of The Ring. The freshly painted cover danced between his best friend's curious hands, Will watching as his slender fingers traced across the shapes of familiar characters and scenes, dark eyes wide and elated. “You… you painted all of these?” He was pulling out the other two books now, trying his hardest to hold them all in his hands, gawking at Will’s handwork on each hardcover.
“Yeah… I did. I know you uh, love the series, so –”
A bone crushing hug cut him off. The gift bag sat between them now as Mike, with no hesitation, gathered Will in an embrace with what felt to be all the strength he could muster. The Marlboro slipped from his fingers and flared before dimming out in the snow. Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike, Mike, his brain chanted before what felt like short circuiting; he was surrounded not by the chill of Hawkins winter, but the warmth of Mike Wheeler, and his heady musk and beating heart and tacky Christmas sweater. This was their first hug in a while, a line that Will had always attempted to tiptoe around, but Mike had always been physical like this. Always touching Will, whether it be a hug or a hand on his shoulder or an arm pressed against his – at least until Jane came back. Jane coming back changed a lot; for the good, yes, but she also seemed to tear a rift a mile wide between them. The rift was healing slowly, but too slowly. It wouldn’t be enough by June. It never would be.
Will returned the hug, chin resting against the point of Mike’s shoulder. Mike was close, close enough that Will could feel the brush of his dark hair against his cheek and his breath dusting warm against the shell of his ear – unusual, so unusual, but he wouldn’t mind getting used to it if he had the time.
“I’m sorry,” Mike mumbled.
“For what?”
“For everything.” Mike hadn’t broken away yet. Why hadn’t he moved? He just seemed to move closer, burrowing his face into the curve of Will’s neck, and god Will could swear he had died and arrived at the pearly gates to the glorious sound of harmonizing angels. “For being a jerk, for being distant, for being cold.. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Will fell still in his arms. He pulled back slightly, letting his eyes trace the pronounced brows and the deep eyes and god the slope of the artistically kissable nose that made up the face of the boy he had loved so painfully for so many years now. Even through the pang of anguish that pulsed through him, Will was able to smile at Mike so easy, almost like everything with him was easy. “It’s alright … y’know, being an asshole, it’s kinda… your thing.” Teasing, and Mike knew it was, if the smile that graced his face said anything.
Mike laughed. Mike laughed and he laughed hard, his head tilting back as the sound erupted from his throat and slipped through his mouth, laughed in a sound that Will told himself he would never forget. His arms still held Will, lax and easy, laugh bouncing off the side of the house and reverberating in Will’s ears.
The sculpture. The eyes, the brows, the chin and jaw – the cheekbones so high the gods danced across them like never ending Olympian plains… the nose. Mike’s nose had always been his favorite feature, hadn’t it? Will had spent ages tracing that nose with every medium – his eyes, the ghost of his hand, on paper with pencil. Ages of mapping each distinct feature had all built up to this, to Will’s magnum opus, to what was supposed to be his Galatea. No, the sculpture in front of him was not one of Pygmalion’s vision. The sculpture was not the most beautiful woman to grace the earth, nor a goddess among men, nor what Pygmalion wanted the most; the sculpture was the depiction of what Will wanted the most.
Now, standing far away from the Underworld that was Hawkins, Indiana, he was locked where he stood in his studio, the blank face of Mike Wheeler staring right back at him.
He had been sculpting him the whole time. Since the first piece of foam that fell to the ground, it had been Mike. He had made it past the brows and eyes and jaw without realizing, but the moment the nose had come together, it had all clicked in place.
“No…” He stumbled back, “No, no, no, no, no…” Will, strong as he was, could feel the walls caving in around him. His heart began to race in his chest as the tears he had gotten so good at hiding began to well in his eyes, snapping out of his shock to fumble around the studio for something, anything to get the sculpture out of his sight. God, he had thought he had gotten over this. He shoved those childish feelings so far into the back of his mind that he believed they disappeared. But no, he admitted to himself as he snatched a blanket off an arm chair with fat tears rolling down his face, he was wrong.
It was Mike then, and it was Mike now. It had always been.
