Chapter Text
Papa is gone.
The lights flicker how they do sometimes when the monsters are around, but this time twelve is alone when it happens, and it’s dark and it’s scary.
His room is barren as it always is, save for the crayon etched papers strung over the walls and the bed in the corner. The frame is white, the sheets are white, the floor is white, so are the walls and the camera and the lights when they’re on. Twelve thinks he used to not like that, but the white doesn’t bother him anymore, so it’s okay.
The tile is cold to the touch, sending a dull shiver up his spine, one he reacts to numbly. It’s normally this way, so he doesn’t mind.
Buzzing on and off like a strobe, the lights don’t seem to cease this, and a headache blooms behind twelve’s eyes. He lifts a fist carefully to his face, digging his palm into his eye, but that doesn’t do much help. The pain lingers in full.
When his hand drops to his side, resting at his leg, he finds himself before the door.
The door to his room, the one with his number etched into it.
And his hand is gradually lifting again, pulled to life by some invisible force like that of his own. Except it’s no one else’s will that brings his arm to life, it’s just Twelve’s, even if there’s something else there. Some feeling that brought him inches away to the outside, fingers curling over the knob that is always locked, one that says he must open it.
Twelve always listens. Twelve is obedient. He doesn’t refuse.
That all is true, and is proven so as he spins the knob, little by little until the door clicks, only it wasn’t supposed to.
Fully expecting some sort of hurt, some sort of test he failed, Twelve is surprised to only find a dead hallway.
It’s always quiet, and there’s never anyone else when Papa brings him out. But there’s no Papa this time - no one but himself.
It’s strangely difficult for him to leave his room, and to take a mere step out. Twelve knows he’s not supposed to, but in the end he does so anyways.
So he walks until he finds someone. While his hallway was empty, the next is not. Doors are half open and half closed, and there’s blood. A lot of it, smeared over floor and wall, puddled underneath several bodies crumpled about. There’s no sound except for his own breathing.
Twelve has seen death before. He’s caused it himself, so this is nothing new. Simply stepping on, he ignores what he’s seen and keeps on his hunt for Papa.
He doesn’t find him. It is all his own breaths, and none of the bodies are him, and there are a lot of bodies. He must be alive, and Twelve can sense it in his chest.
Then, Twelve hears screaming.
It’s faint but wild, crazed, and not unlike that of which he’s heard before. Though it’s close, and Twelve has a pit of winding fear in his throat that won’t leave unless he follows it.
As he nears, the inhuman growling does too, and it’s been obvious that the monsters are here. When he turns the corner, there they are, slimy and bloodied, feasting on a body down the hall. There are still screams and wails, ones he doesn’t recognize.
Twelve doesn’t need to think before his arm is raised, and his wrist flicks to the side as he walks, nearing the scene. One dies. He squeezes his fingers into a fist, and the other explodes into guts.
As mangled as the corpse is, he can tell it’s not Papa. Some relief stirs, although he has not yet found him.
Twelve peaks around before he steps into their view, brushing a dribble of his own blood from his lip. Their breathing is heavy, shallow, and uncontrolled, but other than that they stay still.
One of them finally speaks, and says a word he doesn’t recognize.
Will.
They take him with them, and he doesn’t fight them on it. They look at him so nice and make his belly so warm that he craves more like it’s a lifeline.
Mike, the boy is, and the woman who calls herself mom pull him into a small space, one with leather seats and more people. They don’t give him a chance to study his new surroundings, the ones that aren’t white and sterile and familiar. The lights aren’t as bright, and everything above him is dark.
He’s outside for a moment, until they lead him back inside, although that inside being new this time.
He’s squished between Mike and Mom, half inside the woman’s lap. He doesn’t mind how warm she is, he rather likes it, and rests his head to her collar bone like he does to Papa sometimes. She doesn’t shrug him off, so he assumes it’s alright when he brings his fingers to clutch the hem of her top.
One of them, the one sitting up front, says that word again as he starts spouting off sentences Twelve doesn’t pay attention to. There’s some raised voices, and all he does is hold on tighter.
When they arrive at their destination and the thing they’re in stops, they all file out. Mom carries him out like Papa does, and it feels so nice, save only for the fact that his limbs are exposed to the cold of the night. Twelve still doesn’t dare take a glance at his surroundings, as it’s obvious they don’t want him to see them.
When he’s inside again, for the third time that night, it’s not what Twelve expects. There’s not an inch of white, but much more than just an inch of color. The building isn’t cold either, it’s lukewarm in a pleasing way, and Twelve relaxes in Mom’s hold like he’s ready to pass out.
They don’t let him. Gentle as ever he’s laid out on a bed that’s not white, but extra cushioned. He wants to shuffle under the covers, but he doesn’t, he hasn’t explicitly been told to.
They speak to him, mother and brother, asking him things he doesn’t understand, things that make him think like he’s not supposed to. In a moment the Mike is there again, who grabs at his arm to find his number.
It’s a little humiliating. Which is weird, because that’s Twelve’s number, the one that dedicates his entire being. The way they look at him this time is with shock, confusion, and something that feels like dissatisfaction, which stirs a tense in his chest.
Again, another one joins them, but she’s not as she seems. Twelve thinks he’s mistaken when the door swings open without a cause, but he’s not.
She shows him her number, the one that reads Eleven. He shows her his, the one that reads Twelve.
She knows Papa. She can find him, save him, reunite them with their Papa. She can do what Twelve can’t seem to. Twelve wraps around her, hands on her back and chin on her shoulder, just like Mike and Mom did earlier, just because it feels right.
Brother and sister they are.
He’s never had a sibling before.
Then there’s more, two more, rushing and banging and shouting, and Twelve can’t take it. He retreats as he always does, something Papa has never been able to break. Twelve doesn’t want to, he just does it.
