#hhnng i love the byers

[purplepalmdelight]

i wrote again !! full work under the cut, tws in tags

Fandom: Stranger Things (TV 2016) Rating: General Audiences Relationships: Jonathan Byers & Will Byers Characters: Jonathan Byers, Will Byers, The Byers Family Trauma

“The Mind Flayer is out of him. The Upside Down is gone. El is back. Everything is okay now.

Then Will finds a letter under Jonathan's bed, and things don't feel very okay anymore.”

Will took another bite of cereal, watching blankly as his mother dashed about, trying to collect both her things and herself and failing miserably. "God, I'm late-" She tugged on her other shoe and blindly grabbed her keys off the hook. "Ok, I think that's everything." She kissed Will's forehead quickly. She always did that now. It was nice. Kinda made him feel like a kid, and he had to scrunch his nose up out of principal, but it was nice. "Can you remind Jonathan to go grocery shopping later? We're running out of milk."

Will lifted his dry spoon in a kind of salute. "Out of it, actually. And yeah. He's still asleep, I think," he added. Joyce's forehead wrinkled.

"He's been sleeping a lot," she said, in a way that was offhand for her but mildly concerned for anybody less neurotic. Will shrugged.

"I mean, it's break, so…" he took another bite to get out of the conversation. Jonathan's sleep schedule wasn't exactly a riveting topic. Joyce just sighed and went for the door again, though she aborted her movement halfway there and turned again.

"Oh, the uh…" she snapped her fingers. "The shelves. For your room. I got them yesterday. Last night, I guess. But they're waiting to be put up- I asked Jonathan to put them somewhere? I think they're under his bed or something. In the closet, maybe. You can do that, if you want."

He didn't have enough room for all his stuff anymore. Plus, Dustin had given him all his X-Men comics ("You deserve them. And I come over all the time anyway, so it's not like I can't read them whenever.") and that was, like, the coolest gesture ever, but it just exacerbated the problem. The new shelves were more exciting than they really had any right to be, but Will didn't bother tamping down his grin. Maybe some good old fashioned hammer and nails would fix him up. Fix this crazy empty feeling inside him.

The scar from the poker burned, and he shoveled more cereal into his mouth, gesturing to the door. Joyce kissed his forehead again, laughing as he swatted her away, before darting out for work. Will finished his cereal in relative silence.

Did he have to wait for Jonathan to wake up to dig through his room? Courtesy said yes, but like… you didn't have to be courteous with your brother, right? That wasn't a thing. You could totally dig through your brother's room without his permission. In fact, Will decided, it was probably encouraged in the Younger Sibling Handbook. He left his bowl in the sink to deal with later.

The floor creaked under his feet as he crept into Jonathan's room, and he froze for a moment. His brother was tangled up in his sheets, half-dangling off the bed, and Will snickered to himself. Jonathan mumbled something, but he always talked in his sleep, so Will paid it no mind. He tried the closet first. A bust- nothing but too many flannels and four of the same Pink Floyd t-shirt crumpled on the floor. Will closed the door as quietly as he could, rolling his eyes. Jesus, this guy.

He crept over to the bed, resisting the urge to kick Jonathan's hand where it was dangling at knee height. He muttered something in his sleep again and Will mumbled his own mocking gibberish back with a grin. He flopped down onto his stomach carefully. The underneath of Jonathan's bed was dusty as hell, was his first impression, and also had way too much shit. He picked up a stray paper and squinted at it. A math worksheet dated November '79? Seriously? It wasn't even done. (Will's hand brushed over a mixtape that had "fuck you, dad" scrawled on the front, and thought maybe he didn't want to snoop through this shit after all.)

The shelves were shoved up next to some boxes. Will wriggled them, trying to shove them out from under the bed, but they were wedged in tightly, and he had to brace himself against the slats of the frame with one hand and force his toes in the tiny space next to box, using his other foot to awkwardly push the shelves out. He moved slowly- Jonathan would probably flip out if he woke up to Will half under his bed with, apparently, seventy percent of everything he'd ever owned. After several anxious, creeping minutes, he finally pushed them all the way out, cheering silently. His shoulder ached like hell, though. He should've just waited until the asshole woke up.

Will went to wriggle out from under the bed himself, but something caught his eye. There was a flash of white in the slats- a piece of paper? He frowned.

