Will

The lights are bright-white and blinding, and mercilessly hot. They leave drifting blue-green ghosts against Will's eyelids when he blinks. Figures hover just behind the lights, half-engulfed in deep shadows. Mom, Jonathan, Mike, Chief Hopper. The Shadow's fury ebbs away, leaving the dizzy ache of exhaustion behind, and Will's bare feet scrape over a rough, freezing floor. They're tucked up underneath the chair he's tied to, as if trying to flee the cold, but He isn't cold. Will can feel it - the bitter November chill, quickly numbing his skin through the paper-thin hospital robe. The sun must have set long ago. But Will doesn't shiver. Can't shiver. He can only recoil from the hot-bright-white-hate of the lights and listen to his mother tell him about his birthday. Her face is at once clear and warped in front of him, her words distinct yet distant. As if there's a thick pane of glass between them.

And then Jonathan is talking and Will's head moves to find the voice. He talks about Castle Byers. The intangible glass thins - just a bit. The Shadow finds little importance in human memories. Half of its attention flicks away, to other matters, and the glass melts a bit more. Jonathan's face is sharper, his voice more immediate.

And then Mike's voice reaches Will through the haze, and he feels his head snap around.

"Do you remember the day we met?"

The dark room tilts around him and when he swallows his throat feels rough and gummy, the tissues dry. He ignores it. Focuses in on Mike's face. He still feels like he's underwater, or else floating in space, or maybe just crushed into the unrelenting pressure of a straight-jacket. But somewhere in the suffocated, strangled corners of his mind, something flickers like the spark of a lighter: he's still here. Mike is still here. He was there on the floor of Will's bedroom, he was there in the hospital room, and now he's here. In this bright-dark-cold-hot place that the Shadow can't pin down.

"It was - it was the first day of kindergarten," Mike says.

His cheeks are red with cold. A strand of dark hair nearly touches the lashes of one eye.

"I knew nobody. I had no friends. And -"

Mike blinks and a tear streaks down his cheek. The cords in Will's shoulders ache with tension. He's rigid on the chair.

"I just felt - so alone. And - and so scared. But... I saw you on the swings and... and you were alone too."

He's fighting tears, throat closing around every other phrase, and Will finally feels himself shiver. I remember. I remember.

"You were just swinging by yourself. And... I just walked up to you and... I asked. I asked if you wanted to be my friend. And you said yes."

Mike's lips turn up in an impossibly gentle smile - the first smile Will has seen on his face since before the Shadow took over entirely. It leaves something small and warm in the very center of his chest, and Will grasps at it with all his might, trying to seize it with icy fingers.

Mike's voice softens, the smile fading to something far more breakable. "You said yes. It was the best thing I've ever done."

Will can feel his chest tightening, diaphragm quivering with the urge to sob, but his muscles are still firmly on lockdown. He can't move. Can't even cry. But he's close - closer than he has been since the last time he woke up, straining towards the surface. The muscles in his cheeks flutter, working in preparation to smile, but the Shadow's grip won't budge and Will can only breathe, breathe, gazing up at a face as familiar as his own, memorizing the sharp contrast of blinding white light and shadow across the planes of his best friend's features.

Then his mother is talking again, jerking His attention away from Mike, and she's begging him to talk to them and Will wants so badly to cry, wants to scream, I'm here, I'm still here! Don't give up on me, please! I'm still here, I'm here, please hear me, please!

He reaches, as far and hard as he can, struggling to the surface, fighting against the crushing cold - and a tiny, clipped sound catches halfway up his throat before the Shadow yanks him under again with a snarl. His lungs fill with froth, his vision tunnels, his mind blurs and numbs and he hears himself say, "Let me go."

Cold. He's so cold. And so, so tired. His fingers tingle and he wiggles them slowly, wondering if they'll get frostbite and fall -

Wiggling. He can wiggle his fingers. He can move them.

Will gathers his strength, and taps. Taps against the wood and duct tape of the chair he's bound to. Taps. Taps.

H E R E.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. Please.

But they're leaving. His mother, Mike, Jonathan, even Chief Hopper, all moving out of his range of sight. A door opens and closes. And he's alone with Him.

They will always leave you, He whispers matter-of-factly, and then squeezes down on Will's lungs before he can sob.

Mike

The smell of old, damp wood and lawn fertilizer and dust and mold and cold metal seems to clog Mike's nose even after they leave the shed. It follows him inside the house, where they decode Will's message - - and lingers in the fabric of his inadequate, navy-blue hoodie as he shivers against the cold.

When they re-enter the shed, Will's face is empty and guarded, but this time it doesn't take long to draw him out again. Jonathan sits in front of him and gazes into his little brother's face intently, his favorite song beating out rhythmically from the speakers of a portable tape player. They all take turns in that spot. Talking. Sharing memories. One after the other, trading off like a slow, strange dance. Jonathan. Mike. Joyce. Jonathan. Mike. Joyce. Jonathan. And all the while Hopper paces behind Will, out of view, relaying his new message to the others through the radio.

It's when Will stops tapping and the others move away, talking in low voices at the other end of the shed, that Mike settles himself in front of the lights again. The song has long ended, but the words still whirl around and around in his head: Should I stay or should I go? Should I stay or should I go?

He looks at Will - the dull pallor of his skin, the deep circles under his eyes, the slump of his shoulders - and a lump rises in Mike's throat.

Should I stay or should I go?

Instead of another memory, he tries to swallow down the lump and says, "If you... Will, I know it hurts -" he can still hear Will's screams, as clearly as though he was still shrieking in pain - "And I know it's hard, and if you can't... If you have to let go, that's okay. I understand, but -"

His voice breaks and Mike realizes that he's shaking, chest jumping erratically as he struggles once again to contain tears. Will is staring at him without blinking, some expression trying valiantly to break through, but it only manages to reach his eyes and twitch in his cheek.

