born to wave the flag (it ain't me)

by HenrySinclair

Henry Sinclair was more than happy to spend his summer being an average teenager working in the mall. But, with his 18th birthday looming ever closer, a best friend who inspired feelings far greater than friendship, and the special instincts he kept hidden from the world pulling him in a direction he couldn't comprehend, it seemed he wouldn't get that wish. Steve Harrington/OC

6. the good guy

All-American.

Henry had always hated that phrase, but there was no other alternative. The girl who had flirted with him at Sam Goody, the suspicious woman he'd nabbed with the help of Sam, she was All-American. A mannequin in the window of the GAP, a flash of a neon sign, an immaculate perm after countless hours spent in the salon surrounded by everyone else trying to reach that same unattainable echelon. She was a beautiful consumerist, an unoriginal material girl, with edges so soft that she'd blurred right into the background.

Now, Henry could see that was a perfect cover for the shark underneath.

"What now, malysh?" Marcia asked, savoring how her accent gouged into each syllable, "What's the plan?"

She grinned, and although the sun glinted off the pearly white, it wasn't hard to imagine blood in her teeth.

Henry glanced over his shoulder and Sam stared back with matching alarmed bewilderment. He didn't know what he'd expected when he'd tipped him off to their stalker, hell, he hadn't realized what was coming once he'd gotten her against the wall. But now…

He had the terrible feeling that even though he had his fists in her collar, he was far from the one in control here.

"We could switch around," Marcia said, drawing their eyes back to her with malicious playfulness, "You just seem to be struggling and I feel like you'd be more comfortable if I was interrogating you."

"Shut up," Sam hissed, and Marcia redirected her attention to him with a sharp arch to her eyebrows.

"Careful, little one," she said, words slow and smile vicious, "A temper like that can give you away."

"Shut up!" Sam snapped, an awful snarl on his face, and if Henry could think straight right now, he'd wonder if he realized he was proving her right.

Marcia must've, because she laughed.

The sound ricocheted off the alley's brick walls, cutting and cruel and altogether too loud for comfort, but when Henry stiffened, it had nothing to do with that. It wasn't that the woman he was supposed to have the upper hand over seemed completely unconcerned that she'd fallen into his clutches either. It wasn't even the idea that whatever was happening in Hawkins was bad enough to have followed him all the way here.

It was the fact that Sam didn't react at all.

Henry looked back and felt his stomach drop.

It was as if he hadn't heard a single peal, as if he hadn't noticed what was happening right in front of him.

As if he had seen something only he could.

When Sam grabbed him, Henry moved without resistance (the soft material of Marcia's shirt slipping through his fingers); that expression was one that he'd unfortunately become quite acquainted with in the few hours they'd spent together, but the feeling in his own chest was the cherry on top.

BANG

Their backs hit the opposite wall with a thud that nobody heard, not over that earthshattering crack that had just rang through the air, and although Henry was still upright, he felt like he had when the pair of them had tumbled to the ground outside the hospital.

Only difference was that the shooter was even closer.

Henry felt the gun in his hand torn away, and he half expected to be staring down its barrel when he raised his head. But, by the time he looked up, Marcia was gone; leaving the two of them alone with the person who was trying to kill them.

The man stalked forward, drawing nearer and nearer until he was close enough to touch, and what was happening should've struck Henry. Should've made him feel like a deer in the headlights of a semi. Should've terrified him.

But it didn't.

There was only one thing on his mind, and it wasn't fear. Wasn't even close. Any natural human reactions to danger were nowhere to be found, never even present in the first place, and what was left in their place was a tragically familiar feeling radiating from his chest.

Certainty.

Before that man could ever reach out, Henry was pulling Sam from his grasp.

Sam stumbled back, wide-eyed behind Henry, and the man's scowl intensified.

Henry knew what came next. Those had not been warning shots, and he'd only gone for Sam now because he'd thought it would be easier to grab him before he put a bullet in the guy he was with. But still, Henry's hand stayed tight in Sam's jacket, standing tall between him and whatever nefarious intentions this man undoubtedly had.

His hold on the gun shifted, and Henry tensed.

"Охуе́ть!"

There was a glint of silver, a spurt of red, and Henry was pulled away. But he didn't look back, didn't even consider it. Not when Sam was gripping his hand like that.

He dragged him out of the alley and down the sidewalk, ducking into another backstreet and cutting through to the next one, zigzagging and backtracking until Henry was completely turned around and had no idea where they were anymore. But he never hesitated; Sam knew exactly what he was doing, and he wasn't going to slow him down.

They turned down one last alley and Sam came to a grinding halt. He didn't utter a word, just stopped right where he was, but he didn't have to say anything for Henry to know why they weren't running anymore; they were safe, for now.

For a very long moment, the only sound was their desperate gulps of air.

And then Sam pulled his hand away a little too fast.

Henry leaned against the wall and heaved a deep breath, trying to get his heart back under control. He knew they were in the clear for the time being. There was no one lingering over their shoulders right now, and even if he wasn't sure, he'd take Sam's certainty as proof. He'd known about Marcia when Henry had been utterly oblivious, and he trusted this kid—the one a few paces from him, tucking away a switchblade that was still stained with the gunman's blood.

God help him.

The knife was out of sight now, but the horrific snarl on Sam's face when he whirled around sliced nearly as deep.

"Why would you do that? Huh?" He demanded, nasty, "He was going to shoot you, stupid, you should've run."

"He was after you—" Henry offered breathlessly, cut off all too easily.

"I know, that's why you should've run," Sam said, not the slightest bit less vicious, "He wouldn't have followed you."

"I wasn't going to let him get you."

Henry's voice was small and his words were simple, because that was all he had in him. He was still prone against the brick, trying to come down from one of the top five adrenaline rushes of his life (and that was saying something), his mind a mess of confusion and anxiety. There was nothing left for him to offer but the truth.

Sam stared at him for a moment, an unfathomable look on his face.

Then he shouted.

Henry had taken half a step towards the exit before he realized that was what had happened. It wasn't any words, nothing even close to resembling language, just a screechy noise. Like he'd had no choice in the matter, like he had to get that out or else he'd explode; a kettle filled with boiling water. He ran a hand through his hair (pulled was probably the more accurate term), then turned on his heel to storm out of the alley.

"C'mon," he muttered as he passed him, quiet compared to the sound from just before.

"Where are we—?" Henry started, slowly pushing himself off the wall.

"Come On!"

Henry jogged to catch up, and Sam refused to meet his eye as they stepped back out onto the streets of Detroit.

-.

Will was lagging behind.

Steve glanced back for what must've been the third time in the last twenty minutes and still, Will was back there staring down at his shoes. He might've worried he was feeling the effects of not enough sleep and no water after walking down this stupid hallway for well over an hour, if it weren't for the fact that he'd been holding steady at about five paces behind. Shouldn't be surprising, of course; after all the attitude and stomping away, why would he suddenly want to join them?

Steve sighed. Just another way he was hopelessly failing. He got them into this Russian hellhole (well, maybe Dustin did, but he should've stopped him before it got this far) and even though they'd managed to escape their accidental cell, they were far from actually getting out of this mess. Will had said it best: "I can't believe after everything, what kills me is you and an elevator!" Sure, Steve was going to make sure that nothing happened to these kids, but he wasn't exactly wrong. Even if it'd only been spat out because of his terrible mood.

God, he wished Henry was here.

Even though he knew it was ridiculous, he couldn't help but feel like everything would be okay if he was. At the very least, Will wouldn't be so upset. Whatever was wrong with him, Henry could have it fixed in under a minute. And Will would let him.

But Henry wasn't here. And Steve wasn't him.

He had to try, though.

Steve's steps slowed a little, until he was side-by-side with Will. He didn't mention his change of pace, didn't acknowledge him at all actually, and Steve knew his presence was unwelcome. That wasn't shocking; he hadn't wanted anything to do with him ever since he'd stalked into Scoops yesterday, and his attitude had only gotten worse since. Not that he could blame him.

"So, Byers…" Steve started slowly.

"Hm," Will grunted back, and Steve's shoulders slumped a little; yeah, hated him more than ever.

"You ready to tell me what's going on with you?" He asked, trying his hardest to not sound accusatory or suspicious—he didn't have to know why Will was upset to know that would piss him off even more.

"None of your business," he muttered back.

