i. winter mourning | cw: demonic possession, involuntary hospitalization, restraints of a child, injections (prompt a), child abduction, creepy toothy monster (prompt b), parental death, more demonic possession, choking/strangulation (prompt c), just a big old bunch of child endangerment/harm
[When the little antler wreath starts to glow, Will thinks it's a good thing. The losses over the past month -- Diarmuid, Peter Parker, Nancy, Eddie -- are an ever-present, tangible weight in his throat, like he's being slowly choked. The dreams don't help, more vivid than ever -- a paleblood thing, probably, that just figures, that's how his luck is going.
So he ties twine around antlers, paints them carefully in shades of cream and silver and flecks of blue and red and gold, like opals. And they glow, like he'd read they would. And Will reaches out to touch them, hoping, praying it'll help...]
memory a. [The first thing Will is aware of is the overwhelming scent of antiseptic, sterile and cold and clinical. Layered over that is the heavy, cloying scent of blood. He can't remember if he was aware of the blood that night -- that terrible, horrible night where he wasn't himself, where every trace of Will Byers was blotted out by an inhuman, unfeeling monstrosity. Will knows, logically, that it happened. He can recall bits and pieces of it, had even returned once to the hallway outside this hospital room, had run from the demo dogs.
But he'd never been inside. He'd never heard his own voice, pushed to breaking, too high, too angry, too shrill, the monster inside him straining his vocal cords beyond what they could take. He was hoarse for days after. Will can remember that, at least.
The way he shrieks at Mike -- who looks so young, so afraid and determined and devastated all at once -- the way he stares through his mother without comprehending who she is...
When Will speaks, it's faint.] I don't...remember this.
memory b. [Not for the first time, Will finds himself at his house. It looks and feels...so much smaller than he remembers. In his mind, on that night, it was enormous and empty and suddenly unsafe.
Because of course it's that night. That first night, the night everything changed. Will scarcely recognizes himself barreling through the front door. It was only a little over two and a half years ago, but he looks so little. He can't imagine how he was that little and survived what he did.
If he's familiar with the person standing beside him, Will is slightly more embarrassed, watching his tiny, tiny self fumble with the phone. But even if he doesn't, he looks up, lets out a slow breath and says:] You probably...don't want to watch this.
memory c. [This is the only memory in Deerington. There were others, of course, almost exactly two years of them -- beautiful and terrible and awful and magnificent. The best and worst things Will has ever experienced were in that strange dream town.
But this one -- snow on the ground, air cold and empty, strange plants everywhere, and another version of Will with shorter hair and more scars, sitting on a bench -- is one that he absolutely does not want to remember. He's already backing away, shaking his head.] We...we gotta go, we need to go, He's going to see us--
[Perhaps it's Will's voice that does it. Perhaps not. But either way, the other him suddenly looks over, eyes dark and unblinking and focused -- and smiles.]
ii. run, rabbit, run | cw: potential for fights/attacks -- open to these, but not character death [Being able to help is kinda nice. As a paleblood, Will isn’t party to the intense, overwhelming emotions raging through most of the other blood types -- he's a calming, soothing presence, his words always soft, always the peacemaker. It's actually very similar to his usual role, in most relationships. He always wants to fix things, calm them down.
If you're a darkblood or vileblood or whatever, it doesn't matter to the soft-voiced, gentle-eyed boy, who approaches with his hands held out in supplication, speaking like he would to a nervous wild animal. If you're in the midst of a hunter's frenzy, he's there, voice gentle, reassuring:] Hey, it's okay. You're okay.
iii. lockjoint | cw: very mild symptoms of lockjoint, bruising, stiffness, pain, wrist/elbow trauma [Will is usually so good about bundling up. He doesn't like the cold, ever since -- well. Hest means he's fully himself, normal and human and secure in that knowledge. Nothing else in his head. Nobody else.
Still, he's a kid, and kids forget their coats and gloves sometimes, especially when they're in a big hurry to go and try to figure out how to turn smudgy pencils and charcoal into a drawing of the ice floes out on the sea, or the icicles hanging from the tall buildings in Willful Machine, or whatever else catches Will's artist eye. It's hard to draw with gloves on, too, so he tends to yank them off when he's raptly involved, ignoring the way his hands cramp up.
He also ignores how his joints -- fingers and wrists, especially -- are bruised almost black. It's hard to see under all the charcoal dust anyways. It's probably fine.
(It is NOT fine.)
Will won't stop unless someone bosses him into it, so any concerned passers-by, have at it.]
Will Byers | Stranger Things
[When the little antler wreath starts to glow, Will thinks it's a good thing. The losses over the past month -- Diarmuid, Peter Parker, Nancy, Eddie -- are an ever-present, tangible weight in his throat, like he's being slowly choked. The dreams don't help, more vivid than ever -- a paleblood thing, probably, that just figures, that's how his luck is going.
So he ties twine around antlers, paints them carefully in shades of cream and silver and flecks of blue and red and gold, like opals. And they glow, like he'd read they would. And Will reaches out to touch them, hoping, praying it'll help...]
ii. run, rabbit, run | cw: potential for fights/attacks -- open to these, but not character death
[Being able to help is kinda nice. As a paleblood, Will isn’t party to the intense, overwhelming emotions raging through most of the other blood types -- he's a calming, soothing presence, his words always soft, always the peacemaker. It's actually very similar to his usual role, in most relationships. He always wants to fix things, calm them down.
If you're a darkblood or vileblood or whatever, it doesn't matter to the soft-voiced, gentle-eyed boy, who approaches with his hands held out in supplication, speaking like he would to a nervous wild animal. If you're in the midst of a hunter's frenzy, he's there, voice gentle, reassuring:] Hey, it's okay. You're okay.
[The presence of Will's omen, an enormous, horrifying black horse with soulless eyes and a weirdly damp coat is...less reassuring.]
iii. lockjoint | cw: very mild symptoms of lockjoint, bruising, stiffness, pain, wrist/elbow trauma
[Will is usually so good about bundling up. He doesn't like the cold, ever since -- well. Hest means he's fully himself, normal and human and secure in that knowledge. Nothing else in his head. Nobody else.
Still, he's a kid, and kids forget their coats and gloves sometimes, especially when they're in a big hurry to go and try to figure out how to turn smudgy pencils and charcoal into a drawing of the ice floes out on the sea, or the icicles hanging from the tall buildings in Willful Machine, or whatever else catches Will's artist eye. It's hard to draw with gloves on, too, so he tends to yank them off when he's raptly involved, ignoring the way his hands cramp up.
He also ignores how his joints -- fingers and wrists, especially -- are bruised almost black. It's hard to see under all the charcoal dust anyways. It's probably fine.
(It is NOT fine.)
Will won't stop unless someone bosses him into it, so any concerned passers-by, have at it.]