He'd been numb.

That's what Will said, back when things had just started to feel a little bit more normal (never completely, though. They never went all the way back), and his mom had accepted it easily. Just pulled him close and murmured that she'd make sure he never felt that way again. And as he pressed his face into her shoulder, he wondered if she hadn't questioned him because it seemed like the obvious answer, or if the alternative had been far too painful to even consider.

Because, of course, if he hadn't been numb, he would've felt every single thing he was connected to. The shotgun blasts tearing through the dogs that crossed Hopper's path. Each vine burning alive when the tunnels were set ablaze.

His own agony as the ice in his veins was forced out with a hot poker.

He didn't blame them for that, he appreciated it actually, but he knew better than to tell his mom what it had been like. How for a brief second, when the Mindflayer had left him, he'd thought he was dying. She'd never forgive herself. It would haunt her for the rest of her life. The Rule of Law used to mean everything to Will, the party still did, but he knew now that sometimes lying was the only option that didn't end in more suffering.

But, if someone was to ask him how he felt right now, he'd tell the truth.

He was numb.

He couldn't feel anything against his skin, not even the gusts of air from the kitchen fan that should've sent a chill up his spine. He barely even noticed his soaked clothes clinging to him, and his hands, the ones that swung a baseball bat over and over against Castle Byers, weren't even sore.

But, most of all, he didn't feel a single thing inside.

It was all gone.

The Byers' home was silent, with the only sound the drip-dripping of water from the tips of his fingers and bangs hitting the hard wood beneath him. He was leaving behind a puddle everywhere he went, but he didn't care. If someone got annoyed enough to say something, they'd have to acknowledge what was happening, acknowledge why he was drenched, acknowledge him.

No one did.

Will shut his door and flicked on his lamp; alighting the room in its soft glow, leaving shadows to stretch out around him. He looked dead-eyed at the art that adorned the walls, and he thought idly about tearing it all down, ripping it to shreds. But, he'd gotten the violence out of his system in the woods, and he didn't feel that push anymore.

Instead, he stripped out of his wet clothes and replaced them with pajamas. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt like he ought to. He didn't even dry off, and his hair quickly soaked the pillow when he laid his head down.

Outside, the storm raged on, rain pelting the windows just as hard as it had him when he'd made his way out of the dark woods; his shoes tracking through thick mud and branches scraping against his skin. And now, tucked into bed with a blanket under his chin, he wasn't any more comfortable than he had been during his long slog.

Just loud enough to be heard over the weather, the beginning notes of Cold disrupted the unbreakable silence. The one that had stalked him from the moment he'd biked away from the Wheelers' garage.

For the first time since he'd destroyed Castle Byers, Will felt anything.

Maybe the music had woken him out of his daze, maybe it was because his brother was only one room over and yet it was like he was miles away, maybe it was just time for the numbness to wear off, it didn't matter. Laughter bubbled up to his lips, but as it slipped out, his eyes began to burn. He felt something now, sure, but it hurt.

Distantly, he heard banging on the door; only audible because he didn't have The Cure blasting in his own room. He knew it was Mike and Lucas, come to clear their guilty consciences. But, their apology meant nothing to Will. They probably thought he was upset over D&D. They didn't know what they'd done. They didn't know—

"It's not my fault you don't like girls!"

No. They knew. They knew exactly.

But, they didn't understand. Why would they? It's not like they wanted to. They were too busy putting their tongues down girls' throats to care. And even if they did, even if they tried, they never would. No one could, not unless…

Unless they were right there with him.

The pounding on the door finally stopped. The storm must've been too much, and they'd decided it was best to abandon this useless attempt at trying to placate a kid they knew they'd long outgrown. Or maybe they'd just realized that it was time to accept that there wasn't any room in their lives for someone like Will Byers. The child, the freak, the f—

Will buried his face in his pillow and screamed.

The lamp went dark.

.-

The toilet flush echoed as Henry laid back against the cold tile.

For a moment, he was quiet, listening to the even breaths he was forcing himself to take and the rain beating down on the roof. Usually, that sound would calm him, make him sleepy, but he had no such luck today.

He'd thought he was okay. That he'd gotten it all out when he first came home and emptied his stomach. But, here he was, twenty minutes later, rushing back to the bathroom after zipping up his duffle bag. It'd just become real, he supposed, what he was doing. The insanity of it.

How could something that he knew was right in his heart make him feel so sick?

Henry sat up, and after a few deep breaths to make sure he wasn't going to throw up again, he pushed himself to his feet. As he stuck his toothbrush in his mouth to try to clean away the acidic taste (maybe he'd known this was coming, he hadn't packed it yet), he found his attention drifting to the mirror. The young man in front of him looked tired, downtrodden, with the only thing sticking out of his vaguely lethargic expression the nervous eyes that peered back at him; still only because they held their own gaze, and undoubtedly darting if they didn't.

It was a wonder Steve hadn't snapped at him earlier.

Henry spit out the toothpaste and sighed. He could spend all night stewing over what had happened at Starcourt, and it would mean nothing. He wouldn't be doing it because he actually cared. He did care, he did, but that wasn't why he wanted to devote his time to it. As usual, his fear was the real reason.

There was no escaping it. He wouldn't allow himself to. He'd stalled long enough.

It was time to go.

After grabbing his bag and shoving the toothbrush into it, he hopped down the stairs; his long strides taking him towards the door no matter how unwilling the rest of him felt.

"Henry!"

He knew, he knew, that his mother was in the kitchen and had no way of seeing him. Even if she did, she would probably just assume he was going to spend the night at Steve's, like he had plenty of times before.

