Chapter Text
Study hall is a vacuum after fourth period, the air so still I can hear the clock’s minute hand clawing forward one tick at a time. The table I’m at is splintered along one edge, math textbooks arranged into a low barricade while I try to work up the motivation to finish this physics packet. Instead, I watch him: Will Byers, two tables up and three seats to the left, shoulders pinched in, hair messy as ever, page after page turning so fast he can’t possibly be absorbing any of it.
There’s a mark on his cheek. From here, it could be a shadow, the way the overhead light falls across the room, but I know it’s not. I know bruises; I used to get them a lot when I’d practice wall rides down at the old skate park. This one is recent—purple at the edges, faded blue in the middle, a dull crescent blooming up toward his eye. I want to look away, pretend I didn’t see it, but the more I try to focus on my worksheet, the more the bruise pulls my attention back.
After a few minutes, Will tugs his hair forward, tries to mask the worst of it. He doesn’t want anyone to see. Not that it matters: half the room is freshman girls gabbing in whispers, the other half are jocks who think study hall is just a place to nap until the bell.
I stuff my own pencil into the spiral of my notebook and cross the linoleum, heart suddenly hammering way too hard for a school library. “Is this seat taken?” I ask, even though I already know he’s alone.
Will glances up, surprise flickering across his face. He’s not wearing one of his big sweaters today—just a faded Social Distortion tee under an old flannel, the too long sleeves shoved up so his wrists look even skinnier than normal. “Go ahead,” he mumbles. He slides his stuff to the left to give me more space, then sets his chin on his knee, like maybe I’ll just get bored and leave him alone.
I pull out my own notebook, set it on the table, and make a show of flipping to a random page. “How’s your eye?” I keep my voice low, mostly for him, but also because the study hall monitor looks like she’d scream if anyone raised their voice above a whisper.
He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he lets out a half-laugh, sharp and empty. “It’s not my eye. It’s my face.”
I watch him tap the peek of his cheekbone, fingers gentle. He keeps his hand there, as if he can hide the bruise from me now. I could ask a million questions, but instead I let the silence stretch, the way my mom always did when she wanted me to talk about something I wasn’t ready to say out loud.
Will drops his hand, his nails pink from where he’s been chewing them. “You want to know what happened,” he says, flat.
I shrug, careful not to look too eager. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
He leans back, folding his arms tight across his chest. “I do. I guess I want you to know.”
Now he looks at me for real, eyes bright and unblinking. “Lonnie showed up at the house yesterday. Unannounced. Like he used to.” His jaw moves side to side, almost like he’s chewing on the words. “He started with Mom. Said something about her clothes, but he really just wanted to see if he could get a reaction out of me.”
I nod, quiet. Lonnie Byers has a reputation around town, most of it bad. The kind of dad who gets thrown out of the Hideout on karaoke nights and spends the next morning blaming everyone but himself.
“He cornered me in the kitchen. Asked why I looked so me. Said I was turning into a ‘girly boy’ just like he always warned.” Will snorts, pushes at his hair with the heel of his hand. “It’s his second favorite insult.”
I try not to let my fists ball up under the table.
“I didn’t say anything back til I did. I never do. But this time, I… I just couldn’t help it.” He stops, breathing through his nose, the air sharp enough I can hear it.
“He put his hand on my face, here—” Will gestures to the bruise, “—and said if I ever wanted to be a man, I’d have to start acting like one. So I told him I’d rather be nothing at all. And then he…” Will’s voice goes thin, almost a not even whisper. “He hit me.”
It’s like someone squeezed all the oxygen out of the room. The overhead lights buzz felt louder, and for a second I just stare at the grain in the table. “Shit, Will,” I manage. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, like it’s just something that happens, like it’s not a big deal. “Sorry’s not needed. Not really. Because I didn’t cry. I didn’t even flinch. I just stood there, and he looked more scared than I did.” He smiles, a small, twisted thing. “He left after that. Didn’t say goodbye.”
