Chapter 1: aisle eleven (crafts & seasonal)
Chapter Text
Fall in Hawkins still smelled like wet leaves and cigarette smoke.
Will zipped his jacket up to his chin as he cut across the parking lot, backpack thumping lightly against his spine. The clouds were that flat, Ohio-gray that made everything look like it had been drawn in pencil and left uncolored. Perfect, he thought. Good lighting for reference sketches later.
The new arts & crafts store huddled at the end of the strip mall, wedged between the laundromat and a video rental place that still had a Coming Soon: Dirty Dancing poster sun-faded in the window. A neon sign over the craft store door buzzed HOBBY HUT in flickering pink and blue, like it couldn’t quite decide what mood it was in.
It was the kind of place Joyce would’ve insisted on driving him to last year.
Last year, she’d hovered; she’d double-checked locks, asked where he was going, when he’d be back, who he’d be with. Will didn’t blame her. There had been so many years of weird, broken things and missing-person posters and whispered adults. Even now, sometimes he caught her watching him like she was memorizing him, just in case.
But this fall, he was in high school, and something had shifted. Maybe it was the way he’d gotten through freshman year mostly okay, or the way he’d promised to call from every single pay phone within a ten-mile radius if anything even slightly weird happened. Maybe it was the way she’d started working more shifts, the way money had gotten tighter but his curfew had loosened.
Whatever it was, when he’d mentioned that the Hawkins High drama club needed more supplies for the fall play, she’d just said, “All right, honey. Be back before dinner, okay?” and passed him the grey station wagon keys.
He hadn’t even taken the car. He didn't even know how to drive, yet.
He liked the walk, liked the chill in the air and the way his breath fogged when he exhaled. Because each step felt like proof: he could handle being out here alone. Nothing supernatural. No monsters. Just a kid walking to buy gaffer tape.
The automatic door at Hobby Hut wheezed open when he stepped on the rubber mat. Warm air puffed out, smelling like dust, plastic, and something sharply chemical—glue or paint or the ghost of a thousand school projects. A tinny radio somewhere near the register was playing U2’s “With or Without You,” low enough that the chorus was more vibration than words.
Will grabbed a red plastic shopping basket and slid the folded list out of his jacket pocket, smoothing it with his thumb.
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Black acrylic paint (quart)
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White acrylic paint (quart)
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Gaffer’s tape (black)
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Cheap brushes (a lot)
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Glow-in-the-dark stars (Jane)
The last item had been added in Jane’s looping, careful handwriting at the bottom of the list, her “J” curling into the margin. She’d leaned over his shoulder at the kitchen table that morning.
“Can you get the stars for me?” she’d asked, quiet, like it might be too much. “For my ceiling. Hopper says I can’t nail any more posters into the wall, but stickers are okay.”
“That’s, like, scientifically unsound,” Mike had said around a mouthful of cereal. “Stars on the ceiling? That’s not how the sky—”
“Mike,” Will had cut in, giving him a warning kick under the table.
Jane had just blinked at both of them, spoon suspended halfway to her mouth. “I want to see them when I fall asleep,” she’d said, as if that solved everything. And, honestly, it did.
Now, weaving down the first aisle: ribbons and bows and cellophane bags, Will tucked the list back in his pocket and let his shoulders drop. The store was quiet, just an older man in a blue vest restocking foam balls and a woman arguing with a toddler about whether or not they needed more glitter.
Will moved slowly, letting his eyes drag over colors and textures. It was comforting, the order of it all: aisles labeled with little plastic signs. PAINTS. CANVAS. FABRIC. SEASONAL. No surprises. No secret doors to other worlds. Just fluorescent lights and linoleum.
Stage crew had been Jonathan’s idea, sort of. He urged will to use his artistic gifts and expand them.
“You should do something too,” Jonathan had said, while organizing his tapes. “Something that’s, like, yours. They’re doing a play, right? You draw. You could do the backdrop. Be, like, the mysterious art guy in the shadows.”
Mike had snorted. “He already is the mysterious art guy in the shadows.”
But Will had thought about it. About how, on stage crew, nobody would expect him to say lines in front of people or choose a college or act like he had any idea who he was yet. He could just paint. He could measure and cut and tape and be useful without being seen.
Now, standing in front of shelf after shelf of acrylics, he felt a small flare of satisfaction. This was his department. His realm.
He crouched to eye-level with the rows of black paint, comparing brands like it was a sacred ritual. The cheaper one boasted “MAXIMUM COVERAGE” on the label, but he’d used it before; it dried weird and streaky. The slightly more expensive bottle would last longer, went on smoother definitely worth the extra dollar, even if it meant explaining it later.
He reached for it, fingers curling around the cold plastic, when something large and solid rammed into his side.
“Whoa—”
The impact knocked him off-balance, the bottle slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor. A stack of foam boards nearby slid sideways, one of them smacking into his ankle like a lazy, oversized playing card.
“Shit, sorry!” a voice said, low and breathless and close.
Will grabbed the shelf with one hand, steadying himself before he went all the way down. His heart jolted under his ribs like it was trying to escape. He blinked, straightened, and turned.
The first thing he saw was a letterman jacket.
Green and gold, the Hawkins High “H” stitched in thick chenille on the chest, a basketball pin catching the fluorescent light. The jacket was open, though, revealing a faded white t-shirt underneath. The guy wearing it was taller than Will by at least a head, his dark black curls shoved messily under a backwards cap like he’d put it on mid-sprint.
He was holding the mangled remains of what had probably been a neatly stacked pile of neon poster boards a second ago.
“Seriously, man, my bad,” the guy said, wincing as he tried to shove the warped cardboard back into something resembling a square pile. “These carts are… possessed or something.”
His voice clicked into place in Will’s brain a half-second before his face did.
Chance.
He’d seen him around school: on the court at lunch, laughing with the other guys on the team; in the hallway, leaning lazily against a locker, tossing a basketball from hand to hand; once, in the cafeteria, with an entire table of girls giggling at something he’d said. He was the kind of guy teachers remembered by name and other kids watched, like the hallway just tilted toward him automatically.
Up close, his eyes were a warm brown that went amber at the edges, and there was a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, like he’d picked up summer and never quite put it down.
“I’m fine,” Will managed. His voice came out higher than normal, and he cleared his throat quickly. “Really. Uh, no harm, no foul?”
God. Sports metaphors. Who even was he.
Chance’s mouth tugged into a crooked grin. “Look at that, he’s got jokes.” He nudged the foam board with the toe of his sneaker. “Here, I got it. I destroyed the crime scene; I’ll fix it.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I kind of do. Otherwise I’ll see these boards in my nightmares, and Coach will be like, ‘Chance, why are you crying during drills?’ and I’ll have to tell him about the time I mauled a guy in the paint aisle.”
Will blinked. “Uh. Paint aisle assault. That’s serious business.”
Chance laughed, the sound bright and easy. He hefted the last of the boards back onto the stack and nudged them into place. It wasn’t perfect, but it was passable.
When he straightened, he glanced at the black paint on the floor, then at the identical bottle in Will’s hand.
“You’re Byers, right?” he said, like he was pretty sure but not arrogant about it. “Will? From… uh. From Mr. Clarke’s art elective last year. And, like, everywhere Mike Wheeler is.”
Heat shot up the back of Will’s neck.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s… me.”
“We were in the same homeroom for, like, three months,” Chance went on, almost sheepish. “I’m not a total jerk, I swear. It just takes my brain a while to, like, file people properly.” He mimed putting a file in a cabinet, complete with squeaky drawer sound effect.
Will’s shoulders eased a fraction. He remembered now: Chance slouched three rows over, drawing little plays on his notebook margins while the teacher took attendance. Will had drawn dragons in his, so. Glass houses.
“You’re—Chance,” Will said, and regretted it instantly because obviously. The name was literally on the back of his jacket. “I mean, uh, from the team.”
“Guilty.” Chance tipped an invisible hat. “Also currently from the ‘Coach made me in charge of pep rally banners, even though my handwriting looks like a squirrel got hold of a Sharpie’ department.”
He jerked his chin toward the cart he’d abandoned at the end of the aisle. It was half-full of glitter glue, letter stencils, and rolls of crepe paper in school colors.
Will glanced from the cart to the bottles in his basket. “So you’re… crafting,” he said, before his brain could come up with anything less stupid.
“Hey, no judgment,” Chance said quickly. “I can be sensitive and artistic. It’s the eighties, man.”
The joke was self-deprecating and a little defensive in a way that made Will’s chest twist. Chance lifted one shoulder, looking away for a second.
“Anyway,” he added, “I figured I should, like, make sure it doesn’t look like a kindergarten art show exploded in the gym. So. Here I am. Buying glitter. Very cool glitter.”
Will felt his mouth tug into a real smile. “There’s a difference?”
“Obviously.” Chance’s eyes flashed. “cool glitter is… uh.” He trailed off, squinting at the shelf as if the answer might be printed there. “Look, I’ll get back to you on that.”
The laugh bubbled out of Will before he could swallow it down.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll hold you to that.”
For a second, it was easy. Standing there between acrylics and poster board, the world narrowed to the fluorescent hum, the quiet squeak of someone pushing a cart in a far aisle, and the way Chance’s smile softened like he was relieved Will was laughing with him, not at him.
“What’re you getting?” Chance asked, nodding at Will’s basket.
“Paint,” Will said, because obviously. “For the fall play. I’m on stage crew. We’re doing Our Town, so it’s a lot of, like…” He gestured vaguely. “Houses and fences and existential dread.”
Chance snorted. “Yeah, I saw the audition flyers. My reading voice makes dogs howl, so I passed. But the posters are cool. Did you draw the little church?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Will’s fingers tightened on the handle of his basket. “That was me.”
“It’s sick,” Chance said, casual but sincere. “I couldn’t draw like that if you threatened to take away my sneakers.”
Will’s brain helpfully supplied an image of Chance without sneakers, in socks, laughing. He shoved it away immediately.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
There was a beat of silence. The radio in the background crackled as the song changed; something poppy and synthy kicked in. The overhead lights buzzed.
Chance shifted his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking softly.
“Hey, uh,” he said, like he was stepping out onto ice he wasn’t sure would hold. “So. I gotta make this huge banner for the first home game. Coach wants something ‘epic’ and ‘inspirational’ and I have the artistic skill set of a potato.” He scratched the back of his neck. “If you ever, like… wanted to help? Or had pointers. No pressure. Just thought I’d ask the expert.”
Expert.
The word landed somewhere low in Will’s stomach and glowed there.
“I’m not—” he started automatically, then stopped. He thought of Jonathan telling him to do something that was his. Of Jane clutching her notebook full of doodled flowers and trying to get the petals even. Of how, for once, someone wasn’t asking him about monsters or D&D or why he didn’t have a girlfriend.
He cleared his throat.
“I mean, I could… show you some tricks, maybe,” he said. “If you want. For lettering and stuff.”
Chance’s face lit up. It wasn’t the broad, performative grin he wore in the hallways, the one that bounced off lockers and back. It was smaller, a little shy, like he hadn’t expected Will to actually say yes.
“Really?” he said. Then, quickly, “I mean. Cool. Yeah. That’d be awesome.”
The word hung between them, stupidly big: awesome.
“Practice gets out at five most days,” Chance went on, words speeding up like he was afraid Will might change his mind. “We usually do banners in the far end of the gym after. If you’re ever around, you could just… swing by? Or we could meet here again if you like being attacked by poster boards.”