But still, Henry froze.

In that moment, he was certain that his mother had seen his bag and instantly known that he was on his way to a ridiculous scheme. Certain she'd realized what he was doing and was putting a stop to it before he could even get going. Certain she'd come out with a stern look on her face and send him back up to his room to think about what he'd done while he unpacked.

"Do you want some pie? It's cherry!"

Relief and disappointment washed over Henry in equal measure, but he chose to not think about that.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her no, that he was headed out, that he'd be with Steve and probably wouldn't be home for a few days, when he heard something that made him still. But, not like before. Not with the icy feeling of being caught, no.

The sound of his parents' laughter could never fill him with anything but warmth.

It was affectionate and familiar, and the smell of freshly baked pie filled the house with almost as much goodness. The outside beckoned to him with its stormy uncertainty, and Henry suddenly realized he was digging his nails into the banister. Burying his claws into his home as the world tried to tear him away.

Maybe he could stall a little bit longer.

Henry quietly set his bag down by the door before he moseyed into the kitchen, hoping that neither of his parents could tell that there was something wrong, but unable to do much to mask it. His mother just smiled at him as he slid into his seat though, so he figured he was in the clear for now.

"Ice cream?" Judith asked, and he really shouldn't. He shouldn't be eating anything right now, let alone sweets, when his stomach was so sensitive. And yet, he nodded, and his mom set down a plate in front of him like she'd already known the answer.

The first bite was perfect. Tart and sweet. Hot, flaky crust and cold, smooth vanilla. A slice of summer, even as the rain poured. Henry wanted to compliment his mom on her baking, but his mouth was too full from the second bite (even though he knew he ought to go slow). It didn't seem like a problem though, because his mother smiled like she saw his exact thoughts on his expression.

For a moment, it was quiet as the three eldest members of the Sinclairs ate their pie. They were enjoying the dessert too much to do any talking, but to Henry it felt like the silence before the storm. When the world turned yellow, and you knew what was coming. The last chance he had to hold onto what he loved so much before he had to leave it all behind.

"Did I ever tell you how I proposed to your mother?"

Henry's attention shifted from his white ice cream melting into the dark red of the cherries over to his father, and found that he was already looking at him. He knew this wasn't so much of a question as it was a tee up for a story, but he still shook his head no. Maybe playing along a little, but also telling the truth. He couldn't remember his parents ever telling him about that, even though it seemed like something he should know.

"It was the spring of 1964 and half of the town was in love with a girl who lived down the street from me," Charles began, his eyes glazing over as he saw a memory that only the woman beside him could share, "But, I was special, because she let me take her to the movies. I knew I wanted to marry her, and I thought she might say yes if I asked."

"But, things were getting hot in Saigon, and I felt like I needed to be involved. I wish I could go back in time and tell myself that I didn't, but…" Charles sighed a little, and Henry could see that familiar shadow cross his expression. He'd seen it in his father's face ever since he was a kid, but he hadn't been able to understand it until he was older, "I knew what that meant for me and the girl. Because she had most of the men around on the hook, and there was no guarantee I would be coming back. So, I went to break it off. She shouldn't have to do the hard part. It was my decision, after all."

"But, when I told her what I planned to do, she said we'd better get married then."

His father paused for a second to chuckle, time having turned this fateful moment in his life from unfathomable to lightly amusing, before he continued on.

"I was shocked. I stood on her porch with my mouth hanging open like a fool. And she must've known what I'd been thinking because she gave me a look and said—What did you say, Honey?"

For the first time since the story had started, Charles acknowledged the current reality. He turned to his wife, affection heavy in his expression, and she returned it with her own adoring look; her voice steady and certain, like it must've been that spring day in 1964.

"Do what you gotta do. I'll be right here when you get done."

Silence fell in the kitchen, but not one of them cared. His parents were far too wrapped up in the sight of each other to worry about a lapsed conversation, and Henry…

In that moment, Henry could see what his father saw.

He could see the woman from nearly two decades earlier who everybody loved. The one who dived headfirst into the unknown, even though she knew it would be hard and scary and would very likely end in heartbreak. The one who wasn't afraid of anything.

He wished he could be like her.

Finally, the pair broke their gaze—the one with enough devotion to make anyone who saw heart ache—and turned back to their son. Henry's eyes automatically dropped down to his pie before he forced them back up. Usually, the attention of his parents didn't bother him (unless he was doing something he shouldn't), but today it felt different. Heavy. Significant. Even though he had no idea why.

His mother's expression softened just the slightest bit, and he could see something (pain, guilt, pity?) flash across her features before she spoke. Her voice softer than before, although there was no way of knowing whose benefit that was for.

"Do you seriously think we don't know that there's something wrong with this town?"

A sharp breath pulled in past Henry's lips before he even fully understood what his mother had just said.

The fork in his hand dangled dangerously, about to fall past his fingers and clang against the dish, but he didn't even notice. He blinked once, twice, three times, like if he did it hard enough the image in front of him would melt away, and this moment would've been all a dream. Something his scrambled brain had cooked up to torture him with. But, his parents stayed where they were, looking at him like they saw him clearer than they ever had before.

Henry tried to find words; his mouth opening and closing uselessly, none coming out.

"Don't," Charles said before he could stutter out something, putting his hand up to stop him, "You don't have to tell us. I'm not sure we really want to know. But, we can't ignore it. Not when you're a part of it."

"You were always such a special boy. Ever since you were little," Judith murmured, her expression clouding over as she remembered the kid he'd once been, "I should've known you'd manage to get yourself wrapped up in something. God help us, it's always been in your nature to get involved."

