Chapter Text
The dream always begins the same way.
Silence, first.
A silence too thick, too heavy, as if the world had been holding its breath for centuries.
Then the cold.
Will has learned to recognize this kind of cold. It is not the cold of winter, nor the cold of ordinary fear. It is a cold that seeps beneath the skin, clings to the bones, whispering that something is wrong — that something is watching.
The ground is spongy beneath his feet. He looks down. Black roots, veined and pulsing like living flesh, coil around his ankles. With every step, they tighten, as if trying to hold him back.
The Upside Down.
Or what remains of it.
The sky is a dark red, streaked with motionless clouds. Particles float through the air — slow, thick, like flakes of ash. Will feels them against his skin, their weight on his eyelids.
Yet he keeps moving.
He does not know why. He always does.
“Will…”
The voice is not singular. It is many. Layered. Some are high-pitched, others broken, others so ancient they seem to come from another time.
He turns abruptly.
Nothing.
But he feels something.
Then the black smoke appears. It rises from the ground, coils in on itself, taking shape without ever truly having one. It pulses, breathes, lives.
“Did you think it was over?”
Will steps back, his heart pounding. The back of his neck burns. The sensation is immediate, familiar, unbearable.
“No…” he whispers. “No, it’s over. Vecna is dead.”
Laughter echoes.
Not human.
Not entirely monstrous either.
Something older.
“Vecna was only one voice among others.”
The smoke thickens. Behind it, a gigantic shadow moves. Will can only see part of it: an immense, membranous wing, covered in glowing cracks. An eye opens in the darkness. Not a normal eye. A burning abyss.
A roar rips through the air, so powerful it makes the ground tremble.
Will drops to his knees.
The roots now coil around his arms, crawling up his torso. He tries to scream, but no sound comes out.
“You were not meant to survive,” the voice murmurs, closer now. “Not you.”
The smoke slides toward his face.
“But you stayed. And now… you belong to us.”
The ground cracks open.
Will falls.
He wakes with a start, gasping, the sheets stuck to his sweat-soaked skin.
The gray light of dawn filters through the curtains of his small Paris apartment. For a few seconds, he does not move. He lies there, frozen, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding so hard he feels like it might shatter.
Again.
He runs a trembling hand over the back of his neck.
Hot.
Still hot.
“Fuck…” he breathes.
Slowly, he sits up and grabs his sketchbook from the nightstand. His fingers are stained with dried paint. He does not remember painting the night before.
He opens the book.
A brutal, hastily scribbled drawing: a massive, winged silhouette looming over a twisted city. The buildings resemble Hawkins. But something is wrong. The streets coil in on themselves. The sky is split open.
At the bottom of the page, a sentence he does not remember writing:
HE IS WAKING UP.
Will snaps the sketchbook shut and throws it onto the bed.
“It’s just a nightmare,” he murmurs, not believing it for a second.
It has been going on for weeks.
Weeks of nights invaded by voices, visions, sensations he knows too well to ignore. He had thought leaving would be enough. That Paris would be far enough. Different enough. Alive enough to smother the memories of Hawkins.
He was wrong.
His apartment is small, cluttered. Canvases cover nearly every wall. Some are bright, abstract, bursting with color. Others… much darker. Indistinct shapes. Broken silhouettes. Faceless monsters.
Will gets up and crosses the room barefoot. He carefully avoids looking at certain paintings.
He knows what he would see.
As he is about to make himself some coffee, the phone rings from the other room.
He freezes.
Mom.
His heart tightens instantly.
He hesitates for a second, then answers.
“Hello?”
Joyce Byers’s voice crosses the ocean like a lifeline.
“Will? Oh sweetheart… were you sleeping?”
He closes his eyes.
“No,” he lies softly. “I was already awake.”
He hears her sigh in relief.
“I… I didn’t want to bother you. It’s just that… the holidays are coming. And it’s been a long time. Too long.”
He slowly sits down on the edge of the chair.
“Three years,” he murmurs.
Joyce does not answer right away.
“Hawkins isn’t the same anymore,” she finally says. “I know you have bad memories here. But… we miss you. I miss you. Jonathan too. And Hopper.”
A silence.
“You could come. Just for a few weeks. For Christmas.”
Will swallows hard.
Hawkins.
Mike.
Eleven.
Bob.
The blood. The fear. The screams.
And yet…
“Mom… I don’t know if—”
“I know,” she interrupts gently. “I know it’s hard. But you don’t have to be strong all by yourself, Will.”
His fingers tighten around the phone.
“Think about it, okay?” Joyce continues. “Whatever you decide… I love you.”
“I love you too,” he murmurs.
The call ends.
Will remains still, the phone pressed to his ear.
In the distance, a siren wails through the streets of Paris. The city wakes, indifferent to his nightmares, his fears, to whatever is growing inside him.
He gets up and walks to the window.
In the reflection of the glass, for a fraction of a second, he thinks he sees a massive shadow behind him.
He spins around.
Nothing.
But the back of his neck burns again.