Jane had called the next day, just before Will was going to settle into bed.
“Everything been ok?” Her voice hadn’t changed even as Jane got older and continued to learn. Still melodic and comforting as it had been when he left, her soft chiding through the phone nearly put him to sleep from where he was laying in his bed, his fingers twisting the cord nervously.
“Everything’s been fine.” Paladin had found her way into a ball on his lap while Cleric nuzzled by his feet, their typical sleeping arrangement since moving into the house five years ago. “The usual… long day at work, but besides that.”
“Don’t lie to me, Will.” Damn it. She knew him too well.
“I’m not – I’m not lying.” The embarrassed flush that wafted his cheeks said differently.
“Then tell me the truth,” Jane mumbled back. He could hear Max in the background, probably asking Jane something, “...please.” He couldn’t say no to his sister, especially when she sounded about as serious as her voice could go. Will let his eyes fall shut as he rested against the headboard, trying to force the image of the sculpture out of his mind, a noticeable sigh passing through his lips. Jane was as patient as a saint. She had always allowed him to collect himself, never rushing, always waiting.
“Do you ever feel like you’re going crazy?” He murmured into the phone after a few silent moments. Jane let out what sounded like an amused giggle.
“Yeah,” came her breathy response, “sometimes.”
“It’s just – I don’t know. Memories coming back, feelings…” Will thought it would be awkward to divulge her in the entire story; ranting to Jane about the sudden resurgence of his anything but platonic feelings toward her ex-boyfriend of nine years was not the note he wanted to fall asleep on. “I think the anniversary kicked it all off, you know?”
“Like Declan told you about?” Jane had liked Declan from both what she heard about him and from the sweet pictures Will had sent her way. She thought he was good for Will. Declan was a good guy – he was kind, affectionate, and gave Will whatever he thought he needed. He was more of the jealous sort, but overall, a pretty decent first and last boyfriend for Will. The man had, however, been noticeably more… invested in the relationship than Will had. On their second date, he had already mentioned moving in together; in fact, they had adopted Paladin together only a few weeks into officially dating (Declan was immediately upset at the fact that she took to Will more than him). When Declan started to consider Will's house his own, he was enrolled at a school in Dublin and still made the daily 45-minute commute there and back. Will swallowed down the painful memory of them sitting in this bed, of Declan telling him he loved him only three months in – he tried to forget the pain on his face when Will couldn’t say it back.
“Yeah,” Will huffed, “like Declan told me about.”
Jane picked up the hint, the Declan topic quickly dying off much to Will’s relief. He didn’t need to add Declan to the list of things he had to think about.
Jane drabbled on for a while about how excited her Kindergarteners were for summer break and how the last day of school was bittersweet for her. Will traded her story for a few of his own – new commissions, Mr. Brady horror stories that always made her laugh, a few passing mentions of Lorelai that had piqued her interest. He told her of his new project, truthfully only scratching the surface with a vague description and nothing more.
Eighteen year old Will was right; his and Jane’s connection was untouchable, even by nearly 4,000 miles of distance. They had called at least every three days, if not more, and Jane was even saving up for a trip to Ireland in the near future. Her and Max planned to visit for Christmas; Will prayed on his lucky stars almost every night that the trip would become a reality. He had to see his sister, no – he needed to see his sister, but stepping even a foot back in America was a daunting task that he knew he wouldn’t be able to face.
“Joyce misses you.” Jane murmured into the phone half an hour later, “We all do.”
“It’s late,” Will simply deflected, “I need to get some sleep.”
His family’s ‘convincing' had never worked on him. The only time he would ever visit Hawkins again would be when Hell froze over; Jane knew this, so she didn’t bother beyond that.
“I love you, Will. Goodnight.”
“Love you too, El. Goodnight.”
After closing his eyes that night, he tried not to dream of much; his brain didn’t need to conjure anything new, it never did. In the inky blackness behind his eyelids, Will could only think of the still figure that sat in the middle of the room across the hall, familiar dark eyes and sharp jaw covered by only the tackiest of quilts.