"I just need to know," Charles said, pulling Henry's attention back to him, "Are you sure that you need to step in? Are you sure you're… on the right side?"

For a long moment, it was silent.

But, that didn't mean that Henry ever doubted his answer for a second.

That was because all he could think about was the heat in Saigon.

But, he knew better. The war that had stalked him since November of '83 wasn't like the one his father had enlisted in nearly two decades earlier. Or, maybe it was, but he wasn't in the same place as him. He knew what he was doing, he knew who the enemy was, and he knew if he was ever to die for it, it wouldn't be as a pawn for a government that didn't give a damn about him. It wouldn't be for nothing. He wouldn't let it be.

Henry nodded, and he knew that was enough.

"Okay," Charles said, accepting it without question. But, he could see the sadness in his father's eyes. Maybe he'd hoped this was something his son could be spared from, even if he didn't really know what it was.

"Honey." Now it was his mother's turn to capture his attention, and Henry gave it to her without resistance. She looked at him directly, no longer distracted by thoughts of him in the past, and he could see the importance of what she was going to say before she ever even uttered a word, "What do you have to do?"

For a moment, Henry's voice was nowhere to be found. He hadn't spoken in so long he'd forgotten how to.

Or, maybe that was because of how long it had been since he'd used it to tell his parents the truth.

"Detroit," he finally managed, sounding rough, but genuine all the same, "I have to go to Detroit."

Judith smiled, but it was with tears in her eyes, and Henry knew he'd broken her heart just like his father had in 1964.

But, he also knew she wouldn't have it any other way.

She reached across the table to grab his hand, and her grip was so tight, Henry was certain she'd never let go. Her gaze never drifted, never looked down at where she held onto her son, not even to wonder how his hands had gotten so much bigger than hers when she could remember the tiny ones that had first wrapped around her finger nearly eighteen years prior. No, her eyes remained locked to his, and Henry could only hope his own held even a fraction of the fire he could see in hers.

"Do what you gotta do, baby. We'll be right here when you get done."

With one last squeeze, his mother released him. But, it didn't hurt. Not the way Henry thought it would.

The fear that had forced the content of his stomach out twice was gone now.

Something new was blooming in his chest. Something that only grew when he turned to his father, and found that he was already looking at him. There was concern in his eyes, of course there was, and sadness and fear. But, more than anything else, there was pride.

The flames that Henry had seen in his mother's eyes were catching, and his insides were ablaze.

Henry's newfound resolve didn't waver, not even when he retrieved his bag and headed out to his car. The Cutlass roared to life, and even though he knew he'd now passed the point of no return, he looked back at his parents standing in the doorway—their arms wrapped around each other, both unfaltering—and he wasn't afraid.

As Henry crossed the border out of Hawkins, the sky began to clear.

.-

Billy watched him go.

.-

July 2nd dawned without a cloud, the sun shining just like it should in the middle of summer.

Steve hated it.

It was too bright. Blinding, even with his sunglasses on. Like the worst hangover he'd ever had. And it was already scorching, despite the early hour. The heat made Steve uncomfortable, made his clothes feel too tight and his cheeks too warm. But, his hesitation to step out of his car didn't have anything to do with the blazing sun.

He'd done this a million times before. He'd knocked on this door and waited on this porch for what felt like every day for the past six months; hands in his pockets and an excited rhythm to his swaying. But today, after his knuckles rapped against the pristine paint, his movements were a little sharper. Nervous.

Of course, he should be nervous.

Steve let go of a breath when the door opened to reveal Mrs. Sinclair. On the surface, she was a million times easier to face right now, but he knew he was only putting off the inevitable.

"Hi, Steve," Mrs. Sinclair said, warm as ever, her eyes darting down and then back up to his face, "Cute outfit."

"Oh, uh," Steve glanced at what he was wearing and felt his face grow impossibly hotter, "This is my work uniform."

"Oh. Wow," Mrs. Sinclair murmured, her smile approaching a grimace, "They make you wear that."

"Yeah, uh, Henry here?" Steve asked, surprisingly happy to pivot this conversation to the unpleasant reason he was here, "Need to talk to him."

That was the understatement of the year, but Steve doubted Mrs. Sinclair wanted to hear him pour out all of his feelings on her front porch. Even though he kind of wanted to.

He liked Mrs. Sinclair. A lot. He'd never realized how good a mom could be until her. Not to say he didn't love his own mother or anything, but Sandra Harrington was pretty checked out most of the time—usually with a glass of wine and a side-eye at her husband. Steve had learned pretty young not to rely on her.

Mrs. Sinclair was different. She knew everything about her kids, and there was nothing she loved more than being with them. Steve had long suspected she held it against him a tiny bit for taking Henry away from her so much, but that she tamped it all down because she knew that it was good for him. That it made him happy. That Steve made him happy.

He figured that was probably why she always welcomed him into their home without a second thought. Always glad to see him, always offering him a plate, always surrendering her couch to him. Even when he spent a little bit more time at the Sinclairs' than maybe he should.

But, he liked to think that wasn't just a sacrifice she made for Henry. He liked to think he'd done his best in the past months at endearing himself to her that he wasn't quite so much of a burden. He'd always been good with moms, back when he'd been a little more successful with girls and way more of an asshole ("King Steve," Henry would giggle, and Steve would roll his eyes as his cheeks burned), and that still held true. Mrs. Sinclair seemed to have a soft spot for him, beyond being a guest in her house, and he wouldn't lie, he was proud of that fact.

