Chapter Text
The air was thick with the smell of chalk, old wood, and sweat. A sunbeam cutting through the dusty window illuminated millions of swirling dust motes. For Will Byers, those particles were the most interesting thing in class. He followed their chaotic dance, trying to mentally map their trajectories—anything to avoid looking at the board or meeting anyone's gaze.
He used to be praised for his attentiveness and good grades... But circumstances, like getting lost in an alternate dimension and being possessed by a monster, had taken their toll.
Returning to Hawkins High School was like an old, uncomfortable skin that Will had shed when he moved to California, and which was now being forcibly pulled back over him. Only this skin felt tighter, digging into him even more painfully.
Every click of his locker combination, every whisper behind his back echoed with old rumors: words whose meaning he hadn't fully grasped at eleven, but whose poisonous intent he had absorbed over the years. Now he understood it all too well.
He had learned to read his surroundings like a map of a minefield: the group of jocks by the water fountain—better to detour down the right hallway; the teacher's gaze, full of unspoken pity—needed to pretend not to notice. The school wasn't just a building; it was a living organism, and Will felt like a virus its immune system was about to reject.
Being invisible wasn't a superpower; it was a survival skill. Will had honed it to perfection: he could blend into a crowd, matching his footsteps to others'; he could breathe softer and less frequently; he could direct his gaze to a safe spot somewhere at the level of people's chins to avoid eye contact. Sometimes he wanted to scream, just to make sure his voice could still make a sound, that he could still be heard. But he just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and stared at the floor.
Will sat next to Mike. It was both a blessing and a curse. The proximity to him—the only source of warmth in this icy building—was also a constant reminder of the chasm that had opened between them.
Don't look at him for too long. Don't smile when he looks at you. Be normal. Just be a friend.
He suppressed a sigh and buried his nose in his textbook, trying to look busy. His life with the Wheelers was a new cage, albeit a gilded one. Sleeping on the floor in Mike's room, hearing his steady breathing and soft snores every night, riding to school shoulder-to-shoulder every morning...
He caught Mrs. Wheeler's gaze at breakfast—warm, but with a hint of anxiety. He saw how Holly sometimes looked at him with a silent question. He was a grateful, but perpetually indebted guest in the house of the boy he was hopelessly in love with.
With each passing day, Will noticed more and more that living in the Wheeler house was like looking through a beloved, but someone else's, family album. He saw traces of Mike's childhood everywhere: faded Star Wars posters, scratches on the floor from toy cars, the familiar shadows cast by the living room lamp in the evenings.
Will's sleeping spot on the floor in the corner of Mike's room was always impeccably neat. Every morning, he rolled up his sleeping bag so carefully, as if trying to roll up and hide his own rootlessness along with it, his feeling of never being in the right nest.
Suddenly, the edge of his notebook twitched. Mike, without turning his head, deftly slipped him a note folded into a tight triangle. Will's heart performed its familiar, painful somersault—soaring and then immediately plummeting, because he knew: it would never be a love note.
He carefully unfolded it under the desk.
URGENT MEETING. AV CLUB ROOM. AFTER SCHOOL. PASS IT ON TO WILL. — Dustin.
Will read it, folded the paper in half, and shoved it between random pages of his history textbook. A shiver ran down his spine. Not fear—more like a heavy sense of foreboding. As if storm clouds were gathering over the school, and he, the only one who remembered what a real storm was like, could already smell it in the air.
"Urgent meeting." When they were ten, they called "urgent meetings" about new issues of X-Men. But times were different now.
He stole a glance at Mike. He was looking at the board, but the tension in his shoulders and the way he fidgeted with his pen made it clear: he was already there, in that future conversation, trying to anticipate what Dustin had gotten them into this time. Will once again felt like a messenger in someone else's war.
When the final bell rang, their group gathered at the lockers with a silent, practiced synchronicity. No unnecessary words.
