Chapter Text
Will Byers had always been the one who felt things first - the subtle shifts in air pressure, the way shadows lingered a beat too long in the corners of his vision. It was a curse, really, etched into his bones from his time spent in the Upside Down, when the Demogorgon had dragged him into its world of flaking rot. But even after conquering Castle Byers, after the gates of hell had closed and the monsters were banished, this overarching feeling of something being "wrong" had never fully left him behind. It hummed in his chest like a radio tuned to static, a constant reminder that the world wasn't as solid as it pretended to be.
Lenora Hills was supposed to be a fresh yet familiar start. After graduation, everyone scattered. Mike had gone to some quiet suburb in Oregon, chasing poets and the past. Dustin buried himself in MIT's engineering labs after moving into an apartment with Suzie, while Lucas and Max had moved south to Atlanta, where they both pursued careers professional sports. Robin continued running The Squawk in Hawkins, and Steve became an elementary school teacher a town over. Last but not least, Nancy went gung-ho into journalism, and Jonathan tried to piece together a life in Chicago doing freelance photography.
And Will? Will had ended up here, in this sun-dried California town that felt too bright, too polished, like a postcard had come to life.
He worked at the local comic shop now, sketching distant worlds during his breaks, and recommending stories and games to kids who would never know what *real* monsters looked like. After everything that had happened, this job was mundane, grounding. His mother Joyce had stayed in Hawkins' ruins with Hopper to help with the town rebuild for the last few years, but they talked on the phone almost every Sunday.
In Will's eyes, Eleven's death had been the final blow for the group, and sometimes, it just didn't feel real. She'd faced down Vecna, and defeated the Mind Flayer in its own dimension. She destroyed the upside down, or so the story went. They thought they'd won. Their world had slowly knit itself back together, scars and all.
But lately, the static was becoming louder for Will. The sky over Lenora Hills held an ever-increasing, perpetual golden haze, like the sun was slowly being filtered through vaseline. Conversations with strangers looped in seemingly-deliberate ways... greetings that echoed, smiles that didn't reach the eyes. He chalked it up to homesickness at first, or the trauma playing tricks on his psyche. He'd see flashes in his peripheral: a vine curling from a storm drain, a face twisting in the 8 AM crowd.
The bloodshot eyes of Henry Creel.
Nightmares woke him in sweats, the scent of mold and sulfur clinging to his sheets. His therapist diagnosed him with PTSD, prescribed pills that dulled the edge but didn't erase the doubt gnawing at him from the inside. What if it wasn't over? What if Eleven's sacrifice, disintegrating into the upside down as it vanished forever, had been for nothing?
It began on a balmy Tuesday afternoon, the heat radiating waves off the asphalt. Will was walking to his car from the shop, sketchbook tucked under his arm, when he passed his usual diner on Main Street just before his parking lot. "This Must be the Place", it was called, with a pink neon "open" sign that flickered just enough to make you question whether it was on or off. He grabbed coffee there regularly - black, no sugar, to chase away the fog in his mind. But today, as he glanced through the front window, his world tilted on its side once again.
Standing lankily behind the counter and wiping down its surface with near-mechanical precision, was a tall, pale man who appeared to resemble none other than Henry Creel.
Will's heart slammed against his ribs as he ducked behind his parked car in a panic. His breath coming in shallow gasps as a familiar anxiety took hold, fingers digging into the sketchbook until the cardboard creased. It couldn't be. Henry was dead. His body impaled on a spike, and his head brutally chopped off at the neck by none other than his mother Joyce, and her years of pent up rage.
Vecna's reign of terror had ended in that moment, and the Mind Flayer's shadow retreated into the void. But the man behind the counter... was it him? Same sharp jawline, same pale skin stretched taut over high cheekbones, same blonde hair slicked back in a way that screamed 1950s conformity. He moved with a delicacy that didn't fit the place, pouring coffee for a patron with a smile that was too even, too practiced.
Will's mind reeled, fragments of memory falling together like the snapping bones of the many Demogorgons he took control over five years prior.
He'd felt it all, carried it like a stain that no amount of time could wash away. Therapy helped him name it - intrusive thoughts, hypervigilance - but seeing Henry, *now?* It ripped open every healed wound he'd worked years to conceal.
Will eventually worked up enough courage to walk up to the window and peer. Watching through the glass, the diner's interior was a slice of Americana frozen in amber: blue vinyl booths, checkered floors, a jukebox in the corner playing Elvis on repeat - but it was wrong. The lights buzzed with an irregular hum, like a swarm of bees was trapped behind each fixture. The patrons ate in synchronized bites, their laughter canned and tinny. And Henry, or Hank - according to the nametag - navigated it all with oblivious grace. He chatted with a waitress whose uniform hung a little too stiffly, her responses falling flat. He flipped burgers on the grill, the sizzle of meat echoing unnaturally loud in Will's ears as he stood outside.
Disbelief coiled in Will's gut, hot and nauseating. This wasn't possible. Eleven had died for this - for the end of a living nightmare. They'd all mourned her in a fractured funeral full of "what ifs". Hell, Mike barely even made it to graduation.
If Henry was really here, alive and well, flipping patties in some podunk diner... what did that mean? Had Vecna been real at all? The question clawed at him, echoing old doubts: Was the Upside Down bleeding into their world, or had it swallowed them whole without them noticing?