I want to reach out, grab his hand, but I know better. I settle for nudging the toe of my boot against his sneaker under the table, soft.
Will huffs, but not in a mean way. “The best part? I’m kind of proud.” He turns his face so the bruise is in full view. “I stood up to him. First time ever.”
“That’s badass,” I say, and mean it. Then I catch myself, try to backpedal. “Not that he hit you, but that you didn’t let him get to you.”
“Not were he could see it” He nods, letting the moment hang there. Then his hand drifts, almost unconsciously, across the table until his fingers graze mine. It’s nothing—just the lightest brush of skin—but it feels like fireworks.
“You want me to come over tonight?” I ask, voice low. “We could play games, watch movies. I’ll even let you pick.”
Will smiles for real now, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah. I’d like that.” He pulls away, turning back to his textbook as if nothing happened.
But when the bell rings, he waits for me to gather my things before we walk out together, shoulder to shoulder.
I’m not sure what’s waiting for either of us outside the library, but it feels like maybe—for today, at least—the monsters are keeping their distance.
The cafeteria is alive with the same energy as always: meatloaf steam mixing with the burnt ozone of the microwaves, plastic chairs screeching over scuffed tile, and somewhere in the chaos, the familiar sound of Dustin's laugh—loud, braying, impossible to ignore. Our usual table is all the way in the back, under a broken exit sign that flickers red whenever someone leans too hard on the doors.
Will and I slip into the last two open seats. Dustin’s already halfway through his pizza, hands flying as he tells some epic tale to Lucas and Jane. Jane’s expression is patient, the way it always is when she’s stuck between people and trying her best not to choose sides. Lucas looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he’s holding on, probably because he knows it matters to Dustin.
“Dude, you look like shit,” Dustin says as soon as Will sits. He doesn’t even try to be subtle, and for a second, I expect Will to recoil. Instead, he just shrugs.
“Yeah, well, so does your haircut, but you don’t see me making a big deal about it.”
Lucas snorts. Jane glances at Will’s cheek, the bruise is sickly dark around the edges, and then immediately looks away.
“Is that from yesterday cause you looked fine after School?” Dustin asks, voice lower now.
Will nods. “Yeah. My dad showed up. Wasn’t a long visit.” He says it so flat that for a second, nobody knows how to respond. I’m about to change the subject when Dustin pipes up:
“At least yours showed up. Mine just sends birthday cards with the wrong age and never spells my name right.”
Lucas jumps in, “Could be worse. My old man still thinks Dungeons & Dragons is ‘satanic mind control’ and refuses to acknowledge I’m not twelve anymore.”
I can’t help myself. “At least none of you had to learn how to clean your little sister puke outta sheets”
The table cracks up, even Jane, who clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle it. It’s dark humor, the kind you only get when you’ve all been through too much, but it’s a real laugh, one that makes the bad stuff feel a little less huge.
Will stabs at his mashed potatoes, the plastic fork bending dangerously. “I guess we all win the dysfunctional life lottery.”
Dustin points at Will with a tater tot. “You say that, but you’re the only one here who’s had actual kidnapping him.” He grins, trying to keep things light. “I’d take a drunk dad over a vec- Henry any day.” I wondered what had been about to call Henry".
“Careful what you wish for,” Will says. But his smile looks real.
For a while, we fall into the usual back-and-forth—Lucas ragging on Dustin’s latest failed science project, Lucas quietly correcting everyone’s math homework, me stealing fries off Will’s plate when he’s not looking. For a moment, it feels almost normal.
Then Will glances at me, then at Jane, and says, “I’ve been having nightmares again. Not the regular kind. The upsidedown kind.”
The table goes silent. Dustin’s mouth is half-open, a chewed-up pizza bite on display, but he just sits there, frozen. He’s looks at me with shock. Lucas looks down, fiddling with a rubber band on his wrist. Jane blinks rapidly, as if she’s scanning through some internal list of acceptable responses and coming up empty. I nudge Will’s knee with mine, gentle. He doesn’t look at me.