He wondered what she'd think of him if she knew the awful things he'd said to her son yesterday.

As it was, her face fell, and Steve suddenly considered that she might already know. Maybe Henry had told her everything (he talked to his parents, it was weird and Steve still wasn't used to it) and she already hated him. Never wanted him in her house again. Never wanted him around her son again.

"Oh, Honey, I'm sorry," Mrs. Sinclair said, and even though her voice was still sweet, there was something else there now. Kind, but regretful, "He's—"

"Angry with you."

"Told me he doesn't want to talk to you."

"Not yours anymore."

"—in Michigan."

"What?!" Steve exclaimed, his voice coming out high and scratchy. She—He—Michigan?

"He left last night to go tour U of M," Mrs. Sinclair continued, but that didn't help make this any less absurd. Steve blinked hard as he tried to process this new information, as he tried to accept that the man he wanted to see more than anything wasn't just a few feet away.

"He was supposed to meet me last night," Steve offered lamely, more like a prayer than anything else. Like if he said it out loud somehow that would fix everything. Like Henry would reappear because he was supposed to be here.

"God, Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. It was such a sudden opportunity, it must've completely slipped his mind," Mrs. Sinclair said, sounding like she really did feel bad about the mistake her son had made, even though there was no way for her to know just how lousy this situation was.

"When is he getting back?" Steve asked, and he knew he sounded like a child wanting his favorite playmate to come home from daycare, but Mrs. Sinclair didn't scold him like she probably should have.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, "We have family there and he was thinking about spending some time with them. I'll ask him when he calls and let you know, okay?"

"Okay," Steve agreed after a moment, because he didn't have any other choice.

He knew a dismissal when he heard one and even though he didn't want to accept that everything that was happening right now was real, he wouldn't fight it. He didn't have it in him.

Instead, he slowly made his way off of the Sinclairs' porch—unwillingly turning his back to the doorway, like Henry would appear in it the moment he wasn't looking—murmuring a soft goodbye as he went.

"Steve?" Mrs. Sinclair said, and he whipped around, unsure of what he was hoping to find, but disappointed all the same when it was just as it had been when he turned away, "I bet the next time he calls he'll be talking all about how he was supposed to meet you. He probably feels terrible, you know how he is."

Steve nodded mutely this time, and Mrs. Sinclair gave him one last encouraging smile before she shut the door—locking him out of the Sinclairs' lives and leaving him to head back to his car even worse than how he'd started.

-.

The thing was, Mrs. Sinclair wasn't wrong.

Steve did know how Henry was. Sometimes he liked to think he knew him better than anyone else, even though he acknowledged that probably wasn't true. But, he definitely knew him well enough to know that none of this fit.

Even if they weren't dealing with a likely dangerous situation with the Russians in Hawkins (and that was a very big if) Henry would never forget about Dustin—or any of the kids for that matter—and he certainly wouldn't knowingly abandon him. Especially if he thought he could get himself into something risky.

And even if he threw all of that out, completely disregarded everything he knew about Henry's character and he did just desert Dustin to go on a college tour, his birthday was in three days, he wouldn't spend that in Michigan. He loved to be with his family on that day (what a freak), and he would never bail out on the surprise party the kids were throwing him.

And…

Steve would also say that he would never forget about him either.

He would say that Henry wouldn't just ditch him without even a phone call. That Henry wouldn't throw away their plan for the 4th of July carnival. That one more reason Henry wouldn't pull the plug on his own birthday dinner was that he was supposed to attend. He would say that, if...

If he hadn't been such a complete asshole.

Because he was. Such an unbelievable dick. He'd known that from the moment Henry had hurried out of the mall yesterday, when he'd been left with only the memory of the hurt look on his face. But, he didn't realize just how badly he'd fucked up until he didn't show that night for the stakeout.

He'd wanted to be mad at Henry. Dustin's worried little frown when he got no response on the walkie-talkie had nearly made him snap. But, he'd quickly realized that if there was anyone to blame for this, it was him.

"What do you think, Steve?"

He didn't understand what had come over him. He'd just been so angry. Angry in a way that made no sense. He had no reason to be upset with Henry, he'd done nothing wrong, and yet he was. He couldn't understand it for the life of him, but in the moment it had been bad enough that he'd gone for the throat, just so Henry could feel as awful as he did.

He knew Henry was struggling right now, and he'd still said all of that. Decided to make it worse just because. What was wrong with him? Who treated their friend like that? Was he losing his mind and taking it all out on Henry?

"Steve?"

That's probably what Henry thought. He probably thought Steve was just a jerk. He probably thought he'd misjudged him when they became friends. He probably thought…

He probably thought he was the same guy as he was two years ago.

The miserable one he'd seen through in an instant.

Well, he was miserable. Absolutely wretched, all over Henry. Guilt lodged in his throat, sank in his stomach, flowed through his veins, for being so cruel. And now he didn't even know when he'd see him next. When he'd get a chance to pour out every apology, to beg for his forgiveness, just so Henry might smile at him again.

"Steve!"

Steve jumped at the shriek, and he was suddenly in the backroom of Scoops Ahoy, where Robin and Dustin were looking at him expectantly.

"Hm?" He offered, his eyes jumping between the two of them as his brain desperately tried to recall the past fifteen minutes of conversation that he hadn't heard a word of.

"Do you think I can fit in the vent?" Dustin asked, a little snappy, like he was known to get when Steve wasn't keeping up with him, which was often.

"Oh, yeah, totally, man," he said slowly, trying to sound like he absolutely knew what they were talking about right now, but the way Robin and Dustin both sighed made him think it probably didn't work.