I definitely shouldn't, he told himself. But the curiosity poked him sharply- like a poker, and his side burned- and he crammed his fingers between the wood and the mattress, tugging it out. It was just a piece of notebook paper folded over itself. His name was scrawled on the front.

Will army-crawled backwards until he could sit up, leaning against the side of the bed. He pushed away Jonathan's hand as it dangled in his face and earned a mumbled, "Not the gun," in return. Will gave his brother a weird look. Some kinda dream, huh? He flipped the paper over in his hands a few times, frowning. Was it for him? If it was, why was it stuck under Jonathan's bed? It was a bit too late to put it back, he reasoned, and it was labeled very clearly for him. So he didn't feel too guilty unfolding it. (Not too guilty. Just a little bit guilty. He'd let Jonathan pick the movie next time they watched one.)

Will,

It was a letter. His frown deepened. The penmanship was shaky, like it had been jotted down quickly. Jonathan's handwriting was neat; he wrote every letter like he meant it, like it had to be perfect. Will always rolled his eyes about it, and Jonathan just said it paid to be clear.

I really don't know why I'm bothering to write this. I don't have anyone else to write to, I guess? Which is dumb. It's so dumb. It's bullshit. Everything in this town is bullshit, though.

I miss you. So much. And you would be so annoyed if I said that, because you're okay and you're fine and you just want me to leave you alone, but I miss you. I know you feel like we're treating you like a kid. I'm sorry.

Will glanced up awkwardly at his brother's sleeping face, suddenly feeling like he was invading his privacy. Maybe he really shouldn't be reading this. Maybe he should fold it back up and-

I have to let it go. I know that. That's what everyone's telling me. I mean, not directly. But everyone else is coping, is moving on, and I'm just… I don't know. I feel like I changed, but I guess not that much, huh? Still the same guy. Still just not coping and calling it okay. Still your weird older brother, except now I can't seem to leave you alone. It's like everytime you leave the room, I get this kind of sick feeling, like maybe it's not over. Maybe it's not even real. Maybe I'm still asleep and Mom is still fighting with Dad about your funeral in the living room. Maybe I'm about to wake up and find that you're not here, that you never came back, that they didn't find you.

But they found you. So I should be okay now.

Will twisted slightly, curling up, and let Jonathan's hand graze his knee. Jonathan shifted in his sleep. Mumbled something that sounded like, "Steve." Will snorted before he could help it.

Even Nancy is coping, and I know she's the one that deserves to be like this. I mean, fuck, she lost her best friend. At least you came back.

You're not really you anymore. And that makes sense. That place was awful. Was hell, really. But you're different now. And it's selfish, it's really selfish, but sometimes I just want the old you back. I want everything to be the way I used to be. And obviously that will never happen and at least you came back and I should be okay by now, but everything is so fucked up and I don't know how to deal with it. I wish I had gone to the Upside Down for you. I wish I'd gone. I wish you were happy. I wish Mom was happy. I wish I was happy. I wish Nancy was happy. I wish I didn't feel like I failed you. I wish it hadn't all been my fault in the first place. I wish you would talk to me. I wish I were dead.

Will had to set it down for a second, his heart hammering. He wasn't meant to be reading this. He knew he wasn't. But it wasn't fair to Jonathan if he put this back. If he ignored it. He read the last line again and had to set it down a second time.

I wish I were dead.

None of this was fair.

The scar from the poker burned.

I can't eat. It makes me sick. Makes me think about how you spent all that time without food. Makes me think about how there's a whole other world out that and it took my little brother and he spent all that time without food and now he gets dizzy just walking to the couch sometimes. Makes me think how my little brother wouldn't have had to go through that if I hadn't taken that stupid second shift. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Will glared at the hand right in front of him, trying to pretend his vision wasn't blurry. "'S'not your fault, jerk," he muttered. He blinked rapidly. "Don't-" he shook his head. This was from a while ago, right? Things had probably gotten better. Things had to have gotten better.

Can't sleep either. Never was good at it, but it's worse now. I keep dreaming about the funeral. I don't want to dream about the funeral. I don't want to dream. The other night I woke up from a nightmare and I went to check on you because I had to check on you because I don't want to think about you being dead and you were also having a nightmare and I almost just shriveled up and died right there because I wish I could help you but I can't even help myself. Even Mom is starting to notice. Keeps telling me to eat more. She's never noticed how much I eat.