He trips, stumbling onto his back and hands, and they circle him in the blink of his eye. Their voices twist and turn into one, and he can’t understand what they’re saying, and all he knows is threat, threat, threat.
Once he’s used his power, a trickle of blood trailing his lip, they’re gone. But it’s cold, so cold, and he’s shaking all over and can’t stop it.
“No hurt.”
Gurgling something back, he hopes he’s heard right. Twelve doesn’t like pain, or hurt, or punishment, which is why he’s so good that he doesn’t get those things. Though there are always accidents and mistakes, ones that earn those things anyways.
“Never.” She says, and he hopes she is truthful.
Now, he’s in another room. One that has a lot of colors, and a lot of machines that they might strap him to, but haven’t yet. There are more then, all standing in different spots at different heights, but none of them are like Eleven. They are like Papa - the ones who are human instead of child.
They speak over him, many questions that Twelve is not allowed to ask. Often times they speak with bad tones, ones that he knows would receive him punishment, so he doesn’t speak.
Brother taps a plate to the wood tabletop that Twelve sits at, white and round and hard. There’s something on it that looks like food, but it’s not grayish.
“Here, Will.” Twelve still isn’t sure what that word means, but Brother catches Twelve’s curious eye, and knows he doesn’t understand what the thing before him is. “A peanut butter sandwich. Your favorite.” He kneels beside Twelve, eyes small but curled with tenderness, hair shaggy and overgrown.
Without thinking Twelve brushes his fingers over his own hair, shaved and prickly. He thinks he understands, if only a little bit.
Lifting the food to his mouth, he looks to brother, who gives him a little nod and a grin. He must be doing good then, so he takes a bite.
Flavor he’s not used to explodes in his mouth in a good way. It tastes good, so he takes another bite, then one more, until he can’t take another.
“You like it?” Brother questions, blinking back tears, and Twelve hopes he hasn’t done something wrong, but Brother is still smiling.
Nodding, Twelve swallows the beautiful thing, and Brother chuckles, light and airy. He does like it.
Brother watches him eat until he’s pulled away into a conversation Twelve isn’t a part of. He listens in anyway.
“He likes it?” Mom asks, voice wavering with fear. Is she afraid of him? Twelve isn’t sure, but can hear the relief in her breathy laugh when Brother gives her a nod.
“He just-,” a girl with starkly red hair starts, eyes blue and terribly cold, “nothing?”
Twelve doesn’t know what she means, he normally doesn’t when anyone speaks but Papa, but everyone else seems to know what she means.
They all look at him with cold gazes. Everything is always cold, and so he doesn’t cower - he’s used to it.
“Has anyone, like, explained anything? At all?” One girl has a bob of hair, and she’s dressed in boy looking clothes. He thinks she looks nice, and is proven right when she shoots him a kind smile.
One of them steps forward, the one beside her, who doesn’t look as good. He’s got nice hair all over his head, but he’s tall over Twelve, with a scowl deep on his lips. He comes toward Twelve and Brother, but not too close. “Hey, uh, kid.” He says, and it’s not mean like he thought it would be. “How old are you?”
“Steve we told you, he doesn’t-,” the one with curls cuts in, before said man holds his hand up in an action that says quiet. Papa does that sometimes.
They’re all looking at Twelve again, and, again, he doesn’t know what they want from him. “How… old-?”
They’re obviously irritated by his speech, all the while asking him to speak more. “Yeah, how old are you?”
There’s a shiver in his belly, and he doesn’t know what to say. None of that makes sense to him and they know it.
“You’re sixteen, Will.” Brother says it like it should make sense, like he should feel something about it. Again, as always, he doesn’t.
“N- no…?” He says, revealing his number once again. “Twelve.”
“Will,” says the girl with the curls circling her head and the piercing gaze, “your age. You’re sixteen years old.”
That he understands, if only a little, nodding. “Sixteen… years old.”
“It’s been years, man, since you left.” That crumbles under his fingers, because now Twelve is completely lost.
“Three years and two months.” Mike chimes in, arms crossed and face twisted. He looks through Twelve, like he’s looking at the wall behind him, even when his eyes are dead set on him.
“I do not- do not know.” Twelve turns to fixate on the plate, sprinkled with crumbs of his own making. Bad things are about to happen, and he’s sure of it. They’re most definitely angry with him.
Eleven is the one that brings his head back up. “You are Will.” She says, emotionless. “Your name… is Will.”
The thoughts have evaporated completely from his mind, and all he can do is listen. “Name.”
“Not Twelve. Will.”
That sort of catches his attention, and he flips her words around his head for a moment. His name is Twelve because that’s what they call him, just like how Papa’s name is Papa. Now his name is Will - for whatever reason. That’s why they call him that. “Will.” He says, to their satisfaction.
“Mike. Well, you know that, but yeah. Mike.”
“Lucas.”
“Max.”
“Dustin.”
Each and every one of them, even Brother whose name is actually Jonathan, says their name. He hopes he remembers them all.
Mike smiles at him, teeth white and pretty. “We’re your friends, Will. All of us.”
“Friends?” That one is new, like all of this.
“We love you, Will, so much.” Mom says, through more tears.
That one is familiar. Twelve - Will now - loves things. He loves Papa, and Papa loves him. Will loves to draw, too. He loves to make Papa happy, and that is a big one. He likes when others love him, and this is no exception.
He wants to love them. They’re all pretty and kind and warm, but he doesn’t just yet. Maybe he will. “Friends.” He whispers, soft yet loud over the silence. It sits nicely over his tongue, and rolls off sweetly.
“Best friends.” Mike says, determined. Determined for what Will isn’t sure, but he likes it.
Holding his hand between cozy fingers, his mom catches his attention. “Why don’t we get you to bed, baby?”