"Okay," Dustin muttered to himself before reaching out and snatching away the hat Steve had been mindlessly spinning on his finger. Steve made a sound of protest, but Dustin cut him off, "No, no! You're gonna get us all shot by the Russian with the giant gun!"

"Oh, please," he scoffed, and Dustin sent him an exasperated look.

"His mom said he went on a college tour, it's not that big of a deal."

Steve huffed. Dustin clearly thought he knew everything, like always, but just because he was on the right track of why Steve was so spacey today didn't mean he was right about all this Henry stuff. He'd said that exact thing over an hour ago, when Steve had first told them what Mrs. Sinclair had said, and he wasn't any closer to accepting it than he was then.

"It doesn't make any sense," Steve snapped back, "He wouldn't just bail on us for that! Especially when we're dealing with a Russian invasion in Hawkins!"

"Well, why would his mom lie?" Robin countered, crossing her arms.

"Maybe he lied to her," Steve said, throwing his hands up in the air, "Or, he told her about what an asshole I was being so she covered for him."

"Yeah, what exactly did you say to him yesterday?" Dustin asked, tipping his head a little, and Steve slumped further down in his seat as those memories flooded back to him, "Because if you were being a dick because you were jealous, I swear to god—"

"I'm not jealous of him!" Steve snapped, the mean look on his face undercutting his genuine protest. Dustin opened his mouth to level him with all of the evidence pointing towards the obvious conclusion that Steve was very, very jealous, but he didn't have a chance to get a single syllable out.

Ding!

Three heads popped up at the sound—all of them had kind of forgotten they were in the backroom of an ice cream parlor—but it was Steve who hopped out of his seat and made quick strides towards the counter. Not because he was particularly gung-ho about serving a customer, though. No, he was stalking out of the backroom for something much more important.

Steve leaned halfway over the counter, looming over the other side. They might've been shooting up lately, but he still had the height advantage, and even though he didn't really have any desire to be intimidating, he couldn't help himself. Not right now. Not about this.

"Have you seen Henry?"

Will blinked up at him blankly, his hand still poised over the bell.

It was quiet for a very long moment, and suddenly Steve wondered if maybe he hadn't said what he thought he had. If maybe in his agitation what had tumbled out of his mouth was a bunch of unintelligible babble (wouldn't be the first time; a month ago he'd been so upset that his car wasn't working, he'd slurred out nonsense when Henry had asked him what was wrong as he bent over the engine). But, finally, a small frown pulled on Will's lips, and he answered slowly.

"I was going to ask you that."

Steve swore under his breath, and distantly he heard the door open again, but he was far too wrapped up in his disappointment. He'd officially run out of practical people to ask where Henry was, short of driving to the police station and interrogating Hopper, which he was sort of thinking of doing on his break.

"Will!" Dustin exclaimed, a smile in his voice, and Steve saw confusion cloud Will's expression.

"Dustin?" He replied, clearly not understanding why one of his best friends was behind the counter at Scoops Ahoy.

"Henry went for a tour at the University of Michigan," Robin offered helpfully, gesturing with her head at Steve, "He's just being a dingus."

"Michigan?" Will said, his voice small, "Charlie said he was sick."

Steve whipped back around to Will, eyes widening and brows raising, but he didn't get a chance to voice any of the thoughts tumbling around in his head.

"He probably called in sick to get time off on a short notice," Robin said, sending Steve a look, "Dingus."

"Charlie likes Henry," Steve replied, ignoring the sour feeling in his stomach when he said that, "He would've given him time off no matter what the reason was, especially if it was for college."

"So?" Robin said, shrugging a little, "He probably just wanted to make sure."

Steve opened his mouth, but no words came out. Not because he'd finally hit a wall, had to accept that he was blowing this out of proportion, but because his only defense to Robin's pretty solid logic was emotion.

Something was off. Between Henry's attitude for the past few days and him disappearing, there was something going on. There had to be. Because if there wasn't…

No, no, something was wrong. Will was proof enough of that. Henry would do anything for the kid, he would never leave him behind.

"You could probably fit in a vent," Dustin piped up, and Steve glanced over to see that his laser focus had found a new subject.

"What?" Will said, utterly lost.

"The vents! You could fit in one!" Dustin said, getting more and more excited, "We need to go through the air duct so we can get into a secret room. There's something in there and I'm not sure what, but—"

"I don't want to go in an air duct," Will said, his brow furrowing.

"I mean, no one wants to climb through an air duct," Dustin said, laughing a little, like he hadn't enthusiastically volunteered minutes earlier, "But, we need to get in there because the Russian code I picked up—"

"I—" Will attempted to interject.

"—is coming from Hawkins, and Steve and I tried to stakeout the mall but that led us straight to a jazzercise class," Dustin continued, like he didn't even hear his friend trying to speak, "But, that doesn't matter because Robin cracked it and it led us to—"

"But—"

"—some weird delivery happening last night, and there are men with large guns, so there's definitely something in there, and we need to figure out w—"

"Shut up!"

Steve wouldn't deny that ever since Henry had left Starcourt behind, he'd been utterly wrapped up in his own head. All he could think about were the final, cruel words he'd spat at him, and the last, hurt look Henry had given him before he'd turned his back on him. Trying to find the words to explain himself, trying to come up with a way to make it up to him, trying to figure out what in the world was actually going on with him.

But, Steve was completely in the moment now.

Will had dragged him into it.