Lucas joined them on the way, his face grim and detached. He'd been skipping a lot of classes lately, spending all his free time at the hospital, by Max's bedside. His basketball jersey, once a point of pride, was probably gathering dust at the bottom of his locker now—another symbol that everything had changed and nothing could be brought back.
The AV Club room smelled of old plastic, solder, and dust. The air was still and thick. Dustin, not wasting a second, hopped onto a table, shoving a couple of sparking circuit boards aside with a characteristic clatter.
"So," he began without preamble, his voice sharp and devoid of its usual playful tone. "Our favorite basketball team is gearing up for a new crusade."
Mike, leaning against the wall, crossed his arms.
"Again? Two of them are six feet under, Dustin. What else can they do?"
"It's not about what they can do, it's about what they're saying," Dustin countered. "They're rewriting history. Right now, while everyone's minds are still shaken, they're planting their version. And in their version, Eddie isn't a victim, he's practically the main villain. A satanist and a murderer. And we're his accomplices."
Lucas, who had been silent until now, muttered darkly:
"They're calling him a coward and blaming him for everything. Saying he let everyone down."
A heavy silence hung in the air. Will watched his friends. Dustin was burning with righteous anger, Mike was filled with doubt, and Lucas was consumed by a quiet, all-consuming rage. He was here in body, but his thoughts were there, at that hospital bedside.
Mike's eyebrows knitted together. Will had often noticed this particular expression on his friend's face; it usually meant Mike was desperate but trying to keep it together.
"We can't just ignore this," Dustin insisted. "We need intel. We need to know what they're planning. We can't just sit back while they spit on our friend's grave."
"And what do you suggest?" Mike asked, and a tired note was audible in his voice. "Walk up and politely ask them to stop? They'll beat the crap out of us without a second thought, and everyone will cheer them on."
"I suggest reconnaissance," Dustin paused for dramatic effect. "Their first game of the season is on Thursday. The whole town will be there. Well, you know, anyone who cares about basketball. And they're definitely gonna put on some kind of show to boost morale. Someone needs to be there to see and hear everything. Someone... unnoticeable."
Three pairs of eyes almost reflexively turned to Will. He felt cramped under their gaze. He hated basketball, hated that atmosphere of herd excitement, hated the thought of being in the epicenter of it all again.
"I... I don't know," Will said quietly. "They all know our faces."
"That's exactly why you're perfect," Dustin pressed on. "You weren't in the Hellfire Club. Besides, you're always quiet, you draw the least attention. You can just blend into the bleachers, like... well, like a ghost."
The word hung in the air, unspoken but understood by everyone. Like back then.
Will looked at Mike, searching for support, but he just shrugged, avoiding his eyes.
"Well, it kinda makes sense," Mike said uncertainly. "If we just know what we're dealing with, we can... prepare. Just..." Mike trailed off.
Prepare for what? Will wanted to ask. For new taunts? For new stares? For being pointed at again?
But he saw the determination in Dustin's eyes and the pain in Lucas's. He saw Mike pulling away, as always when a situation required tough decisions. And he understood he had no choice. He had always been the one sent on scouting missions, the one who stayed in the shadows. His role in this group was predetermined. The spy.
"Okay," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "I'll go."
The decision was made. But Will was looking out the dusty window of the club room and thinking not about basketball. He was thinking that once again, for the umpteenth time, he was putting on that old, uncomfortable skin. And this time, it felt tighter than ever.
The spy. In the fall of '84, he had been a spy too. Back then, it wasn't by choice. Now it was voluntary, and that was even more terrifying.
***
The evening was quiet and cool. The air smelled of damp leaves and smoke from chimney stacks. They were riding their bikes home. Although, could Will really call it by such a powerful word—"home"?
Will, as usual, lagged slightly behind, watching the wheels of Mike's new bike roll evenly along the road. Holly was up ahead, humming something carelessly under her breath.
"You know, you didn't have to agree," Mike said suddenly, almost without turning around. His voice was muffled by the sound of the wind.
