Somewhere near the Ohio border, the Cutlass started sputtering.

About an hour back, Henry had felt something change in the way the car handled, but beyond his fingers tightening around the wheel, he hadn't acknowledged it. He knew the moment he did, it would become real, and so he'd just silently willed his car to keep it together long enough to make it to Hawkins.

No way he'd get that lucky.

"Shit,"

The wheel shuddered under his hands as he led the Cutlass off to the side, ever so careful even though the only other sign of life was the distant bumper of a Ford Escort. Only once they were safe on the shoulder did he take his eyes off the road, just to find that his passenger had lifted his head for the first time in the past couple of hours.

"What's going on?" Sam asked: his words slurring together, hair slightly flattened on the right from being pressed against the door, and expression groggy—half-closed eyes and a small pout. It was pretty cute, Henry could recognize that, even in the current situation.

"Something's wrong with the engine," He answered, throwing the car in park with a little too much force, although it didn't reflect in the way he spoke, "I'm gonna take a look."

"What about Marcia?" Sam asked once Henry was halfway out of the car—probably the quickest his brain could comprehend what was happening—and he ducked back in as he replied.

"She'll notice we're not behind her." Henry went to straighten up before he paused and then leaned down for a single second more, "Hopefully."

Sam snorted, the last thing Henry heard before he shut the door, and he knew that whatever softness that had crept out during his sleep was quickly retreating.

He wasn't lying, Marcia would probably notice she'd lost them. That was her job after all, being observant, and she'd been leading Henry down back roads and roundabout paths that she'd said were their best bet to not be followed (by who? Henry had chosen not to ask), so there weren't that many people around. Most were on the highway, hurrying to their next backyard cookout.

They should be hurrying too, but the Cutlass had other ideas.

Henry's head was buried under the hood when he heard the passenger door open and shut and the stomp of shoes against gravel get closer.

"Damn," Sam said, and Henry glanced up from the engine to see that his gaze was out on the road, "That was fast."

Henry turned around and his eyes landed on the lone vehicle getting closer and closer. Sam was right, although he wasn't sure if he was referring to the amount of time it took for Marcia to realize they weren't trailing her anymore, or to the speed she was barreling towards them at.

When the Ford Escort pulled up, uncomfortably soon for the distance it'd crossed, the window rolled down and a familiar face obscured by a big pair of sunglasses poked out.

"Car problems, fellas?" Marcia asked, unsettlingly American.

"I can fix it," Henry said instead of playing along with her game—she probably wasn't expecting him to anyway, "An hour, tops."

"You want me to stick around?" Marcia asked, her voice slipping back into her natural accent, "Or you two can hop in and we leave this piece of junk behind."

Henry sent her a dirty look, his hand curling possessively around the Cutlass's hood, and she laughed, all too pleased with herself.

"You can go ahead," Henry said, sighing a little even as he made the call—he knew he could have this fixed and that he wouldn't need help, but any delay was bad, "Find Hopper, tell him what's going on."

"Ah yes, your red-blooded American Chief of Police will definitely believe a Russian operative about monsters flooding into his town," Marcia replied, rolling her eyes at him, and Henry shrugged a little.

"You'd be surprised," he muttered, taking a few steps closer to her car and digging in his pocket, "Tell him you're with me. And give him this."

Marcia took the braided tassel he'd unfastened from his keyring and raised an eyebrow.

"You do realize he's going to think I picked this off your dead body, right?" She said, glancing over at him with an unimpressed look before she leveled it back on the handmade keychain.

Henry sighed again, his eyes turning up to the clear blue sky. She wasn't wrong, Hopper probably would assume the worst, especially once he heard that accent. He needed a way to communicate with him from miles and miles away, through a woman he'd never in a lifetime trust. Something that no Russian could come up with on the fly, something only the pair of them knew about.

Henry glanced away for a moment, and he naturally found his way to Sam. He was standing next to the Cutlass, mindlessly kicking at the stones underneath his shoes, but Henry didn't really notice. Because the sight of this kid had sent his mind to a handful of other kids, and how he'd do everything he could to keep them safe.

Even on the night he'd helped them set shit on fire.

And although the past had sunk its teeth into him for a moment, when he turned back to Marcia—his mouth set into a determined line—he was firmly in the present.