Will huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ll… see what stage crew’s schedule is like,” he said, which was the safest version of yes he could manage without his voice shaking. “We usually go late, too.”
“Cool,” Chance said again, softer this time.
Someone called over the intercom that the store would be closing in twenty minutes. The moment jittered a little, fractured.
Chance shifted his basket into the crook of his elbow. “I should grab the rest of this stuff before Coach thinks I got lost in the yarn aisle,” he said. “But, uh. I’ll see you at school, Byers.”
“Will,” Will said, surprising himself. “You can just… call me Will.”
Chance’s hazel eyes flicked up, meeting his. For a second, all the usual background noise of Will’s thoughts dropped out.
“Okay,” Chance said quietly. “See you at school, Will.”
He gave a little two-fingered salute and nudged his cart down the aisle, humming under his breath. Will watched him go, the letterman jacket bright against the rows of muted paint bottles, before forcing himself to look away.
He bent to pick up the fallen bottle of black paint, fingers brushing the cool plastic. His heart was still beating too fast, like he’d just run up the hill behind the school instead of… talked. In a craft store. About banners.
He added the paint to his basket and moved on, grabbing brushes and a roll of gaffer tape with automatic efficiency. At the end of the aisle, tucked between packets of star stickers and moon decals, he found a plastic jar of glow-in-the-dark stars.
They were cheap-looking and a little tacky, but he could already see Jane’s face when she stuck them to her ceiling, could imagine her turning off the light and whispering something like, “They look real.”
He put them in the basket gently, like they were something fragile.
At the register, he caught a glimpse of green and gold through the front window: Chance crossing the parking lot, shoulders hunched against the wind, a tube of rolled-up poster paper tucked under his arm. For a second, he hesitated, like he might look back.
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
Will paid, stuffed the receipt into his pocket, and stepped back out into the cold. The sky had deepened to that deep navy that meant streetlights would flicker on any minute. The crisp air smelled like rain and distant woodsmoke. Somewhere far off, a dog barked.
He adjusted his grip on the plastic bag, the handles biting into his fingers, and started the walk home.
His brain replayed the afternoon in stuttering clips: You’re Byers, right? You draw. Expert. See you at school, Will.
It felt… dangerous, almost, to hold onto them. Like if he trusted them too much, they’d evaporate, and he’d be left with nothing but the echo.
Still, by the time he let himself into the house and Joyce called a distracted “Hey, honey!” from the kitchen, those words had already started to rearrange themselves into something else: thumbnail sketches in his mind, the curve of Chance’s grin, the angle of his jaw when he leaned down to pick up the foam boards.
Later, in his room, with the glow-in-the-dark stars sitting patiently on his desk for Jane and the receipt paper crumpled in his trash can, Will opened his sketchbook.
He told himself he was just working out ideas for the gym banner, like he’d said.
But when his pencil touched the page, the first thing that appeared was a letterman jacket, slightly too big, a backwards cap, and a pair of brown eyes caught in the strange, humming light of aisle eleven.
He stared at it for a long moment, heart beating that familiar, wild rhythm.
“Just for reference,” he muttered to the empty room.
And then he turned the page and kept drawing.
Chapter 2: saving throws & stage lights
Summary:
mandatory stage crew work, charcoal-stained hands, and another evening sacrificed to *Our Town* instead of Hellfire. Eddie corners will in the hallway demanding to know when he’ll be “released” so the campaign can finally begin, Lucas and Dustin relay just how much the party is waiting on him, and Will feels the pull of the table he’s not at… and the stage he can’t leave. Between Mrs. Worthington’s dramatic demands, Jane painting “authoritarian” fences, and the echo of basketball practice through the auditorium doors, Chance drifts back into Will’s orbit, this time for gaffer tape, banner talk, and a shy invitation to Friday’s home game. Caught between theater, D&D, and a slowly forming crush on a boy in a letterman jacket, Will starts to realize that the scariest thing might just be choosing what he actually wants.
Chapter Text
The glow-in-the-dark stars worked better than Will expected.
They’d spent half of last night sticking them to Jane’s ceiling, standing on Hopper’s rickety step stool while she handed him stars one by one like they were something sacred. Hopper had grumbled about the tape and the potential damage to the paint, but he’d stayed in the doorway anyway, arms folded, watching them with a softness he tried to hide under complaints.
When they’d finished, Jane turned off the light and gasped, her face washed in the faint, milky-green glow.
“They look real,” she’d whispered.
Now, in the washed-out light of morning, Will lay on his bed and stared at the bumpy ceiling, remembering the way Jane’s whole expression had lit up. His sketchbook was open on his chest, last night’s final drawing still visible: a rough outline of a letterman jacket, the suggestion of curls under a backwards cap, a smile halfway between cocky and shy.
He should’ve turned the page, he knew. Should’ve started actual work on the Our Town backdrops. Instead, he’d kept going, adding details he had no business remembering that clearly from one encounter in a craft store: the chipped edge of Chance’s front tooth, the wrinkle at the corner of his eye when he laughed.
Stupid, he thought now, heat prickling at his ears. It was just a guy in a jacket. A guy who’d knocked into him by accident and said maybe they could hang out in a gym full of other people. That wasn’t… anything.
He closed the sketchbook carefully, like he could trap the embarrassment inside, and sat up, the thin blanket sliding into his lap. From the kitchen, he could hear Hopper moving around, cabinet doors thunking, the radio mumbling morning news.
Will checked the time on the microwave clock when he shuffled in: 7:12. Plenty of time before school, but late enough that the sleepy quiet of the house had tipped into the familiar weekday rush.
Jane was at the table already, hair pulled into a slightly crooked ponytail, staring at a bowl of cereal like it was a science experiment.
“You have to actually eat it,” Hopper was saying as he poured coffee into a chipped “KNOCK ‘EM DEAD” mug. “Looking at it doesn’t make the vitamins go in by osmosis.”
Jane frowned down at the soggy cornflakes. “It is mushy.”
“That’s how cereal is when you let it sit,” Hopper said. “I told you, kiddo, pour, then eat. That’s the order.”
Will shook his head. “Morning,” he said, pulling a slice of bread from the bag.
Jane’s face brightened like someone had flipped a switch.
“Good morning,” she echoed. “Thank you again for the stars. I saw Orion,” she added proudly. “On the ceiling.”
“I think those were mostly random,” Will said, dropping the bread into the toaster and pushing the lever down. “But if you saw him, that’s what matters.”
Hopper snorted into his coffee. “Art kids,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it. “Your mother called,” he added, nodding at Will. “She said to tell you your ‘high and mighty stage crew schedule’ better not make you forget that dinner exists.”
Will flushed. “I won’t,” he said. “We’ve just got a lot to do. Opening night is in, like, three weeks.”
“Three weeks,” Hopper echoed. “In high school time, that’s practically next year.” He waved a hand. “Go paint your fences or whatever it is, just don’t stay so late you get murdered by a janitor, all right?”
Jane’s eyes widened. “There are murderous janitors?”
“No,” Will cut in quickly, giving Hopper a Look. “There are tired janitors who want to go home. That’s all.”
Hopper grinned over his coffee like he’d gotten the exact reaction he wanted.
“Okay,” Jane said slowly, accepting this new data. She took a careful bite of cereal, face twisting at the texture. “Can we show Mike the stars?” she asked after she swallowed. “And Lucas. And Dustin. And Max, when she visits.”
“Yeah,” Will said, because he could already hear Mike giving a lecture on constellations while Dustin tried to peel one off the wall. “We’ll invite them over.”
The toast popped up, and the small, normal sound grounded him. He buttered it, grabbed his backpack from the floor, and tried not to think about craft store aisles or hazel eyes.
It was just another day of school. Just another day on stage crew. Just another day where nothing absolutely insane happened.
He could do that.
Hawkins High always looked a little uglier on cloudy days.
The brick was a dull, tired red, and the windows reflected back the flat, gray sky like they were bored. The parking lot was already a mess of cars when Will got there, the cacophony of engines and slammed doors and shouted greetings bouncing off the metal lockers visible through the glass entry doors.
He adjusted his backpack strap, took a breath, and stepped inside.
The hallway swallowed him immediately: the smell of cleaning solution and cheap perfume, the squeak of sneakers, the clatter of locker doors. U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” bled faintly from someone’s Walkman headphones as they passed.
Mike was at their usual meeting point by the trophy case, leaning against the wall with his backpack on the floor between his feet. He had that half-awake, half-wired look he wore most mornings, one shoelace dragging behind him like a dead snake.
“You’re late,” he said by way of hello.
“It’s 7:48,” Will said. “The bell doesn’t even ring for twelve minutes.”
“Yeah, but I had to pretend to listen to Dustin talk about his campaign setup all by myself for, like, five of those,” Mike said, pushing off the wall. “It was harrowing.”
“‘Harrowing,’” Dustin repeated from behind him, tone offended. He appeared with his arms full of books, his curly hair frizzing in the humidity. His Hellfire Club tee-shirt peeked out from under his flannel. “You’re gonna regret those words when your doomed soul is begging for mercy from my new boss monster.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “You always say that, and then somehow we still win.”
“That’s because I’m generous,” Dustin sniffed. “And because you have a wizard whose player I might finally get back if stage crew ever releases him from servitude.”
He shot Will a pointed look.
Will groaned inwardly. “I already told you,” he said. “We’re swamped. Mrs. Worthington wants the entire town square finished by next Friday.”
“Well, Eddie doesn’t accept ‘Mrs. Worthington’ as an excuse,” Dustin said. “He says, and I quote, ‘theater kids have stolen my mage and I refuse to take this lying down.’” Dustin switched to a terrible approximation of Eddie’s voice on the last part, words dramatic and elongated.
Will snorted despite himself. “Is he going to challenge her to a duel?”
“Honestly? Maybe,” Dustin said. “He said something about ‘storming the drama room’ but that could’ve been metaphorical. With Eddie, it’s hard to tell.”
Mike opened his locker, the door squeaking in protest. “If he gets himself banned from the auditorium, I claim his BC Rich,” he said.
“In your dreams,” Dustin said. “That guitar is going to me in his will. Blood pact. We spit-shook and everything.”
“You’re disgusting,” Mike said.
Will half-listened, spinning his own locker combination, heart ticking somewhere two beats faster than it needed to. Every time someone in a letterman jacket passed within his peripheral vision, he had to fight the urge to look up too fast.
It’s school, he told himself. You saw him once. He probably barely remembers.
But when they headed toward homeroom, weaving through clusters of students, he saw a shock of familiar green and gold at the junction of two hallways. The basketball guys were gathered in a loose huddle around one of the fountains, voices loud, a ball bouncing rhythmically between palms.
Lucas stood at the edge of the group, his own gym bag slung over his shoulder, laughing at something one of the older players said. He spotted them and lifted his chin in greeting.
“Hey!” he called. “Dustin, I have a question about your ‘boss monster.’”
Dustin perked up immediately. “Oh, you mean—”
Before he could launch into it, one of the taller jocks short blond hair, too much cologne slapped Lucas on the back.
“Man, you’re bringing your nerd friends in here again?” he said, mock-despairing. “You tryin’ to infect the team with, like, math?”
“Relax, Tommy,” another voice said. “Math might help us not blow the last quarter again.”
The new voice was warm, amused. Will knew it before he looked and saw Chance, cap shoved backward, resting his forearms casually on the top of the drinking fountain. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, easy and bright.