Steve could see, in perfect clarity, the horrible expression on Will's face. Twisted and angry, unlike anything he'd ever seen from the gentle, sensitive boy he knew. And sure, he didn't know Will that well, they weren't as close as he was with some of the others, but that look was so alien he doubted it had ever found its way there before now.

"Just, shut up," Will repeated, and this time it didn't sound like it had been ripped out of him, but it was somehow even meaner than before, "God. I'm not going in the air duct for whatever stupid plan you guys came up with."

Without one more look, nasty or otherwise, Will turned on his heel and stalked out of Scoops Ahoy.

For a very long moment it was quiet.

Steve glanced over, half hoping to find an answer from one of his companions, but quickly saw there was no chance of that. Robin looked taken aback, uncomfortable, but in the sort of way she did when someone decided now was a good time to yell at the teenage ice cream parlor employee. She didn't fully understand what she'd just witnessed. She didn't know Will.

Dustin more than made up for her lack of astonishment.

He was frozen, like a statue of a dumbfounded fourteen year old boy, with his jaw hanging slack and his eyes were wide, but he didn't even look hurt. He probably couldn't be. When something shocks you hard enough, you don't feel anything. And nothing was more shocking than that.

Steve turned back towards the mall goers and he could just make out the retreating figure that had stunned them all into silence. With tight shoulders and a bowed head, he plowed through the crowd; probably the first time in his life he didn't jump out of the way for everyone else. Steve glanced one more time at the other two before he sighed and followed his gut; hopping the counter and running after him.

"Byers!" He called, jogging up. But, Will refused to slow, and it wasn't until Steve stood in front of him did he stop—only because he was forced to.

"What?" Will demanded, unyieldingly bitter.

"What's going on?" Steve asked with his hands on his hips. He was trying to be completely open, but he couldn't help the sternness that slipped into his voice. He didn't like when any of the kids were hurt, especially at the hands of another, and everyone knew Dustin was his favorite, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Will replied, and clearly he wasn't trying to be convincing, just prickly enough that Steve would drop it. It was a bad bet to make, and he might've known that if he'd spent time with him like the other kids had.

"C'mon, man," Steve insisted, "Whatever you need Henry for, you can tell me."

"What makes you think I would ever want to talk to you about anything?" Will spat, and he pushed past Steve, who didn't do anything to try to stop him, even though one strong arm would've kept the kid from getting far. Again, he was too surprised. Will had always been such a sweet boy, what on earth had gotten into him?

He couldn't let him leave. He knew that pretty quickly. He couldn't let him run off when he was so upset, even though that was obviously what he wanted. Something was wrong, that was obvious, and even if he was acting like a little jerk, he shouldn't be alone. He couldn't abandon him. If not for Will, then because…

Henry would never forgive him if he did.

"Will," Steve said, noting the way he sighed when he caught up with him again, "You should stay here, help us out."

"I already said—" Will said, whirling around so he could really lay into him, but Steve cut him off before he got going.

"Unless you're planning on camping out at the Sinclairs', your best bet to find Henry is to wait for him at Scoops."

This time, Will didn't have a harsh response.

Steve held his breath. He hadn't been able to help himself, he'd matched Will's energy with his own, and as soon as he heard the tone coming out of his mouth, he was worried he'd only provoke him further. But, he didn't say anything. Didn't turn and stalk off either, like Steve sort of expected he would—completely stubborn in his feelings, no matter how irrational they were. Instead, Will just stared at Steve, long enough for him to feel a hint self-conscious, before he looked away; a slight frown on his lips. He was thinking about it, actually considering it.

Because everyone knew that Henry always found his way back to Scoops Ahoy.

Or something like that.

-.

Detroit was a very good place to sleep.

Sure, the nightlife had been exciting—infectious even from his car—and the music and lights had gotten his heart pumping the moment he pulled into the city, but the second Henry checked into his hotel room, he collapsed onto the bed and was gone for nearly ten hours. It seemed that going a night without sleep followed by nonstop driving had done a real number on him, and even though he was a little embarrassed to see the time he'd slept into, he knew it was for the best. He had a strong sense that being fully aware right now would be better than anything else.

The next morning, he set out, and almost immediately realized he had no idea what he was doing.

While putting down waffles in a diner that the receptionist had recommended, it occurred to him that he hadn't planned anything beyond getting here. He'd been called to Detroit, but he hadn't exactly gotten any instructions for once he arrived.

For the most part, he wandered around the city, and took in a world that he wasn't familiar with. It was nice to be in a place where the buildings reached taller than a second story and he regularly passed Black people. But, at the same time, this was a place of terrible poverty, in a way he didn't encounter often, and he knew he was very privileged to live a life that was untouched by it.

He quickly found that the postcard was sold at nearly every drugstore, a cheap gift to grab on vacation while getting something else more important. And with that figured out, his clues had been exhausted. He'd hit a wall, and had no way to continue. In fact, he might've even been tempted to give in and chalk this whole trip up to a mistake.

If it weren't for the fact that he was being watched.

He knew it without a shadow of a doubt. He could feel it, on the back of his neck. Eyes tracking his every move. He just didn't know who. Or, why. Was it whoever sent him the postcard? And, if so, why wouldn't they make themselves known, one way or another? After all, they were the ones who'd summoned him, and he'd come willingly, open to anything they wanted. But, they had to make a move.

Although it had been a rather nice day, with interesting sights and good food, Henry couldn't help but feel frustrated when he ended up back at his hotel that night with no new information. He'd already decided if things didn't pan out he'd leave the morning of the 4th and he couldn't help but feel like he'd wasted a whole day, even though he had no idea what he could've done different.