Jane recovers first. She clears her throat. “We have that big science test tomorrow,” she says, voice too bright. “Has anyone actually studied for it? Mr. Clark said he’s including the entire second chapter this time.”
Lucas groans. Dustin rolls his eyes, but the tension doesn’t quite break. Will picks at his food, shoulders tight. Under the table, I reach over and rest my hand on his thigh, just above the knee. He flinches—barely—but then relaxes, leans back into his chair.
Nobody talks about Henry again. For the rest of lunch, it’s just homework, band rumors, and which video game Max is secretly best at. Will mostly listens, eyes on his tray, but every now and then he glances my way and gives a little half-smile.
The bell rings. Dustin bolts upright, grabbing his backpack in one hand and his half-eaten pizza in the other. “Let’s go, losers!” he shouts, and the whole table stands up as one.
Will takes a moment to gather his stuff. I wait, then walk with him down the hall, our shoulders bumping now and then, neither of us in any hurry.
“Thanks,” he says, voice low enough only I can hear.
“For what?”
He shakes his head, smile small but true. “For making it less lonely.” I squeeze his hand, quick and private, and hope it’s enough. I understand that no knows what to say to Will but ignoring him is just wrong.
Will’s basement bedroom is a museum of my favorite things. There’s his desk, cluttered with dried-out paintbrushes and stacks of watercolor paper warped at the edges. There’s the overfilled bookshelf, crammed with science fiction paperbacks and a rubber-banded deck of D&D cards. There’s the string of Christmas lights that runs one full revolution around the perimeter, shedding just enough color to make the room look alive.
And there’s Will, perched cross-legged on his bed, one foot bouncing with nervous energy while he pretends to organize his binder. The bruise on his face has mostly calmed now that we’ve iced it, but up close you can see the knuckle-shaped marks where Lonnie tried to leave something permanent. He catches me staring, and instead of looking away, he grins—like he’s daring me to say something about it.
“So, are we studying, or are you going to let me beat you at Tetris again?” he says, tossing a pencil up and down like a drumstick.
“I’m not in the mood to get humiliated,” I say, and I mean it. “But I could make popcorn.”
He cocks his head. “I thought you said the last time you used the microwave, you almost blew up your house.”
I shrug. “That was because of the tin foil and That’s what makes it exciting.”
He laughs, but the sound has a nervous edge. I hover near his desk, tracing my finger over the spines of his paperback collection, pretending to look for a book. I want to say something about the bruise. I want to ask if he’s really okay, but I also don’t want to ruin the fragile safety we’ve built here, underground and away from everyone else.
Instead, I flip a paperback over in my hand and ask, “Did you ever finish this one?”
He shrugs. “It’s all the same story. Kid finds out he’s special, has to fight monsters, saves the world. Nobody ever writes about the kid who just wants to nap.”
I look at him, and he’s already looking at me, a soft smile playing at his lips. For a second, I forget how to breathe.
“So,” he says, “did you want to talk more about… yesterday?”
My hands go clammy. I shake my head. “Only if you want to.”
He thinks about it, his gaze dropping to his hands. He fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, then says, “Not today. I just want to forget about it for a while.”
I nod, relief and guilt crashing into each other in my chest. “We can do that.”
He slides off the bed, lands in a crouch, and crosses to his record player—the ancient, wood-paneled kind, with a stack of vinyls in milk crates underneath. He kneels, pulls out a record, and holds it up for me to see: Queen’s “A Night at the Opera.”
“I found it,” he says, grinning. “It skips a little on the second track, but it’s still good.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He sets the record on, lowers the needle with practiced care, and in a few seconds, Freddie Mercury’s voice fills the room, velvet and uncontainable. The crackle of the vinyl is like static between the words, and I close my eyes for a second, just letting the music take up all the space.
When I open them again, Will is standing right in front of me. “Dance with me?” he says, voice almost lost in the swirl of harmonies.