Marcia raised a brow when Henry murmured to her, but she waved off the offer to write his words down. Someone like her was more than capable of remembering a phrase for a few hours.

Her car was still audible when Henry turned back to his own, leaning in and letting his eyes dance over the familiar inner workings. If he ignored the sun on his back and the dirt under his shoes, he could almost pretend he was in his garage, tuning up a minor problem before his shift at Starcourt.

Christ. Starcourt.

Were all of his fond memories going to be poisoned by one thing or another?

"You can really fix this?"

Henry looked up, broken out of both his personal reverie and his damage assessment by the voice beside him. Sam was standing a little closer than he expected, and he raised an eyebrow at him like he thought he might've been lying.

"Yeah," Henry said with a shrug, turning back down to the engine.

"In an hour?" Sam prodded, still sounding like he didn't quite believe him.

"I'll probably have it going in like forty minutes," Henry murmured back, not even really paying attention to what he was saying—he might second guess himself when it came to almost everything, but not this, not even in the face of doubt. He knew what he was capable of when it came to the Cutlass, and instead of uncertainty, his mind was full of mechanics and imminent plans for getting his car back up and running.

But his focus was shattered by the sound of shoes shuffling closer.

Henry glanced up, something that Sam didn't notice because he was more interested in peeking in at the engine, and got a good look at his expression: a frown on his face, but a glint in his eyes, one he'd probably try to hide if he even knew it was there. All far too genuine for Sam to be comfortable with someone noticing.

He was just looking.

Really looking.

"It's the spark plugs," Henry heard himself say, and even though he caught himself by surprise, when Sam looked up with a furrow in his brow and offered an open—

"What?"

—the next words came easy

"That's what's wrong, the spark plugs." Henry looked back to the engine, but he knew he had Sam's attention when he gestured to the reason they'd broken down, "I've got new ones in the trunk, I've just been too lazy to replace them. Serves me right, huh?"

Sam huffed a small laugh, and Henry felt his lips twist up a little at the sound. He glanced sideways one more time, confirming that Sam hadn't lost interest once he knew what was going on, and he reached into his pocket.

"You wanna grab them from the back?" Henry asked, holding out the keys to Sam before he could really consider it.

It wasn't a strange thing for him to ask, he'd told Lucas to get something for him while he worked a thousand times before, but as soon as the words were out, it occurred to him that Sam wasn't like any of the kids he knew. He hadn't been taught since birth to help whenever possible, he didn't know the give that came with living relatively easily, only the take. The fact that Henry was asking him to do a menial task might register to him as an insult, instead of casual familiarity. After all, they were practically strangers.

Henry supposed it was just his mind tricking him into thinking that this kid he'd spent all of a day with was far more fundamental to his life than he actually was.

He half expected for Sam to tell him to fuck off and get it himself, maybe send him a withering look, or at the very least grumble and drag his feet until the stuff was dropped on the ground in front of him, like Erica was known to do. But instead, he—

He just took the keys.

He was already halfway down the car when Henry fully registered what had happened, and when Sam turned to unlock the trunk, Henry ducked down under the hood so he wouldn't see the smile forming on his face.

"The fuck is this?"

Henry popped back up, ready to drop everything and run headfirst into danger, before his eyes landed on Sam's bewildered expression and the nail bat in his hands.

-.

Will was starting to suspect he'd be stuck here forever.

His watch might've been keeping track, but the numbers meant nothing; it could've been displaying nonsense symbols and it wouldn't have made a difference. After so long with no natural light or any sign of the outside world, Will felt like he was in purgatory. No time passing, just going and going. Endlessness.

Or maybe that was because of the pit of blackness inside that severed him from the rest of the world.

Either way, it could've been hours, days, since he'd first climbed into the vent. He was less out of it now, he'd gained more sense since he'd jerked awake on the cold floor, although he wouldn't say he felt any better. He knew where he was, who he was with, and he knew it was real. All too real.

The sound of a fan might've been calming in another life, when he'd lay in bed and allow the gentle whirring to carry him off to sleep. The good kind, one that wasn't plagued by even the suggestion of nightmares. The kind he hadn't had in a very long time.

But right now, he didn't let himself drift off behind his tightly shut lids, no matter how tired he felt, and it wasn't because they were trapped in a Russian base. He knew what was waiting for him if he did.