He was mid-sip when he glanced up and caught sight of Will over Lucas’s shoulder.
For one insane moment, Will considered pretending he hadn’t noticed. He could keep walking, duck into homeroom, pretend the craft store had been some weird, one-off dream.
But Chance’s mouth tugged into a half-smile around the rim of the fountain, and he lifted his fingers in a small, quick wave.
Will’s stomach dropped straight through the floor.
He forced his hand up in response. The motion felt stiff, like his arm was attached wrong, but it was something.
“Who are you waving at?” Mike asked under his breath, pushing his glasses up.
“Nobody,” Will said too fast. “Just uh someone from art. I mean, not art. Just… someone.”
“Wow,” Dustin said, clearly delighting in the awkwardness. “Total clarity. No notes.”
Lucas hurried over, intercepting before they could keep going.
“You guys coming to Hellfire after school?” he asked, slipping seamlessly into their orbit. “Eddie wants to start the new campaign prep. He has this whole speech planned, it’s ridiculous.”
Mike shrugged. “If my mom doesn’t suddenly remember I had a dentist appointment three months ago that we ‘never rescheduled,’ yeah.”
“I’ll be there,” Dustin said. “I have binders.”
“No practice today i think, so, naturally,” Lucas said. He turned to Will, hope flickering across his face. “And you?”
Will shifted his weight. He hated this part, hated the way every answer felt like choosing between pieces of himself.
“I can’t,” he said, and watched Lucas’s shoulders drop half an inch. “We have a stage crew work day. Mrs. Worthington said ‘no exceptions’ this time. She made a speech. There was a lot of pointing.”
Lucas winced. “Brutal.”
Dustin sighed theatrically, already expecting that answer. “Eddie’s gonna be pissed,” he said. “On the plus side, maybe he’ll channel it into making the boss monster even more terrifying. For you. Personally.”
“Great,” Will muttered. “Can’t wait.”
The bell rang overhead, shrill and insistent. The hallway shifted, current changing direction as people started toward classrooms.
“Later,” Lucas said, backing toward the locker room corridor. “Try not to get eaten by stage lights.”
“Try not to break your face on the court,” Will shot back.
“Hey, if I break my face, it only makes me more rugged,” Lucas called, and disappeared into the crowd.
Will tried not to look back toward the fountain as they headed to homeroom.
He failed.
Chance was already turned back to his friends, gesturing as he talked, but as if he felt the weight of Will’s gaze, he glanced over his shoulder again. Their eyes met for half a heartbeat, curiosity sparking across the distance.
Then the flood of students swept between them, and Will let himself be carried along.
Stage crew announcements went up during third period.
Will saw them on his way to English: a sheet of bright yellow paper taped lopsided to the main bulletin board, black marker letters spelling out STAGE CREW MANDATORY WORK DAY – TODAY. REPORT TO AUDITORIUM AFTER THE LAST BELL. – MRS. WORTHINGTON. Someone had drawn a tiny stick figure beneath it being crushed under a falling spotlight.
“Subtle,” he muttered, smoothing the corner of the paper where it had started to peel.
“You guys always look like that after a show,” a voice drawled behind him. “Like the lights actually did drop on you.”
Will didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Eddie Munson had a voice that carried like it had its own built-in microphone.
He turned anyway.
Eddie was leaning against the opposite wall like he’d been part of the scenery the whole time, ankles crossed, lunch tray balanced on his palm. His long hair was pulled back slightly today, and he was wearing his Hellfire tee under the customary ragged denim vest. A cigarette dangled unlit from behind his ear, like a weird accessory.
“You’re not supposed to be in this hallway,” Will said automatically. “That’s what you told the principal last week, right? ‘I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to evangelize the gospel of metal in the sophomore wing’? You don’t usually tempt fate this close to the office.”
“She’s learning,” Eddie said, to no one in particular. “They grow up so fast.” He pushed off the wall and sauntered closer, squinting at the flyer. “Ah, yes. The tyranny of Worthington. A cruel overlord if ever there was one.”
“She’s not cruel,” Will said, instinctively defensive. “She just… cares a lot.”
“She cares a lot about having your free time in a chokehold,” Eddie countered. “And about stealing my wizard.”
There it was.
Will sighed. “I knew this was coming.”
“You bet your sweet d20 it was,” Eddie said. “Dustin tells me you’re once again sacrificing your God-given right to roll for initiative at the altar of set design.”
“I made a commitment,” Will said, acutely aware of how much he sounded like Joyce. “We open in three weeks—”
“Yeah, yeah, fences and existential dread, Wheeler briefed me,” Eddie said, waving a hand. “I’m just saying, a man cannot live on painted cardboard alone. He needs fantasy. He needs dragons. He needs wildly unbalanced encounter tables.”
Will bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile. “We’re not even at the campaign yet,” he pointed out. “You’re still building it. You don’t need me there for that.”
“I need your vibes,” Eddie insisted. “Your narrative instincts. Your ability to say, ‘No, Eddie, that monster will kill us in one hit and then you’ll cry because we’re all dead.’”
“That happened once,” Will said.
“And it scarred me,” Eddie said. “Look—” He adjusted his grip on the tray, suddenly more earnest. “You know I’m not actually mad, right? I just like giving theater people crap because they’re the only ones more dramatic than I am.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” Will said dryly.
Eddie gasped. “He wounds me.” Then, softer, “But seriously. I miss having you at the table, man.”
The words, simple as they were, hit somewhere low and warm in Will’s chest.
“I miss it too,” he admitted. “But this is just until the show opens. Then I’m free. You’ll have me for the whole rest of the year. You can drown me in goblins.”
“Those sound like famous last words,” Eddie said, a grin tugging at his mouth. “All right, Byers. I’ll release you from guilt. For now.” He jabbed a finger at the stage crew flyer. “But I reserve the right to storm the auditorium if Worthington starts talking about adding a second show.”
“She wouldn’t,” Will said. Then thought about it. “…She might.”
“Exactly,” Eddie said. “And when that happens, I, as the duly elected president of Hellfire, will stage a prison break. For now, though, I shall content myself with tormenting your comrades.”
“Please don’t,” Will said, imagining Eddie bursting through the auditorium doors in full DM glory.
“Too late,” Eddie said, already backing away. “I’ve got a tray full of tater tots with their names on it.”
He pivoted on his heel, nearly colliding with a teacher coming around the corner, and disappeared into the flood heading toward the cafeteria.
Will stared at the yellow flyer for another second, the words MANDATORY WORK DAY feeling heavier somehow.
Just a few more weeks, he reminded himself. Then he could sit at that stupid gray table in the drama room with his friends and roll dice until his hand cramped. Then he could let himself get lost in someone else’s worlds for a while.
For now, he had a town to paint.
By the time the last bell rang, the auditorium smelled like sawdust and ambition.
Will dropped his backpack in the front row and hopped up onto the stage, where a small army of theater kids already buzzed around like bees. Some were hammering flats together, the metallic thunks echoing in the high ceiling. Others were painting trim pieces in their school clothes, oblivious to the way the green would never quite come out.
Mrs. Worthington was at center stage, clipboard in hand, scarf knotted dramatically around her neck.
“—and remember,” she was saying as Will joined the cluster, “Thornton Wilder believed in the universality of the human experience. I will not have anyone’s universality smeared, crooked, or improperly braced.”
“Yes, Mrs. Worthington,” the chorus of crew members intoned.
She spotted Will and lit up. “Ah! Our resident artiste,” she said, sweeping over. “Will, sweetheart, I want you on the town backdrop. We have our primed canvas, we have our charcoal… we need your genius.”
“Genius” was a strong word for “kid who liked drawing houses,” but he nodded. “Okay. Do you have the sketch?”
She pressed a rolled-up sheet of paper into his hands like it was a sacred scroll. “Make it breathe,” she said, eyes shining. “Make it… Hawkins, but also… everywhere.”
“I’ll… try,” Will said.
He unrolled the paper on a long worktable at the side of the stage. The layout Mrs. Worthington had approved was his third draft: two-story house on one side, white fence, a small church with a steeple, and a stylized hill in the background. He could already see where the shadows needed to deepen, where the highlights could make the windows look like they were really catching dawn.
He lost himself in it.
Charcoal under his fingers, the soft drag of the stub across primed canvas, the way lines became walls, became roads, became someplace people could stand, even if they were just pretending. Around him, the noise of the auditorium faded into a kind of comforting white noise: the clatter of wood, the murmur of voices, the squeak of a paint roller.
He was halfway through outlining the church when the sound cut in.
Basketballs.
Distant, rhythmic, the hollow thump of rubber on wood.
He startled, the charcoal stuttering in his hand. For a second he was disoriented, the mental knee-jerk of old fears rising and then dissolving when he remembered it was just the gym, on the other side of the double doors off the far corridor.
He shouldn’t care. The team practiced almost every day. It was like hearing the band room: background noise, part of the building.
But his heart still sped up.
“Will?” someone asked, close.
He blinked, coming back, and found Jane at the edge of the stage, arms full of paintbrushes in various stages of ruin. She was still in her school clothes, but she’d added one of Mrs. Worthington’s old smocks over her shirt, the sleeves rolled sloppily.
“You froze,” she observed. “Like a deer.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “Just… zoned out. You painting today?”
She nodded solemnly and held up the brushes. “Mrs. Worthington said these are sacrifices. For art.”
Will smiled. “That sounds like something she’d say.”
Jane stepped closer, peering at the backdrop-in-progress.
“Is that the church?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Will said. “This is where they do a lot of the weddings and… funerals. It’s a whole thing.”
“Funerals,” she repeated, tasting the word. “That is when someone dies.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But in the play it’s more about… how life keeps going. Even when people are gone. How… the small things matter.”
Jane considered that, brow furrowing.
“Like brushing teeth,” she said slowly. “Or holding someone’s hand. Or… stars on the ceiling.”
“Exactly,” he said, throat suddenly tight.
She smiled, satisfied with the answer, and set the brushes down in a jar of murky water.
“I will paint fences,” she declared. “I like lines. They are rules.”
“Don’t let Mrs. Worthington hear you say that,” Will said. “She’ll make you paint abstract feelings instead.”
Jane looked faintly horrified. “Can we do that?”
“Apparently,” Will said.
She scampered off toward a half-finished fence flat, leaving a trail of paint-smeared footprints on the drop cloth. Will exhaled, shook out his hand, and bent back over the canvas.
The gym sounds didn’t go away, but he tried to let them become part of the rhythm: thump, squeak of sneakers, distant whistle, the occasional shout. His charcoal moved in time with it, turning empty white into something fuller.
He didn’t notice the figure in the wings until a voice spoke directly behind him.
“Dude, that perspective is insane.”
Will jumped, nearly jabbing his finger into the canvas. He whirled around, heart in his throat.
Chance stood a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his letterman jacket, curls damp with sweat like he’d just come from practice. The chain at his neck glinted under the stage lights, and there was a faint smear of chalk on one cheekbone.
“How do you people keep sneaking up on me?” Will blurted.
Chance held up his hands. “Sorry. I knocked, sort of?”
He tapped the side of the proscenium arch, the sound lost under the general clamor of the auditorium.
“I was sent on a mission of great importance,” he added. “We, the humble peasants of the gym, require more tape for the shin of the free throw line. Or something. I don’t know. Coach was yelling. But he said the drama goblins would have gaffer’s tape and that I should ask nicely.”