It’s not a joke. He means it. And somehow, I’m proud of that.
I nod, and before I know it, his hand is in mine, pulling me into the middle of the room, just beneath the Christmas lights. At first, we do the slow, awkward shuffle—rocking from foot to foot, neither of us sure what we’re supposed to do. He’s got this tiny smirk, like he’s the only one who knows we’re being flirty , but he’s going to let me figure it out.
After a few seconds, the chorus kicks in. He spins me, just once, and I let out a dumb laugh. I grab his other hand, and now we’re really dancing, if you can call it that. It’s all elbows and knees and too-long limbs, but it works. The more we move, the less I think about how I look, or how close we are, or if anyone upstairs can hear us.
When “Somebody to Love” comes on, Will sings along, not caring if he’s flat or sharp, just belting it out. I join in on the “find me, somebody to lo-ove,” and by the third time through the chorus, we’re both doubled over, gasping for air and barely standing upright.
The song winds down, and we’re left tangled together in the middle of the floor, Will’s hands on my shoulders, mine looped around his waist. For a long moment, neither of us moves. His face is flushed, a faint sweat on his temple, and his hair sticks up in all directions. He looks perfect.
“Are you going to kiss me, or are you just going to stare?” Will whispers, voice trembling but clear.
I cup his jaw, careful not to press too hard where it’s still tender. Our lips meet, gentle at first—soft, uncertain, almost chaste. But then he leans in, and something clicks. He tastes like cinnamon gum and popcorn salt and something I can’t name, only want more of. I press back, firmer now, and feel the weight of his hands as they move from my shoulders to my face, tracing the line of my jaw, then into my hair.
When we break for air, we’re both smiling like idiots. He leans his forehead to mine, eyes closed, and I feel his breath ghost over my lips.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ve never really got past a peck… not with a guy. Or anyone, really.”
“It’s all good,” I whisper. “Is it weird if I say you’re really good at it?”
He laughs, full and unguarded. “You’re just saying that because you want me to do it again.”
He’s not wrong.
The second kiss is less careful. More hands. More heat and suddenly we’re on his bed, tangled in the quilt, records spinning out on the stereo. Will’s hands slide under my t-shirt, the tips of his fingers cool against my back, and the shock of it makes me gasp.
He pauses, looks at me—checking in. I nod, and he smiles, sweet and relieved. My own hands move to his waist, slow at first, then bolder. I can feel every shiver that runs through him.
His skin is softer than I expected, warm under my touch. He pulls me closer, and for the first time, I don’t care if the whole world knows. I don’t care about the bruise on his cheek, or the nightmares, or the monsters outside these walls. All I care about is the way his body curls into mine, the way he says my name when he thinks I can’t hear it.
We lose track of time—songs change, the record needle clicks in its groove, but we don’t stop. We move slow, hands exploring, mouths finding every new place to linger. Every now and then, Will pulls back, just to look at me, eyes wide like he’s surprised we’re still here, that none of it has vanished. Then he grins, and I know I’m not dreaming.
At some point, he rolls on top of me, straddling my hips, and I laugh—really laugh, the way I haven’t since before the world got weird. He kisses my neck, and it’s electric, like the Christmas lights above us are sending all their power straight into my veins.
“Is this okay?” he asks, voice barely there.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s better than okay.”
We stay like that until the music runs out and the room is silent except for the sound of us breathing, hearts racing together.
After a little time, Will collapses next to me, head on my chest, hand resting right over my heart. I thread my fingers through his hair, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breath. The bruise seems less glaring , just a fact of his skin, and I trace it, softly, with my thumb.
He looks up at me, eyes glassy but happy. “Thanks,” he says.
“For what?” I ask.
“For making me feel safe. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
I hold him closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiles, and I know he believes me.
We drift like that, tangled in each other, until the sounds of the world above seep down and remind us there’s a tomorrow waiting. But for now, in this small, bright room, it’s just us—two boys, an old Queen record, and the best mess either of us has ever made.