"I feel like when we're stuck in a secret Russian base together and you're still upset over it, it starts becoming my business," Steve replied, maybe a little too sarcastic for the good of this conversation, but who could blame him after the past 24 hours he'd had.

"Why do you care?" Will demanded, looking up at him for the first time since he'd insisted on walking beside him. He was getting tall, Steve idly observed, he might be taller than him one day. The look on his face was distinctly childish though, classic teenage angst, and he knew that if things were different—if he was Henry—that expression would be miles away.

"Because I care about you?" Steve offered, and just as quickly as he'd gotten his eyes, he lost them. Will looked back to the endless hallway and snorted, extraordinarily cynical, and Steve sucked on his teeth.

"Okay. Fine," he said, dropping any pretense of concern (he was, he was, but if the kid didn't want it, then he wasn't going to force it), "I care because Henry cares about you and making sure you're okay while he's gone means he'll be one step closer to forgiving me."

"Forgiving you," Will repeated, looking up at him with a furrowed brow—all of his anger left by the wayside, "Forgive you for what?"

Steve sighed. Of all the things the Byers kid had to grasp onto, of course it was that. He should've seen it coming, should've self-censored, because that was the last thing he wanted to get into right now. But Will was staring at him, and clearly the cogs in his head were turning a little too fast, and Steve didn't want him to come up with any wild ideas about what had happened.

"Before he left for Michigan," Steve said slowly, still not believing that even a little but forcing himself to say it for context, "We got into a little bit of a… fight."

Steve sighed again before that last word. He hadn't really wanted to say it at all, but there was no other way to put what had happened in Starcourt just a few days ago.

"About what?" Will asked, his voice softer now, almost like he wasn't quite sure he wanted the answer to that. As if he already sort of knew what had happened. Steve knew that was impossible though, because he sure as hell didn't.

"I just got upset and… I don't know," Steve trailed off, the memory leaving a sour taste in his mouth, "I guess, I got into a fight. Henry didn't really reciprocate."

For a moment it was quiet, the only sounds the echoing of their feet ceaselessly marching down the tunnel, and Steve frowned as he recalled the last moments he'd spent with his best friend before he'd upped and disappeared. The stunned silence, the hurt look on Henry's face, the lump that was still stuck in Steve's throat. All for what? To this day, he didn't fully understand why he'd said that, why he'd hurt a person he cared for like that. The person he cared for the most…

"So you were being a brat."

And Steve stopped walking for the first time in hours.

"Whoa!" He shouted, whirling around on Will, "What the hell, Byers? Where did you get that from?"

For a moment, Will stared up at him with wide eyes. His mouth was sealed shut, but Steve got the distinct sense that he'd repeated his own mistake from just a few moments before; said something that he quickly realized he shouldn't have. And Steve didn't quite understand why. Sure, he'd gotten a negative reaction, but given his attitude lately, he would've thought that was what he wanted. Why did he look so guilty? What did he think he'd given away?

Then, all at once, it clicked into place.

"Does Henry call me a brat?"

It was dead silent.

Will stared at Steve.

Steve stared at Will.

And then Will bolted.

He was down the hallway and catching up with the others before Steve realized what he was doing. But even if he'd moved a little bit slower, made what he was about to do obvious, Steve wouldn't have been able to catch him. He was rooted in place, no thoughts except…

Except the single word bouncing around his skull.

Brat.

-.

There were no sounds but air moving through the empty window frames, but Henry still glanced over his shoulder as if someone was creeping in the shadows. It was probably just his paranoia talking—walking through a highly questionable area to get here hadn't exactly helped soothe his nerves after their run in with the Russians—but since the sun was finally starting to make its way downwards in the sky and the warehouse they stood in was falling apart, there were plenty of dark corners for him to be concerned about.

Sam, though, didn't share those worries, a fact that probably should've calmed Henry's, and was instead hopping up through a hole above them and disappearing through it with an amount of ease Henry knew he wasn't going to be anywhere close to replicating. He looked around one more time, and when he was sure it was only his anxiety making him feel as if someone was looming behind him (and that he couldn't stall any longer), he followed after Sam, grabbing the splintered wood and wincing. He didn't want to think about having to pick pieces of this gross building out of his hands later.

Henry ungracefully pulled himself up, his legs swinging uselessly in the air for a second before he could finally get them on the same level as the rest of his body. Finally, he rolled over, fully inside, the ground creaking ominously beneath him. He shut his eyes tight—it would be just his luck if it gave away underneath him. Especially after the day he'd had. Or, rather, life.

"You good?"

Henry flicked his eyes over and found that in the time it had taken him to struggle up here, Sam had made himself comfortable. He was seated sideways on the sill of a dirty but mostly intact window, his chin in his hand and one leg pulled up to his chest, the other swinging in the air, his sneaker just grazing the dirty floor underneath it.

"Yeah," Henry replied after a moment, sitting up and finally taking in the room he'd led him to. It was a small-sized enclave, probably an office or something back when this building was functional (God knows when that was), and mostly empty, save for some trash.

But it wasn't any of that that clued Henry into the truth of this place—what this disgusting, abandoned warehouse in the middle of the most unsafe part of the city was.

It was Sam's backpack on the ground beneath him.

"You live here," Henry said, his voice soft, barely above a whisper, and Sam turned so he could look out the window again.

"For now."

"Doesn't it get cold?" Henry asked, peering at the holes in the siding and knowing they couldn't offer much protection from the elements.

"Hot too," Sam replied idly, like the thought was gone from his mind the moment he uttered it; a fact of life that didn't warrant dwelling.

The lump in Henry's throat nearly choked him.

In a sense, he'd known from the start that something like this had to be how Sam lived. But now—now that he was here. Now that he was sitting on this floor, feeling the still air, seeing the garbage picked material that passed for blankets… he couldn't get the image out of his head; Sam in the middle of the night, holed up in this place. Sam sweating from the oppressive heat or shivering at the bitter cold. Sam alone.

"Sam?" Henry murmured, his voice small now.

"Hm?" He hummed back, not taking his eyes off the street outside; maybe watching for a sign of their stalkers, or maybe just wanting to put his eyes anywhere but the man across the room.

"Did you ever think about looking for your parents?"

Henry watched carefully for his reaction. He wasn't an idiot, he knew he was dipping into dangerous waters here. And he knew that if there was any sign that he'd gone too far, he'd need to pull back. He couldn't make him feel cornered, not now, not after Sam had let him into his personal hideaway.

But Sam's expression didn't change.

"Oh, they've been dead for a while," he said, casual enough to make Henry suspicious. But even though he searched, he didn't see any trace of dishonesty. He hadn't gone too far. In fact, Sam didn't seem to care at all.

"How do you know?" He asked, and finally Sam turned to look at him. He didn't say a word though, just quirked an eyebrow, and Henry felt stupid for even wondering.

"Do you have any idea where they were from?" He said after a moment of silence, and Sam nodded slightly, "I could take you there."

"Mattagami is in Canada, it's like a day away," Sam replied, a hint of a laugh in his voice. Not a mean one though, no, just amused. What a silly idea.

"Still," Henry insisted, not playing along—not if it meant those awful visions in his head would never be true again, "Maybe they have family there? Or people who were close to them?"

Sam frowned a little, and then turned to stare out the window again.

"Maybe."

And Henry knew he should drop it now.

It was quiet for a very long time after that.

He didn't say anything, didn't even outwardly get annoyed (which anyone who'd ever met him would be well aware he was perfectly comfortable doing), but Henry had the distinct feeling that Sam didn't want to talk right now. So, both boys sat in silence—Sam on the sill and Henry in the corner—as the sun lowered in the sky and the shadows grew around them.

And maybe he'd gone quiet for Sam's benefit, but for the first time since he'd seen that kid stir in his hospital bed, Henry actually had a moment to think.

There were Russians in Hawkins, and at least two in Detroit. One of them had been stalking him all the way back in Indiana, and the other was after Sam. That much he was certain about. And he knew they had to be connected, they couldn't just be random events, that was too big of coincidence for him to swallow. So, for better or for worse, the questions he had about Hawkins were slowly connecting to the ones he had in Detroit.

Didn't mean he had any answers, though.

He just didn't know why. Why had Marcia (or whatever her name was) trailed him here? Why were there Russians in Hawkins? Why was the gunman after Sam?

Well, there was only one answer to that, wasn't there?

