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[Will has been turning this over and over in his head, as Deerington crumbles around them, and he's finally decided: he has to do it now. He doesn't want the town (and possibly them) to die without telling his mom the truth.

So:] are you home?

[It takes Joyce a few minutes to respond, busy as she is with cleaning out the garage and determinedly not looking at Marshmallow the demon horse for too long. But when she does:]

Hey! Yeah, I'm cleaning up the garage. Why, is there something wrong?

[Marshmallow is patient and he will wait, staring unblinkingly at Joyce and smelling faintly of pond water. What a great helper.]

no no nothing's wrong
i just wanted to talk to you
it's nothing big, it can wait if you're busy.

[Lies.]

I’m actually just about done here, I can come in. [And not a moment too soon. Marshmallow is creeping her out so hard, with his unblinking eyes and faint stench of pond water. Seriously, where did Will even get him? What is he.]

Are you upstairs? I can come up.

[Marshmallow will watch her go, woeful and staring. Why won't you love him, Joyce?]

yeah. el's room. [He still calls it that. Just like Dustin's room is still Dustin's and Brianna's is still hers.]

[It's still El's room, because Joyce hasn't quite been able to bring herself to try cleaning it out just yet. She climbs upstairs, knocks on the door, then lets herself in.]

Hey, sweetie. What did you want to talk about?

[It's still nice and soft in here, fairy lights and pillows and all the little origami animals El had made. Will's sitting on the ground, back against the side of the bed, playing with a little paper star to give his hands something to do.

He manages a weak, almost queasy smile at the sight of her.] Hi. Um, you should...sit down. [He says it seriously, gesturing towards one of the chairs.]

[She raises an eyebrow, clearly questioning, but takes a seat, leaning forward a little once she settles in.]

Are you okay? [Her voice is soft, worried. She saw that queasy smile, and now she is definitely really worried for Will.] Did something happen?

Noooot really? [That's mostly true. It hasn't been one definite thing, just a series of little things over the past, y'know...fourteen years. It's been a whole lifetime of things. Will twists his fingers together, looking down at them, rather than at his mom.]

I just. Uh. You remember -- what people at home used to call me? [A beat, then he clarifies, the bitterness audible in his voice:] What Dad used to call me?

[Ah.]

I remember, yeah. They used to call you a lot of things. [She shakes her head, a little, frowning now. Has Will been suffering more bullying in silence?] Is someone picking on you again? I'll talk to them. [There's enough steel in her voice that says she is absolutely going to rip this hypothetical bully a new asshole.]

[Will blinks a couple times in surprise, then actually laughs -- it's sort of weak, but he's surprised out of his serious, fretful thoughts by the reminder that his mom is definitely more than willing to throw down at any moment. Plus it's sort of funny, thinking about the bullying he was used to in Hawkins as compared to the literal death he's faced in Deerington.] No, no, nobody's -- nobody's been doing that. I promise.

[Sobering again, Will looks down at the little bit of origami he still holds in his hands as he tries to find the words.] What if...what would you do if. If they were right? If what they say was true?

About...oh.

[Because they used to call Will a queer and a sissy, didn't they? And worse things than that. But Joyce drums her fingers on her kneecaps, thinking this over, because—truthfully, she doesn't mind, she's suspected for a while on some level. There are worse things to be than a queer, and she loves her son deeply, proudly. Nothing is going to change that.]

I'd ask how long you knew, and if I ever—if I ever did anything to make you think you had to hide it from me. [She'll go along with this hypothetical scenario for now, but she leans forward to take Will's hand, try and catch his attention.] I'd say you're very, very, brave, and that I love you no matter what, and that isn't going to change a bit. You're my son, Will. I'll never think any less of you.

Edited 2021-06-11 08:10 (UTC)

[When she reaches out, curls her hand around his scarred one (their hands are almost the same size now, Will realizes, realizes how much he's grown) it's almost enough for Will to crumble into pieces. He's played out this conversation so many times in his head, ended it half a dozen ways. Anger and confusion and denial and exasperation. And acceptance. He'd ended it that way, and pushed the thrill of hope away, because what if, what if.

He looks down at her hand over his, breath tight in his chest.] Since forever. ["Forever" being probably kindergarten, when he was old enough to a) realize the existence of other boys and b) realize that him realizing this was bad.] I didn't want -- to make things worse. [Make them harder. Will knew what people said, what they called him and Jonathan and Joyce in too-loud whispers. Any bit of ammunition would've been hurtled against them nonstop.]

[Oh, Will. Tears spring to Joyce's eyes, she shakes her head in response, and she tugs on his hand, to pull him into a hug.]

Oh, Will. Sweetie. [She hugs him tight for a moment, then lets go, leaning down to look him in the eyes.] Listen to me. What everyone else says about you, what everyone else says about the people you love—it doesn't matter, okay? Not to me. Things might get harder, but we've gone through harder, we've dealt with worse, together. And if, if anyone tries to bother you about loving a boy, you tell me, you tell Lucille, you tell Mike, you tell the people who love you, and we will rain so much hell on them.

[And she hugs him again, presses a gentle kiss to the very top of his head.]

You, on your own, you never made things worse. You always made things so much better, so much brighter. You are one of the best people I have ever known, you and Jonathan are going to grow into one of the best men I will ever know, and I love you so, so much. Nothing is going to change that. Ever.

[Will lets out a quiet, swallowed-back sound that might be the beginnings of a sob, then presses his face into Joyce's shoulder. There's a knot of tension that's lived in the middle of his chest for years, and it's finally, finally starting to loosen. He's carried this secret for...a very long time.

And, almost without his consent, he blurts out the other things, the other terrible guilts he's kept hidden --] B-But it was my fault dad left and my fault Bob died a-and I killed you and I -- I-I -- [He breaks off in a hitching sound, pulling back and giving her a confused, helpless look, tears in his eyes.] I-I messed up so many things, Mom.

What?

[Okay. Unpack Bob dying later, because that—that is not something Joyce wants to deal with, right now. If it's true, it's in the future, and she can change the future. Right now, though, her son is crying, and Joyce just squeezes his hand and shakes her head.]

Will, it wasn't your fault your father left, and Bob isn't dead yet, and I'm right here, okay? [She pulls his hand up so he can press it against her wrist.] See? Feel that. I'm right here, sweetie, I'm alive. That thing that possessed you couldn't keep me down.

None of that is on you, okay? None of it.

[Will's breath is coming in quick, hitching gulps, and it takes him a moment to even recognize what she's doing. But then he feels the even, rhythmic beat of her pulse under his fingers, and he curls his hand around it, like it's going to fly away from him.

Then he looks up at her, eyes wide and damp.] It -- wasn't? [It sounds like the first time he's ever heard it, ever let himself think it. Maybe it is. Who knows how long he's carried those deep dark hateful thoughts.]

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text; sometime in mid-may

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tw homophobic slur in narration

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