Will felt something twinge in his chest.
"Dustin's right," he replied, trying to keep his voice even. "Someone has to do it."
"But it doesn't have to be you."
Will sensed no care in those words. Rather, it was irritation. Irritation that he was once again, just like back then, at the center of a dangerous story that Mike was trying his hardest to avoid. The silence that followed this brief exchange was thicker and more awkward than their usual quiet.
When the lights in the Wheeler house went out and the voices stilled (all except for the voices from the TV, which Ted constantly forgot to turn off), Will lay on his sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling and listening to Mike toss and turn in his bed.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Mike asked for what felt like the dozenth time today, his voice now softer.
"Yeah," Will answered, short and dry.
He closed his eyes, trying to wall himself off from this conversation, from this proximity that weighed on him more heavily than any distance. "It's just... what needs to be done, needs to be done."
He had deliberately chosen those impersonal, detached words. "What needs to be done." Not "I want to help," not "I have to stand up for your friend, whom you had so much fun playing D&D with while I was missing you in California."
Just necessity. It was safer that way. If he framed his actions not as a choice of the heart, but as a cold necessity, then the pain of unrequited feelings became a little less sharp. He was trying to build a wall between himself and Mike, brick by brick, and this conversation was another stone in its foundation.
"Okay," Mike replied after a few seconds of silence. "Goodnight, Will."
"Goodnight, Mike."
Will turned onto his side, his back to his friend's bed. He lay perfectly still, pretending to be asleep, and listened as Mike struggled to find peace for a long time. And he thought to himself that being invisible wasn't just about blending into a crowd. It was also the art of hiding your own heart, even from the person sleeping just a few feet away.
Every morning, Mike watched as Will rolled up his sleeping bag with the same quiet, practiced precision he applied to everything lately.
Every movement was deliberate, devoid of fuss—as if Will was trying not to disturb the very air around him. And in that was an impenetrable wall that Mike didn't know how to breach. He used to be able to read Will like an open book; the slightest twitch of an eyebrow, the movement at the corners of his mouth... Now, his friend's face was a calm, almost impassive canvas, and this change was driving Mike crazy. He caught himself searching those green eyes for a spark of their old closeness, but found only polite detachment.
What am I doing wrong?...
The thought of Will voluntarily walking into the tigers' den of the basketball team made Mike's blood run cold. This year, the idea of leaving Will alone filled him with a particular dread, because he understood what could happen.
It wasn't just fear for his safety, but a tormenting, irrational feeling that he was losing him. That by some invisible thread, Will was being pulled to a place where Mike couldn't follow, couldn't protect him. And the worst part was that Will wasn't even seeking his protection. He had agreed so easily, as if his own well-being was of no consequence.
And why should it be, when Mike, his best friend, couldn't give him the one thing that mattered? Couldn't be who he was supposed to be. The thought that Will might suspect his feelings and was pulling away out of disgust or pity was like a knife to his heart. Maybe Will was just tired of his tension, of all those cautious, stolen glances Mike couldn't control?
Lying in the dark and listening to Will's steady breathing, Mike felt trapped in a cage of his own torment, which he himself found so stupid.
On one side, there was El. Her image evoked a heavy, oppressive guilt. Mike had made her promises that grew more unbearable with each passing day. He was supposed to love her; it was the right thing to do. But on the other side was Will. Will, whose presence within arm's reach felt as natural as his own heartbeat. Will, whose smile made the world click into place, and whose silence shattered Mike into pieces.
He had tried to reach out, offering to talk countless times, but Will kept deflecting, again and again. Every step forward Mike took was met with an invisible, yet solid, barrier. And he was beginning to understand, with a sense of horror: what if he was already too late? What if, while he was wrestling with himself, trying to force his feelings into narrow, acceptable boxes, Will had simply found someone else—someone braver, and more right...?
