𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝; byler

- ¢нαρтєя fσυятєєи -

THIS TIME, IT WAS different.

And that difference almost gave him the illusion that he hadn't really relapsed. 

At the beginning , he didn't drink every morning. He went to school sober, came back sober. Half of the afternoon, he spent sober.

It was only at night that he sneaked from home to go to the bar. He didn't even to make excuses most days- because the hours Mike spent at home were getting shorter and shorter. Arriving not with Will at the end of the school day, but sometimes in the small hours of the night.

Will wasn't afraid Mike was cheating on him- because the hours he did spend with Will he was as loving and amazing as ever- and because he trusted him with all his heart. But at the same time, Will kind of wished Mike would stay a little more. He wished Mike would see how much he needed him- but that wasn't a fair expectation and he knew it. Mike couldn't just guess Will's torment, and he was definitely not going to tell him.

But he couldn't deny that he was lonely. 

And so he drank.

But the fact that he was drinking once day gave him fake confidence. Because if he wasn't constantly drinking, that must mean he wasn't an alcoholic anymore. Maybe he had powered through, and what he was doing now was just casual drinking. Casual drinking is okay, isn't it?

But he was only kidding himself. 

How could it be causal drinking, where each night he'd get so hammered he could barley make it home? He could never remember going to sleep, or even getting back home. Sometimes Mike would talk to him about a movie they had watched, a movie Will had no recollection watching whatsoever. 

How was it causal drinking, when each second of his day was spent looking forward to that time when he could finally leave and find his comfort with the drinks?

But he didn't care. Because as long as he drank, he didn't have nightmares. When he drank, everything was good again. And as long as Mike didn't know, everything seemed fine.

The problem was, that every second spent sober was getting harder to endure. When he wasn't drunk, the thoughts he was so desperate to avoid were stronger than ever.  And the episodes... they just kept on happening. Three, four times a week.

He started logging them in a small journal, just so he could keep track. That little black book served as the one place he could share his real experiences. He described each one, spilled everything into the pages so that within a few months it wasn't one book anymore, but a small stack of at least ten of them hidden inside his underwear drawer.

And slowly he realized that the episodes never occurred when he was drunk. Not once.

So he started drinking a bit earlier. And a bit earlier. Until finally, after a few months, everything was almost exactly the same- bottles hidden behind the bed, in his locker, so the seconds spent sober were few and far between.

He was miserable once again- but he didn't care. Because it was still different this time- because Mike was happy this time. And Mike deserved to be happy.

✴ ⁕ ✴ ⁕ ✴

"Just so we're perfectly clear," Beverly declared as she dropped a brown papaer bag on the desk beside Will, sitting down, "I'm your exclusive stylist, right?" 

"What?" Will returned dazedly, exactly 0 idea what she was talking about. He really wasn't up for a conversation- but he never was these days. He hadn't had a drink that morning, and his mind was busy planning ways to sneak to that bottle of vodka waiting in his locker.

"For the party, dumb-ass!  I get to style you for that and every future events." She seemed determined, and Will sighed.

"Sure, yeah." That fucking party.

"I'm gonna need that in writing." She nudged his shoulder with a huge smile, and he tried to return it. He couldn't care less- he just wanted that party to be over. He just had to get through today and tomorrow. Just until tomorrow night, and the whole party bullshit would be over. "And, here you go- your first outfit. An original Beverly Marsh."

She nudged the paper bag closer to him, smiling sheepishly. 
"Thanks," He returned, not even bothering to look at it.

"Sketch books out!" Mr. Mack's voice called as he stepped into the room. The classroom full of people straightened in their chairs, chatter ceased. An older blonde woman locked eyes with Will accidentally as she reached into her bag, taking a few moments to let his eyes go... And he couldn't shake that she looked a little familiar...

But then she looked away, and Will realized it must be his imagination. He turned around to his bag, taking his own sketchbook out.

 immediately he felt a little cheerful. Even though Mr. Mack always reminded him of the party and everything else, sketching always made him feel a little better.

Beverly reached to take hers out, and as she reached back around her arm accidentally hit Will's shoulder.

Lights out.

✴ ⁕ ✴ ⁕ ✴

once again.

even after all this time, even after all these episodes, Will was sill as terrified as he was that night at the arcade all those years ago. Being used to them didn't make them any easier- because each made him seem like this might be it. Maybe this time he wouldn't come out of the upside down.

An ominous chittering started, getting louder and louder each second.

He jumped from his seat, running to the door. He didn't think: His instincts just told him he had to get out of there. That frozen feeling enveloped his whole body, and he almost burst into tears.

Please open, please open, he thought to himself as he pushed on the doors- and lucky for him they opened with a click. He ran through the hallways, empty and dark.

tap, tap, tap, tap,

His shoes on the floors as he sprinted.

tap, tap, tap,

little clouds of fog from his mouth as he breathed.

tap, tap, tap, tap,

And the chittering just got louder until it seemingly filled the entire hallway.

Two pushes on the double doors, and he was out of the school.

But even the outside was plagued with that chittering sound, and suddenly it felt even more wrong to be outside, because outside he had no where to hide. He stood, frozen, staring around him. Why wasn't he out yet? Why wasn't he back to reality?

and suddenly the sound stopped.

But this was worse. It was way worse. Because in the silence, the sky grew darker. In the silence, a shape began to form in the sky.

The back of his neck filled with goosebumps- and he dropped to the ground hugging his knees to his chest and looking down.

Don't let it be back, don't let it be back, don't let it be back....