With those thoughts in mind, he fell into a fitful sleep—one he knew wouldn't serve him well on his search tomorrow, but he couldn't do anything about. One that offered dreams that were confusing and of no help, but left him feeling wistful.

One that was interrupted at 4 am by the sharp ring of the telephone.

Henry jerked up, having forgotten where he was for a moment and feeling very discombobulated, before he reached over blindly to grab ahold of the phone. If not to answer, then to just shut it up.

"Hello?" He offered, his voice groggy, unable to consider how strange it was that he was receiving a call right now.

"Hello, may I speak to Henry Sinclair?" A woman's voice asked, and that was enough to wake him up.

"Speaking," He said, fighting to keep his voice even, his mind running a mile a minute trying to figure out how and why someone would be contacting him right now. His mom had given this number to someone back home? The front desk was calling him to say he was needed downstairs for one reason or another? Whoever it was that had been watching him was finally making themselves known?

Not even close.

"This is Harper University Hospital. We have a patient here that has you listed as an emergency contact."

-.

Henry had spent far too much of his life in hospitals.

It was all too familiar. Even though this one was far bigger than Hawkins Memorial, the waiting room was more or less the same. The same uncomfortable chairs, the same ugly walls, the same judgmental nurses.

"Henry Sinclair?"

Henry perked up in his seat—he'd zoned out a little in the time he'd been left waiting—and found a kind looking woman waiting for him; a small, rueful smile on her face. He quickly hopped up, and followed when she turned to walk back into the winding halls.

"We're going to need you to fill this out," she said, passing him a clipboard, and Henry glanced down to see that the only line that wasn't blank was the emergency contact.

"I don't know who I was called for," Henry said, and that was very true; no one had told him anything except that he was needed, and the woman at the front desk had given him a critical side-eye and a sharp response when he'd tried to ask.

"Neither do we," the nurse said, a grim look on her face, "He was brought in while having a seizure. He had no identification on him. The only thing he said was your name and number."

Henry felt his feet slow beneath him. Maybe it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that they'd know his room phone number—this may very well be the same person who knew he was looking at constellations—but asking for him during a seizure?

The nurse gave him a look, sympathetic but no nonsense, and he forced himself to continue to trail behind her. After a few more twists and turns, she pushed a door open and led Henry in without any fanfare.

The very first rays of the sun glowing through the window mixed with the fluorescent lights glaring above to illuminate the room to the point that there wasn't a hint of the darkness Henry had traveled in to get here. There weren't even shadows caused by the artificial lights casting across the furniture; it was entirely bright. But, even so, Henry blinked hard, like he was trying to clear away a film on his eyes that was distorting what was in front of him. Like if he could get a better look at something so clear that it might make more sense.

Without even thinking about it, Henry took a few steps closer—an unconscious sense dragging him forward— until he was standing beside the bed; his gaze never once wavering.

A boy.

He was asleep. Peacefully so, the lights blaring above didn't seem to disturb him in the slightest. But, even in his relaxed state, his features were strong and certain; refusing to be overlooked. His dark curls spread across the pillow like a halo, and even though anyone could see that he was very unlike the depictions on classic stained glass windows, there was no denying that this boy was distinctly angelic.

Even with his wrists strapped to the bed.

Henry turned to ask, even though it was hard to tear his attention away. But, before he could, he saw the expression on the nurse's face, and realized she was waiting for him to identify their mystery patient. His mind worked quick, and the lie was spilling past his lips before he could even really think about it.

"He's my sister's kid," he said, the nurse's eyes flashing to the boy and then back to him, "Half-sister."

Maybe an unnecessary addition, but he was already a little worried they'd realize he was not quite who they thought he was, and that lie could raise some eyebrows. Henry supposed he was just lucky this kid wasn't white, because in that case he doubted that any degree of separation would've been enough for her to accept them being related without scrutiny.

"I should get her information," the nurse said, flipping her own clipboard over and giving Henry a thoughtful look, "Know why he wanted us to call you?"

"She's not a very good mom," Henry offered, and the quirk of the nurse's lip told him he was going to get away with that for now. But, he didn't push it, and he gave her his own phone number, sending a little prayer that his parents wouldn't pick up. As the nurse scribbled down the supposed contact info of Mrs. Joyce Buckley, Henry's eyes almost unconsciously slid back over to the boy in the bed in front of him, and the restraints keeping him there.

"Why is he—?" Henry started, and there was that sympathetic but no nonsense expression again.

"He was extremely volatile when he came out of the seizure," she said, lowering her clipboard, "We had to sedate and restrain him."

"Oh," Henry mumbled, not sure of what to say. It was hard to imagine this boy being enough of a problem that the doctors had to knock him out.

"You can stay here while he's asleep," the nurse said, making her way to the door, undoubtedly already thinking of the countless other patients she had to attend to, "It'll probably help if he wakes up to a familiar face. Nurses will be by regularly. Remember to fill out that sheet."

Henry nodded and with that the nurse exited the room, shutting the door behind her and leaving him alone with a boy he didn't know, who seemed to know him.

A boy who'd somehow known the contact info to his hotel room.

The boy who'd—

Henry sat down heavily in the chair next to the bed, the questions becoming far too much too quick.

Without even thinking about it, his eyes focused in again. It was just the two of them now, and he was free to stare without the weight of eyes on his back and all of his own lies on his shoulders.

He was probably around the age of Lucas and his friends, give or take, but Henry could tell that he was taller than all of them. It didn't look quite right, though. Like he hadn't grown, just stretched with what he already had. Because although it was true that he had a sort of angelic appearance to the way he peacefully slept, the gauntness of his cheeks prevented him from being cherubic. He was just a little too skinny, a little too bony, a little too sharp.