It suddenly clicked. The Russian government wasn't grabbing random American children off the street. Even if they were, they wouldn't go to all this trouble, all this exposure, for one kid. Not unless that kid was special.

The Russians in Detroit were after Sam because of his abilities, that was the only possibility that made sense, and the ones in Hawkins were—

The memory of El in Starcourt struck him like a bolt of lightning, and Henry reflexively reached for the carton of cigarettes in his pocket before he reminded himself he was sitting in a closed space with a kid.

That didn't explain everything, he knew that. Didn't explain the black out, didn't explain Marcia. But it was enough of an answer that he felt sick to his stomach.

He wished Steve was here.

Just like the memory of El, that thought hit him hard out of nowhere. He'd known the moment he'd gotten the postcard that this was a path he'd have to take alone, but still. Steve might actually have an idea of what to do next, and even if he didn't, just his presence would make Henry feel safer, less heavy. Like he didn't have the weight of everything that came next entirely on his shoulders.

Maybe it was for the best, though. If anything happened to El, he'd be there. And if not, he could be comforted by thought of him safe back in Hawkins.

Or, at least, that he wasn't being terrorized by Russians.

The sun was gone now, disappeared behind the horizon, and the only thing keeping their little safe haven from being pitch black was the streetlight outside, shining through the window and forming ghostly figures that flickered and danced along the walls.

"What's your plan?"

That was far from loud, but in the previous silence, it shook the entire room. Henry looked up from where his fingers were twisting together and found Sam turned towards him, only his silhouette visible against the window, illuminated by the yellow light. He wondered how long he'd been staring, he'd been so deep in thought there was a chance it'd been for a good while, but rather than letting that idea get to him, he just wrapped his arms around his legs and leaned his chin on his knees; thoughtful for only a few moments more.

"No idea," he finally said, the truth through and through, "What's yours?"

"Keep running, I guess," Sam replied, his shadow shrugging.

"Can't do that forever," Henry murmured back, tilting his head a little. Sam looked at him for only a second longer, his expression indecipherable in the darkness, before he turned back towards the window and the gauzy light caught a gleam in his eyes that Henry suspected he wouldn't want him to see.

"I already have."

There it was again. That lump in Henry's throat.

"This seems a little different," he said, barely above a whisper, but he didn't need to be any louder. Not in here.

"What's another government?" Sam remarked: confident, unconcerned, and utterly artificial.

"There's Russians in Hawkins, if that explains any," Henry said, and when Sam turned back to him, he could just barely make out his furrowed brow.

"Why?" Henry shrugged—he supposed he could offer his theories, but all that would likely accomplish was putting the pit of anxiety in Sam's stomach too. But when he saw Sam deflate just a little bit, he wondered if maybe he would've preferred unease to the complete unknown, "Well, I've got nothing. Haven't had Russians on my radar. Not even when I—"

Sam stopped hard, frozen for a second, before he fidgeted a little and looked back towards the window; leaving what left of that sentence hanging in the air. Henry had a strong sense that he hadn't realized what he was saying until the words were right on his tongue, but he didn't mind. He didn't need to finish it, not if it meant more pain. Besides, Henry knew where he was going.

"That's okay," he muttered, really more to himself, not expecting anything in response.

This time, when Sam turned back towards him, it wasn't with a loll of the head or a sarcastic side-eye—it was sharp.

It was quiet for a moment, as Sam stared at him unfathomably in the darkness. Long enough for Henry to start to worry, to wonder what was on his mind. If he'd realized something, if he'd felt something.

"You wanna see something cool?"

His voice was nearly casual and the question genuine, it was just the very last thing Henry would've expected after that moment of silent intensity. But he nodded anyway; he'd been asked that by far too many kids to ever be truly off guard by it.

Sam slid down to the floor, moving off of his perch for the first time since they'd hidden away in here, and unzipped one of the compartments of his backpack while Henry scooted closer (not too close, though) and fought the urge to try to sneak a peek of what was inside the bag as he dug around in it.

Again, Sam surprised him, this time by pulling out a deck of cards.

He shook them out of the busted cardboard box and shuffled them a few times—quick and sure in a way that only came from practice—before he fanned them out and looked up expectantly. Henry hesitated for a second, even though he knew exactly what he wanted from him, before he reached out and pulled a card from the deck; glancing down for only a moment to memorize the face and then back up at the kid who sat opposite him.

"Put it back in?" He hazarded a guess, but Sam just smiled.

"King of Hearts."

It was quiet for a second, the pair of them staring at each other, before Henry looked back down at the card in his hand (as if he hadn't just seen it) and felt his eyes widen just the slightest bit at what greeted him.

The King of Hearts.

Henry turned back to Sam, who was still smirking, and without a word (but a small smile playing on his lips) he drew another card.

"Jack of Spades," Sam said, just as certain as before, and Henry reached for the deck again, "Queen of Diamonds."

He hadn't even fully pulled that one out yet.

"That's incredible," Henry said, looking down at the three cards in his hands and not catching the way the pleased grin on Sam's face softened a little bit.

"Yeah, I make money sometimes doing it for tourists," Sam said, eyes on his own hands idly shuffling the deck, "Gotta put a little more style into it, but…"

Sam trailed off with a shrug, more because he was finished speaking than anything else, but it might've been for a different reason if he'd seen the way the impressed grin that he'd liked so much slipped away.

"… Smart," Henry murmured after a moment, softer than before, and he handed back the cards.

Sam tucked the deck back into the bag and when he was done, his gaze slid to the side, and it suddenly occurred to Henry he was looking anywhere but him because he was staring. He quickly averted his eyes, finding a nice patch of dirty floor to focus his attention on and hoping that was enough to put him at ease. He didn't want him to be uncomfortable. It was unintentional, the staring—an inevitability of the dagger turning in his chest.

"Hey, Henry?"

Sam's voice interrupted the silence again, but it wasn't nearly as strong as before. There was something hesitant in there now, Henry could hear it, and he looked up to find Sam's eyes glued to his shoes.

"Yeah?" He asked, tipping his head a little.

"What's the deal with—Eleven?" Sam glanced up for only a moment, to say her name, "You said you know her but you didn't really say…"

He trailed off and didn't look up again, and Henry realized the strong likelihood that Sam had been thinking about this for far longer than the few moments it'd taken him to ask.

"Um, well," Henry said, leaning back on his hands and frowning; he wasn't quite sure what to say, where to even start, but he had to give him the best answer he could. It was the least he deserved, "She escaped from the lab and my brother and his friends found her."

"When did she get out?" Sam asked, and still, there was that reluctance—that unwillingness to meet his eye. Like he was forcing himself to ask. Like he didn't want to know the answer.

"Almost two years ago," Henry murmured back after a moment. He could barely believe it himself. So long since he'd sat on the Byers' porch with a little girl he didn't know, so recent that his life had been turned entirely upside down.

But there was no dwelling on that. Not when Sam's head snapped over.

"Only two?" He asked—no, demanded.

"Yeah," Henry said, stumbling a little over it; Sam's sudden scrutiny made him feel panicky, "She was there for a while, I—"

"No, I just…" Sam slumped a little, brow furrowed and gaze trained on a ground he certainly didn't see, "I thought Kali and I were the only ones left."

"What do you mean?" Henry asked, his expression drawing up as well, but Sam didn't reply. Just kept staring at nothing with that strange look on his face, like he was reorganizing the files in brain, trying to find a way this new information could make sense.

There was a part of Henry that thought that maybe he should try again, that maybe whatever was rattling around in Sam's head was important to what was happening to them now, but he just couldn't find it in him to press.

"You wanna see a picture?" He asked instead, and Sam's head jerked up—torn away from whatever those thoughts were.

Henry pulled out his wallet and retrieved the familiar picture tucked in one of the card slots. Even with the deep lines from folding, the photograph was still as readable as it had been when he'd gotten it, and it only took a glance for Henry to smile. He saw it every day, and it still got to him.

Sam took it from him with a delicate touch, one he probably didn't even realize he was using, and Henry leaned in just a little so he could point out what he was looking for.

"That's El."

Sam didn't say anything. Just stared at the frozen smile Henry had long memorized. It was from one of the few times Hopper had let her out, long enough ago that her hair was at what should've been an awkward in-between length, but she wore it with so much pride it was impossible to not love. She was sitting on the Byers' couch, squished between two of the other kids, with a grin so big that it was infectious from here, months later.