"Will?"

It had been quiet up until then—had to be, after everything—and the sound of his name spoken lowly into the echo of the metal vents was more than enough to get him to open his eyes, just for Will to discover that Dustin was already looking at him.

Sort of.

He was pretending that he was busy with the fan's control panel, glancing at him, sideways and unsure, unwilling to turn to him fully. Will wondered if he was doing it because he didn't want to upset him, or if he was making him uncomfortable. His silence, his expression, the blood—Will was a vision, a terrible one, and it might be impossible for Dustin to look straight at the specter of death sitting beside him.

"Was it…?" Dustin's voice petered out, the fingers turning the small screwdriver fumbling a little, "Was it the Mind Flayer? Why you were… upset?"

Will's head raised off of his legs, skin clinging to skin for just a moment, adhered by the blood that hadn't yet fully dried, but he didn't even notice.

That last word was an understatement, they both knew it. But anything more accurate was too heavy for the already thick air that surrounded them.

Will hadn't expected that. He wasn't sure what he thought Dustin might say. Probably something that might help him decipher what the Mind Flayer had planned from Will's addled brain. That was how he could be useful, wasn't it? Of course, he had nothing other than a chill in his bones and the memory of an awful smile, which meant he was basically deadweight, but Dustin didn't know that yet.

He definitely hadn't expected that question. Maybe because he hadn't even considered it.

Was that it?

It could explain it, couldn't it? Why he'd been so irritable, so unhappy. All because of the creature prowling in the shadows around him. He wasn't himself when the Mind Flayer had lurked in his mind last time, who's to say it wasn't the monster playing its game again? Filling him with despair. With hate.

His mind turned back, before the Mind Flayer, before the Russian base, before even Scoops Ahoy. Back to what had happened with Lucas and Mike. What he'd done to Castle Byers. How he'd snarled at every person since, even the people he considered his best friends.

Why he'd snarled at them.

All of that vitriol that had dripped from him for days, it'd make sense coming from the Mind Flayer. An evil being that despised humanity.

It hadn't though.

Will shook his head, heat building behind his eyes.

"I—" he started, his voice giving out in a warble, "It had nothing to do with the Mind Flayer."

His breath hitched, the only part of the sob building inside his chest that he allowed to escape, but he kept going—forcing out the words that had been inevitable ever since he'd woken up on the floor and realized that all of his pain, all of his anger, was nothing in the face of what was waiting for them on the other side.

"I just felt awful and I thought that being mean would make me feel better, but it didn't, it just made it worse. And I'm sorry, Dustin. I'm really, really sorry."

Will stopped there. Not necessarily because he was done, he knew what he'd said wasn't enough, not for how terrible he'd been, but it was all he could manage; a soft whimper in the back of his throat the last sound he could make before his voice gave out completely. The words were too much, but what he was seeing was even worse.

He'd horrified Dustin.

It was written all over his face, the kind of depth to it that most people would never experience, but had been worn by someone opposite of Will more times than he could count. And maybe if he had any wherewithal, he'd know it was because of the reverse—because of the pain that writhed in front of Dustin. But in the moment, it only felt like a further damnation of who he'd been for the last few days.

"Why did you feel like that?" Dustin asked, barely above a whisper, fully given up on the panel.

"I—I can't, I…"

Will buried his face back in his legs as it all finally spilled over.

He could feel the tears race down his cheeks before they finally succumbed to gravity and landed boiling on his legs. The darkness in this hole he'd dug for himself didn't help, it never did, but Will couldn't bring himself to leave it. The idea of what could be waiting for him in the light scared him worse than anything here ever could.

It was too much. The Mind Flayer hanging like a cloud above him, heaviest it had been since last fall; his friends didn't or couldn't understand why he was suffering, not really; Henry was—

There was a scream in his throat, searing and jagged, but it only made itself known as a small whimper.

But perhaps worst of all, was that the relentless trouble echoed from him. There was nowhere he could go to escape it, and the one person he'd been able to confide in was gone. It was just him.

And he already knew that wasn't enough.

"You're like my brother, aren't you?"

The words spoken into dead air seemed empty at first. As meaningless as anything else.

But that didn't last for long.

Will slowly raised his head.