He didn't exactly seem like the mastermind Henry had expected from his Detroit penpal.

Maybe this was all a misunderstanding, he thought as he sunk into his chair a little bit, maybe this wasn't the person who'd been contacting him. He couldn't fathom how he could be. But, then again, was there any scenario where this turned out perfectly understandable?

The only thing that was clear was the feeling inside, telling him he was exactly where he needed to be.

Henry glanced at the clock and winced a little at the early hour. He didn't know how long ago this kid had been brought in or how much they'd sedated him, but he figured he'd have a while until anything happened, so he didn't feel too bad about slouching down and letting himself relax; trying very hard to ignore thoughts of what would come next.

Henry had spent far too much of his life in hospitals, and it had made him an expert at dozing in one.

-.

When Henry was fully aware next, the sun was shining bright through the windows, and a quick glance at the clock showed that it had been a few hours since he'd last checked.

At first, he wasn't sure what had woken him up. Because it hadn't been a natural rousing. His mind had been jumping between thoughts of letters and phone calls to indecipherable dreams with fireworks bleeding into gunshots, and then something had pulled him out. But, as his eyes danced around the room, he couldn't see anything that might've brought him back to the land of the living.

It wasn't until he saw the slight twitches of movement did he realize what had woken him.

Henry felt his breath catch in his throat as he watched the boy's eyes flicker open and his brow furrow. He looked out of it, of course he did, who wouldn't be? He hadn't noticed he wasn't alone yet, but he probably didn't even really know where he was or what was happening. Henry remembered what it was like to come out of a drug induced sleep; it would cloud your brain so bad it could take hours to get fully aware.

"Hey," Henry murmured softly.

It seemed that whatever they gave him wasn't lingering in his veins enough to dull his senses too bad, because the boy jerked away like he'd just been screamed at. For one singular moment, dark brown eyes met Henry's, but they darted away before he could really see anything in them other than shock. His attention had been quickly drawn to why he hadn't been able to barrel away when he'd been startled.

He pulled on the straps, his movements becoming more and more agitated when they wouldn't give, and Henry felt a lump in his throat as he realized how panicked this kid was. He leaned forward a little—wanting to grab his attention, but not wanting to loom over him—fully intending to tell him what had happened and why he was restrained. But, before he could utter a word, the boy whipped around; that angelic face twisted up into a fearsome scowl.

"Let me go or I'll fucking kill you!"

It was Henry's turn to jerk away, and he leaned back into the chair with eyes wide. For a brief moment, he believed just that—that if the boy had his way, he'd be in a whole lot of danger. But, just as quickly, he looked past that reflexive response, and found that there wasn't a single part of him that was worried that this kid might try to hurt him. In fact, the only thing he was concerned about was the nurses flooding in here with a million questions, and quickly realizing that Henry wasn't who he said he was.

"I swear to god, I'll slit your fucking throat!" The boy continued to threaten, and finally Henry stood, not even noticing the way his body ached after being slumped against uncomfortable plastic.

The boy's snarled expression didn't slip for a second—he looked just as ready to thrash and scream until he was free—but he pushed back against the bed a little, and in that moment, Henry realized why he was acting like this. What he'd tried to cover up with his snarls and roars. What had only gotten worse when he'd stood.

Fear

"Hey, hey, I'll take those off," Henry said, trying to keep his own voice even while his heart tried to drum out of his chest, "But, you have to calm down, okay? Because if the nurses come in here and you're screaming, they'll just knock you out again and put them right back on."

The boy glared at him—hateful and scared and suspicious in equal measure—but after a few moments where the only sound was his harsh exhales through his nose, he nodded. Just once, sharp and quick, but a nod nonetheless, and Henry felt a hint of relief. For the first time since he'd stepped into this hospital, he felt like he might have a slight handle on the situation.

Henry approached slowly, not wanting to startle him like he had before, and began with the straps around his ankles. He only had to loosen them before the boy was slipping his foot free and pulling his knee up to his chest. But, he kept his word and didn't start kicking immediately, like Henry had half suspected he might.

"We need to get our story straight before anyone comes in," Henry said, walking around the bed to finish releasing him, and the boy gave him a look. Although this one was more mean and judgmental than it was hateful or frightened, which he supposed was a step up.

"Our story?" He said like he couldn't believe what he was hearing, "I don't fucking know you, man."

"Really?" Henry said, his fingers pausing on the strap around his left wrist, "Because you knew enough to tell them my name and hotel phone number."

For a moment, the boy looked up at him with wide eyes, blinking owlishly. It was the most open expression he'd offered since Henry had first caught him by surprise, without a hint of the hostility that had been so strong just moments before, and just as quickly it was gone. He shut his eyes and sighed a little; whispering a string of expletives under his breath.

Henry resisted the urge to pelt him with questions. Because clearly this kid knew something. And that was more than anything Henry had had to hold onto since the first letter arrived. But, coming strong right out of the gate would get him nowhere. This boy wasn't going to be an easy person to get answers out of, he could tell. He needed to get on his good side first, and a start was getting him untied.

Henry's fingers skillfully undid the strap on his wrist, and just like before, the boy pulled his arm out the moment it was loose enough; holding it to his chest, with his hand curled into a fist.

But, he didn't do it quick enough.

In that brief second, when he was finally free, Henry had seen it. Clear as day, undeniable, no matter how fast it had disappeared. Almost like he'd been looking for it.

010