“The drama goblins?” Will repeated.
“His words, not mine,” Chance said. “I respect all theater-dwelling cryptids.”
Will huffed out a laugh despite the way his pulse was trying to climb into his skull.
“Gaffer tape’s in the cabinet,” he said, gesturing toward the stage right door where the supply closet was. “But you probably need Mrs. Worthington’s approval if you’re taking it out of the sacred hall of props.”
“Right,” Chance said solemnly. “Lest I be smitten by a falling chandelier.”
“We don’t have a chandelier,” Will said. “Budget cuts.”
“Tragic,” Chance said. “Guess we’ll have to make do with a stern talking-to.”
He stepped closer to the backdrop, eyes traveling over the sketched-in houses and steeple.
“I wasn’t kidding,” he said after a second. “About the perspective. Those roofs actually look like they’re… roof-ing. If I tried that, it’d look like a four-year-old’s Lego dream house.”
“It’s just lines,” Will said, shrugging, suddenly self-conscious. “You could do it.”
“Oh yeah?” Chance said lightly. “Art wizard over here thinks I can draw? That’s high praise.”
Will opened his mouth to deflect, then shut it again. Part of him wanted to say, I barely know you. Another part wanted to say, You’re the one who called me an expert, remember?
Instead, he settled on, “You literally run plays in your head in three dimensions. That’s kind of what this is, but, like… with streets instead of layups.”
Chance blinked, then laughed, genuine and surprised.
“Okay,” he said. “That was… weirdly flattering. I’ll take it.” He shifted his weight, nodding toward the sketch. “So this is, what, the whole town?”
“Part of it,” Will said. “It’s Our Town. Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, 1901 to 1913. Minimalist set, except Mrs. Worthington wants it ‘suggestively detailed,’ whatever that means.”
“Gotta love when teachers use words nobody’s used since 1840,” Chance said.
“‘Suggestively’ means she wants us to stay late,” Will said.
“Ah,” Chance said. “See, that’s a language I understand.”
He glanced toward the gym doors, then back at Will, clearly torn.
“Hey, um,” he said. “About what we talked about yesterday. Banners. If you’re, like… chained to this thing for the next three weeks, we don’t have to—”
“I’m not chained,” Will said, too fast. Chance’s eyebrows went up, and he felt heat creep up his neck. “I mean. We’re here a lot, but… I could come by after we’re done sometime. Help with lettering.”
Chance’s shoulders eased like he’d been bracing for a no.
“Yeah?” he said. “That’d be cool.” He hesitated. “I mean, we practice most days, but Coach usually lets us out by five. I can… I don’t know, steal a corner of the bleachers. If you’re free.”
“I’ll check,” Will said, trying to sound casual as his brain screamed: You just volunteered to go to the gym. On purpose.
Chance’s smile was quick and bright.
“Cool,” he said again, then seemed to catch himself. “Uh, I should… not incur the wrath of the drama goblins any more than necessary. Where’s this sacred tape?”
Will pointed toward the cabinet. “Top shelf. Black roll. Don’t take the silver, that’s for the big cables.”
“Yes, sir,” Chance said, giving a mock salute. He started toward the cabinet, then paused. “Hey, uh. We have a home game Friday,” he added, voice casual but eyes not. “If you wanna… you know. See your lettering in action, or whatever. No pressure. It’s probably boring if you’re not into basketball.”
Will’s brain stalled.
Friday. Game. Banners. Chance running up and down the court in that jacket.
Stop, he told himself.
“I’ll… think about it,” he said, which was as close as he could get to anything without his tongue tying itself in knots.
Chance nodded, like that was more than he’d expected.
“Thinking is good,” he said. “Thinking leads to choices. And choices are… kind of my thing.” His smile turned lopsided at his own dumb joke. “Later, Will.”
He disappeared into the wings, leaving the faint scent of sweat and gym floor behind.
Will turned back to the backdrop, heart pounding.
“Who was that?” Jane asked from behind him, out of nowhere.
He almost dropped his charcoal again.
“Jane!” he hissed. “Are you trying to kill me?”
She blinked, unruffled, and dipped her brush into a can of white paint. “Who was that?” she repeated. “The boy. With the jacket.”
“He’s… on the basketball team,” Will said, focusing very intently on the church steeple. “We had art class together last year. He needed tape.”
Jane considered this, head tilted.
“His eyes are pretty,” she said matter-of-factly.
Will’s hand slipped, charcoal line wobbling.
“I didn’t notice,” he lied automatically.
Jane hummed in a way that said she absolutely did not believe him, but she went back to her fences without further commentary.
Will stared at the wobbly charcoal line and wondered if he could blame it on “suggestive detail.”
By the time the stage crew work day wrapped up, Will’s hands were stiff and stained gray, and the outlines of Grover’s Corners were beginning to look like a real place. The sky backdrop lay drying in the corner, pale washes of blue bleeding into each other. Jane’s fences were a little too precise, every slat exactly the same width, but Mrs. Worthington had declared them “beautifully authoritarian” and clapped her hands.
“Excellent work, everyone,” she said as the last of the paint cans were lidded. “You may go home and rest your weary backs. But remember: art never sleeps.”
“Does she know we do?” someone muttered behind Will.
He stretched his arms above his head, vertebrae popping.
“Will!” Dustin’s voice echoed from the back of the auditorium. “Are you alive?”
Will turned to see Dustin and Mike at the top of the aisle, backpacks slung haphazardly. Dustin’s Hellfire shirt was splattered with something suspiciously like nacho cheese.
“You’re late,” Will said. “Work day ended ten minutes ago.”
“Eddie kept us,” Mike said. “He got on a roll describing this vampire lord and wouldn’t shut up. I think he’s in love with his own villain.”
“He is,” Dustin said. “It’s unhealthy. Also, he told us to come ‘wail at the barred windows of your creative cell’ and see if you’d been released."
“You can tell him I got time off for good behavior,” Will said. “As long as I’m back on the chain gang tomorrow.”
Mike’s gaze drifted past him to the backdrop.
“Whoa,” he said. “It’s like the poster, but bigger. And… more depressing.”
“Thank you?” Will said, laughing.
“Dude, it’s awesome,” Dustin said, stepping closer. He traced the air a few inches from the painted lines. “Can you teach me how to do the, like, fake-distance thing? With the roofs?”
“Perspective,” Will said. “And yeah. I guess.”
Dustin grinned. “Hell yeah. We can make the best battle maps ever.”
Will hesitated.
“I thought you guys loved the messy ones Eddie draws where you can’t tell if that’s a hill or a dragon corpse,” he said.
“Oh, we do,” Dustin said. “But imagine his chaotic nonsense on top of your actually good structure. It’ll be unstoppable.”
“Weaponizing my art,” Will said. “Terrifying.”
“Anyway,” Mike cut in. “You walking home or hitching a ride?”
“My mom is picking me and Jane up,” Will said. “She said she ‘doesn’t trust Worthington to let me go at a reasonable hour.’” He glanced at the clock. “She was kind of right.”
“I’ll wait with you,” Dustin said. “I need to give you the lore rundown so when you finally show your face at Hellfire again, you’re not, like, totally lost.”
Mike groaned. “He’s gonna explain the politics of the vampire court again.”
“This is important worldbuilding!” Dustin insisted.
Will smiled, the familiar bickering soothing some of the strange buzzing under his skin.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. “Just gotta wash my hands. I don’t think my mom wants charcoal all over the car.”
“Too late,” Mike said. “She already has Dustin’s shoe prints on her ceiling from that one time.”
“That was an experiment,” Dustin said. “And I was eleven.”
They wandered back up the aisle, arguing about whether eleven-year-olds should legally be allowed near super glue.
Will headed for the backstage sink. The water ran cold, gray spiraling down the drain as he scrubbed his fingers. His reflection in the small, warped mirror looked tired but… lighter, somehow.
He dried his hands on a rag and stepped out into the lobby.
Through the glass front doors, he could see Joyce’s station wagon idling by the curb, exhaust curling in the cooling air. Dustin sat on the hood, gesturing wildly as he talked, while Joyce and Mike listened in varying degrees of amusement.
Will pushed the door open and stepped into the chill.
“How was prison?” Joyce called.
“Productive,” he said. “We finished all the flats and most of the backdrop.”
“Let me see those hands,” she said, reaching for them. She turned them over, inspecting for cuts or splinters. “Mm. Only mildly destroyed. I approve.”
“Mom,” he protested, pulling away, but he was smiling.
Dustin hopped off the hood.
“Okay,” he said in a rush, as if he’d been storing the words up. “So there’s this ancient rivalry between the vampire lord and the high priestess of the moon goddess, and it’s all tied to this prophecy about a chosen hero, and Eddie’s not saying it but like, obviously he’s aiming it at you.”
“Me?” Will blinked.
“Yeah, wizard boy,” Dustin said. “You think he doesn’t have a whole arc planned for you? He’s literally making us wait to start until you can show up regularly. Which, by the way, no pressure.” He grinned. “Immense pressure.”
“Dustin,” Joyce warned gently.
“What? He likes the pressure,” Dustin said. “It makes him better.”
“I’ll come as soon as I can,” Will said, and meant it.
As they talked, a movement across the parking lot caught his eye.
The doors to the gym banged open and the basketball team spilled out, laughing, bags slung over shoulders. Lucas was in the middle of the pack, bouncing a ball idly after having been informed that practice was indeed mandatory. Chance walked beside him, jacket unzipped, hair damp, talking animatedly with another player.
Will’s chest tightened.
He told himself to look away. To get in the car, go home, eat dinner, talk to Jonathan about music, help Jane with homework.
Instead, as if compelled, his gaze followed the group.
Lucas noticed first. He raised a hand, calling something Will couldn’t hear. Chance turned, following the motion. For a second, Will thought he’d just keep going.
He didn’t.
He said something to the guy next to him, then jogged a few steps away from the group, veering toward the row of cars closest to the school.
Joyce was in the middle of asking Jane about paint supplies when he reached them.
“Yo, Byers!” Chance called, slowing to a walk near the wagon. He lifted his hand in a hesitant half-wave. “Hey. Didn’t expect to see you still here.”
“Mandatory,” Will said, gesturing vaguely toward the building. “Mrs. Worthington had us on lock.”
“Coach does the same thing with drills,” Chance said. “Difference is, you actually make something at the end.” He nodded toward the school. “How’s it going in there? Town look all existential yet?”
Will huffed a small laugh. “We’re getting there,” he said. “Your tape saved at least three flats, so you’re basically a co-creator now.”
“Add that to my resume,” Chance said. “‘Basketball, average student, part time tape hero.’”
“Don’t forget glitter procurement,” Will said.
“Right, the most important job,” Chance said, eyes crinkling.
Joyce glanced between them, curiosity mild but present.
“Friend of yours?” she asked Will, tone light.
“Uh,” Will said, brain suddenly blank. “We… had art class together. This is Chance. He’s on the team.”
“Chance,” Joyce repeated, offering a hand over the hood. “Nice to meet you. Any friend of Will’s is—”
“An accomplice in paint crimes,” Chance finished, taking her hand with easy politeness. “Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Byers.”
“Wow, manners,” Joyce said, clearly charmed. “You must have a mother who actually yells at you.”
“Only constantly,” Chance said with a grin. He shifted his weight, glancing at Will. “So. Uh. Game’s Friday. At seven. If you decide to think about it. There’ll be banners. Hopefully not ugly ones.”