The blood that clung to his face was even muddier than before, the hot tears having torn through it and smudged across his cheeks. Sticky plasma stained him, and if someone had dared to touch, their hand would've come back just as disgusting as him.

Erica didn't flinch.

Will wouldn't say he'd forgotten she was here, but she hadn't made herself known like she usually did. Not until now.

"W-What?" Will said, his voice barely a whisper, struggling to even get that one word out.

"Henry," she said, and there was no hint of the girl he knew, the one who'd cut you down for daring to be an idiot in her presence–every syllable was sincere, "You're like him."

The only sound was the gentle whir of the fan.

Will stared at Erica, and she stared right back.

He didn't need to ask what she meant by that. He knew.

She knew.

"How do you…?" Will's voice gave out. Henry hadn't told her, not about himself, he would have mentioned it. He'd told him about all the different people that knew—Will suspected it was a way to make him more comfortable with the idea—there was no reason to hide that his sister was aware.

Not unless he himself didn't know.

"I'm not stupid," Erica said, and there was that sass, but just as quickly it was gone, and she was looking down at her shoes with a hint of bashfulness—her voice lowering a little in tandem, "He's my brother."

Again, it was quiet, the words becoming more real as the seconds ticked by.

What Erica was saying, had said, was clear now. This was reality, no matter how unbelievable. Erica knew about him, had seen it in him the way she had Henry.

And still, she was looking at him.

No different from the way she'd looked at him before.

Neither one said a word, but Will knew how he felt was written all over his face. He didn't have it in him to hide anything anymore, not when he'd been seen so easily. Erica watched him for a few seconds more, and then she turned away, but not because she was pulling back. No, it was because she couldn't bring herself to make eye contact during what came next.

She scooted closer, their knees knocking together, and Will let out a shaky breath that he'd been holding in for far longer than this conversation.

"What—"

Will and Erica both looked up quick. Again, Will had made the mistake of forgetting who it was that surrounded him. In the midst of the realization, the flurry of emotions, he'd acted as if it was just him and Erica. Him and the girl who knew him without having to say a word.

But it wasn't.

Dustin looked just as confused as he'd felt just moments ago.

Will couldn't blame him. This conversation, the fact that it had been shared with Erica, he could barely make sense of it himself. But Dustin was searching for an answer silently, it was clear on his face, and Will knew that even though his genius didn't necessarily extend to human nature, he might put it together. His mind might solve the equation that had been placed in front of it. He might see what Will was, with no permission from him.

Will swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He didn't know what to do here, what to say, what he could offer Dustin to clear the deep furrow in his brow, and he was left with a sick feeling in his stomach.

Or maybe, that was because he knew all too well.

The fact that Will didn't jerk away at the first brush against him was a miracle.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him—certainly not since bitterness had devoured him, he would've torn himself away. But he didn't now, not even out of shock. He just looked over to the source of the warmth and met the eyes of the girl next to him.

Erica, with a fierce look on her face, squeezed his hand so tight it hurt.

She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

All those terrible feelings that had been simmering for days, they were calming now, all because of this girl Will had never considered as anything more than two of his best friends' sister.

For a moment, they stayed like that, and when Will finally turned away, he didn't really want to—afraid that if he wasn't looking at Erica, the strength she was giving him would disappear. Or maybe, that she would all together. But when his eyes landed back on Dustin, her hand was still in his, steady and as real as ever, and he took a deep breath.

"I was upset because—" It caught in his throat, but he pushed through, he could now, "I got in a fight with Mike. Lucas too, I guess, but he wasn't… I was upset because I wanted to play D and D but all they wanted to talk about was El and Max and they didn't care about anything else and Mike said that it…"

Will stopped. He had to.

The words were heavy, hot and leaden in his tongue, they had been since he'd heard them that rainy day that felt like a lifetime ago. It had burned him, a sickness searing inside his stomach. And now here he was, repeating them for someone else. Someone who might not understand.

Someone who could say something so much worse.

But the hand in his own was a reminder that wasn't always the case. That people seeing him didn't automatically mean they would turn their back on him. That even if that was his fate here, there would still be someone left who hadn't.

"Mike said that it wasn't his fault I don't like girls."

The words tumbled like a landslide. Forced out, because if they weren't, they never would. But it didn't matter. There they were. In the open.