I don't really know why I'm writing this, I guess. But I miss you, kid. And sometimes that feels really shitty, because hey. At least you came back. I wish I had gone. I wish I had gone and I DIDN'T come back. I think everything would be easier that way. But I can't seem to leave you alone, so I can't leave now. Even if you want me to leave you alone sometimes, I think I'd get too distracted worrying about you to die. I guess you dying is saving my life. Poetic or whatever.

No it's not. It's fucked up. I'm sorry. I hope you're okay soon. I hope we're all okay soon. I love you, kid.

-Jonathan

Will's chest felt empty. He knew there was something underneath it, something dark and repulsive and cold that was crawling up to choke him, but it just felt so dark, so hollow, like a hole had been punched all the way through his torso. He drew in a breath that came as a whine. Jonathan shifted in his sleep again, mumbling, "Will, no," and he bolted out of the room without conscious thought.

I forgot the shelves, he thought hazily, but his stomach rolled sharply, and he hunched over the sink, retching. His head was spinning. The paper had crumpled in his hand, he noticed distantly, crushed against the ceramic he was clutching. He sank to his knees with another whining noise, clutching at the letter. He felt sick. He felt empty. He felt like punching a wall or something, but his hands were shaking and he didn't know how to throw a punch anyway, so he just sat on the bathroom floor and tried to collapse in on himself as best he could, fill up the space that had been taken out of him.

I hope we're all okay soon, his mind echoed. He choked back a sobbing, hysterical kind of laugh. Yeah. He hoped they were okay soon. Was this supposed to be okay? Was he supposed to be okay by now?

"Will?" Fuck. "Shit, Will-" There were arms around him suddenly, and he let out a real sob this time, crawling into his brother's hug. Jonathan held him tightly, murmured stuff he couldn't really make out but that made him bury his face in Jonathan's shoulder, like he could hide from everything wrong in their lives if he just clung on tight enough. Maybe he could, he thought feverishly, selfishly. Maybe Jonathan could make everything better. Maybe he could just say that he was okay and Will was okay and everything would go back to normal.

But if things were going to go back to normal, Will wouldn't be crying on the bathroom floor. So he squeezed his eyes shut tight and tried to stop thinking about it instead.

"It's okay," Jonathan was saying, his hand stroking Will's hair. His voice was steady. His hand was steady. He was there. "It's okay, Will. You're okay. I've got you, buddy. You're gonna be okay."

Will burrowed deeper into his brother's hug and tried to steady his breathing. Steady, like Jonathan. Jonathan was there. They were okay. Things were okay now.

He found his voice once the tears had run out. It was buried somewhere in his chest, weak and broken, and he had to tug it harshly from under the mess inside himself to make any noise. "I'm sorry," he managed, almost silently. Jonathan hushed him.

"Don't be sorry. It's okay." He sounded so sure of it. Will shifted back to rub his eyes. The crumpled paper pressed into his cheek where he was still gripping it, and he wrinkled his nose, sniffling.

Jonathan had gone very still.

The steady hands fell away after a moment. "What's that?" Will shoved it in his pocket. "Will?"

He glared at the floor. "I was just looking for my shelves," he muttered, and Jonathan took a long, deep kind of breath. He snuck a glance up at him. "Are you mad?" Jonathan shook his head. His lips were pressed together tightly, though, and Will ducked his head again.

They were silent for a while, just sitting there, but Will wriggled his way back into a loose hug and he could breathe steady. Jonathan's chin was propped on his head, and normally he hated that. He didn't like feeling small. He didn't feel small right now, though. He just felt protected. Held.

"Are you okay now?" he finally asked, and got another one of those long, deep breaths in return.

It took a minute to get actual words. "I'm better," Jonathan said, and hugged him tighter. "I don't know if anything's ever gonna be okay. But I'm better." Better was good enough. Will was better too now.

The poker scar buzzed slightly, but he just let out a long, deep breath of his own and let his brother hold him. "Will you help me put my new shelves up?"

"Of course. Maybe you're better with a hammer than last time we built something," Jonathan teased, and he just laughed, and his chest felt warm enough that the buzzing in his side went away.

"Yeah. I'm better now."

He was steady. That was good enough.