Will swallowed.
“I’ll… see,” he said. “We might have rehearsal but I’ll… try.”
Chance’s smile softened.
“No worries,” he said. “I know you’re in high demand. Just thought I’d, you know. Extend the royal invitation.” He took a few steps backward, pointing finger-guns at Will in a way that would’ve been obnoxious on anyone else. “Catch you later, art guy.”
He turned and jogged to catch up with the rest of the team.
Will watched him go until he vanished behind a cluster of cars.
Beside him, Dustin made a small, strangled sound.
“What?” Will asked, snapping back.
Dustin’s eyes were huge.
“Nothing,” he said. “Just. Wow. Basketball royalty knows your name. Should we be bowing?”
“Shut up,” Will muttered, cheeks burning.
Joyce’s gaze was speculative but kind.
“You should go to the game if you want to,” she said casually as they climbed into the car. “High school’s… you know. It’s nice to have memories that don’t all look the same. Plus, Lucas would like the support.”
“Mm,” Will said, staring out the window as the station wagon pulled away from the curb.
The school receded behind them, brick and glass and banners he hadn’t helped design yet.
He thought about the backdrop drying in the auditorium, about Eddie’s campaign waiting like a coiled spring, about Jane’s careful joy under her fake stars.
He thought about a green and gold jacket in a craft store aisle, and a voice saying, See you at school, Will.
Chapter 3: proofs & pep talks
Summary:
Will’s night is supposed to be all geometry proofs and spaghetti, but between tutoring Jane, Mike’s visit, and Jonathan gently poking at the “basketball kid” on Will’s mind, the game on Friday starts to feel less hypothetical and more like a choice he actually wants to make. The next day, after another stage crew grind and Mrs. Worthington’s dramatic speeches, Will and Jane venture into the “jock territory” of the Hawkins gym to help Chance with his disastrously uneven pep rally banner. Guiding Chance’s shaky lettering, trading jokes, Will finds himself smiling in a place that used to only mean bad memories. Realizing that maybe, he’s allowed to be curious about what (and who) he wants.
Chapter Text
By the time they pulled into the driveway, the sky had gone from gray to charcoal, the kind of early fall darkness that settled fast once the sun dipped. The porch light was already on, a soft yellow halo over the peeling steps.
Joyce killed the engine and sat for a second, fingers still on the keys.
“You look both wiped,” she said, watching Will and Jane through the dim interior light.
“I’m fine,” Will said automatically. “Just… tired.”
“That’s what wiped means, honey.” She squeezed his shoulder, thumb absently brushing a smear of charcoal he’d missed. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. If Mrs. Worthington asks you to sleep on that stage, you call me and I’ll storm the castle.”
Will snorted. “Please don’t storm the castle.”
“Oh, I absolutely will,” Joyce said. “I’ve done it before.”
He believed her.
They got out of the car, the air cool against Will’s sweat-damp neck. Crickets chirped from the weeds by the fence. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked twice and then gave up.
Jane flung the back car door open, getting off and taking her bag.
“we’re home,” she announced, as if they weren’t standing right in front of home. She still had paint on her hands, a white streak across the back of one like she’d wiped sweat away and forgotten. Joyce had forgotten to check her hands.
“We are,” Joyce said, stepping around Will to kiss Jane’s temple.
Will smiled, dropping his backpack on the little bench by the door. The living room was warm, the TV flickering silently while Hopper flipped through channels with the volume off. Jonathan sat cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, a stack of photographs spread out in front of him, a magnifying loupe hanging loosely around his neck.
The house smelled like spaghetti sauce and garlic and the faint tang of fixer from the darkroom down the hall.
“Hey, man,” Jonathan said without looking up, selecting a photo and holding it closer to the lamplight. “Mom said Worthington kidnapped you.”
“She did,” Will said. “But she released me on good behavior.”
“Hmm.” Hopper clicked past the news to some rerun. “Suspicious. Did you roll for good behavior or was it a flat bonus?”
Will stared. “…Have you been talking to Eddie?”
Hopper smirked. “Kid never shuts up about his goblins. Hard not to pick up a few things.”
“They are not goblins this time,” Jane said, offended. “They are vampires.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?” she said. “Dustin told me. The new campaign is ‘gothic horror inspired.’” She pronounced the quotation marks very clearly.
Will laughed, tension easing out of his shoulders.
“Okay, Wonder Twin,” he said. “Come on. You can tell me about Dustin’s vampire woes while I wash this paint off.”
Her face lit at the nickname, the one Jonathan had once used in exasperation and that Will and Jane had promptly reclaimed for themselves. Wonder twins. Two weird kids sharing a brain cell, as Hopper put it.
“I also need help,” she said, almost in the same breath.
“With…?”
She hurried to the kitchen table and grabbed her backpack, the motion so abrupt the chair squeaked.
“Geometry,” she said, thumping a battered textbook onto the table. “It is terrible. I hate it. Why do we need shapes.”
Joyce sighed in solidarity from the stove. “I asked that question in 1973,” she said, stirring sauce. “Still haven’t gotten a satisfactory answer.”
Will walked over, flipping the book so it faced him. The pages were open to a sea of triangles and x’s, lines labeled with little letters like tiny insults.
“What are you stuck on?” he asked, sliding into the chair beside her.
“All of it,” Jane said, nose wrinkling. “Mrs. Kopec says I need to ‘show my work.’ But when I write the numbers, they do not… connect in my head.” She tapped her forehead, frustrated. “It is like a radio with two stations and they are both static.”
Will glanced down at the example problem she’d underlined three times:
Find the value of x. Show all work.
Two triangles, some matching angles, and a proof scribbled in the margin that looked like a battlefield.
“Okay,” he said, reaching for a pencil. “Let’s turn the static down. Which part makes sense?”
“None,” she said promptly, then frowned. “Maybe… this.” She pointed at the given statement: Triangle ABC is congruent to Triangle DEF.
“Right,” Will said. “So that means they’re the same shape. Like… set pieces.”
“Stage pieces,” Jane echoed, eyes sharpening. “Like if you build two fences from the same drawing.”
“Exactly,” Will said, surprised relief loosening his chest. “If the drawing is the same, the fences match. Same height, same width, everything. So congruent triangles are, like, identical fences, just maybe placed in different spots.”
Jane stared down at the diagram, processing.
“So this,” she said slowly, pointing to one angle, “and this”—she tapped the matching one in the other triangle—“are the same?”
“Yeah,” Will said. “You can even mark them. See?” He drew a little curved line on each corresponding angle. “They’re buddies.”
Her mouth twitched.
“And then they want x,” he went on, circling the side labeled x. “They give you this side over here is, like, seven, right? But if the fences are the same, these sides have to match.”
“So x is seven,” she said carefully.
“Yup. And then for ‘show your work,’ you just… explain that. You write, like, ‘because the triangles are congruent, matching sides are equal.’”
Jane chewed her lip.
“I can do that,” she said. “Maybe.”
“You can,” Will said. “You just did. That’s all a proof really is. You’re just… telling the story of how you got from the start to the end.”
“Like a script,” she said, eyes brightening.
“Sure,” Will said slowly. “Except instead of people kissing or dying, triangles become right angles.”
“That is less fun,” she said seriously. “But I understand.”
Joyce, listening from the stove, smiled over her shoulder.
“See? I knew keeping you around would pay off,” she said. “Built-in tutor.”
“I demand compensation,” Will said. “In the form of more spaghetti.”
“You’ll get compensation in the form of eating what’s put in front of you,” Hopper said, coming in from the hall with the newspaper still folded under his arm. “Which is spaghetti.”
Jane nudged Will with her knee under the table, their own quiet little signal that meant thanks without saying it.
He nudged back: Anytime.
They were sorting through another problem—this one about bisected angles—when there was a knock at the front door. Three quick raps, a pause, then two more.
Jane practically levitated out of her chair.
“Mike,” she said, recognizing the pattern like a code.
“Careful, don’t—” Joyce started, but Jane was already sprinting, socks sliding on the floor.
The door flew open.
Mike stood on the porch, clutching the strap of his backpack, hair damp from the mist outside. His cheeks were pink from the cold or from running—or from being greeted at the speed of light, Will wasn’t sure.
“Hey,” Mike said, slightly out of breath. “Uh. Hi.”
“Hello,” Jane said, and then she was in his space, arms around his waist in a quick hug that almost knocked him back a step.
He hugged her one-armed, the other occupied with keeping his backpack from falling off.
“Hi,” he said again, softer this time. “I, uh, come bearing gifts.”
He lifted a paper bag in his free hand.
“What kind of gifts?” Hopper asked warily from the couch.
Mike froze, posture shifting from boyfriend-mode to nervous-teen-in-front-of-cop-mode in an instant.
“Cookies,” he said, holding the bag up. “My mom and Holly made too many. Holly said I should ‘share with Jane and Will.’ Her words.”
Hopper squinted. “Are they the good kind?”
“Hopper,” Joyce said, exasperated.
Will laughed, pushing back from the table.
“Come in before you freeze,” he called. “We’re doing geometry.”
“yikes,” Mike said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. He kicked off his shoes automatically, toeing them into line with the others.
“Is this a social call or did Dustin send you as a Hellfire envoy again?” Jonathan asked, not looking up from his photos.
“Both?” Mike said. “He’s putting together encounter maps and wanted to know Will’s schedule, and also I wanted to see my girlfriend without Dustin monologuing about initiative order in my ear.”
Jane beamed.
“Come see my stars,” she said, tugging at his sleeve. “They are accurate constellations. Mostly.”
“Homework first,” Joyce said, pointing a wooden spoon in their direction. “You guys can talk and look at fake space all you want, but Jane finishes her assignments.”
“We will,” Jane said, earnest. “Will is helping me. We are Wonder Twins.”
“We are,” Will agreed.
Mike made a face of exaggerated jealousy. “Wow, betrayal. Replaced by my own best friend.”
“You are still my boyfriend,” Jane told him, very matter-of-fact. “Will is my twin. It is different.”
Mike went pink again. “Right. Yeah. Obviously.”
He slid into the chair on Jane’s other side, pulling his backpack into his lap.
“So,” he said, peering at the textbook. “What’s the enemy today?”
“Triangles,” Jane said darkly.
“Ah,” Mike said. “A classic foe.”
He leaned in as Will walked her through another problem, chiming in occasionally with reminders about which theorem was which. Between the two of them, they managed to untangle Congruent Triangles Problem Set B into something that looked almost manageable.
Jane wrote slowly, carefully, her proofs neat and almost scripted. Every so often, she’d glance between them, eyes flicking like she was storing their near-identical explanations side by side.
“Okay,” Will said at last, dropping his pencil and rubbing the stiffness out of his hand. “I think that’s as much math as my brain can handle before it melts.
Joyce set a pot holder on the table and placed a steaming bowl of spaghetti in the center, a smaller dish of salad landing beside it.
“Dinner, then fake stars,” she decreed. “And then bed at a reasonable hour.”
“Some of us have to get to work at eight a.m. and not fall asleep in front of a typewriter,” Hopper added.
They ate, cross-talking as usual: Hopper ranting about a guy at work who “couldn’t file a report if it bit him,” Jonathan quietly mentioning a photo lab opportunity, Joyce asking pointed questions about school that made both Will and Jane roll their eyes affectionately.
