Work Text:
Nothing about Will was meant to last. He was an illegal firework, a sunset overlooking the California Palms. He sits on their roof, shivering tile from the cloudy day, smoking a cigarette and watching it wisp into the air. He is just like Jonathan; he is just like his father.
We are the men we hate, and Will says this because of Jane's expression on a tiring day. She is exasperated, livid, and fuming—she doesn’t know these words, she can’t describe these feelings, even just to herself. So, instead of describing, she yells and screams and shouts. And afterwards, Will finds her curled up under soft covers, drowning in her tears. I feel like Papa, she’ll spew out. I feel like Papa.
We are the men we hate, because Mike’s letters are doused in bore. When Will sends in two pages in the first week of moving, Mike’s response is a few sentences, at most. El’s are pages upon pages, and the only reasoning he can think of is that she’s his girlfriend. El shows Will photos of the boy, mostly doting on his longer hair and faint freckles, but he can only see Mr. Wheeler in those eyes. He is emotionless, tied to the monster that keeps their family together.
We are the men we hate, because Jon’s pupils are dilated and his smile is rotated by a 15-degree angle. Lonnie used to act like this when their mom wasn’t home, drunken and stupid.
We are the men we hate, because Will feels like Troy some days. I am a f*g, I do not belong. He tells himself. I am a f*g, I do not belong.
This leads Will to the record store on a November afternoon. It’s the worst time of year, which means his mom granted him four bucks for a record of his choosing. He feels horrible, but when Argyle and Jon drop him off, promise to be back in half an hour, it starts to fade away.
The boy at the counter is pretty, with dusty hair curling around his forehead as he bobbed his head to the music. I am a f*g, I do not belong. He says to himself, even though he’s staring at the boy’s long eyelashes. I am a f*g, I do not belong.He thinks once again, flipping through albums to find ‘Cut the Crap’. It’s shiny, and Will’s eyes sparkle for a moment. This was what he was looking for.
“I wouldn’t get that one if I were you.” The worker said from behind him, the same one he was eyeing just before. Now, all of Will’s liking for this boy went down the drain.
“I like The Clash,” The bowl-cutted boy says, rolling his eyes.
“I like The Clash,” The guy announced, “This isn’t The Clash, it’s like their downfall. I’ll put it on the record for ya, if ya don’t believe me.” He didn’t wait for an answer.
The first song was a jumble of noises, and it sounded like the player was broken until Will just realized it was the song. It sounded like two radio stations fighting for frequency, like three or four songs meshed together to make a blur. As much as Will wanted to defend it, he just laughed. The guy, Theo, as it said on his nametag, laughed too.
For the next half an hour, they ranted about all kinds of music, from The Cure to Queen. Nobody else entered the shop; it was God’s day, which made Will feel guilty for getting a warm feeling in his stomach looking at Theo, even if he wasn’t religious himself.
The other wore a uniformed vest, covered in pins and patches that appeared to be hand-sewn. Sublime, Nirvana, and Pac-Man propaganda were littered around his nametag. However, the pink triangle caught Will’s attention more than anything else.
The van outside honked with enough force to break windows, and Will was almost done checking out The Age of Consent. Theo recommended it, unprompted yet excited. And, if on the way home, Will could only think of the other’s pink triangle pin and smile, he didn’t let it show.
I am a f*g, I do not belong. He thinks, head plush with the pillow. In Hawkins, they’d never hear roaring sirens in the dead of night. But they were in California, and Will was reminded every time cars would swoosh past on the road.
Here, there are no deer on the side of the road or tall, soft grass to stop the crash. There are no stars, but lights from the roller rink shine 24/7. There is no magic, but there is the magic of being a bit more accepted than he used to be. Will doesn’t know if this is better or worse.
It is Thanksgiving break, and the neighbors are going on a trip to the bay. Mom said to go over there just once every day, take care of their three cats, and get paid.
Miss Garcia was kind, wrinkly, but from smiling a bit too often. She had started to grow gray hair, but instead of dying it like Mrs. Wheeler, she went on with her day. Her roommate, Miss Driscoll, had beautiful braids and had on a shirt that made her look thirty. Her wrinkles were just as defined as her roommates, but from laughing, he learned when she giggled at everything in sight.
