There's only so much that a spirit can take
Will you not stop and shake from this worry
You'd be surprised what your own hands can make"

It's Fall 1989. Senior year. Will stands atop the hill observing his old school, not quite believing that he is actually back in Hawkins, or that he's about to embark on his last year of high school. Finally.

Of course, the cavernous crack in the earth still rips through Hawkins like a knife wound, and yet, like so many times before, it has been contained and closed off by the military and the scientists. An entire base sprung up around it before El and Hopper and the rest of the gang could even properly investigate it. And, as Hawkins always does, life has gone back to normal. Normal. Will isn't sure what that even means if he's being honest. It's a concept that has eluded him ever since he had been taken to the Upside Down when he was twelve years old. He's just glad he's no longer in California, as much as he misses its warmth and calm. He's finally back with his friends, where he's supposed to be. Will pushes himself off of Jonathan's car that is now his, and scans the parking lot. None of his friends are around now. In fact, despite Will feeling better at being close to them again, they'd all been pretty absent the past couple weeks actually, jobs and girlfriends and all that. Though he's pretty sure Mike specifically has been avoiding him since they came back from California.

Mike hasn't said anything to him, but Will cringes at the thought. He can definitely think of a few reasons why Mike's been off around him, and truthfully Will can't take anymore of the awkwardness that has sprouted since he left for California. It's become unbearable. Maybe it's for the best they've kept their distance.

The butterflies flutter in his stomach and he wishes now that he'd eaten something for breakfast. First period looms and he can't shake the feeling that nothing will ever be the same as it was, since he went away. Since Vecna had terrorized his friends. He reflexively palpates the back of his neck. He's still there. He's the tingle up his spine, the breath of cold air along his jaw, the whisper inside the place that lives between waking and a dream. He's still in pain. Will feels it, like the phantom ache in his left ankle when it rains. The one he broke when he was eight. And he feels the rage and the hurt. It pulses through Will, and sometimes it's hard to differentiate between his own feelings and the ones that belong to him . Sometimes it feels like they are one in the same.

Will shakes himself out of his thoughts and sucks in a deep breath. He'd focus on this moment instead. Not him. He checks that his backpack is zipped one more time and kneels to tie his shoe, then peers up at the sky, shutting one eye against the sun. It gleams from behind a fluffy, white cloud. The sky is unbelievably blue and the trees and the fields are golden and Summer's fading warmth still clings to his back. September has always been his favorite month, and when he was little his mother told him it had been painted in gold just for him. He had believed that for longer than he wants to admit. He thinks maybe he'd take his easel outside today after school. Maybe he'd be able to capture the trees as he saw them, felt them, even though, he knows , that's essentially impossible.

Will makes his way down the hill toward the entrance, following some timid freshman who are quietly chattering to each other, along the sidewalk to the courtyard. The school has been freshly painted in green and yellow and orange, and Will can still smell it. It's a feeble attempt at sprucing the place up after all the damage, but he has to admit, it does look nice.

Will heads toward the door and holds it for the freshman who scurry inside like mice, distractedly admiring the flowers in the courtyard garden. He smiles as a memory of walking into the first day of eighth grade with Mike springs to his mind. Mike's brows were scrunched together and he was worrying his lip, stressing over a Summer assignment he'd left on his desk at home.

"Eighth grade is going to suck isn't it?" he asked Will grumpily as he slammed his new locker shut.

The memory leaves him as if caught in the wind when Will is overwhelmed by the sound of a heavy whooshing on the pavement. It sounds like it's heading straight for him. He's still holding the door open, but he freezes and brings his hands up around his ears, lifting one knee to his belly. It's loud and sudden and his first instinct is that it's danger. But when he opens his eyes he sees it's just a skateboard on the floor and white sneakers. It's being thrown up into hands with fingertips painted in black paint and decorated in heavy silver rings.

Will lets out the breath he's been holding in and drops his hands flat against the door. It feels smooth and cool on his palms. When he looks up there's a boy standing in front of him. He's got straight brown hair that falls to his shoulders and round, auburn eyes. When he notices him he grins and stands to his full height. His black pants are as thin as he is and they have holes at the knees and he wears a worn white t-shirt with a denim vest overtop. He pauses, eyeing him mischievously, and Will peers up at him.He must be new, Will thinks. He's not sure he's ever seen him in his life.

"I'm not that scary am I?" he asks, pausing in the doorway and still grinning down at him. Will's mind goes blank and he can't think of anything to say, but a smile tugs at his lips nonetheless. The boy, well kind of boy anyway. He must be a senior just like him. He tucks the skateboard under his arm and peers around him like someone's spying on them.

"Well, I guess you're right," he states. "It is the first day of hell after all." He shrugs dramatically and brings two fingers to his left brow in a half salute.

Before Will can respond the boy is gone, leaving him stuck holding the door as a mass of kids rush into the hall.