***
Thursday was unnaturally warm for late September, as if summer was reluctantly letting go of Hawkins, making the pre-storm tension in the school feel even sharper.
From the very morning, everything felt off. The usual gray hum of the hallways was replaced by excited shouts.
Everywhere—on the walls, on the doors, even on the ceiling in the main hall—hung garish posters: "CRUSH THE COMPETITION!", "GO TIGERS!".
Walking past, Will read one automatically and felt a wave of nausea. Aggression, even of this ritualized, sporting kind, always made him tense up inside.
He saw senior girls in "H" t-shirts and orange pom-pom skirts—the cheerleaders—handing out homemade bracelets in the school colors. One of them, with a strained smile, shoved one into his hand. Will kept it clenched in his fist until the first corner he turned, then tossed it into the nearest trash can.
He started noting details, just as he and Dustin had agreed. In the cafeteria, at a nearby table, a couple of guys from the basketball team were laughing loudly about how they were going to "slaughter" their opponents tonight. Will didn't see their faces—just their broad backs in practice sweatshirts. One of them, a blonde, was gesturing so energetically he almost knocked over a tray. There wasn't a single word about the Hellfire Club in their conversation, only anticipation of an easy victory and plans for the after-party. It was strange to realize that for most people, this was just another game day, not a battlefield over someone's memory.
Will froze by his locker, catching snippets of a conversation between two older students.
"...Jason would have crushed them," one said breathlessly, polishing the tiger patch on his letterman jacket.
"He wouldn't have let those freaks disgrace the school after... all that," the other agreed.
The word "freaks" hung in the air, burning as if it had been aimed directly at his back. Will hurriedly clicked his lock shut and moved away, feeling goosebumps run down his spine. After all that. Everyone understood what was meant. The deaths. The rift. The curse the town preferred to pin on a convenient scapegoat—Eddie Munson.
The last classes dragged on agonizingly slowly. A sunbeam falling on his desk crept slowly across the wooden surface, and Will watched it, feeling the anxiety in his chest tighten into a hard, cold knot with every passing minute. He could feel eyes on him. Hostile ones from those who saw him as a "freak." And questioning ones from Mike, who tried to catch his eye a couple of times, but Will stubbornly stared out the window, pretending not to notice. He needed to preserve this fragile, detached state, this armor without which he might not survive what was coming.
When the final bell rang, the school erupted with frantic energy. The crowd surged directly toward the gym, where the first chords of the school band rehearsing a victory march could already be heard. Will let the current carry him, feeling like a piece of driftwood in a raging river. His plan was simple: lose himself in the bleachers, climb up high to the very back rows where the shadows lingered, and from there, like a dispassionate observer, record everything he saw and heard.
He took a deep breath, the air smelling of floor polish and collective excitement, and stepped into the deafening roar of the gym. His mission had begun.
Will squeezed onto the upper bleacher, where the wooden benches were still dusty and empty. From here, as he'd hoped, he had a view of the entire arena, flooded with unnaturally bright light, and the seething sea of orange and green below.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and a tall guy with blond hair, styled into a fashionable, gelled-up look, stepped onto the center of the court. Will had seen styles like that in magazines, but he always thought it looked like too much.
This wasn't Jason, whose photo Will had seen in the papers. This guy seemed harder, with a tense jaw and a gaze full of rehearsed seriousness. Will immediately recognized him from the photo on the display stand outside the gym: his name was Andy.
"Hawkins!" his rough voice, amplified by the speakers, cut through the air. The crowd instantly rallied and roared back.
"Last year took our best!" the captain shouted, and a heavy silence fell over the gym for a second. "It took Jason! Patrick! Chrissy! And others, our friends and family!"
After each name, the crowd responded with a low groan, as if touching an unhealed wound. Will listened, frowning. He knew their names, knew how they had really died—in a nightmare that was impossible to explain. But here, in this gym, their deaths were part of a different narrative.
"They were heroes! And those who hid in basements, who played satanic games—they are cowards! They poisoned our town!"