Will didn't approach that day. He couldn't. His legs trembled as he backed away, sketchbook forgotten on the sidewalk until he snatched it up and bolted to his car. That night, sleep evaded him. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan's lazy spin, the blades blurring into tentacles when he focused too hard. As usual, the cold seeped in, the Demogorgon's claws raking his skin as he lay still under the creaking fan. And later, Vecna's voice in his head, silky and venomous, promising power if he just *let go.* Will had resisted, barely, but the scars lingered on.
The next morning, he called the group chat he shared with the guys and Max for the first time in months. No one answered at first. But then, Dustin picked up on the fifth ring, voice groggy from pulling an all-nighter with Suzie. "Will? It's like, 7 AM on a Sunday. What's up?"
"I saw him," Will whispered, throat tight. "Henry. In Lenora Hills. At the diner near where I work - I know this sounds ridiculous, but I swear... I think it's him"
Silence stretched thin, then Dustin's laugh crackled to life - sharp, disbelieving, and holding just a *hint* of fear. "Dude, you need to lay off the horror comics. Henry's gone. Eleven made sure of it."
But Will described the details: the way Henry tilted his head when listening, the faint scar on his face left over from Holly's wrath. The glint of his trademark-glasses in the artificial light. Dustin's tone shifted, unease creeping in. "Send a pic if you see him again. But... trauma does weird shit, man. I see things sometimes, too"
Will hung up, anger flaring. He didn't understand. None of them had been a host, an unwilling bridge between worlds besides himself and El. But Will? He carried the very echo of said-world, the Mind Flayer's whisper was never fully silenced in him.
He went back the next day. And the next. Observant, cautious, like a hunter tracking prey in an ever-familiar woods. He sat in his car across the street, binoculars from his upside-down days pressed to his eyes.
*Henry arrived at 10 AM sharp, punching a time clock with a nod to the manager - a burly man whose mustache twitched in perpetual suspicion. The shift was routine: greet customers, take orders, serve with that eerie efficiency, to the minute, to the second, always the same.*
Will noted that the offness amplified at certain moments - the coffee steam rising in perfect spirals, the clock hands jerking forward in ticks that didn't align with his watch. Once, a fly buzzed against the window, its path looping in a figure-eight before vanishing mid-air - or so, he thought.
Days blurred into a week. Will's sketchbook pages filled obsessively with Henry's profile, the entirety of the diner's facade, and scribbled notes on the uncanny details of it all.
That next Sunday, Joyce noticed the long pauses within their weekly phone call. "It's nothing," Will lied, but his internal static grew louder, more dense. The bags under his eyes plush and blue.
"I can come visit you if you need compa-"
"I'm okay mom," Will interrupted, "love you" he spoke dismissively, leaving Joyce to worry about him as usual; although Hopper did keep her more level these days.
At night, the trauma began to resurface in waves more intense than the week before. He'd jolt awake for a moment, fully-convinced that vines were slithering up his walls, Henry's face superimposed on the Demogorgon's maw. Disbelief warred with terror: If this was real, Eleven's death was a mockery. She'd poured everything into stopping him - her love for Mike, and her friends, her family - only for Henry to lounge in this facsimile of peace? Doubt festered, poisoning multiple memories. Graduation, sacrifice, hugs and tears - had they all been illusions, too?
By the tenth day, Will couldn't simply observe any longer, despite his fear. He waited until the lunch rush thinned, the diner emptying to a hush. Heart pounding, palms slick, he pushed through the door. The bell jingled, too cheerful for the storm of perfection happening around them.
Henry looked up from the counter, wiping his already-clean hands on a rag, expression neutral. He wore a white uniform, apron, and a typical paper hat that read - "This Must be the Place" in fancy red cursive.
Will slid onto the end stool at the pub table in front of the kitchen, menu clutched like a shield. Up close, the man was achingly human - faint stubble, white apron stained with grease. No glowing eyes, no claws, no monster. Just a guy in his mid forties, living a life Will couldn't reconcile with the horror caused years-prior.
'What can I get you?' Henry asked, voice even, almost warm.
Will's mouth went dry. Rage and trauma surged, a blood wave crashing over him, causing his hands to tremble ever-so-slightly: The way Vecna had worn his skin like a second self bubbled into his deserted throat. He wanted to scream, to demand answers - Why did Eleven need to die? Is this hell? - but caution held him. He observed micro-expressions: a flicker in Henry's eyes, recognition? Or just polite curiosity?
"Coffee," Will managed, voice steady despite the quake inside. "Black."
As Henry turned to pour, Will's gaze darted to the window next to him, half-expecting the world to unravel, or the sky to turn red after a long blink. The street outside held its breath, colors too vivid, air too still. Disbelief twisted into grief - El's laugh, her hand in his during quiet moments, gone for *this* lie. Tears pricked his eyes, but he blinked them back. Whatever this was, he had to uncover it. For her. For all of them.
Henry set the mug down, steam curling like question marks.
Their eyes met, and in that instant, Will thought he saw it - a crack in the facade, a shadow passing behind the normalcy. The static peaking, a scream in his veins followed.
"Are you ready to order, sir? If not, That'll be a Dollar" The man looked overtly exhausted upon a closer glance, his deep blue eyes dragged down by bags similar to Will's.
"I think I am"