“So how’s Our Town?” Jonathan asked eventually, twirling spaghetti around his fork. “Mom says you’re basically living in that auditorium now.”
“It’s… good,” Will said. “We finished most of the backdrop outlines today. Mrs. Worthington is happy, which is, like, a minor miracle.”
“Does it look like the sketch?” Jonathan asked. “Or better?”
Will considered.
“Different,” he said. “Bigger. You can’t really see everything at once unless you step back. But on stage it looks like a real place. Kind of.”
Jonathan smiled a little. “That’s the cool part,” he said. “You build something that didn’t exist before, and then suddenly everyone’s pretending they’ve known it their whole lives.”
“Exactly,” Will said, relieved that someone got it.
“What about you, Mike?” Jonathan asked. “Eddie still recruiting random freshmen with dramatic speeches?”
“Oh, yeah,” Mike said. “He cornered this kid in the cafeteria today and told him that ‘metal will save your soul.’ The kid said he was in chorus and Eddie spent the next ten minutes explaining why that made him ‘uniquely suited for the darkness.’”
Joyce made a face. “Is that… good?”
“In Eddie-ese, yeah,” Mike said. “We’re doing a whole gothic thing this year. Lots of vampires. Lots of church bells at midnight. He keeps practicing speeches in the mirror whenever he thinks we’re not looking.”
“I saw him," Jane said quietly. “He did ‘You stand at the gates of destiny’ in the hallway. To Dustin.”
Will snorted. “Of course he did.”
“Speaking of destiny,” Mike said, glancing at Will, “he really wants to know when you’re coming back.”
Will twisted his fork, the noodles sliding back into the bowl.
“I told Dustin,” he said. “After the show. It’s just a couple weeks.”
Mike shrugged. “I know. I told him. He’s… Eddie. Patience is not his strong suit.” He nudged Will’s elbow. “You should’ve seen his face when I told him Chance talked to you today.”
Will nearly inhaled his spaghetti.
“He what?” he sputtered once he swallowed. “Why would you—what—why?”
“Relax,” Mike said, clearly enjoying this way too much. “He’s just obsessed with the idea of a jock defecting to Hellfire. He thinks you’re, like, secretly recruiting him with art or something.”
“I am not recruiting anyone,” Will said, horrified. “We just needed tape. And he asked about banners.”
“Banners,” Jane repeated, interest piqued. “For the game.”
“Yeah,” Will said.
“You should go,” she said simply. “Lucas will like it. And Chance. He invited you.”
Mike listened, eyebrows inching up.
“That’s twice now,” he said. “The invitation thing.”
Will stabbed at his salad.
“It’s just a game,” he muttered. “And I don’t even know if I can. We might have rehearsal.”
Joyce, who absolutely was listening even if she pretended not to be, said, “I already told you, we’ll work it out if you want to go. Mrs. Worthington doesn’t own you, Will. Neither does Eddie.” She pointed her fork at Mike. “Or this one.”
“Hey,” Mike said, wounded. “I just borrow him sometimes.”
“Like a library book,” Jane said helpfully.
“Exactly,” Mike said.
They finished dinner with less perilous topics, Jonathan telling a story about a guy at the photo lab who spilled developer all over his shoes, Hopper arguing with the TV game show contestants like they could hear him.
Later, after dishes and after Joyce had declared “no more talk of vampires, triangle or otherwise,” Jane grabbed Mike’s hand.
“Come see the stars now,” she said, tugging him toward the hallway. She paused, looking back at Will. “you too.”
Will hesitated, then got up. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
They filed into Jane’s room, an odd little procession. The walls were a collage of posters, some Will’s old sci-fi ones, a few new ones of pop singers Jane liked because of the colors rather than the music. Over the bed, the glow-in-the-dark stars waited, matte and pale in the lamplight.
“Turn the light off,” Jane commanded.
Mike did, plunging the room into soft darkness.
The stars bloomed to life: scattered constellations, some vaguely accurate, others pure imagination. They glowed a gentle green, like captured moonlight.
“Whoa,” Mike said under his breath. “Okay, that’s actually… really cool.”
“I told you,” Jane said, satisfaction clear in her voice. She lay back on the bed, still holding his hand, and stared up at the ceiling. “That one is Orion,” she pointed. “And that one is the Big Dipper. "
Will leaned against the wall. He let his eyes trace the constellations, the cheap plastic stars transforming the familiar ceiling into something else entirely.
“Thank you for helping,” Jane said again, voice softer now.
“Anytime,” Will said quietly.
Mike shifted, his gaze flicking between Jane and the stars.
“Hey,” he murmured, “you know if you ever want to see the actual constellations, we can drive out past the quarry. No light pollution. You can see the Milky Way. It’s crazy.”
“I would like that,” Jane said. After a beat, “Will, you'll come right?”
“Of course. We’ll make it a whole… star party.”
“Like a campaign, but for space,” Jane said.
“Exactly,” Mike replied.
They lay there for a while, Jane stretched out on the bed, Mike sitting on the edge, Will leaning against the wall near the door just looking up. The glow softened their faces, made everything feel suspended, like time had slowed down on purpose for once.
Eventually, Joyce called up the hall that it was getting late, and Mike needed to head home.
“I’ll walk you out,” Jane said, sitting up.
“I’ll… be in my room,” Will said, suddenly aware of the way their fingers stayed entwined even as they stood.
“Okay,” Mike said, giving him a lopsided smile. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Will said. “Tomorrow.”
He left them to their awkward, sweet goodbye in the hallway and retreated to his room the one he shared loosely with Jonathan now, beds on opposite sides of the space and a curtain they could pull across when one of them needed privacy.
Jonathan was at his desk, a lamp casting a pool of light over a contact sheet. He glanced up when Will came in.
“Hey,” he said. “Geometry war over?”
“For now,” Will said, flopping onto his bed. “We made a dent.”
“Good,” Jonathan said. “She was really frustrated earlier.”
“I know,” Will said. “We found a way to make it about fences and stage sets, so that helped.”
Jonathan smiled, the kind that was more eyes than mouth.
“Of course it did,” he said. “You two speak in… whatever language that is.”
“Dork,” Will suggested.
“Maybe,” Jonathan said. “Or just… you.” He hesitated. “So. Basketball game.”
Will groaned. “Why is everyone obsessed with me going to this game?”
“Because Lucas is your friend and he asked you a bunch of times,” Jonathan said calmly. “And because you haven’t done anything that wasn’t either school, stage crew, or Hellfire in forever.”
“Eddie would disagree with the last one,” Will muttered.
“Okay, but he’s biased,” Jonathan said. “Look, I’m not saying you have to go. I’m just saying… if you want to? It’s okay to want to do different things. To be around… different people.”
He said it pointedly enough that Will felt his ears heat.
“It’s not—” he started, then trailed off. “It’s just a game.”
“Uh-huh,” Jonathan said.
Silence stretched between them, comfortable except for the part where Will’s thoughts were a mess.
“I met one of Lucas’s teammates,” he said finally, staring at the ceiling. “Chance. From art class last year. He… was at the craft store yesterday. And today he came into the auditorium for tape.”
“Oh yeah, I think I’ve seen him at games,” Jonathan said. “Slightly parted hair, right? Backwards cap sometimes. Shoots from the corner.”
Will blinked. “You… remember that?”
Jonathan shrugged, turning back to his photos.
“I pay attention,” he said. Then, casually, “You like him?”
Will’s whole body went hot and cold at once.
“We’ve talked, like, twice. That’s not—”
Jonathan raised his hands, laughing softly. “Okay, okay. I’m not grilling you. I’m just asking. You’re allowed to like people, little brother. Whoever they are.”
The words, simple as they were, landed heavy.
Will stared at the underside of the top bunk. A few years ago, comments like that would’ve sent him into a spiral of panic. Now, it just made his chest ache in a different way—like something was almost ready to be said and he was still working up to it.
“I don’t know what I feel,” he admitted. "it doesn’t make sense. It's... strange”
Jonathan’s chair creaked as he turned fully toward him.
“Actually,” he said, “it makes perfect sense.” He paused. “Do you want my advice or do you want me to shut up and hand you a tape to distract yourself?”
Will huffed a laugh. “Advice, I guess. I could really use it.”
“Okay,” Jonathan said. “You can just…see how you feel. See if it feels good. Or not.”
Curious. The word sat easier in his mind than anything else had.
“And if it doesn’t feel good,” Jonathan continued, “then you know. And if it does, then…take it from there. I’m on your side, okay? Whatever that looks like.”
Will’s throat got tight.
“Okay,” he said, voice small.
Jonathan reached over and squeezed his ankle through the blanket, a wordless I’ve got you.
Later, after Mike had left and Hopper had stalked through the house turning off lights and grumbling about the electric bill, Will lay in bed with his sketchbook balanced on his knees.
He turned past the page with the letterman jacket, the one he pretended was “banner practice” and definitely not a study of Chance’s profile and landed on a blank sheet.
He started with a triangle.
Not a perfect one, just a quick, rough outline. Then another. And another. Some he turned into houses, some into rooftops, some into stylized banners with block letters. In one, he drew a rough basketball hoop, the net hanging like a spiderweb.
Without thinking too hard, he sketched a figure under the hoop, mid-jump. Backwards cap. Curly hair. Arms extended.
He shaded the eyes in last.
“Curious,” he muttered under his breath, using Jonathan’s word as a shield.
He left the page unfinished and let his eyes slip shut, the echo of Chance’s voice: Game’s Friday. If you wanna… see your lettering in action, running together with Jane’s laughter under her stars.
Morning came too early, as it always did.
The alarm clock on Will’s bedside table crackled to life, bleeding in some pop song before he slapped it off with a groan. Gray light seeped around the edges of the curtains, the house still wrapped in that muffled just-before-everyone-wakes quiet.
He lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling.
His brain immediately started inventory: backdrop outlines, fence painting, geometry, possible banner help, Eddie’s campaign, Chance’s smile—
He threw the blanket back and swung his legs over the side of the bed before his thoughts could spiral any farther.
As he shuffled toward the dresser, there was a soft knock on the door. Three taps, pause, two taps. Their code since everyone decided no one was allowed to just barge in on anyone anymore.
“Come in,” Will called.
The door opened a crack and Jane poked her head through, hair mashed flat on one side like she’d been sleeping on that cheek all night.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Hey,” Will said, rubbing his eyes. “You’re up early.”
“I had a dream about triangles,” she said gravely, slipping into the room and closing the door softly behind her. “They were chasing me. With little legs.”
“That’s horrifying,” Will said.
Jane stepped closer, holding a sheet of notebook paper.
“I tried to do the last problem after you went to bed,” she said. “I think I did it wrong. Can you check?”
He took the paper from her. Two neatly drawn triangles, labeled carefully. Beneath them, her proof:
-
Triangle ABC ≅ Triangle DEF (Given)
-
AB = DE (CPCTC)
-
Angle A = Angle D (CPCTC)
-
Therefore, x = 10.
Her handwriting was a little shaky, but the logic was there.
“This is right,” he said. “Except maybe write out ‘corresponding parts of congruent triangles are congruent’ once, so Kopec knows you know what CPCTC means.”
Jane wrinkled her nose. “That is a long sentence.”
“Yeah,” Will said. “But you only have to write it for one step. Then you can just do the letters after.”
She nodded, processing.
“I will write it for the most important step,” she decided. “The one that makes the answer happen.”