Will watched as one of his best friends in the whole world screwed up his face and shook his head a little.

"Oh my god, Mike's such a jackass sometimes, I can't believe he would say that, I—"

Dustin's exasperated words died.

Maybe it had been delayed processing—he'd always had a problem with speaking before he really thought it through—or maybe it had been because of the look on Will's face. Either way, the quick spark of anger was gone and left in its place was something else. Something quiet.

"Oh."

One soft syllable.

But it said everything.

Will lowered his head back against his legs, leaning his cheek on his knees and letting out a long, shaky breath.

He'd done it.

Dustin knew.

For the first time, he really got why Henry had told his brother all those years ago, why he'd had to, because this feeling… it was like the pressure inside him, the one that had threatened to burst him open from the inside out, had subsided. He was tense, waiting for the consequences, but he could breathe. Not easily, but enough.

The vents creaked but Will refused to look over at the movement. He didn't want to see what that meant, what was happening now it was out in the air between them.

And then, all at once, there wasn't any air between them left.

Arms squeezed around him, and Will looked over to find Dustin's face next to his; his eyes shut tight but displaying the same intense look that Erica had worn when she'd taken his hand. And it hit Will what it was, what was in Dustin's and Erica's expressions. What had inspired his best friends to brave a dark forest and an army of monsters all for him. What had kept him going those nights spent trapped in that horrible, toxic world. What he'd seen in Henry outside of the Snowball.

What the Mind Flayer could try with all its might to mimic but could never touch.

Love. The fiercest kind there could be.

Will's head lolled over onto Dustin's shoulder, his cheek pressing into his hair the moment he did, and the horrible anxious ball that had existed in his chest for as long as he could remember unraveled. Not entirely, but enough to let him breathe easy. Will glanced over once, to see that Erica was smiling just a little before she too leaned into the embrace, and then he shut his eyes to enjoy the feeling.

Tears welled up for the hundredth time since his mind had been in that terrible place, but now he welcomed it. They were sweet, and as one or two trickled down his cheeks, they cleaned away the blood in their path.

"Wait. That makes you like Henry?"

Will's eyes flew open, and found that Erica was already looking at him; her expression far from fierce or soft. In fact, it only said one thing:

Whoops.

-.

The first time the Cutlass had ever really broken down, Henry had decided that the feeling of it starting again was his favorite in the whole world. The way it would thrum under his fingers as he turned the key, the roar of the engine as it shook off whatever it was that had caused problems in the first place, the knowledge that he'd brought it back from the dead with his bare hands.

And maybe that was still true, maybe the way his heart leapt was because of the life breathed back into the Cutlass.

Or maybe, it had something more to do with the surprised laugh that harmonized with the hum of his beloved car.

"Shit, man!" Sam exclaimed, hopping out of the driver's seat but leaving the keys in the ignition, "I didn't think you could actually do it."

"You changed one of those spark plugs, you know it's not that hard," Henry said with a chuckle, shutting the hood and gathering the tools that had spread out on the ground despite his best efforts.

"Yeah," Sam said as he came around the car to stand by him again, close enough that Henry could see the hint of sheepishness in his expression as he shrugged, "But, just—you knew what was wrong and how to fix it."

"I've been taking care of this car since I was younger than you," Henry said with a small smile, throwing pliers back into the bag, "My dad let me practice on it back when it was his. Probably why it's giving me so much trouble now."

Henry snorted a little, a fond smile on his face as he recalled those times the Cutlass had needed repair long before he had his own license. Charles Sinclair wasn't much of a handyman, but between him and Judith, they could manage quite a bit before having to get a professional involved. And that time spent with him, handing him tools and watching him figure out just what it was that was giving him trouble, had sparked an interest that had followed Henry for the rest of his life.

And sure, part of it was his fascination with cars, his love of being able to fix just by doing, but undeniably some of it could be credited to the rosy feelings of a warm afternoon spent with a Coke in his hand, something catchy on the radio, and his father chatting from under the hood.

Those memories had become dear to him. Henry didn't know when that had happened, but it had, and the love that bloomed in his chest was enough that it was visible on his face.

Noticeably.

"We ready to go?"