Seconds ticked by. Still, Sam stared, and Henry suddenly realized that even though he could try, he'd never fully understand what he was feeling in this moment. Maybe no one could.

It was only when he saw Sam's eyes beginning to stray over the other faces did Henry feel comfortable enough to speak.

"Um, next to her, that's her boyfriend—Mike." Sam's eyes flashed up for half a second before they were back to where Henry pointed on the picture, "And that's my brother, Lucas. Will's sitting in front of them, I'm really close with him, that's Lucas's girlfriend, sometimes, Max, Dustin next to her. And that's my best friend, Steve."

And there he was. Sitting on the couch with Dustin on one side and Henry on the other. They'd squished in for the picture, pressed up against each other, and Henry had tried to convince himself that his heart hadn't dropped at the loss of warmth when he moved back to the armchair. But then, Steve had stood up and muttered something about how these stupid kids kept shoving him and—

And he'd sat right down next to Henry, in a chair built for one.

Henry swallowed hard, the memory of that night vivid—the way his body burned, the sparks in his chest, the gentle shakes every time Steve laughed—and he sat back a little. He already knew that he wished he was here, now it was time to acknowledge that he missed him for reasons far more personal.

His friends were out of view now, but he could see how Sam's thumb swiped across the face of one of them.

He wondered what he was thinking. He wondered how he felt. He wondered what it was like to see one of the few people that might understand what he'd been through living a life so far from his own.

He wondered if Sam wished he was sitting on that couch too.

No sooner did Henry think that was Sam holding the photo back out; eyes square on him, suddenly seeming quite disinterested in the image he'd been staring at. Henry hesitated for half a second, slightly unsettled at the sudden shift in mood, before reaching to take it back.

"So," Sam said casually, "How long have you been in love with Steve?"

Henry froze—his fingers just brushing the picture, his gaze fixed on the boy across from him, his insides turned to stone.

Sam just smiled.

Henry dropped his eyes, but only for a moment, and when they flicked back up, he finally finished plucking the photo from Sam.

"That one of your feelings?" Henry asked, his voice low, resigned, and his attention bolted on where he was tucking his picture back into his wallet.

"You're kind of obvious," Sam replied, a hint of laughter in his voice, and Henry swallowed hard. He hoped that he was wrong. That he didn't realize his own bias. That he wasn't as vulnerable as he felt on the inside.

"Besides, takes one to know one."

Henry looked up sharp, and he found that Sam was now the one with his eyes down; his finger tracing a pattern in the dirty wood they sat on. The amusement that might've been present in his voice before was nowhere to be found now, and for a very long moment, it was quiet, the air heavy and significant.

"A while, I guess," Henry finally murmured, answering the question that had probably only been asked rhetorically; he couldn't help but be honest, not after Sam had, "Longer than I want to admit."

Henry sighed a little, the love he felt for Steve beating its endless rhythm inside of his chest, just as strong as it had in Hawkins. The love that he'd tried to ignore, tried to fight, tried to kill. If only for the fact that it came hand in hand with utter futility.

"Although, I guess, I never admitted it until now."

His voice was barely above a whisper. He'd been playing pretend for far too long, thinking that maybe if he convinced himself that the feelings weren't there, they wouldn't have the power to hurt him. That was pointless, he saw that now—the truth was inescapable.

Henry loved Steve. With his whole heart. Probably more than he'd ever love any other man. And he knew it was only ever meant to be felt by him, that he'd never get to share it.

But he was starting to accept that it was a privilege to ever even get to feel it all.

A privilege to have his heart broken by Steve Harrington.

"Makes sense," Sam muttered, and Henry was pulled from his reverie to find that he was looking at him for the first time since he'd confessed, "He looks like a loser."

Maybe it was the fact it caught him by surprise, or maybe the sudden flippancy in the face of his own somber thoughts, or maybe the uncharacteristically (or maybe, just unfamiliar) playful look on the face opposite him, it didn't matter—

Despite the harsh realizations, despite the circumstances, despite everything—

Henry laughed.

A real laugh—full and unrestrained, bouncing off the deteriorating walls—for the first time since he'd left Hawkins.

And there may have been a thousand possible reasons he reacted that way, but it was undoubtedly that laugh that made Sam smile.

Just a little. But there, undeniably. And even with everything on Henry's mind, the sight of that made that unbearable weight he carried inside lighten. The both of them sat there, smiling at each other like a pair of nutcases, and somehow things didn't feel quite so bad.

If only it could last.

In an instant, that smile was gone.

Henry felt his heart drop. That wasn't Sam throwing up walls, hiding his feelings so no one would ever think he was a normal teenage boy with normal emotions, that was genuine. But before he could ask—before he could feel his own pull inside—there was an omen that had nothing to do with special feelings.

Footsteps.

Henry looked to Sam, hoping he might have an idea of how to get out here, but not wanting to alert anyone to where they were by asking. But he didn't need to say anything at all; Sam knew exactly what he was thinking, and when he glanced at him as he inched to his feet, Henry knew to follow.

They creeped back down the hole they'd climbed through, Sam a lot more attentive to Henry now that his landing could actually cause them problems, and slowly made their way through the winding hallway. They were headed in a different direction than they'd entered, but Henry knew better now than to question Sam. Especially when the sound of heavy footfalls was waning with distance.

They rounded a corner, and Henry felt the slightest hint of relief when his eyes landed on a door. He never doubted that Sam would get them out, but after climbing down a building and crawling through destroyed flooring, he was very happy they were just taking a different exit.

Sam grabbed what remained of the doorknob before jerking it open, and Henry knew he didn't give a damn about the creaky old hinges because they were going to book it once the outside was in sight.

Or they would have.

If it weren't for what was on the other side of the door.

Sam and Henry both reeled back—breath catching in their throats, hearts stopping in their chests—and before either one could even fully process what was in front of them, Sam was stumbling back and running in the opposite direction, and Henry instinctively followed.

If things had happened a second slower, Henry might've noticed that Marcia looked just as surprised.

Original plan forgotten, they both ran back into the building they'd just been so set on escaping. Sam's confidence was gone now, and Henry wasn't sure he was leading him anywhere in particular. He was only interested in getting away from the woman that had forced them to abandon their strategy.

Sam jerked to the right and Henry nearly tripped over his feet keeping up with him. They were in the main warehouse now, wide open with nowhere to hide. There was a doorway on the opposite side, undoubtedly leading to just more hallways and offices, but it was better than this room. Sam dashed forward, and Henry was right on his heels.

Before both boys stopped dead in their tracks.

In the doorway, the one he'd pinned his hopes on, was the shooter.

The two of them stumbled backwards, Henry's eyes lingering on the gun before he turned around to follow Sam right back out the way they'd come, if they could make it that far without getting shot. He wouldn't have to worry about outrunning a bullet, though.

Marcia was blocking the way.

They lurched to a stop, just like before, now with nowhere left to run. Henry instinctively reached out and pulled Sam closer to him, wrapping his arm around him and holding on tight.

Worst of all, he allowed it.

And in that moment, Henry knew one thing and one thing only; they weren't going to get this kid. He wouldn't let them. They would have to pry him from his cold hands.

Marcia stalked forward, a grim look on her face so unlike the girl she'd pretended to be in Starcourt or even the woman she'd been in the alley. Certainty though, outweighed anything else. Her steps were sure, and she didn't hesitate when she raised her gun. Not even for a second.

Sam pressed back against Henry's chest.

"Get down."

Henry wasn't sure which one of them did it first, which one of them pulled the other along, but they were both on the floor before Marcia had fully finished speaking—huddled together, heads down.

A shot rang out.

Then a thump.

And it was quiet.

Neither dared to move. The only sound besides the ringing in Henry's ears was his and Sam's heavy breathing—adrenaline, fear, and cardio working together to steal any air from their lungs. Everything else was still. As if it had only ever been the two of them in this warehouse. There were no scuffles, no words.

No footsteps.

With Sam still safely wrapped up in his arms, Henry slowly raised his head.

Marcia stared back.

"I think we've had a miscommunication."

Her voice was steady, unwavering, just like the rest of her, and so very far from how Henry felt in this moment. Let alone if he was in her position. If he'd pulled the trigger and—

The hand Marcia extended didn't even tremble.

Henry glanced away once, to the body on the warehouse floor and the puddle of blood beginning to form beneath it, before he went back to Marcia. She looked down at him without a hint of shame, like what she'd done didn't even warrant a second thought. Like she hadn't just committed murder. Like she hadn't just killed a man.

