Kissing Habits.

13. Waiting Around To Die

Chapter Thirteen
Waiting Around To Die

WHATEVER IT WAS THEY WERE DOING, IT WAS GOING TO WORK. They'd sprung up an idea, and were going to make sure it worked, no matter what. Will needed to be saved from this flayer. He had to be, or all of this would have been in vain.

Back in the Byers' shed, the late November chill brushing in through the cracks in the wood, Camila Dimaano and Steve Harrington got to work, preparing to carry out the plan.

Click! The man pushed down into the wood, sending a staple through the brown tarp they were pulling over the walling, sticking it into the splinters. Further down, Camila mustered her might to rip off a strip of silver duct-tape, carefully sticking the ends to the wall for easy access for their decorating.

Lips tugged into a sheepish line, the girl glanced up at the guy beside her, nails itching to find the next line of tape on the roll.

With a sigh, Steve hopped down from the short step-ladder he'd been perched upon, and placed down the staple gun, hands on hips.

"Hey," Camila hummed, unsure whether to hold eye contact or look away when Steve's head turned to her. She opted for loose eye contact, in which her gaze darted everywhere but him.

"What you did back at the junkyard..." She began, feeling her cheeks grow hot, so she deftly turned back to the wall-mounted tarp, tugging on the side slightly, and pressing a strip of tape against its edge, sticking it to the wood. "It was really cool."

Steve's stare lingered for a moment, his mind drifting back to earlier that night, when he risked his life. Now, when he thought about it, he didn't really have to do all that; in the moment, it only put the group in more danger. But he had shown a feat of great bravery, putting his life on the line, repeatedly, in and out of that bus. Where had the king of Hawkins High gone?

"Yeah, it was crazy, wasn't it?" He replied, a soft chuckle under his breath as he took a casual step closer to Camila, shoulders just barely touching. He reached a hand out to pluck a piece of tape from the wall, and help her stick up the tarp. "Never expected myself to do that, but I guess for those kids, it's just... I don't know. Wouldn't know what to do if any of them got hurt."

Silently listening to his words, Camila nodded, acutely aware of how close he had gotten, whether he had realised it or not. But she didn't step away, only continued sticking the tarp against the wall with him, pretending her heart wasn't tugging inside of her chest.

"Or you and Theo, I guess," Steve added quietly, barely sparing the girl a glance. "I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if something had happened to you guys, either."

"Oh," was all Camila could bring herself to say, as dumb, or as obvious it may have sounded. Did she sound ungrateful? Was that him being nice in a platonic way, or was he trying to flirt?

In the eye of a hot guy, Camila Dimaano forgot how to act.

And, with that, Steve was stepping back up the ladder, staple gun in his grip. The energy of his shoulder inches away from hers had dissipated. The electricity. But she wanted it back.

WILL BYERS HAD BEEN STRAPPED TO A CHAIR. In the shed-turned-lab, everything had been prepared. The quaint shed now looked scientific, like an interrogation, almost. From where Will had been perched - tied - a set of bright lights, merged from the lamps within the house, glared right into him. Opposite him sat a chair, just far enough to be out of reach.

Police Chief Hopper crouched down before his unconscious frame, head thrown slack forward, still decked in his hospital gown, and doused a fat cotton bud in bleach. Waving around the ammonia under his nose, he prompted Will - and whatever else inside him - to wake up.

No one else was allowed in, having to stay confined within the Byers residence, anxiously awaiting feedback. Not a word, not a whisper fluttered through the halls.

In the kitchen, both Nancy and Dustin stared out the window, cheeks bitten, knuckles white; the light emitting from the shed was bright, blinding. There was no way the normal Will could withstand that pressure.

From the living room, Steve steadied himself, feet planted into the floor, as he swung his nail-ridden baseball bat to and fro, preparing for any more attacks. And, oh, would there be more. Down on the sofa, Theodora Özdemir sat in a nauseous frenzy, hair matted, makeup running, knee bouncing; beside her sat Camila, gaze unfocused on the floor. Just about a week ago, she had practically failed her math paper, gotten overly-drunk at Tina's Halloween Bash, snogged Steve Harrington, and discovered aliens were real; some even within the same day. This was just not her week.

Over in the corridor, surrounded by taped diagrams along the walls and floor, sat Max and Lucas, opposite each other. Their gazes failed to meet, but their proximity revealed other feelings, ankles inches away, daring to brush. A deep breath rang throughout her chest, before she ventured to open her mouth, crackling the long-drawn out silence.

"If he founds out where we are, does that mean he'll send those dogs after us?" She asked, voice small, urging to not waver.

Opposite her, Lucas shook his head, eyes flickering up to connect with hers. "He won't,"

This wasn't what she wanted to hear. Her arms tightened over her chest, and she brought one knee up towards her, shoulders giving a heavy shrug. "Yeah, but... if he does."

Lips trembling, Lucas, geared in his military headband, dared to say the words; the words Max had wanted to hear, despite not being what she needed to hear, which would have inevitably been comfort. Lucas had quickly realised, however, that Max Mayfield wasn't a comfort sort of girl.

"Judgement Day," he confirmed wryly.

OVERHEAD, THE LAMPS FLICKERED, THE ELECTRICITY WITHIN THEM GOING HAYWIRE. Immediately, everybody clambered to their feet, rushing eagerly to the kitchen window. Outside, the lights within the shed blinkered on and off, even more rapidly so.

"What's happening?" Theodora whimpered, eyebrows furrowing.

From the front, closest to the kitchen counter, Dustin Henderson gave a grave sigh. "It's how they communicate," he replied. "When Will was stuck in the Upside Down, he spoke to his mom through the lights. We don't know how, but it's like they're connected to the energy, or something."

"Do you think it's hurting him?"

Slowly but surely, however, the blinking through the window began to slow, the cuts in light coming to a pause. All to be seen now from the shed was the same blinding light from before.

At Theo's most recent question, Dustin glanced behind him, meeting eyes with Lucas. They shared a soft expression, sadness behind their eyes. They hoped not.

But just as soon as the blinking had stopped, Chief Hopper was shoving the shed door open, leaking light into the dark backyard, and stomping back inside.

"What happened?" People were asking impatiently as the police chief promptly sat himself down at the kitchen table, scribbling down something on a torn scrap of paper, Joyce and Jonathan Byers in tow.

With a sigh, Hopper placed the pen down, displaying his scrawl. "I think he's talking to us, just not with words."

Six dots. One line. Two dots.

Morse Code.

Beneath the shapes, Hopper moved his pen along the paper, writing out letters.

H. E. R. E.

Joyce's hands, shaking, lifted to her mouth, and she cast a hopeful look back at her older son. Her boy was still in there.