The explosion of applause was deafening. Will saw fists clench, saw tears of rage welling up in some people's eyes. He observed it all with a strange, chilling detachment. These people weren't his personal enemies; they hated a ghost, a caricature his friends had been turned into. He was a stranger here, an alien sent from another planet to study foreign rituals.
"We know it's not easy for you right now. Many have left Hawkins looking for a better life. But since we've stayed, we must stand our ground, we must cleanse our town of this filth!"
It was at that exact moment, as Andy's speech reached its peak of pathos, that Will's gaze, wandering over the line of basketball players, snagged on one of them.
The guy wasn't in the front row, but slightly to the side. He had dark, almost black hair falling onto his forehead in a neat side-part curtain, and tan skin that contrasted with his white uniform. He wasn't chanting with the others; he stood, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, his gaze distractedly fixed on the crowd.
And that gaze suddenly stopped on Will.
Byers froze. It wasn't a fleeting glance. It was a steady, studying look. The basketball player leaned slightly toward his stocky teammate, without taking his eyes off the bleachers, and whispered something, giving an almost imperceptible nod in Will's direction. The teammate also glanced up briefly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
Damn. They spotted me.
The icy calm evaporated instantly, replaced by a surge of panic. His mission had failed before it even began. He was already mentally picturing them approaching him after the game, shoving him out of the hall, grabbing him by the collar of his sweatshirt and breaking his nose for daring to show his face here... What would he even tell Dustin?
Will looked away, staring at his knees, feeling his cheeks burn under the imagined scrutiny. He no longer heard the captain's words or the roar of the crowd; all nearby sounds were drowned out by the rush of his own thoughts.
He tried to correct his posture: he pulled a notebook and pen from his backpack, pretending to take notes for the school paper, though in reality he was poised to bolt for the exit.
When he risked looking up again, the guy was now looking at the captain, feigning attention. But the corner of his mouth was touched by a faint, almost embarrassed smirk, as if he'd caught himself doing something silly.
The whistle blew, signaling the start of the game. The players rushed onto the court, and the hall erupted in fresh applause. Will sat there, still bewildered.
Idiot, I missed everything!...
***
The day after the game, the school felt even more hostile to Will. He was relieved to find his locker hadn't been vandalized with slurs, but that small miracle brought no comfort today. The deafening roar of the crowd still echoed in his ears, and the memory of that studying gaze from the dark-haired guy was seared into his mind. He had spent the remainder of the match in a state of tense readiness to flee, having gathered nothing useful for Dustin. He felt like a failed agent who couldn't even secure the intel.
Will was hurriedly spinning his combination lock, trying to switch out his textbooks before the next class, when, confirming his worst fears, a voice sounded behind him:
"Will Byers?"
The voice was low, calm, lacking the usual high-school sneer. Will froze, his hand involuntarily clenching around his key. Slowly, fighting every protesting muscle and the screaming voice in his head, he turned around.
It was him. The very basketball player who had been burning a hole through Will with his gaze at yesterday's game. Without his uniform, he seemed slightly less monumental, but he still towered over Will, dressed in a tigh, long-sleeved Henley and jeans. His dark hair was neatly styled, and he carried a distinct scent of men's cologne.
"You're Will Byers, right?" the guy repeated, and something flickered in his brown eyes—not hostility, but rather an awkward curiosity and a deliberate attempt to look self-assured.
Will nodded, unable to force a single sound out. His body tensed, bracing for a punch, a taunt, anything. He was mentally saying goodbye to the integrity of his teeth.
"How... um... How are you?" the basketball player managed, his words laced with a strange embarrassment, before squinting slightly and looking Will directly in the eyes.
The question hung in the air, so absurd, so utterly irrelevant, that Will was momentarily stunned.
How are you? What did that even mean? Was this some new, sophisticated form of mockery?