The man who'd tried to take Sam away from him.

Henry took her hand.

-.

The 4th of July dawned gently.

The sun peeked over the horizon and gently shined its rays down onto the world beneath it, bathing everything it touched in the sheen of the first light of the day. It would get worse soon, turn hot and unforgiving, but the morning was young enough for it to warm the skin instead of burn.

The park was empty, water lapping against the stone bank and birds chirping in the trees were the only sounds. It was still early, and even if people planned to set up here for a barbeque instead of sticking to backyards, the very first wouldn't be heading out for a few hours. The scenic views of Lake St Clair and the beautiful greenery bordering it were theirs and theirs alone.

Their spot was under a tree, the sun wasn't a problem yet, but shade was never a bad idea, and Sam sat with his back against the picnic table, gazing out at the water as he munched on a breakfast sandwich. His attention was pulled away for just a moment, when a squirrel crept closer, and he returned its stare for a few seconds before he sighed a little and broke off some of the bagel to toss to it.

A lighter snapped a few times, trying to catch a spark, and Sam swiveled back around in his seat in time to see Marcia with her head leaned in toward the flame in Henry's hand.

"So," Marcia said once she'd straightened up, puffing smoke into the air as she spoke, "I suppose we'll have to go cards on the table."

"I suppose so," Henry replied, lighting his own cigarette as he stared down the woman across from him and Sam, "We could start with your real name."

Marcia smiled—genuinely, maybe, never could tell with her—and she leaned her cheek on her hand.

"I like you, malysh," she said, and when her eyes glanced over Henry, he had the distinct feeling she saw far more than anyone else who'd ever looked at him before, "I really do."

"Why were you following me?" Henry said instead of commenting on that (he couldn't get into it, for his own sanity) or pushing the name thing—it was clearly a lost cause, "Why were you in Hawkins?"

"I followed you because I thought you worked for Stepanov," Marcia said casually, ashing her cigarette onto the table as she spoke, "Clearly I was mistaken."

"Who's Stepanov?" Sam asked with his mouth full, the name coming out more like Shepnof.

"And why did you think I was working for him?" Henry added, and Marcia raised an eyebrow before she responded.

"You were receiving strange messages," she said as if it was obvious, "I just assumed you were his American contact."

"Who is he?" Henry reiterated Sam's question, and this time when Marica smiled, it was a lot less authentic. She put her elbows on the table and leaned in a little, a shallow imitation of a teenage girl sharing gossip, even though what she was about to say was undoubtedly a bigger secret than most people encountered in a lifetime.

"Your little mall? Starcourt?" She said, tipping her head, condescension dripping from each word, "It's a ruse, set up by a faction of the Soviet military. Stepanov leads them."

Henry took a shaky breath hidden behind his cigarette. It shouldn't be shocking, it wasn't, but still, the confirmation sent a shudder through him. All those days spent in that mall, selling tapes, goofing off with Steve, hanging out with the kids, all in the belly of the beast.

"Then who are you?" Henry finally asked, and her smile widened into a grin.

"I'm the good guy," Marcia said, and the image of the man lying in a puddle of his own blood flashed in front of Henry's eyes, "I was sent here by the Soviet Union, the real one, and I'm going to stomp out Stepanov before he can put his little coup into motion."

"He's going to try to take over Russia?" Henry asked, wondering if he was severely misunderstanding; sure, Marcia had no reason to lie (right this second), but this was difficult to imagine.

"He's been pissy ever since Gorbachev took power," she said, shrugging a little, like she was referring to a toddler throwing a tantrum, "He thinks he's weak."

"Is he?" Sam piped up, and when Marcia turned her attention over to him, her expression was a hell of a lot less blasé.

"I'd much prefer Gorbachev's weakness to Stepanov's cruelty."

And her tone of voice was far and away the greatest sign of just how dire this situation was.

"Why's he in Hawkins?" Henry murmured after a moment, unable to find it in him to speak louder than barely above a whisper.

"Not sure," Marcia said, and she was back to normal self—or back to the face she chose to show them the most, "But, I do know that there's something there that he thinks is the key to taking power. He hasn't been subtle, we've had our eye on him for a while. When he went to Hawkins, I followed."

"And nobody thinks the Black girl in Indiana is a Russian spy," Henry finished for her, and Marcia smiled like they were both in on some great big joke. Although, he supposed, in a way they were.

"So, malysh, that brings us to you," she said, holding her hands out towards him, "Why did you come here? And why was one of Stepanov's men after the little one?"

"I'm taller than you," Sam interjected, and Marcia looked at him for just a moment so he could see how she grinned.

"That guy worked for Stepanov?" Henry asked before Sam could actually get annoyed, and that was enough for Marcia to turn her attention back to the matter at hand.

"Of course he did," she said, sending Henry an almost chastising look, like she'd expected more of him, "It was another nail in your coffin until I realized he was trying to kill you."

Henry nodded a little—she was right, it was obvious—and he raised his cigarette to his lips again. He wondered if she could tell he was buying time. Probably.

It was just… She was an outsider. Not because she was Russian, although her employment to a government, any government, was a red flag. She was an outsider in this world, the one that Henry had had to face for the past two years. The only one Sam had ever known. And letting her in now, a stranger, a spy. A woman whose job description was lying and manipulating to get what she needed. How could he trust a single word that came out of her mouth?

How could he trust her with this?

With Sam?

Henry looked over. Sam was staring down at the picnic table, carving nonsense symbols into the splintering wood with the same knife he'd used earlier, but when he felt eyes on him, he met his gaze. Just for a second, and then he was back to his petty vandalism, but that was more than enough.

Henry turned back to the woman who sat across from him and found that Marcia had a small smile playing on her lips, like she knew just what he was thinking. The bigger shock was that he didn't mind.

"I came here because of Sam. He was the one who wrote me those letters," Henry finally said, his voice low but strong, "And I'm pretty sure that guy was after him for the same reason he called me here."

Marcia had told them the truth. He knew it, he could feel it.

And one look at Sam's face told him that he knew it too.

It was his turn.

As each thread of Detroit and the kids back in Hawkins unraveled, Marcia's face grew more and more serious, so very unlike any version of her that Henry had ever seen. She looked carefully over each of the notes he pulled out of his pocket, like a historian checking them for authenticity, and even made Sam show her his handwriting (which he might've done by writing a rude word in her notebook and then refusing to give her pen back). She was all business, and although he was focused on the terrible story he had to tell, Henry could imagine that this was the woman who'd been sent here by the Russian government to handle something so critical.

Finally, he finished, and once again the only sounds were the water and the birds.

"I'm not sure if I believe all of that." Marcia said after a very long moment, and Henry appreciated her candidness if nothing else, "But Stepanov's man was after him for a reason, and what you are telling me… it doesn't contradict what I already know."

"What do you know?" Henry asked, his brow furrowing.

"Stepanov has an American contact," Marcia replied, a thoughtful downturn to her lips, "They're feeding him information and giving him an in with the United States government, but I've never been able to find out what Stepanov was giving them in return. It could be the children from your story."

"Shit," Henry hissed, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. It made sense, he'd come to a similar conclusion last night, but hearing it from her made it all the more real, "Do you have any idea who it is?"

"I thought it was you," Marcia offered, and Henry's head fully slumped, "Although, I will admit, the nickname never fit. You're not a doctor."

Halfway between slouching and straightening back up, Henry stilled.

"They call them a doctor?" He said, his voice steady, without the slightest inflection of emotion.

But deadly just the same.

"The doctor, the doc, yes," Marcia said, and although she undoubtedly picked up on his tone, she didn't comment on it—a woman like her was more than comfortable when things got dangerous.

Henry hadn't needed to confirm that. He'd heard her loud and clear the first time. But he couldn't bring himself to face this, not yet. He'd had to say something, anything, to put it off, even though the few seconds spent with only his imagination was likely a far greater torture than what was actually waiting for him.

But it was inevitable.

Henry turned slowly, and there it was.

He was wrong. This was a thousand times worse than anything he could've ever come up with.

The look on Sam's face was harrowing.

"You said he was dead," he whispered, but there was no accusation in Sam's voice. No anger. No anything.

Henry reached out to touch him, to comfort him somehow, but just as quickly pulled his hand back. He knew Sam wouldn't like that. Even if he didn't jerk away this time.