"But I'm asking you to try. Just for a little longer, please t-try to hold on. I c-can't - I can't lose you again."

He didn't expect to cry, but he is. He looks down and lurches with nearly silent sobs.

All the memories they shared and a thousand more swirl in his head, thick as snowflakes. Will. His best friend. Kind and brave and quiet. All the bike rides, all the sleepovers, all the passed notes. And the other moments, too - all those little moments he never thinks about, tries not to think about. The moments of something else, something different, something more. The glances and brushed fingers and hugs that lasted just a heartbeat too long. The warm familiarity of Will's voice, somehow unique to any other voice in the world. The split-second what-ifs that Mike doesn't think about. They're all bubbling up, and hot tears spill over one after the other and -

"I need you."

Needs Will by his side, at the next desk over, at the table in the basement, riding alongside him on their bikes, at his shoulder at the arcade, breathing evenly beside him at sleepovers. Where he's always been, since they were chubby and scrawny five-year-olds, respectively. Where he's supposed to be.

Should I stay or should I go?

Mike wants to grab Will by the shoulders and shake him, hard, and yell, Don't go, don't! Because he can't stop picturing the world without him. He can't stop the awful slideshow that's flicking through his mind. An empty desk in the science classroom - not just for a day or a week, but permanently empty. A gap at the table, on the couch, space left unfilled. Another funeral. But this time, no secret knowledge to shield himself from the eulogy, the stink of roses - no assurance that this is all fake, it's not real, Will is alive, he is, he's still there. Will's ever-so-slightly lopsided grin, his drawings, the way he leans up against Mike's arm without thinking about it when they stand side-by-side. Gone. Forever.

A dull, hollow burn is reaching tendrils through Mike's chest, creeping up his throat and curling around his heart and stabbing into his spine. And he can't, he can't, not again, and all at once he pitches forward and wraps his arms around the smaller boy and quietly, hoarsely blurts, "I love you."

Will's breath catches audibly. Mike blinks, arms going stiff. Shock is rippling through him like a small, sharp knife. He didn't mean to say that - never planned to - never consciously formed the thought or words in his mind before it came out in a fierce whisper against Will's shoulder.

He pulls away abruptly. Surprise and embarrassment make quick work of his cold cheeks, turning them red and hot in an instant. Confusion hits immediately after. But underneath it all, like a current of liquid water under the frozen crust of a stream, there's something else. Soft in the jumble of sharp-edged emotions. Curiously tender. Mike dares to glance up at Will, expecting a reflection of his own confused embarrassment. Instead his gaze meets eyes that are wide and questioning, something almost happy sparkling behind the Mind Flayer's controlled mask. Dull and lifeless just moments ago, Will's eyes are shining.

"Um," Mike says, because it's all his brain can come up. His eyes dart over to the others, and he swears he'd like nothing more than to plummet through the floor when he notices Joyce peering at him from around the police chief's shoulder. He looks back at Will and makes a valiant effort at pulling himself together. "Um. Just. Promise me you'll try. Just please try."

And maybe it's just the way his fingers are trembling, or the cold, or just his imagination, but Mike swears he sees Will's chin dip in a tiny nod.

Will

I promise.

It rings through his mind like the church bell at noon, over and over and over.

I promise. I'll try. I promise I'll try. I promise.

Will's flagging strength is bolstered. Suddenly, he's not quite ready to give up yet, despite the pain - so much pain - and the numbing, sucking cold, and the darkness, and the unbearable pressure of the Shadow in his mind, in his veins, under his skin, everywhere, and the exhaustion that makes his eyes burn and his head swim with fog and his limbs feel like lead - but the Shadow won't let him rest, no, it keeps his head up and his eyes open no matter how much his body screams for sleep.

But.

But now Will has something else. One more reason to fight. And, like the warmth in his chest ignited by Mike's smile, Will clings to it with a relentless grip, numb fingers clamped onto it, body curled protectively around the most precious thing he has left.

Mike has already moved away, all stutters and uncoordinated limbs, but Will's heart hasn't stopped tha-thumping behind his ribs, and he doesn't think it ever will. He knows it's too late for him, but maybe - in another universe, in another timeline, maybe -

Maybe there could be something good after all of this. Maybe... maybe - he barely dares to think it - there could be something worth all of it. Maybe there could be a warm, calloused hand to hold under the table, or a pair of gentle arms to hold him when the nightmares come, or maybe even a kiss - just one - he'd be happy with just one -

But Mike didn't mean that. He couldn't have. He didn't. But maybe - maybe -

It doesn't matter. They're going to close the gate. He already told them to. He's going to die. He should probably be more concerned about that idea - it should probably send him into a panic, screaming silently, beating himself against the bars of his mind - but he considers it with a practical kind of glumness. There's no other way. If the Shadow wins, they'll die. His mother, Jonathan, Dustin, Lucas, Max, Nancy. Mike. Everyone. He already told them what to do. E. It's too late.

Some small, stupid part of him pipes up that maybe it's not too late, maybe they'll find a way, maybe there's a chance, maybe -

But he knows it's no use. At least the pain will stop. At least there's that.

Will has just about decided to drift off into a nice, calm daydream for a bit when a phone rings. It's muffled and distant and the Shadow is immediately there, in his lungs, in his muscles, snapping his head around so fast his neck pops. Will's thoughts go silent, as if shut down with a muffling fist, and then He's calling them - the others. Will sways, dizzy, sinking back into a corner of himself and he can feel them approaching, twisting through tunnels, thundering across fields, honing in on their position.

There are voices, a bustle of activity, and a deep-sharp ache in his arm and he's dizzydizzydizzyblack.

A/N: if you have a moment, a review would really make my day :)