ONE MONTH LATER – Saturday, July 8th, 1995.
Time had passed and the sculpture had never left Will’s mind.
Even where he stood now, standing behind the counter and filling out a commission form for another random tourist, the mere image of the complete bust plagued every corner of his mind. Yes, Will had caved and put more time into the sculpture; he was not the type of artist to start a project and give up which was rather unfortunate in this situation.
A few nights before he had finally completed the hair, waves meeting just below the jaw of the sculpture that took a whole week on their own to finish. The piece was undoubtedly him, Will had come to accept, with the strikingly Mike features that he knew like the back of his hand. Despite the many tears that had been caught by his sleeves and pillowcases, he had to go through with the work. He was determined to finish the sculpture since the beginning and was not going to let this… odd roadblock get in his way. So, yes, Will had worked on the damned block of polyurethane over the last month, and he had worked hard.
Last night the piece had come together with a dried coat of plaster, and Will had never felt more conflicted about his own artwork in his life. One side of him yearned to feel pride at the undeniable beauty of the sculpture, bask in the impeccable depiction of the human form that only a master could accomplish, let his ego swell with the promise of gasps and awes and praise that, if displayed, the piece would most certainly receive. The other half of him wanted to cover the piece yet again with that tacky quilt and shove it deep into the back of a dark closet to never be seen again. He felt guilt standing there as the moonlight streamed through his curtains and casted a glow on the face he had spent so many years trying to forget; his guilt grew tenfold when his hands traced across the foam features like he were real.
The grief that wracked through him was enough to shake the hands that were outlining gentle shapes across the high hills of his cheeks and the low valleys of his lips, his eyes misty and twitching with tears that let themselves be, trailing rivers down his own face. If he could breathe real life into the piece between his hands, he wouldn’t. He would pray to Aphrodite to keep him still instead. He would beg her to play her silly divine games with another mortal, and plead to just let Will be with the figure of his unattainable desire. Pygmalion may have been happy to watch color wash into Galatea’s ivory skin, but if the work between his hands even bat an eye Will would have to swallow down his horror. He was ashamed – if Mike had ever known of this Will would not be able to look him in the eye. Such unabridged want for something he knew he was not supposed to have was downright embarrassing; the idea that his mind unconsciously decided to depict him in the first place was enough to make Will want to crawl in his own skin, but the fact that he continued nonetheless just to see him again was truthfully the worst part of all.
Will held the sculpture in his hands as if he was made of true ivory, staring into his blank eyes, shaky hand reaching to hold onto the back of his soft head. All sense of proximity thrown out the window, the artist pressed his forehead against the sculpture’s own – he was cold, no sign of life, and Will felt relief flood through him. His eyes were shut tight as he thanked the gods above. But as they flicked open, he nearly started back. Was he dreaming? The sculpture was crying; the teardrops trickled down his cheeks and leaked into the crest above his lips. With his hand Will cupped his stone face and let his thumb brush away the fallen tears, like he was consoling him, like he was at all sentient. The tip of Will’s nose pressed against the nose that he had spent so long dwelling on. Don’t cry, Galatea, my sweet, his weak mind mused, there is no need to be sad. The artist’s lips dusted his work’s, so close yet 4,000 painful miles apart. However Will did not feel that familiar warm breath dust his face, and the sight of another fallen tear yanked him as far from the sculpture as possible, undeniable sleep tugging at his eyes.
The sculpture wasn’t crying, no, tears of his own were creeping down the sculpture’s face instead. Will dragged his hands down his face as his back met the wall; the intense wave of sudden emotion, guilt and heartache and misery all mixed in an ocean of torment, made his knees buckle and his feet give as he felt himself falling. He met the ground of his studio with a gentle thud and the whimper that slipped from his quivering lips sounded almost inhuman. Knees gathered to his chest, the sculpture’s piercing eyes just seemed to deride him from across the room and he simply let him. Will was a miserable display of melancholy; he deserved to be gawked at in distaste while the sculpture deserved to be gaped at in awe, and he knew this, so he let his creation do so pathetically.