"I thought he was, he got—" Henry stumbled over his words before he cut them short entirely; knowing about the kids was one thing, he hadn't clued Marcia in on the actual monsters. And, come to think of it, unless Sam had been seeing them in his visions, he wasn't yet privy to that knowledge either. One more thing for him to look forward to.

"Who are we talking about?" Marcia piped up, light and casually curious—a stark difference to what the two boys across the table were experiencing.

"Brenner," Henry said, and again Sam winced, just slightly. But he'd been watching for it, "He was the one who ran the lab."

He's the reason Sam scarfs down food like he'll never see it again, Henry didn't say. The reason Sam lives in an abandoned warehouse. The reason Sam is still so scared of Hawkins.

The reason Sam's expression is haunting.

"What information is he giving Stepanov?" Henry asked, facing Marcia fully again and kicking back into gear; if he was going to keep Sam safe from this, he'd need all the information he could get, "Is it about the kids?"

"I don't think so," Marcia said, and she shrugged a little when Henry sent her a look, "They speak in code, and I've broken most of them, but I've never been able to fully understand what they were talking about."

"What were they saying?" Sam asked, and Henry felt a stab in his chest— his voice rough and hollow, he sounded nothing like the kid he'd gotten to know in the past twenty-four hours.

"They mostly talk about a key," Marcia said, and maybe, just maybe, she was a little softer when she turned to Sam, "It unlocks a door. And whatever is on the other side will give Stepanov the power he needs to take control of the Soviet Union. Or maybe the world? He gets grandiose."

"A key," Sam repeated, "That opens a door."

And the crushing weight inside of Henry might've lightened just the tiniest bit at the sound of the sarcastic trail of Sam's words—he wasn't back to normal, far from it, but he wasn't lost completely.

"Or a gate."

And all at once, any comfort he'd been able to find was gone.

Henry didn't know how he reacted. He didn't know how his face twisted, what his body language said, hell even what his brain came up with. Because everything in him had gone blank, consumed with one sensation—horror.

But whatever he'd done, Marcia must've noticed.

"What?" She said, her brow furrowing, and Sam leaned so he could see his expression—his own dropping the moment he saw it.

"A gate?" Henry said, his voice lethal, "He used that word. Gate?"

"Yes, the American frequently did," Marcia said, her eyes flickering over him while she frowned, "What is it?"

Henry could barely answer, could barely understand what she said. His insides were frozen. Not out of fear though, or rather, not just fear. It was a recollection. A vivid memory of last year. When he'd looked into the eyes of a young boy he considered a brother—one of his favorite people in the whole world, one of the few people he actually felt like he knew—and felt that awful chill of otherness slither up his spine.

"We've got a way bigger problem than Stepanov."

-.

Will had a headache.

That wasn't exactly right, but it was the closest he could get. It was more like a buzz in his brain. An electrical whine, low grade, but ever present. He'd been able to ignore it for a while, but it was only getting worse. Part of the reason he lagged behind—with each step he took deeper into the Russian base, it stung sharper and sapped any energy he had left. For the first time, he really understood why Henry would spend all day laying on the couch with a blanket over his head when he had one of his migraines, although he couldn't imagine it feeling anywhere near as bad as this.

It was probably because he was hungry and thirsty and tired and stressed and had just walked what felt like a marathon, but it certainly didn't help his already awful mood. Especially when they finally made it to the end of the infinite tunnel and laid eyes on the people who'd trapped them here in the first place.

He might be in a bad mood, but he didn't trail behind the others anymore; getting shot by Russian soldiers didn't exactly appeal to him.

But even though that was an actual possibility, his body's natural desire to focus on the pain made things happening right in front of him seem not nearly as urgent as they should be. Everything was a blur: men with cruel faces passing by their hiding spot, Erica noticing the comms room, Steve leading them across the all-too busy hub, none of it felt pressing. None of it felt real.

Not even a soldier staring at them was enough to tip the scales of his focus fully away from the terrible drone in his head.

The undignified scream from Steve certainly got his attention, though.

Will jerked back at the shout, watching with wide eyes as Steve rushed the soldier. He'd never actually been present for any of the times that he'd gotten into fights, but Henry had regaled him with the story of his brother beating his ass enough that Will was well-aware of his track record.

But today was their lucky day.

The Russian fell to the ground, out cold after a smack across the face with one of the pieces off of the control board, and it was dead silent for a long, long moment.

And maybe, for a split second, with his hair wild and breathing heavy, Will sort of got what Henry saw in Steve.

But, just as quickly, that thought was gone.

The only thing on his mind was this awful headache.

The buzzing was bad now, like a leaf blower in his skull and a ringing in his ears. He knew that Dustin and Erica were arguing about the best way to get out of here, but he could barely hear them. It took all his willpower to just stay upright and not sway lower and lower until he was fully on the floor.

"There's something up there."

Robin's voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a very long hallway, but Will heard it, just barely. The others headed towards the stairs, and he followed after them, feet heavy, like a zombie. He stumbled on one of the steps and had to grab ahold of the railing to keep himself from falling, but nobody noticed, too interested in the blue glow looming in front of them.

When he finally made it up to the second level, the four of them were peering through windows into the next room, staring at whatever it was that Robin had found.

But Will stayed where he was, a few feet back.

Every hair on his body was standing on end, he was so lightheaded he was surprised he was still standing, the whine in his head was a scream, and—

And a familiar icy feeling was brushing against his skin.

"Will?"

Erica was looking at him now, he realized, and the others turned when she spoke—all their faces twisting and falling the moment their eyes landed on him. Horror, he realized, they were horrified.

He wondered if they could see it, crawling back inside of him.

A distant drip-drip sound reached his ears, ringing out in the silence of his companions. He looked down—everything moving slower than it should, like he was underwater—and found dots of something dark on his nice white sneakers. It took another one landing on the toe with an echoing splash though, for him to realize where it was coming from.

Will lifted his hands, almost in a trance, and dragged them across the bottom half of his face.

Blood was the last thing Will saw before he collapsed.

-.

"If you see any of the kids, can you tell them to just hang tight there? Okay, great. Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler."

Henry might've hung up a little too fast, before she even began saying goodbye, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It'd been a longshot; he'd known she wouldn't have anything to offer him—not after Joyce hadn't answered and Flo had said the Chief was out—but he'd had to try.

Henry dragged himself back over to the picnic table. Marcia and Sam were right where he'd left him; Sam was flipping Marcia's pen around between his fingers (he supposed it was better than the knife he knew he had stowed away) and Marcia was very still, only the slightest movement coming from her shoulders to prove that she was breathing, looking at nothing. It wasn't until she noticed him did she move—squirming a little—and Henry probably would've thought that was authentic if he hadn't just seen her natural state.

"Any luck?" She asked, even though Henry knew she was well aware of how it had gone from the look on his face. Still, he shook his head, and slid back onto the bench, "Then what's your plan to stop the monsters, malysh?"

Henry heard the tinge of sarcasm in her voice. Or maybe rather, condescension. Like he was a child with an active imagination that everyone played along with because they knew he'd grow out of it eventually—the adults smirking over his head as he went on about Demogorgons and Mind Flayers. But he didn't care. Convincing Marcia that he was telling the truth was the last thing on his mind.

"Do you know where the gate is?" Henry asked, and Marcia nodded, taking the first hit off her second cigarette.

"Under Starcourt," she said, and Henry nodded a little, the cogs in his head turning faster and faster. The next steps were becoming more real, solid, even if they were nowhere near to being an actual plan.

"Okay," Henry said, leaning in a little as he felt himself start to kick into gear, "We go to Hawkins, we figure out how to close this gate, and you can get all of the evidence you need to haul Stepanov back to Russia."

Marcia mirrored him, his building energy infectious, and she grinned as if they were talking about something other than a life-threatening mission.

"Again, I don't really believe you about any of this, but I like that last bit," she replied and without another word, they both started to straighten up, ready to get out of this park and head down the road to certain doom. They were alike in that way.

"Hold on, hold on, who's we?"

And all at once, Henry's momentum, boosted by Marcia's enthusiasm, came to a grinding halt.

Sam stared at them both; disbelief painting his features, like he couldn't believe they managed to come up with something so stupid. It was a nasty look, meant to make the person receiving it curdle on the inside, but maybe… maybe it was covering up something else, something he didn't want them to know was there.