Although a part of him would always be in that garage with his dad years ago, Henry didn't resist Sam's voice as it pulled him back into the present. His thoughts still hazy from the nostalgia, he nodded a little.

"Yeah, let me throw this in the trunk and—"

Henry didn't get to finish that thought before Sam disappeared back inside the car, the door slamming the second he was out of view.

For a long moment, it was eerily quiet. Henry supposed it had been since they'd broken down, it wasn't like there was much to disrupt the cornfields that surrounded them, not even a breeze, but he hadn't really noticed until now. Not until Sam had left.

Without him, this sweltering July day was icy cold.

But when Henry finished packing up and got settled back into the driver's seat, he didn't mention it. Even if he had no idea what had caused this sudden shift in mood, he knew better than to press. In the small amount of time he'd spent with the kid, he'd learned that.

"You can go back to sleep if you want," Henry offered instead, peeking at Sam under the guise of buckling up. He shook his head without ever looking away from the window, even though there was nothing out there except the same fields they'd been stuck with for an hour, but Sam kept on staring as if it was worth all of his attention.

Maybe it was. He'd lived in a city for the past six years, and before that…

Even so, Henry doubted he found a bunch of crops all that fascinating.

He held in a sigh and put the car back into drive, feeling a muted sense of accomplishment when the Cutlass moved back out onto the road without any suggestion that it'd ever broken down, and they spent a mile or two like that. Silent, Sam still looking out the window and Henry chewing on his lip, before he tried again.

"I've got tapes," he said, his eyes darting away from the road for just a second, "They're under your seat."

It was quiet again, long enough that Henry wondered if Sam was just going to ignore him. Stay deep in this funk he'd gotten into and refuse any possibility of leaving it. But then he readjusted, and a small but triumphant smile found its way onto Henry's face when he reached for the case.

Henry could hear how he perused through the options, but he didn't look—gotta drive safe after all, and also not freak out the kid by staring at him as he picked something to listen to. But, in his peripheral, he watched as Sam leaned forward and fiddled with the stereo, and the few seconds it took for the music to kick in were particularly still.

One, two
One, two, three, uh!

If Henry hadn't seen Sam mess with the deck, he might've thought this was what was already in there.

Although hearing a song he loved so much was sort of comforting, it occurred to Henry that Sam could've had some innate feeling whisper to him what had been on repeat in this car for the last two months, but when he turned to tell him they didn't have to listen to this, he stopped short. There was no longer a stony boy refusing to acknowledge the person sitting a foot to his left. Instead, Sam's head was bobbing along, curls just barely bouncing, and his lips were moving ever so slightly to silently form the words Raspberry Beret.

Henry looked away quickly, scared that if he got caught, Sam would stop. He knew how kids worked, he'd seen it enough times with Erica, and he couldn't risk his own amazement being the reason Sam withdrew again. So instead, he kept his eyes on the road, enjoyed the feeling of the hot summer air whipping across his face from the open window, let Prince's sweet voice wash over him, and felt the warmth reform in his chest as the kid sitting next to him relaxed more and more.

"Who made this for you?"

The song was winding down when Sam spoke for the first time since they'd started driving again, and Henry looked over to find that what had coaxed him out of his silence was a tape. The one he must've ejected when he'd put in Around the World in a Day. One marked with sharpie. One that put a lump in Henry's throat.

"Will."

The casual curiosity on Sam's face dropped.

"Oh," he said, looking back down at the mixtape in his hand and frowning, "Thought it might be your boyfriend. Was going to make fun of you."

Even though it was just an awkward attempt to save them from the dangerous territory they'd drifted into, Henry still felt his cheeks heat up at the use of the word boyfriend. But he pushed that aside quickly (maybe a little bit because he just couldn't handle that concept right now), and his mind turned back to Hawkins and the dear friend that had accidentally been brought right to the forefront of his mind.

"In your vision," Henry started, throwing a look towards Sam to make sure he didn't shut down completely at the mention, "Was Will okay?"

"I mean, I guess," Sam said, shrugging a little, "He wasn't hurt, but… he was pretty scared."

Henry felt his stomach turn over on itself, but he wasn't sure if it was because of those words or the way Sam glanced sideways at him as he said them. It was only a moment, but it was enough; the restrained concern on his face was nothing compared to the darkness that flashed in his eyes at the memory. The kind that only came from seeing something truly awful.