As the violent sobs ripped throughout him, Will cursed Aphrodite. He cursed Eros. Why couldn’t they have bestowed him with the greatest gift of all? Normalcy? But alas, he sat there, likely thousands of miles away from the only man that his heart would thrum for. He sat there and he cried under the watchful eye of his magnum opus, his greatest work, the visage of one specific face; Mike Wheeler, the one who had and had always held the key to what appeared to be his sheltered heart.
“Mr. Byers?”
Ah, right. He was dealing with a paying customer. “Hm? Oh, I apologize, Mrs. Germanotta… got lost in the clouds for a second there.”
She didn’t seem impressed, sliding the clipboard across the desk with a loud screeeeeeech. “Is there any more paperwork I need to fill out or did it get lost up there with you?”
Will flashed her a shaky and, yes, most definitely fake smile. “None at all, I’ll just need that picture of Mr. Mittens mailed to the address listed on the top of your customer’s copy as soon as possible. I’d say the portrait will be done in about… two weeks or so after that?” Mrs. Germanotta gave him a sort of sneer, waving him off with a vague gesture of her manicured hand. She slapped down the signed check before trotting off to the exit and Will bit down his smile at the many zeros on the dotted line.
After shoving the check into his workbook, he glanced at the time; 4:55. With five minutes left to spare, he would have enough time to collect himself while closing down the gallery for the day and hopefully hit the grocery store on his way home. Last night felt like a hellscape and Will had hoped a good night's sleep and a typical work day would wash away the guilt that gnawed away at the walls of his stomach, but he was quite wrong; those same feelings tossed and turned deep within him and obviously did not want to rest. His inner turmoil did not stop him from dusting old pieces or turning off all of the lights, and the only thing he could hear besides the satisfying clack of the Open sign turning Closed was the heavy beat of his heart in his ears.
Maybe the walk to the store would help clear his head. The trek was only about ten minutes on foot from his gallery, a perfect distance to clear his head and get a goddamn grip on reality instead of continuing to live on a battlefield with his thoughts. The idea of pulling himself out of his creative rut had sounded appealing a month ago, but now after what felt like two mental breakdowns and nearly two decades of agonizing pining hitting him out of nowhere he was starting to regret this artistic endeavor after all. Nausea from eventually deciding to shove the damned thing into the back of his supply closet spoiled appetite, and to top it all off, he couldn’t even finish his morning coffee without that sour taste lingering on the back of his tongue.
The whole Mike ordeal had not just spoiled his creative prospects but nearly every other aspect of his life as well. Laying awake at night after horrid nightmares was bad enough but horrid nightmares of your unrequited love being torn to shreds really iced the cake, and Will really had begun believing that he was starting to lose his mind. Shoving the thing out of sight would make all of this go away, right? Out of sight, out of mind, and Will would be right back to normal. Or what he thought was normal, which really wasn’t his normal either; god, everything was snowballing faster than he could keep up with and he was sure that nothing could make things any worse.
Well, there went his mind clearing plans. He was already standing at the door of the store and hadn’t dropped the sculpture subject from his mind even a tiny bit. So much for that idea, Will’s mind quipped, pushing open the door and sighing at the likely taunting jingle of the bell.
The grocery store was the largest in town; about the size of the convenience stores back in Hawkins, Martin’s Shop N’ Mart had just what Will needed about every time that he came in – produce, toiletries, necessities and the like. That day he needed just a few minuscule things like toothpaste and cat litter, but he heard that a shipment of fresh Ambrosia apples had arrived this morning (Lorelei was his eyes and ears at this point, she knew everything that went on) and he was eager to get a good pick, even as late as it was. Martin at the counter gave a quick nod of greeting before returning to what looked like counting a closed drawer. Will didn’t know if he saw his nod back, but went along nonetheless, grabbing a basket between his fidgety hand.
He picked up his toothpaste and bag of litter, cursing when he realized they were out of the kind he usually got – Paladin would have something smart to say, er, convey, while her brother would barely bat an eye at the change. Cleric was about as daft as he was grumpy. Will huffed, crossing it off of his messily written grocery list, rounding the corner to speed walk his way to the produce.