He tried to say something, but only a muffled, strangled sound came out. It felt like an eternity they just stood there, silently looking at each other. The hallway buzzed with life, students rushing past in packs, but here, by Will's open locker, time seemed to stand still.
The basketball player seemed to realize the sheer absurdity of the situation himself. He averted his gaze, ran a hand over the back of his neck, and a faint blush tinged his olive cheeks.
"Okay..." he mumbled. "Just... saw you yesterday. Thought I'd... Never mind."
And without finishing his sentence, he turned sharply and melted into the crowd, leaving behind only a lingering trail of a beach-breeze scent.
Will stood rooted to the spot, still clutching his algebra textbook. His mind was desperately trying to process what had just happened. It wasn't an attack. It was... what? An attempt at friendship? To join the freak squad? No, too weird. Reconnaissance? Too awkward. Maybe he had imagined the whole thing? But no, he'd definitely heard his name.
"Hey, what did he want?"
Will flinched and turned. Mike had come up beside him, his face clouded with concern. He was looking in the direction where the basketball player had disappeared, then shifted a worried gaze to Will.
"Was he messing with you?" Mike's voice remained quiet and careful, but edged with a new impatience, a need to be in the know.
"No..." Will exhaled slowly, still trying to gather his bearings. He shoved the textbook into his backpack, his hands trembling slightly. "He... He just asked how I was."
Mike frowned.
"Asked how you were? That's it? Nothing else? That's one of them, Will! You saw him yesterday! Did he threaten you?"
"No," Will repeated more firmly, finally slamming his locker shut. The sharp click of the lock brought him back to reality. "He just asked and left. It was... I don't know."
***
Somewhere on the outskirts of Hawkins, in a spacious but tackily furnished garage, victory was roaring. The music of Bon Jovi pounded against the walls, mixing with the din of young voices and the crack-hiss of opening cans. The air was thick with the smell of beer, cheap cologne, and sweat. This was a temple of masculinity and mild teenage rebellion, and Chance Romero felt at home here.
Or at least, he was a master at pretending he did.
He was lounging on a leather couch, an arm draped around Becky, a cheerleader with chestnut curls. She was chattering animatedly, and he nodded, flashing the dazzling smile he'd perfected to an automatic reflex. His hand rested on her shoulder with the correct, expected gesture, but it held not a spark of genuine desire. His thoughts were miles away.
He's so... quiet, the thought surfaced, and Chance immediately shoved it down, taking a swig from his can. The icy liquid burned his throat.
Stupid. Completely stupid.
"...and then Chance just walked right up and asked him how he was doing!" his teammate, Josh, suddenly announced loudly, slapping Chance on the knee. "Can you believe it? That wimp Byers!"
Chance felt all eyes turn to him. He let out a forced laugh.
"Hey, a guy’s gotta know what kind of shape his opponent is in," Romero paused, savoring the attention. "He went completely white. I thought he was gonna pass out right there."
A loud, approving laugh rippled through their corner of the garage. Chance felt daring, almost heroic. But something twinged inside him. He remembered Will's frightened, wide-open hazel eyes and felt a pang of shame. This wasn't the kind of "daring" he wanted to brag about.
"So, you scared him good?" Andy asked with approval.
"Mh... Not yet," Chance countered, trying to keep his voice light and confident. "Figured it'd be boring. Like picking on a puppy. Let him whimper in fear by himself for a while."
The approving chorus of low, pubescent voices grew louder. He fit into their worldview; the cool guy playing with his prey. And thank God no one here had any clue what feelings Will Byers's delicate features stirred in Chance's heart. There was a fragility to him that Chance, to his own horror, found... compelling.
Becky snuggled closer.
"You're so bad," she whispered, looking up at him with adoring eyes.
He smiled back at her, that iron, soulless grin, and mentally told himself to go to hell.
Bad? You don't know the first thing about me.
The evening wore on, just like so many before it. Soon, Chance grew bored of the posturing crowd and slipped outside for air, feeling the mask begin to suffocate him.