But it didn't matter—he leveled them with that horrible glare, and they just stared back.

"I told you, I'm not going to Hawkins," Sam said, his voice just as biting as the look on his face, "I don't care if there are monsters actively flooding into the place; Brenner is alive and after me, I'm not going to let you just serve me up on silver platter. You can drop me off in Detroit on your way down."

The more he spoke, the angrier Sam became, like hearing it out loud reminded him of how upset he was. How much he hated Hawkins. How much he held it against them for daring to assume he would have anything to do with this. With them.

And maybe, his fury had to get bigger, so it could keep covering what was growing underneath.

Still, Henry and Marcia stared.

"What?" He hissed, his eyes flicking back and forth so he could glare equally at both of them.

But they didn't falter. In fact, they didn't even seem to hear him. They just stared, the strange look on their faces unmoving.

"Sam…"

Henry's voice was small, so small—he was very far away from the confident man he'd been just a few moments ago—and it finally registered to Sam that his expression wasn't just a blank look pointed at a kid who wasn't doing what he wanted.

He was scared.

And he wasn't looking at Sam.

Not really.

Sam followed his gaze down to the table.

To his own hand.

To the pen scrawling in Marcia's notebook.

The pen hit the table with an impossibly loud thunk and Sam brought that hand, now a white-knuckled fist, close to his chest; maybe to keep it from taking up its writing again without his permission, or maybe to hide the way it trembled. He stared down at the tabletop with wide eyes—not glancing at his writing, perhaps not daring—as he held very, very still, like if he so much as dared to breathe, his body would move again without his consent.

When he finally looked back up, Henry and Marcia were still staring at him.

But this time, it was right at his face.

Just not his eyes.

The air deathly still, he slowly reached up with the hand that didn't make its own decisions, and gently brushed his fingers across his upper lip.

They came back red.

"Uh-oh."

And Sam's eyes rolled into the back of his head.

-.

Will knew where he was before he opened his eyes.

He could smell it, taste it, and even after two years he remembered it clearer than anything he'd ever experienced in his life.

Except, maybe one thing.

But he felt that chill in the back of his neck too.

Will finally opened his eyes. He wasn't in the Russian base anymore, he'd known he wasn't, but he also wasn't in the other version of it, where he'd expected to be. He was laying in the middle of a road, one he recognized as being on the outskirts of Hawkins, surrounded by trees and that abandoned warehouse teenagers had parties at sometimes. But, even if he didn't know this area specifically, he'd know where he was.

He'd never forget this place. No matter how long he lived. The memory wouldn't even dim.

Dark, rotting, dying.

The Upside Down.

He'd always known he'd end up here again. That he'd die here, just like he was supposed to when he was twelve years old.

"Hello, Will."

Will jerked up. In all the time he'd spent here, he'd always been alone. The voices had been distant, shadows of the other world, until the day they were coming from inside his own head. That was close, but not that close.

And there, a few feet away, standing in the road—

The chill on his neck turned to frost, and Will knew with certainty who he was looking at.

And it wasn't Billy.

Will pushed up to his feet, his eyes never leaving the not-man across from him, and he'd say he stared back unabashedly, but he knew shame wasn't even a concept for this thing. Not the way it was for him.

"Welcome home."

Will's breaths started coming in faster, his eyes lurching around the dark road and the white particles suspended in the air, before they landed back on the monster that stood across from him. The thing he feared the most in life.

The one he was more familiar with than anyone.

"H-How am I here?" He finally said, fighting to keep his voice strong and failing entirely, "I was in the base and then…"

Will racked his brain, trying to remember when he'd fallen through. How did he end up on the other side of the glass? And wouldn't have Steve stopped him? Pulled him back before he reached that awful split between worlds? He might not like the guy, but he wouldn't let him just walk—

"You're not," it interrupted his thoughts, and Will looked up to see not-Billy tilting his head at him thoughtfully, "Your mind is just visiting."

Will felt himself sway again, lightheaded beyond belief, and his stomach turned over on itself. If he was at home, he'd be laying on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, waiting for his insides to finally come spewing out, and his mom or brother would be rubbing his back and maybe giving him ginger ale.

The rotten air flooded his senses—somehow staler than anything he'd breathed in the underground base—and he was forced back into reality.

He was very far from home.

"I thought—I thought this was done," Will said, swallowing down the bile in his throat, "I thought when you left, I—"

"We invited you," not-Billy said, almost casually, if it could be casual.

"Why…?" Will's voice gave out, he didn't even know what he was saying.

"Don't you miss us, Will?"

For a moment, there were no words. There were none to be had. Only the sound of the distant but ever-present thunder.

"Miss you?" Will finally sputtered out, and there was nearly laughter in his voice; he was bordering on the edge of hysteria now, "You possessed me, you used me to get people killed, you—"

"We love you."

The air disappeared from Will's lungs.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, horror consumed him as he looked at the monster across from him.

The monster that hated everything, that wanted humanity annihilated.

That was claiming it loved him.

It still watched him with glassy eyes, its empty stare piercing his skin. There was a smile on its face, but it wasn't right. Wasn't warm, wasn't natural, wasn't human. It was something much, much worse.

Genuine.

"We know everything about you, Will," it murmured, sweet, sickly, "We were you. And we love you. More than anyone else."

"T-That—That's not true—" Will stuttered, inevitable tears starting to well up.

"They don't know you," it cut him off, its smooth voice easily overcoming Will's shaky attempt, "But they know you don't fit. They reject you. We never would. You belong with us."

"No."

"You're all alone." A ghoulish imitation of sympathy overtook the face it wore, "But, you never would be with us."

"I'm not alone," Will spat, finding his voice, finding all that anger he'd held inside for the last two days and trying desperately to let it out again, "I have—"

"And the only person who really knows you is…"

The man in front of him shuddered like an image on the TV when the signal got dicey, and for just a moment Will couldn't see anything but indescribable static. Then, just as quickly, it cleared and again the monster in the shape of a man stood across from him. The difference now was that—

A scream caught in Will's throat.

"Gone."

Will stumbled backwards, his feet tripping over each other until he was back down on the road he'd woken up on, his eyes never leaving—not a man, not his friend.

Not Henry.

"No," he whispered, the tears finally spilling over, "No, no, no—"

Not-Henry didn't seem to hear him. Just crept closer and closer. Still smiling.

It wasn't his smile, though. It wasn't the sunny expression that warmed anyone who saw it. It wasn't the one that made every girl come rushing back to Sam Goody for more. It wasn't the look that made Will think for once in his life that maybe everything would be alright.

That smile was a nightmare.

"Don't you want to be with us? Me?" it asked, using Henry's voice but not sounding even a little bit like the man Will cared so much about.

"No," Will said, his voice ragged.

"Be loved?"

"Stop."

"Forever?"

"Go Away!"

Will's eyes snapped open.

He gasped like he'd just come up from a deep pool and his hands desperately gripped at the floor beneath him, trying to ground himself to some semblance of reality. The metal pressing against his palms was the first clue to what his mind hadn't yet processed, but the fact that the air didn't hurt to breathe, wasn't toxic on his tongue, was a dead giveaway.

Dustin, Steve, Erica, and Robin stared down at him.

Will blinked a few times, half expecting for them to disappear just like the other world had, but no, they were still there, kneeling in a circle over him. The lights above them flickered, strobing across their expressions—all concerned, all upset, all scared.

Will knew that they should be terrified.

"The Mind Flayer."

-.

Henry caught Sam before he hit the ground.

He was entirely dead weight, and by the time Henry got his arms fully underneath him, Marcia had grabbed his boneless legs so they could lay him on the picnic table; the pair of them hovering over him as more and more blood gushed from his nose.

"Is this it, that vision you were talking about?" Marcia asked, sideways glancing at Henry before she looked back down at the kid with a ghastly fascination.

"Yeah, I think so," Henry murmured back, brushing the curls out of Sam's cloudy eyes. He knew that he was right, and he knew that meant that Sam was okay, but he couldn't help the sick feeling in his stomach as he stared down at him. He looked like a corpse. Like whatever spark it was that made a person was gone and had left the shell behind.

It was quiet. Both watching the kid underneath them for any signs of life beyond his shallow breaths. The only sounds were the waves, the birds, and blood softly plunking against the wood of the picnic table. The world was alive around them, but this moment was frozen in time, stretching on and on for what felt like eternity. Henry's fingers twitched, the heartbeat in his ears pounding faster and faster with each second that passed them by.