Martin had the classic array of undoubtedly Irish produce – cabbage and carrots and vibrant broccoli – all locally grown by farmers that Will most likely was on a first name basis with. He glanced across the selection, deciding to pick up a few broccoli stalks and some carrots, humming to distract himself from the pit that continued to grow in his stomach.
The produce section of the store was the largest, expanding across nearly 50 feet of open space with all of the little displays set up as perfect as Martin wanted them to be. He had been a perfectionist for as long as Will had known him and by the looks of the towers of potatoes and perfectly stacked cabbages that certainly hadn’t changed overnight. There were a few people gathered around in the store, mostly faces and backs of heads he recognized, one he didn’t. Across the way by the carrots was a mop of dark hair, unfamiliar to Will, and he was sure if he turned he’d be just as much of a mystery from the front as he was the back.
Curiosity aside, bright red and yellow caught the corner of his eye and Will remembered what he came here for. It appeared that only a few layers off the tower of Ambrosia apples were missing, so that meant he had a decent chance of a good pick; his hands ran across a few of his options, face crinkled in concentration, almost as if the apples were whispering in his ears and trying to sway him one way or the other. He had never been the best at picking fruit but getting apples like these was a rarity for their little town, so he knew he would have either choose right or perish all Ambrosia apple-less for the rest of the summer.
He glanced up for another moment, at first checking to make sure no one was staring at his display of such odd seriousness in choosing apples – but instead his eyes landed on the stranger again. Will couldn’t help but let his eyes linger at the profile of his back; he was tall, Will noted while watching him reach for a few carrots to shove in a little plastic produce bag. He was certain he had never seen the mysterious figure in town before. Probably a tourist, his mind suggested before reminding him of the urgency that was apple picking.
Three apples suited his fancy, round and plump and likely crisp, a smile crossing his lips. He had never felt so excited about such a silly thing as produce before – oh , now the mysterious figure was turning and moving toward the cabbage. Will followed him with his eyes, squinting to try and make out the shapes of his face.
The figure was quite far, as they were on opposite sides of the produce section after all, but Will suddenly felt… strange.
Ha, Will thought, he looks familiar.
As the figure now faced Will head on, staring down at the cabbage, the thrashing in Will’s stomach had begun to grow tenfold. He squinted his eyes in an attempt to get a better look, the sudden grip on the skin of his apples going unnoticed. That’s funny, his mind chided teasingly, that guy over there kinda looks like Mike.
Will shook his head and laughed it off, making an effort to move in order to go on his way toward the register but he felt glued to where he stood. A feeling that he could only describe as fear caused his body to come to a screeching halt, his eyes really locking on the face of the stranger who was now inching closer.
A Mike doppelgänger, the unsure side of his brain suggested, how funny, right? A Mike doppelgänger in your town!
Yeah, that scenario would be funny. But if he was hallucinating, that wasn’t something he was going to laugh at – had the persistent thinking and mulling over all of those years with Mike led to Will manifesting the image of him here, now, in Martin’s Shop N’ Mart? There was no way in hell that Mike Wheeler was actually here, he threw the idea out the window entirely, but the other options didn’t feel too comforting either.
He couldn’t move. The sounds around him became muffled the second that the stranger’s eyes looked up and locked with his; Will was frozen, he couldn’t look away no matter how hard he tried, and the realization that crossed the figure's face made his feet feel even heavier where he stood. He began to approach quicker, the stranger’s face full of something Will couldn’t find the words to describe – if he had pen and paper he’d jot down something simple like the sun, rays protruding so strong across the store that they gave the fluorescent lights flickering above a run for their money.
The apples in his palms vibrated with the tremor of hands. The last thing Will heard before the sound of Martin’s bell tolling above his head and the slam of the store door was the gut-wrenching sound of his name being uttered so softly between the lips he had spent two days sculpting.
Will Byers had become a ghost again, the only evidence of his existence in Martin’s store that day being the three perfectly ripe apples that laid at Mike Wheeler’s feet.