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His feet dangle over the side of his bed, back resting against the yellow wall. Bowie hums soothingly in the background, lulling Will into a daze. His fingers glaze over the book pages, eyes scanning the words. The warming scent of a home-cooked meal wafts through his open doorway, tickling his nose.
He sighs, breaking away from the book. His eyes flitter over the contents of his room, cast in a yellow glow from the setting sun. A pang of sadness hits his chest as he remembers afternoons like this in Hawkins. Gathered around Mike's basement table, DnD material sprawled across it.
Something itches at Will's mind.
Tentatively, he puts his book on his bed and stands up. His body draws him towards his wardrobe, hand clasping the handle to pull it open. A burst of rain erupts from the clouds, Will runs to the window. Tiny droplets reflect the golden sunlight, like a million diamonds falling from the sky. The wonders of California weather; unexpected beauty.
Will relaxes, pushing his body away from the window and resting on his knees. He slides off his bed, back to the wardrobe. On the top shelf rests a small cardboard box. Will frowns, having thought he'd unpacked everything. Carefully, he reaches upwards. Fingers clutching the edges of the box to pull it down. His toes lift off the ground slightly as he slides it out, dust falling down to him in a tornado of grey. Instinctively, he whips his arm to cover his face as he coughs.
With one hand supporting the box, he loses balance and crashes onto the floor.
Sketchbooks fly across the room, box falling on Will's head as it landed. He grimaces, gently rubbing the spot it hit. His carpet is littered with sketchbooks, full and lively, unfazed by months of isolation in his wardrobe. Gently, he reaches for the one closest to him, rifling through the pages. His mind is elsewhere before one page catches his eye. His fingers halt, stretching the spine of the book back.
A detailed portrait sits centre-page. The words Summer of '85 scribbled beneath it. Will caresses his hand over the drawing, noticing the pencil marks. His mouth parts slightly, eyes lost in the chocolate brown ones on the page. For a moment, Will thought he was with his best friend again. That the smile on his face was from one of Will's jokes.
Alas, the smile was but a mere collection of pencil strokes. Will sighed, realising he himself were smiling. Mike is in Hawkins. Will is in California. He is not here.
Somewhat like a child playing with their toys, Will ruffles through the books, memories flooding in as he packs them away. He notices the dates on the pages, how his drawings got better after his time in the Upside Down. Everything had felt more real after that. He's shocked by how much he's drawn- portraits, landscapes, studies. His friends fill his books mostly; gleeful moments captured on the pages. He's grateful for his past self, glad he can see the Party's faces again.
Something still itches in his mind, though. He picks up another sketchbook, vaguely remembering the day his Mom brought it home. As he scans the pages, though, the drawings become more foreign. As if he's looking at another's work. The colours on the pages dull, a sinking feeling building in his chest.
His heart rattles against his ribs as a burning sensation sparks his fingers. He throws the book across the room, launching to the opposite side and crawling up against the wall. The hair on his neck stands on end, a hot breathe whispering to his skin. He shivers, inching towards the sketchbook.
Cautiously, he traces his fingers along the edge, grasping it once he knows it's safe. An urge- no, impulse takes over him. He needs to know where the heat came from. Quickly, he flips the books over.
Everything comes rushing back.
The memories become clear, the drawings no longer foreign. Restless nights where art was his only escape. Images that flashed into his mind and forced his hands to pick up a pencil and make them real. A churning red cloud in the sky, a towering shadow.
For scribbled hastily on the back cover of the sketchbook are two words. Two words that would only make sense to ten people, nine excluding himself.
Words that bring him back to one senseless night. One horrible, dreadful night.
Close gate.
Will picks up the phone, hands still shaking. Quickly, he dials the number from memory, tapping his foot against the floor. The ring taunts him as he checks his watch, the handle ticking by. Will groans, pulling the phone away from his ear and bringing it to the wall. His hands stops as a familiar voice calls from the speaker.
"Hey? Hello?"
Will brings it to his ear, speechless, breaths shallow.
His heart jolts as the voice starts again.
"Will? Will, is that you? What's wrong?"
Will stares ahead, eyes fixated on the wall. He can't panic now, he needs to warn his friends. The words ring in his head, close gate.
"Mike," he whispers weakly, "I, I..."
Mike cuts him off, "Will, is something wrong? Are you okay?"
Will tries again, "You need to-"
"What? What's wrong?"
Will catches his breath, steadying himself.
In a voice more calm than he'd expected, he asserted, "You need to warn the others, we have to close the gate."