“Good plan,” Will said, handing the paper back. “You’re getting it, you know.”
She looked oddly proud at that, like the idea she could understand math was still a novelty.
“I dreamed something else too,” she said abruptly, perching on the edge of his bed. “We were in the gym. You and me and Mike Max and Lucas and Dustin.”
Will’s pulse skipped.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “What were we doing?”
“Dancing,” she said, as if it were obvious. “There was a disco ball. Like the one from the snowball. And the floor was sticky.”
“That tracks,” Will said weakly.
“You were smiling,” Jane added, studying his face. “You don’t smile at the gym. Usually.”
“It was just a dream,” he said. “Dreams are… weird.”
“Yes,” she said. “But sometimes they are telling you something.” She cocked her head.
“I think this one is just your brain mixing triangles and the gym,” he said. “Too much geometry.”
She considered this and, mercifully, let it go.
“Breakfast,” she said instead, standing. “Joyce says we will be late if you ‘noodle around’ any longer.”
By the time they made it to the kitchen, the house was fully awake. The radio played quietly on the counter—some news segment Joyced tuned out in favor of the weather report. Hopper sat at the table in a faded Hawkins PD t-shirt, reading the paper with a mug of coffee steaming at his elbow. Jonathan, fully dressed but yawning, poured orange juice into mismatched glasses.
“Morning,” Joyce said, sliding a plate with toast toward Will.
Jonathan leaned against the counter, sipping his juice.
“You guys heading to school early today?” he asked. “I can give you a ride if you want.”
Will hesitated.
“I was gonna take my bike,” he said. “But a ride would be fine.”
“bike?” Hopper frowned. “You’ll freeze your asses off. Take the car.”
“He likes biking,” Joyce said. “It clears his head.”
“Yeah,” Will said. “It’s… nice.”
Jane shook her head immediately.
“I do not like walking,” she declared. “It is cold. And the wind is mean.”
“You can ride with me,” Jonathan told her. “We’ll blast the heater.”
She smiled. “Yes. And we can listen to the tapes.”
“Sure,” Jonathan said. “But no Madonna. Too early.”
“Phil Collins?” she bargained.
“I’ll allow Phil Collins,” he said.
Will watched them negotiate, feeling that familiar mix of affection and something like gratitude. For all the weirdness and patchwork edges of their family, this mornings with lukewarm coffee and stupid arguments about music felt solid.
“What about you, young man?” Joyce asked, nudging his toast plate closer. “Any plans after school I should know about?”
He hesitated, the question hanging heavier than it had any right to.
“Just stage crew,” he said. “We’re finishing the base coat on the town today.” He swallowed. “I might… swing by the gym after. To help with banners. If there’s time.”
Joyce and Jonathan exchanged a quick look. Not mocking, not surprised just taking note.
“Okay,” Joyce said easily. “call from the pay phone if you’re staying late. And stay away from any falling cheerleaders.”
Will blinked. “What?”
“Nothing,” Hopper said, folding his paper. “Our high school had a cheerleader incident. It was traumatic for everyone involved.”
Jane’s eyes went wide. “Did she fall from the sky?”
“You’re not helping,” Joyce told Hopper, shaking her head.
They finished breakfast in a tangle of half-finished jokes and reminders about lunch money.
On the drive to school, Jonathan’s car smelled faintly of old fries and the citrusy air freshener he’d hung from the rearview mirror. Jane sat up front, fiddling with the tape deck, while Will took the back seat and watched the houses blur by.
“So,” Jonathan said over a drum fill, eyes on the road. “Game’s still Friday?”
“Yeah,” Will said. “I think so. Unless they move it because of…the weather or something.”
“Are you going?” Jane asked, twisting around in her seat to look at him.
“I don’t know yet,” he said, because it felt safer than saying I want to.
“You should,” she said. “We can go together.”
“Hey, I wanna go too,” Jonathan said. “I can pretend I’m there for school spirit.”
“You can take pictures,” Will said. “Of Lucas making impossible shots.”
“And Chance,” Jane added.
Will sank slightly lower in his seat.
“I’ll… think about it,” he muttered.
“Thinking,” Jane said pointedly, “leads to choices.”
He couldn’t even argue. She had clearly stolen that from Chance and had been waiting for an opportunity to use it.
School felt different when you walked in knowing you might go voluntarily to a sports thing that week.
It wasn’t a huge difference, just a slight shift in the way Will noticed the banners already hanging in the gym corridor, the flyers announcing “FALL TIP-OFF GAME” with badly drawn basketballs. He found himself mentally redesigning all of them, imagining what he could do with better lettering, a more dramatic layout.
At the lockers, Dustin was already mid-rant.
“—and if we give the vampire lord legendary actions, then we can do that thing where—oh, Will, thank God, save me, Mike is trying to tell me vampires don’t need mechanics.”
“They are literally undead,” Mike said, tugging his locker open. “They break all the rules anyway.”
“That doesn’t mean we don’t have to stat them,” Dustin said. “We’re not animals.”
Will shoved his books onto the narrow metal shelf.
“What are legendary actions?” Jane asked, hovering nearby with her history binder clutched to her chest.
“Special powers the boss gets to use outside their turn,” Dustin explained instantly. “They keep things from getting boring. Imagine if Kopec could just, like, interrupt you mid-problem and add extra triangles.”
Jane shuddered. “That is a terrible power.”
“Exactly,” Dustin said. “Horrifying. Anyway, I’m thinking three per round for the vampire lord: charm, summon bats, and—”
“Please no more bats,” Jane said, almost reflexively.
“That’s fine,” Dustin said quickly. “We can do, uh, wolves. Or… spiders. No, spiders are worse.”
“Spiders are worse,” Will agreed.
“Fair,” Dustin said. “Okay, no spiders. I’ll workshop it.”
As they talked, Lucas jogged up, gym bag bouncing.
“Morning,” he said, slightly breathless. “Coach says if I’m late to practice one more time, he’s making me run suicides until I barf.”
“That sounds like a vampire power, actually,” Dustin muttered.
Lucas ignored that.
“Will, you got out of stage crew hell yet?” he asked.
“Not until the show,” Will said. “You know that.”
“Yeah, but… any chance you can come Friday? I mean not just you, everyone” Lucas pressed. “To the game? It’s kind of a big one.”
“I know,” Will said.
And he did know. First home game of the season. The gym would be packed. The band would be blasting some off-tempo version of “Eye of the Tiger.” Cheerleaders. Sweat. Shouting. The whole thing.
“I’m… working on it,” he added, which made Lucas’s face soften.
“Okay,” Lucas said. “No pressure. I just…” He shrugged. “It’d be cool. That’s all.”
“You’d get to see your banners,” Mike pointed out. “Assuming Chance doesn’t screw them up before you save his artistic ass.”
“Language,” Jane said automatically; Hopper’s conditioning had been effective.
Mike rolled his eyes. “Artistic butt,” he amended.
Will shut his locker with more force than necessary.
“I’m not saving anyone’s butt,” he said. “I’m just helping with words. Maybe. When I’m done with my actual obligations.”
“Uh-huh,” Dustin said. “You say that like you’re not going to spend two hours making the perfect letters.”
Will glared at him, but it didn’t have much heat.
They split for class as the first bell rang, the group dispersing like marbles on a floor.
English passed in a blur of essay prompts and Mr. Kline trying to explain symbolism in Lord of the Flies to a room full of people who only cared about the pig’s head. Will doodled banners in the margins of his notebook—HHS TIGERS, GO HAWKS (if they’d gone with their old mascot), DEFEND THE NEST—experimenting with different letter styles.
He wasn’t obsessed. He was just… thinking.
Third period, he caught sight of Chance in the hallway between classes. The jock was skating backwards on the thin edge of a disciplinary warning, pushing two freshmen down the hall on a rolling cart meant for AV equipment. A teacher stepped out of a classroom and shouted, and the whole chaos scattered like pigeons, laughter echoing off the lockers.
Chance looked over, caught Will watching, and gave him a what can you do shrug.
Will ducked his head, biting back a smile.
At lunch, they snagged their usual table in the back corner of the cafeteria. Hellfire club flyers were already being defaced on the bulletin board by the door, someone having blacked out DEVIL and replaced it with “DORK” in sloppy marker.
“Classy,” Mike muttered.
“Eddie’s gonna have an aneurysm,” Lucas said.
“Good,” Dustin said. “Maybe then he’ll stop trying to add more subplots to the campaign.”
As they ate, talk turned inevitably to Friday.
“We should make a sign,” Dustin said suddenly through a mouthful of tater tots. “Like a Hellfire sign for Lucas.”
“A sign?” Will repeated, horrified.
“Yeah, like, ‘LUCAS SINKS ‘EM’ or something,” Dustin said. “Eddie can hold it and scream.”
“Absolutely not,” Lucas said. “You are banned from making signs.”
“He would hate that,” Jane said, puzzled. “Signs are support.”
“Not when they’re designed by Hellfire,” Lucas said. “Our graphic design skills are… not good.”
“Hey,” Will protested. “My design skills are fine.”
“Your design skills are great,” Lucas corrected. “Eddie’s are the problem.”
“Speaking of great design skills,” Dustin said slyly, “when are you going to the gym, Will?”
He hesitated, feeling all their eyes on him.
“After stage crew,” he said finally. “If Worthington lets me go by five.”
“That’s awesome,” Lucas said, real excitement flashing in his face. “You can see how much we suck at free throws up close.”
“I doubt that,” Will said.
“You shouldn’t,” Lucas said dryly.
Jane nudged Will’s arm with her elbow.
“I will wait for you after rehearsal,” she said. “We can walk to the gym together.”
He opened his mouth to protest—tell her she didn’t have to babysit him—then saw the way her gaze was steady, unwavering.
“Okay,” he said. “Deal.”
The rest of the day passed in a haze of classes and half-distracted notes. In art elective, he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to step into the gym on purpose, with banners as his excuse.
When the final bell rang, he and Jane headed for the auditorium.
Stage crew was less chaotic today, the wild energy of the previous work day replaced with a sort of tired focus. The backdrop had dried enough for Will to start adding shadows, deepening doorways and window frames. Jane and a few other crew members added a second coat to the fences, humming under their breath.
Mrs. Worthington drifted around like a benevolent ghost, scarf trailing, occasionally stopping to offer a metaphor that wasn’t particularly helpful but was very enthusiastic.
“Remember,” she told Will, peering at the houses, “we want people in the back row to feel like they could open those doors and step through.”
“Yes, Mrs. Worthington,” he said, adding a thin line of darker gray under a windowsill.
He fell into rhythm quickly: dip, drag, wipe, step back. The town came alive in careful inches, each shadow giving it more weight.
The distant echo of basketballs and squeaking sneakers seeped in again, rhythmic, insistent. This time, instead of trying to tune it out, Will let it sit in the back of his mind like a looped track.
At four-thirty, Mrs. Worthington clapped her hands.
“All right, my little magicians,” she said. “We’ll call it for today. I don’t want you so exhausted that you start seeing double and painting two suns in the sky. Go home. Rest your brains. Dream of small towns and big questions.”
There was a chorus of relieved noises. People began cleaning brushes, capping paint, stacking drop cloths.
Jane appeared at Will’s elbow, cheeks dotted with white and gray.
“it's time,” she said.
He wiped his hands on a rag, heart thudding.
“You don’t have to come,” he told her quietly as they descended from the stage. “If you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” she said simply.