His gaze swept over the room, over the laughing faces, the couples making out in dark corners. This was all part of his life.
Becky approached him, having had enough to drink that her persistence was starting to grate on everyone.
"Wanna dance?" she yelled near his ear, barely audible over the music.
"Not in the mood," Chance cut her off, not looking at her.
"Oh, come on!" She tugged at his arm.
Chance rolled his eyes and pulled his arm away with a sharp jerk. The girl recoiled, her painted lips twisting in hurt. Chance immediately felt sorry, but he didn't apologize. It was easier to look like a jerk than to explain that her touch sent a nauseating jolt through him because his thoughts were occupied by someone else entirely. Someone quiet, with "girlish" hair, as he'd thought at the game yesterday, and the hands of an artist.
He turned away and exited through a side door into the backyard. The night air was cool and clean after the garage's suffocation. Chance leaned against the side of the house, closed his eyes, and exhaled.
When he was alone, he really liked to fantasize that he was a "self-absorbed romantic trapped in a jock's body."
He dreamed of something more than these parties and easy victories, but the path to that "more" seemed like a minefield. And this Will Byers... he was from the other side of that field. Quiet. Weird. One of the kids his friends delighted in tormenting. And yet, there was a purity in his gaze, untainted by all the high school bullshit. He was different. And Chance was wildly, dangerously drawn to it.
He hurled his half-finished beer can into the darkness of the garden with all his strength. It hit the fence with a dull thud. Chance needed to forget about that guy. It was dangerous and pointless. But he knew he wouldn't. And that scared him more than any potential fight or lost game ever could.
***
The week passed in a gray, mundane rhythm. The post-game tension had gradually eased, replaced by familiar routine. That morning, they were riding to school as usual—Mike was muttering about a difficult physics assignment, and Will was silently listening, watching the rapidly passing, dilapidated houses. Autumn was taking hold, setting the leaves on fire, but inside, Will still felt cool and empty.
After the Upside Down had started seeping into peaceful Hawkins, and people had begun leaving in droves, school had obviously stopped being a top priority for everyone. God only knew why they were all still attending classes and worrying about exams. Nevertheless, Will consoled himself with the thought that he needed to return to a familiar environment to gather his strength and get back on the path to a peaceful life.
The metal locker door creaked open as usual, revealing the usual mess of textbooks and folders, along with a couple of old drawings Will had taped up to brighten the dull, gray door.
Just as he reached for his history book, his fingers brushed against a tiny, tightly folded piece of paper stuck in the crack between the shelves.
Will's heart skipped a beat; something about it triggered an obsessive, painful sense of déjà vu. Notes in his locker never meant anything good. He glanced around furtively: Mike was fiddling with his own lock nearby, completely unaware. Clenching the paper in his fist, Will shoved it into his jeans pocket, a burning anxiety flaring under his ribs.
The secret lay in his pocket throughout English class. When the teacher turned to write something on the board, he finally gave in. Carefully, under the desk, he unfolded the note.
The paper was plain, lined, as if torn from a notebook. The ink was blue, the handwriting neat.
Your hair looks great today. – C.
...
...Excuse me?...
Will froze, reading those few words over and over.
A compliment? Directed at him? It made no sense whatsoever. It had to be a trap, a stupid joke, the first part of someone's cruel plan.
He automatically ran a hand through his hair, the way Joyce used to do when she called him her "good boy," and felt a rush of strange, awkward warmth, immediately suppressed by a wave of suspicion. 'C.'? Who was that? No one in his circle used that initial. And whoever it was, they had been watching him. Today. As if seeking him out in the crowd. It was creepy.
Will was so absorbed in deciphering the message that he didn't notice Mike, sitting beside him, watching him the entire time. He didn't notice how his friend's gaze lingered on his hands, hidden under the desk, or on that particular, focused expression Will only got when he was truly captivated by something.
When the bell rang, Will barely managed to shove the note back into his pocket before Mike spoke to him.