They gave him the extra key for the month, and they were off with a suitcase and smiles. He confirmed his suspicions, so the layout is the same as ours. Upstairs were three empty rooms, just like the Byers’, except they used them as spaces to read, paint, and design. It didn’t take much effort for Will to realize they were the creative type.
The cats took a liking to him immediately, but that wasn’t his main concern as he browsed through their house like he owned it. When he found that they shared one bed, the dots were connected fairly quickly. They were like him.
For the whole week, he read the books in their cupboards like they were holy. The Mayor of Castro Street and Mauricewere Will’s favorites—he gravitated towards them immediately, mostly because of their worn-out spines and loved pages. In these moments, he learned that he had never been alone.
On their fridge was a photo of them in Tokyo, and others where they held nephews and nieces with careful hands. This was the second time he saw that pink triangle, magnetized like a prize on display. After feeding their three cats, one of which looked suspiciously like Dustin’s, he ran home.
His mom was yelling at the TV again, cursing her lungs out at Reagan’s photo at the White House. This time, instead of increased taxes and national debt, the news was talking about the ‘gay plague’. Will was just glad she didn’t hear the creaks in the floorboards as he made his way to his room.
He cranked the music up, trying his hardest not to listen to his mom’s rant. Her angry voice clashed with guitar strums, creating a beautiful symphony of chaos.
When a spider crawls up the record player, he is scared but grabs a cup and a napkin from the kitchen. His mom is still yelling, this time at the hate crimes from New York to Washington. Almost everyone got off, even though a majority of them confessed proudly.
He opens his window, and the spider is let free. He isn’t allowed to kill just because he was scared. No, he’s not like those men on TV. Never.
I am a f*g, I do not belong. He whispers in his mind, a boy’s lips on his own. Will can’t help but believe that he’s dreaming, the cold tiles of the locker room echoing. He kisses as if there is no time left on Earth, as if the world was going to blow up in a second. The cross on his neck was obvious, and Will wondered what his pastor would say. This kind of love was a crime, but the two didn’t seem to care—it was theirs.
The next day, they smiled at each other in English, nothing more and nothing less. His brown skin shimmered in the sun, and Will was proud to know how he tasted before the girl who was confessing her love in front of the class. He accepted with a smile, too guilty to be true. *I am a f\g, I do not belong.
The same boy comes up to him a week later, and tries to ‘make up’ in the same locker room. Will pushes him off. She deserves much better.
The next time, it’s a new boy, and he doesn’t feel bad for not loving him. They talk in science, and then migrate their conversations to storage closets and hidden alleyways. They were friends, but more—not like Will and Mike more—but a new kind of more.
They both know they’re imagining another person during these conversations, and don’t mention how they’ll whisper the wrong name into the other’s ear every once and a while.
After three weeks, the boy starts to pave his way through boarding school. They stray paths with a handshake and a forced smile. His parents called it therapy, but Will knew.
The last time, it was Theo—the same one who sold him on Age of Consent, but also had a soft spot for Fleetwood Mac and Kate Bush. The same one who walked him home after photojournalism, and the same one who made fun of the teachers with him.
Though it wasn’t love, it felt a lot like it. On Sundays, they’d go to the science museum or sneak into a drive-in theater and talk. Sometimes, it was more. They bickered about who the ugliest cast member was in a show, narrated a random person’s life with a faux deep voice, and snorted out milkshakes from laughing too hard. Then, they’d talk about Theo’s family across the border, or Will’s party thousands of miles away. About the constellations, and how there are just too many and too few at the same time. But no, if you asked, they did not love each other.
It lasted until the Byers’ would move back to Indiana, after the chaos of spring break, and the homesick feelings began to arise. On his arm in permanent marker was Theo’s mailing address and phone number, as if Will would ever forget on the long road trip home. On his backpack filled with snacks and sketchbooks, nobody noticed the new pink triangle pin on its side.
Nothing about Will was meant to last, but he did. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to grow up.