"Shit," Henry breathed to himself, and now he was the one throwing glances sideways—trying to get a read without ever truly looking. Maybe because he was a little bit scared of what he might see, "Were-Was he in the Upside Down?"

He probably should've expanded more on that. He'd given Marcia and Sam a cursory explanation of everything that had happened in Hawkins, which included the Upside Down, but beyond a quick mention of the world that was like theirs, but wasn't, he'd stayed away. He'd never liked to talk about that place. The one that's memory struck terror in his heart despite him only spending a few minutes in it, where Will had first started this torment, where Barb had drawn her final breath.

Thankfully, he didn't need to explain.

"No. Yes. It—" Sam frowned, an annoyed tick to his face when Henry glanced over in confusion, "I—We saw it, but we weren't in that other place, not really. We were in Will's head."

Henry was driving, and definitely should've kept his eyes on the road, but he couldn't help how he snapped over.

"You—You can—?" His words stumbled over each other, fighting to get out, but he didn't even know what he was trying to ask, what this even meant.

"Guess so," Sam said, a bite to his simple answer.

Henry looked back to the road and let go of the breath he'd sucked in shock. His mind raced, but with what, he wasn't sure. Sam being able to see what was coming was one thing, being dropped into someone else's vision…

Henry's thoughts turned to El, and the place that she could visit when her mind was clear and her eyes were covered, and he wondered if maybe she wasn't the only one who could find people.

"Did Will see you?" Henry asked, thinking of how the closest El had ever gotten was being sensed by Mike when she'd desperately wanted his attention, and neglected to ask the other question on his mind. The one he probably should be focusing on, because of just how dire things could be if the answer was yes.

If something else had noticed.

"No," Sam said with a shake of the head and a frown, "Wasn't like I was trying to get caught."

Henry couldn't blame him. Dropped into a strange, dark world against your will with a creature you know isn't a man, he was surprised Sam hadn't come back to him with a scream. But, as he thought about the new unknown limit of Sam's abilities, his mind turned back to his friend, who had to face that thing all alone.

"What if you did?" Henry asked, looking over in time to find Sam's brow scrunch in confusion, "Try?"

Sam looked at him a moment longer, the uncertainty that was once on his face dropping into displeasure, and then he looked back out the window without answering.

Once again, the air turned icy. And once again, Henry didn't mention it.

He didn't need to.

He knew what had caused it.

-.

Steve was vaguely aware that his face hurt.

Actually, all over hurt, because those Russian guards had gotten a few good hits in on the stomach during that whole interrogation thing. But the face was the worst, he was lucky he hadn't gotten a tooth knocked out. And wouldn't that suck? The hair was his best feature but an empty spot in his smile would probably put the final nail in the coffin of him ever getting another date.

But a swollen shut eye, the familiar feeling of blood turning sticky against his skin, and the taste of iron in his mouth, they all were distant now. There, but not enough to actually matter. His body didn't weigh him down with its exhaustion and pain anymore, hell, he felt better than he did before the Russians got their hands on them. In fact, he almost felt like he was floating.

Pretty funny since he was tied down to a chair.

He was also vaguely aware that there was something wrong with him.

Robin snickered a little behind him, and even though it was at nothing at all, he couldn't help but join in—his head leaning back against hers and laughter slipping past his lips easier than it had in days.

Yeah, there was definitely something wrong. But god, he didn't even care.

He should be worried about being held captive by the Russian military, about the kids they'd sent ahead in the vents, about the portal being torn into another world just a few rooms over, but all he could really focus on was the unmatched sensation of laughing with someone.

He hadn't done that since Henry left.

Steve's giggling stopped suddenly, like a record scratch, but Robin didn't notice. She continued to fill up their cell with peals and peals, but it couldn't coax Steve back to the lightheartedness of moments ago. He hadn't sobered up, not even close, because when the door reopened and their captors stalked back in, his frown had nothing to do with the cruel looking men glaring down at him. His mind was entirely somewhere else now.

He couldn't remember the last time he got high without Henry. Whenever he got his hands on anything, he'd rush over to the Sinclairs and ask him if he wanted to go for a drive. It was way more fun that way, not just to be high, but to watch Henry get loose. Watch him laugh easily. Watch him spread out on his bedroom carpet and smile up at him.