"What was that?" Mike asked without preamble, his voice quiet but tense. They stepped out into the noisy hallway, and he gently grabbed Will's shoulder, pulling him aside, around a corner.
"What are you talking about?" Will knew perfectly well he didn't have the strength to lie to Mike, but explaining what was happening would be far more complicated than playing dumb.
"You were reading something. In class."
A shiver ran down Will's spine. Usually, Will liked it when Mike was this persistent, but now this sudden intrusion into his private life was just irritating.
"Nothing. It's nothing important."
"Didn't look like nothing. You looked weird."
His tone wasn't just curious; it carried that jealous anxiety that had become their constant companion over the last couple of years. Will hesitated. To show him would be to admit that something strange was happening in his life, to let Mike into this puzzle. To keep it to himself would be to lie, to create more distance, but to preserve this tiny, embarrassing secret inside.
"Someone left a note in my locker," he finally exhaled, avoiding eye contact.
"What? Again?" Mike's face twisted in anger, and he looked around. "Let me see it. What did those idiots write this time?"
He held out his hand. Will, obeying the old reflex of Mike's the leader, Mike knows what to do, slowly pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket. Mike snatched it, his eyes quickly scanning the lines, his eyebrows knitting together.
"'Your hair looks great'?" he read aloud with such genuine bewilderment that Will's heart twinged. "'C.'? Who the hell is that?"
"I don't know," Will replied, as if trying to brush it off, and took the note back. He suddenly felt a fierce desire for Mike not to be holding it.
"It must be Chandler," Mike said with icy certainty. "Yeah, it's her. It's obvious! That smug friend of Jennifer's. But what does she want from you?"
In those few seconds, Mike had managed to envision every terrible scenario his mind could conjure.
Here's Will Byers, your best friend, who's been living in your room for months, suddenly acting inexplicably strange. You used to be inseparable, sharing everything, and now he's pulling away from you, further and further each day, and you don't know why. Maybe he's started to suspect you look at him so often not because you feel awkward, but because you think his long lashes look rather nice framing his big green eyes? Or maybe he's learned to read minds and discovered all your deepest secrets, the ones you replay every night before bed, sometimes glancing at the boy lying nearby?
Or, probably, he's fallen for a girl, for mediocre Chandler Mitchell, and didn't even bother to tell his best friend, who's been breaking his head trying to figure out what's going on with Will Byers.
"Enough, Mike!" Will's irritated voice cut through Wheeler's train of thought. "What's wrong with you? Why do you feel entitled to barge into my private life? Even if it is Chandler, so what?"
"I'm not... I..." The words felt like a knife in the back. It had been a long time since Mike had seen Will be this secretive. "You realize now isn't the best time for all this, right?"
"Not the best time for what? For a relationship?" Will's tone held an uncharacteristic sharpness. "Well, I'm sorry I dared to think about something other than the impending apocalypse!"
Mike suddenly felt as if an unpleasant truth he'd long been avoiding had been laid bare.
"You know, I never complained when you started skipping Party meetings to visit El at the radio station."
"Will, that's completely different!" Mike exclaimed, but Will had already recoiled from him as if from a fire. In his green eyes, usually so soft, there was a bitter disappointment.
"Yeah, of course it's different!" His voice trembled, but he didn't lower it, ignoring the passersby turning to look. "Everything involving her is always 'different'! You're allowed to have a girlfriend, but I'm not? Am I just supposed to sit in your room and wait for you to grace me with a few crumbs of your attention?"
The jab was so accurate and struck so deep that Mike was momentarily speechless. He saw the resentment that had been building for years, the very one he had so diligently ignored, consumed first by El, then by his own internal torment.
Mike reached out a hand to stop Will, but he was already striding away down the school hallway, not looking back. In his pocket, that damned note still remained, which Byers had already come to hate with every fiber of his being. But what if it could be a window into a new life, a "normal" life, free from this longing for his childhood friend?