"Go Away!"

Sam jerked upright, the sudden scream shattering the thick silence.

Marcia staggered back, yelping a little in shock, but although Henry jumped, he couldn't get away even if he wanted to; somewhere in the scuffle, Sam's hands shot out and now he was gripping his arm tight enough to hurt. But Henry didn't even notice the sting. He just watched as the kid gulped in air, his shoulders heaving as if he'd just ran a marathon. There was a wild look in his eyes, and they danced around without seeming to see anything they landed on. It was like he wasn't fully there. Like the vision had swallowed him whole and refused to spit him back out.

Henry put his hand over the ones digging into his arm and squeezed—Sam's crazed attention finally landing on him, his pupils blown wide, black choking out the multifaceted brown that usually encircled it. Henry didn't say anything, just stared back. Didn't let go. Didn't flinch. Stood strong and certain.

Henry could see when he tuned back into the world around him.

"Are you okay?" Henry asked once his breathing evened out, his voice low but steady, and Sam nodded; loosening his grip on him and letting his hands fall into his lap. Henry wished there was a way to tell him without embarrassing him that he could hold on forever if it would make him feel better.

Sam looked away, calmed enough now to do so, and rubbed his eyes—all of that fevered energy was gone, leaving behind an exhausted child. After a moment, he raised his head again, and Henry felt a pang in his heart at the particularly miserable look on his face, stained with blood all the way down to his chin.

"Little one."

Marcia's voice was uncharacteristically gentle, but genuine, probably as genuine as she could be, and Henry looked over to find that she was holding out the piece of fabric she'd been using to hold up her hair. Sam took it without a comment on her words, maybe even a slight lilt of appreciation in his expression, and used it to wipe up as much as he could; red seeping into the purple cloth and turning it dark.

"I believe you."

Sam's voice was ragged, like he'd been screaming.

"About what?" Henry asked, his brow furrowing but his voice soft.

"The monsters, in Hawkins," Sam said, looking at Henry for the first time since he'd calmed, "I believe you."

Henry's breath caught. He didn't know where Sam was right now, mentally or emotionally, and he didn't want to push him. He wouldn't have ever even asked. But now…

"What did you see?" He murmured, and Sam sighed; his eyes shutting and head hanging.

"A man," he whispered back, "But he wasn't one. Not on the inside."

Henry swallowed hard and he turned his eyes up towards the blue sky. This time, he didn't need to ask. He knew exactly what Sam meant.

It was even worse than he'd imagined.

"He was talking to the boy."

Henry looked back down and found Sam in the same position as he'd left him. He frowned, running through their conversation to make sure he wasn't missing anything (he'd do anything he could to spare Sam even a little bit of pain) and realized he truly didn't know who he was talking about. But, before he could ask, Sam spoke—like he knew exactly what he was thinking. He probably did.

"From your picture."

Henry's eyes widened and fumbled for his wallet; shaking hands pulling out the photo. Sam leaned forward slightly, his eyes dancing over the image for just a moment before he reached out and tapped the boy in question.

"Will?"

They both jerked towards the voice and found that in the time that had passed since she'd volunteered her scarf, Marcia had moved to the other side of the picnic table.

"How do you know that?" Henry said, his voice low—maybe a threat, maybe not.

Marcia's grim expression wasn't about his tone, though.

She glanced between the two boys, a worrying crease between her brow, before her eyes dropped back down to the notebook in her hands. After a moment more, she flipped it around to face them, and the words carved into the page stared back at them. Dark, jagged, not the handwriting that had been scribbled in Henry's letters.

Something else entirely had led Sam's hand.

GET WILL GET WILL GET WILL GET WILL

-.

Will was covered in blood.

He'd tried to wipe it off, but all that had done was smear it around even more. The lower half of his face was red and crusty now that it had started to dry, and there was an ever-present film that he couldn't ignore. At least his nose had stopped pouring—for a moment, he'd been convinced it never would, and things would slowly go dark. That it would all be gone forever.

He'd sort of hoped that would happen.

It would be preferable to this.

It was just the three of them now: him, Dustin, and Erica. Steve and Robin had given them a chance to get away from the Russians—sacrificed themselves—and in the midst of his suffering was guilt that he'd treated them so terribly. They might be getting themselves killed, just so they could escape through the vents. God, what if something happened to them, Henry would—

It took all of Will's self-control to not throw up right then and there.

Henry wouldn't anything.

Not if he was gone already.

Erica and Dustin were arguing about how to get them out of here, how to help Steve and Robin, but Will barely even heard them. All he could think about was Henry, his best friend, who might be lost forever. He couldn't bring himself to mention it, he couldn't utter it out loud. He couldn't see the look on their faces when they realized what had happened to the man they all loved so much.

Will curled up, his knees to his chest and his head tucked into the darkness: he needed the world to go away, he needed to pretend like he didn't know this terrible truth, he needed—

He needed Henry.

He Needed Henry.

HE NEEDED HENRY

-.

Marcia peeled off into the road in front of them, a little too fast in her '83 Ford Escort, although Henry suspected if she had her way, she'd never slow down. They should've followed right after her, their own little caravan barreling towards the end of the world, but the Cutlass stayed where it was; poised to leave the parking lot, but not actually going.

Henry looked over at the kid sitting in the passenger seat. He looked small, much smaller than he had before, and there was some blood he'd missed, dried on his jawline. Henry considered brushing it off, but quickly thought better of it.

"Sam?"

He looked up, and Henry could tell he hadn't even noticed that they weren't driving. In his own world, and he dreaded to think what that entailed. There was a hint of confusion in his eyes now, like he finally realized they weren't keeping to the plan. That things were different than he'd assumed they'd be.

"I'm not going to make you do this."

Henry's voice was quiet but sure. He'd known this for a fact, ever since he and Marcia had agreed on their next steps.

Sam's brow furrowed, like he didn't understand what he was talking about, and Henry was blasted back two years ago. To a little girl with a shaved head and a dirty pink dress, who couldn't comprehend the idea of having a choice in whether or not she'd face the thing that scared her most.

"I can't ask you to do this," Henry continued, his voice a little less steady, but no less certain in what he was saying, "I'll take you back to Detroit, if that's what you want."

Henry neglected to mention that when things were said and done, when the gate was closed and the Mind Flayer was gone, he'd be coming back for him. He wasn't quite sure how Sam would take that. But that was one thing that Henry wasn't concerned about going behind his back about.

Sam seemed to get what he was saying now, but he still didn't reply, just looked down at his hands. Henry knew better than to interrupt, to insist on an answer. He was thinking, really thinking, and even though he had a sense of what he wanted, he'd never take away voicing it from him.

Sam looked up, eyes a little bigger than before, and Henry felt resignation curl in his chest.

"I—"

Oh! Hola!

Henry jumped halfway out his seat and before he even had a chance to process what the hell just happened, he was looking over to check on Sam; his eyes were wide and his backpack was held tightly to his chest, but he was fine, and Henry realized that he'd unconsciously flung his arm in front of him like they were getting into a crash. He quickly returned both hands to the wheel, and his eyes moved from the teen in the seat next to him to what had actually caused that scare.

"Did you do that?" Henry muttered under the familiar guitar riffs.

"No," Sam replied, also staring at the offending piece of technology like he thought it would do something else if he so much as glanced away, "Did you?"

"Nope."

Darling, you got to let me know
Should I stay or should I go?

Henry finally reached forward to turn down the dial to something a little less than blasting and was surprised by how relieved he was that it actually lowered the volume. It was definitely far from the weirdest part of all of this, but Henry knew for a fact that the last time he'd had the radio playing, it hadn't been that loud.

Whatever that was had wanted to be heard.

"I want to go with you."

Henry's head snapped over, and he found that Sam was already looking at him.

"Y—" Henry's mind stumbled over itself, "You do?"

"Yeah," Sam muttered before nodding a little, confidence building, "Yeah."

Henry stared for a second, feeling lost, like he wasn't in on something that was happening right in front of him.

But he started to smile just the same.

"Okay."

"Okay," Sam replied, and more important than any words, any reassurance he might offer—

Sam smiled back.

Henry turned back to the open road, the one that looked so foreboding just a moment ago, and he didn't hesitate to hit the gas.

If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay it will be double
So ya gotta let me know
Should I stay or should I go?