The frown turned into a pout.

He wished Henry was here. Or he was with Henry. Yeah, yeah, that would be better. They could be spending time together in whatever dumbass part of Michigan he was in right now. Sitting in a motel or a dorm or maybe their very own apartment just like Steve always imagined. Henry would get all relaxed and smiley, lying back next to him, on the hood of his car or a couch or a bed, and everything would be just perfect. Even if he'd have to force himself to not move in closer. To not touch beyond the brush of fingers passing the joint. To not—

It was a pain, but that was just what happened when you got a little too high with your guy friends, everybody knew that.

"Who knows that we are here, suka?"

The swirling image of Henry's eyes glittering under the stars popped like bubblegum, leaving Steve back in the shitty Russian basement with a man shouting at his new friend.

"Uh, well, Dustin," Steve piped up, answering the question and not really noticing how Robin protested "Yeah, Dustin Henderson."

"Is this your small, curly haired friend?" The big mean man asked, striding over to where Steve was sitting and reminding him how utterly unappealing their captor actually was.

"Oh, curly hair, great hair, small, kinda like a fro, yeah," Steve smiled, his mind wandering to his best child friend and his impressive curls—especially nice when he took Steve's advice on styling.

"Where is he?" The Russian General demanded, maybe a tad bit nicer since it seemed that this victim had a looser tongue than his friend, but the way Steve laughed the tiniest bit before he answered was a pretty big clue to just how little he was actually going to get out of him.

"Oh, he's long gone, you big asshole. And he's probably calling Hopper, and Hopper's calling the US calvary, and then—"

Steve's eyes lit up as the thought occurred to him, the obvious next step that anyone would take when faced with a possible Russian invasion; the one he would choose every single time he thought what he was facing was insurmountable:

"He'll go get my best friend and he'll kick your ass."

Steve grinned, too excited to pay any mind to the way it pulled the cuts on his lips. He didn't know why this hadn't occurred to him before, all he'd thought about when he was getting his ass beat was that he wanted Henry more than anything, and not the obvious fact of the matter: he would come get him. Of course he would. Even if he was in another state at some stupid college he was going to leave him behind for, if Hopper told him they were in trouble, he'd come. For the kids. For him.

"Your—" The military man blinked hard, and for a moment, all the authority hard won through years of brutal service to his country disappeared, "What?"

"Steve, seriously—"

"My best friend, Henry," Steve repeated, a dopey grin on his face, vaguely hearing Robin but deciding that it didn't seem like anything all that important. Not when Henry was on his mind, "He's cool and smart and funny and handsome and he's gonna kick your ass."

The man looked at him a moment longer before turning over his shoulder, and the horrifying doctor (Bond villain, Steve's mind suggested, and then ugly) just shrugged a little. Clearly, what he was saying wasn't ringing any bells, or even particularly coherent, but Steve didn't notice or care. He was far away again, with the guy he was now certain would burst through those doors at any moment and save him just like he always did when things went sideways. Or any other time.

Their main interrogator turned back to him—after a few sentences were shared in Russian with the doctor—and moved in a bit closer: Steve looking up at him with the same open expression he'd been wearing since the beginning.

"He's got a gun," he hissed conspiratorially, a warm feeling blooming in his chest at the memory of the first time he'd seen Henry handling one—that awful night at the Byers couldn't dampen what a picture he made with it, "I don't even know where he got it. But he does, I've seen it."

A vaguely amused smile was starting to spread across the face of the general, and even though he could see the malicious edge to it, Steve returned it; even drugged out of his mind, he was still adhering to Scoops Ahoy's customer policy.

"He won't let me hold it," Steve added as the man leaned in, nodding in a mockery of sympathy.

"Gun or not, I'm fairly certain your little friend won't pose much of a problem for us."

He was being condescending, Steve vaguely knew that. The way the man spoke, the way he smiled, he didn't believe him one bit. But it didn't shake him, not even a little. He just kept smiling. Nothing was going to psyche him out. He didn't need to convince anyone else, not the Russian military, not even Robin or Dustin. He knew the truth. He knew his best friend. He knew Henry.

Just like how, when an alarm blared, Steve knew it was him.

And if it wasn't? Well, he'd just go find Henry himself.