[Once he steps through the door, Will's experience of becoming himself again isn't quite as jarring, because for a good couple hours he isn't himself. He's thrust back into that liminal dark space, not conscious, not present, just not, while the Mind Flayer surges back into full control. The moment of clarity -- C L O S E G A T E -- has passed, and Will Byers is, for all intents and purposes, lost to the world.
And then: he comes back. In bits and pieces, feeling a burning pain in his side, at his wrists and ankles, overheated and exhausted and confused. He reaches out for -- the gunsword, for Frodo's soft fluffy fur, for Mike's three-fingered hand -- his mom, Jonathan, Nancy, a splintery ceiling and walls and a narrow bed he's tied to. There are bruises on Joyce's throat as she enfolds him in her arms and a choked sob escapes Will's hoarse throat, because he remembers.
He remembers and feels Jonathan at his side and his throat is torn to ribbons from screaming and there's a burn mark from a red-hot poker and Nancy is hurrying to untie the other restraints and Will remembers and remembers. His mom is hovering over him like a fretful, protective stormcloud, and he remembers her in Deerington and Nancy is grabbing water and Jonathan looks beside himself and Will's past and present and dreamworld are layered over themselves like he's caught between slides in the strangest viewfinder ever. Everyone keeps asking if he's okay, even as the lights around them flicker and he can feel El's victory from the other side of town, feel it along with the emptiness in his mind, the sense of being fully alone in his head for the first time in (two years) days.
Are you okay, baby Joyce asks again and again, and Will looks up at her, tries to find the recognition in her face. He can't tell if he sees it or just pure relief, can't tell if she's welcoming him back from the monster or from the dream. He knows Nancy couldn't remember, or Jonathan, they're from after. Later. But Joyce was before, and Mike was from the same time and --
And Will is already telling himself to not hope too high, not dare to believe they both remember and he's already failing at it.]
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And then: he comes back. In bits and pieces, feeling a burning pain in his side, at his wrists and ankles, overheated and exhausted and confused. He reaches out for -- the gunsword, for Frodo's soft fluffy fur, for Mike's three-fingered hand -- his mom, Jonathan, Nancy, a splintery ceiling and walls and a narrow bed he's tied to. There are bruises on Joyce's throat as she enfolds him in her arms and a choked sob escapes Will's hoarse throat, because he remembers.
He remembers and feels Jonathan at his side and his throat is torn to ribbons from screaming and there's a burn mark from a red-hot poker and Nancy is hurrying to untie the other restraints and Will remembers and remembers. His mom is hovering over him like a fretful, protective stormcloud, and he remembers her in Deerington and Nancy is grabbing water and Jonathan looks beside himself and Will's past and present and dreamworld are layered over themselves like he's caught between slides in the strangest viewfinder ever. Everyone keeps asking if he's okay, even as the lights around them flicker and he can feel El's victory from the other side of town, feel it along with the emptiness in his mind, the sense of being fully alone in his head for the first time in (two years) days.
Are you okay, baby Joyce asks again and again, and Will looks up at her, tries to find the recognition in her face. He can't tell if he sees it or just pure relief, can't tell if she's welcoming him back from the monster or from the dream. He knows Nancy couldn't remember, or Jonathan, they're from after. Later. But Joyce was before, and Mike was from the same time and --
And Will is already telling himself to not hope too high, not dare to believe they both remember and he's already failing at it.]