They dropped their paint rags in the sink and said goodnight to Mrs. Worthington, who reminded them to “hydrate and contemplate” as they left.
The hallway outside the auditorium was quieter, but as they turned the corner toward the gym wing, the noise hit them full force: whistles, shouts, the pounding rhythm of ball on wood.
Jane’s hand found his sleeve, fingers curling lightly, an unspoken question: you okay?
He nodded, even though his pulse had picked up. The gym had never been his favorite place. Too many memories of dodgeballs aimed at his head, of laughter that didn’t feel friendly.
But this was different, he told himself. He wasn’t here to play. He was here to… help.
Jane pushed the heavy gym door open.
Inside, the lights were bright enough to make him squint. The bleachers were pushed back against the walls, bands of maroon and gold paint striping the space. The floor gleamed under the fluorescent lights, polished to a high shine.
The team was running a scrimmage: green practice jerseys over t-shirts, sneakers squeaking as they darted and pivoted. Lucas cut across the key, caught a pass, and took a shot. The ball arced high and dropped cleanly through the net.
“Nice!” Jane said, clapping once before she remembered they were just watching and dropped her hands.
The coach whistle permanently clenched between his teeth blew a sharp pattern and barked something no one outside the court could really hear. The players jogged to the sidelines, sucking air.
“Hey!” Lucas called when he spotted them by the door. He jogged over, sweat shining on his forehead. “You made it.”
“We did,” Will said, trying not to stare at the cadence of the drills.
“Coach’s tyranny ended early. Shocking, I know,” Lucas said. He nodded toward the far end of the gym, where a long table had been dragged out and pushed against the wall. Rolls of paper were stacked at one end, markers strewn across the surface. Chance stood there, one hand braced on the table, the other holding a marker.
“Chance!” Lucas shouted. “Your art guy’s here!”
Will almost turned around to check who he meant, then caught himself.
Chance looked up, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. When he saw them, his whole face lit.
“Oh, hey!” he called, abandoning the marker as if it might explode. He jogged over, the chain at his neck glinting. “You came.”
Will’s brain, unhelpfully: You noticed.
“Yeah,” he said, hoping his voice came out normal. “Stage crew let out early. Thought I’d… check out the banner disaster.”
“Disaster is right,” Chance said, scrubbing a hand over his hair. “I tried to do the big ‘H’ and it looked like a ladder.”
Jane tilted her head.
“ladder,” she repeated, clearly intrigued.
“Jane. She lives with us.” Will said, gesturing toward her.
“I remember, Will mentioned you at the store, sort of” Chance said, snapping his fingers. “Stars, right?”
“Yes,” Jane said. “Will said you almost killed him with poster boards.”
Chance winced. “Guilty. Again, sorry about that. I swear, I’m usually less of a walking catastrophe.” He glanced between them. “You guys wanna see what i have?”
“Yes,” Jane said at the exact same time Will said, “Sure.”
They crossed the court together, avoiding stray balls. Chance opened his arm in a little half-gesture, like he was clearing a path for them.
Up close, the “banner disaster” was… earnestly terrible. The words HAWKS RISE stretched across the top of a long strip of butcher paper, the letters uneven and swollen. One of the S’s drooped like it was melting.
“Oh,” Jane said. “It is… expressive.”
“That’s one word for it,” Chance said. “Another is ‘ugly.’”
“It’s not that bad,” Will lied, because Chance looked genuinely miserable. “You just… went too big.”
“I thought big was the point,” Chance said. “Coach said ‘big-ass letters.’ His words.”
“You can still do big,” Will said, stepping closer. The smell of the marker ink mingled with the familiar scents of gym floor polish and sweat. “You just need to plan it out first. Like… measure.”
He picked up a marker, uncapped it, and hovered over a blank stretch of paper.
“Here,” he said. “You divide the space. Make guidelines. That way you know how tall the letters are supposed to be and they don’t… fall over.”
“Like fences,” Jane supplied.
“Exactly,” Will said, grateful. “Like fences. Or… stage flats.”
Chance watched as Will sketched faint guidelines, his gaze intent, almost reverent.
“You make it look easy,” he said.
“It’s not hard,” Will said. “It just takes practice.”
Chance leaned in, close enough that Will could see the small scar along his jawline, a thin white line at the curve of his chin. He smelled like sweat and cheap cologne and something faintly citrus, maybe from the locker room soap.
“Can you show me how to do the R?” Chance asked. “Mine always looks like it got hit by a truck.”
“Yeah,” Will said, heart hammering. “Okay. So… straight line down, then curve, then leg. Like this.” He drew slowly, talking through each stroke. “You want the leg to come out more, or it’ll look like a P that forgot how to be a P.”
Chance huffed a laugh. “Mine all look like confused Ps,” he admitted.
“Here,” Will said, stepping back and offering him the marker. “Your turn.”
Chance hesitated, then took it, their fingers brushing for a second. Will tried very hard not to register the way that felt—warm, brief, like a static shock at the base of his thumb.
Chance bent over the paper, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. He followed the guidelines Will had drawn, his R still a little crooked but much improved.
“There you go,” Will said. “That’s good.”
“You’re legally obligated to say that,” Chance said, but there was a hint of pride in his voice. “Art teacher.”
“I’m not a teacher,” Will said.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Chance said. He glanced over at Jane.
As they worked, the team drifted in and out of the banner area. Someone turned the boombox up, tinny rock echoing off the rafters. A couple of the guys made jokes about “art hour,” but they were light, the tone more teasing than cruel. Lucas stopped by to add a sloppy exclamation point to the end of RISE, which Chance immediately made him redo under Will’s supervision.
The three of them fell into a rhythm: Will sketching out letters and layouts, Chance filling them in, Jane carefully drawing little tiger paw prints along the border. The banner slowly stopped looking like a kid’s first attempt at bubble letters and started to look… actually good.
“Okay, okay,” Chance said, stepping back at last. “This is… kind of awesome.”
“You did most of it,” Will said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. Once Chance understood the guidelines, he’d improved quickly.
“You saved it,” Chance said. “Team effort.”
Will’s stomach did something treacherous at that.
Across the gym, the coach blew the whistle again.
“All right, ladies,” he yelled. “Hit the showers. Tomorrow we go over plays. Don’t be late or I will end you.”
“Well,” Chance said, “that’s my cue.” He wiped his inky fingers on a rag and offered Will a lopsided grin. “Thanks for the rescue, art guy. Seriously.”
“Anytime,” Will said. “I mean… if I’m not stuck in the auditorium.”
“I’ll put in a good word with Worthington,” Chance said. “Tell her it’s for school spirit.”
Chance laughed.
“See you tomorrow?” he asked, backing toward the locker room doors.
“Yeah,” Will said, the word feeling big for something so small. “See you.”
As he watched Chance disappear into the locker room, Will felt Jane’s eyes on him.
“What,” he said, not quite ready to look at her.
“Nothing,” she said immediately.
He glanced over. She was studying the banner, but the corner of her mouth was doing that almost-smile thing that meant she had approximately seventeen thoughts and was choosing not to say any of them. Yet.
“You are smiling.” she said instead, softer.
He hadn’t even realized.
“Oh,” he said, touching his face as if he could catch the expression. “I guess… yeah.”
She nudged his shoulder with hers.
“Good,” she said.
They stood there a moment longer in the warm, noisy gym, looking at the banner they’d just built together, two art kids and a basketball player, lines and shapes and letters turned into something that might, for a minute on Friday night, make a whole crowd of people feel like they belonged to the same story.
Chapter 4: detours & driving lessons
Chapter Text
The next morning starts with the smell of burnt toast.
Will knows it’s burnt before he even opens his eyes; it’s the distinct, bitter edge that means the toaster and Hopper have once again entered their age-old battle. He lies there for a second, listening to the muffled sounds of the house, the radio in the kitchen turned down low, pipes rattling in the walls, the creak of someone walking down the hall in socks.
By the time he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a sweater, the toast smell has been partially overpowered by coffee and whatever Joyce has decided to throw in a pan to count as breakfast.
Jane is already at the kitchen table when he pads in, elbows planted, hair a messy halo around her face. She’s paging through a glossy catalog, lips moving silently as she reads the descriptions.
“Morning,” Will says, dropping into the chair across from her.
“Good morning,” she echoes, without looking up. “Did you know there is a store that sells only socks? Different socks. All socks.”
“Truly a golden age,” Jonathan mutters from the counter, leaning on one hip as he pours orange juice. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends.
Hopper stands by the toaster with his arms folded like he’s about to arrest it, while Joyce scrapes a blackened slice of bread into the trash with theatrical disgust.
“I said two,” she tells Hopper. “Two. Not ‘until the room smells like a campfire.’”
“The dial is a suggestion,” Hopper says, defensively. “You want it to do something, you turn it all the way.”
“That is how explosions happen,” Jane says without looking up.
Will smiles around a yawn. The banter rolls around him, familiar and warm, like an old song.
Joyce plunks a plate in front of him, slightly less burnt toast, scrambled eggs that are more solid than fluffy, and half a sliced apple.
“Eat,” she orders gently. “You’ve got another long one today.”
He makes a face. “You talked to Mrs. Worthington again?”
“She called last night to tell me you’re ‘integral to the visual storytelling,’” Joyce says, mimicking the woman’s breathy enthusiasm almost perfectly. “Which I think is code for ‘I’m not letting him leave until the paint dries.’”
“It’s not that bad,” Will says, automatically defending stage crew. “We just… have a lot to do.”
“You always say that,” Jonathan says, handing Jane a glass of juice. “You know you’re allowed to say no sometimes, right?”
“Not if I want the set to not fall on anyone,” Will says.
“Valid,” Jonathan concedes.
Hopper drops into his usual chair with a fresh mug of coffee. “What time’s Worthington got you until this time?” he asks, squinting at the clock. “Six? Seven? Midnight under the ghost light?”
“She said until five,” Will says. “Maybe a little later, if we’re behind.”
“Yeah, that’s a no,” Hopper says immediately. “I’ve got the mall run with Max and our resident mall expert here.” He nods at Jane. “We’re leaving right after school. Joyce is closing tonight and I’m picking her up on the way back. Jonathan’s got the car for his lab shift. Nobody’s free to shuttle you around after five.”
Will pauses, fork halfway to his mouth.
“Oh,” he says.
“I told you yesterday,” Joyce says, sitting down with her own plate. “You might not have been listening because you were busy drawing on your napkin.”
He flushes.
“I was not— okay, I was, but it was… stage stuff.” It had been a rough thumbnail of Grover’s Corners, lines of rooftops squeezed between the salt shaker and the napkin dispenser.
“You need to tell Mrs. Worthington you have to leave on time today,” Joyce continues, tone firm but not unkind. “she’ll survive.”
Jane flips a page in the catalog. It’s an ad for the mall: a glossy spread of store logos and grinning models wearing neon and denim.
“Hopper promised we will go to the mall as a family,” she says, like she’s reciting a law. “Max will meet us there. She says she will help me find ‘non-dork’ clothes.” She frowns, considering. “I do not think my clothes are dork. But I want to try the big pretzels.”
“Your clothes are great,” Will says. “Max just likes messing with people.”
“And buying ridiculous sunglasses,” Jonathan adds.
“That too,” Will says.
“You can come next time,” Jane tells him. “When you are not… glued.”
“Chained,” Hopper supplies.
“Chained to the set,” Jane finishes, satisfied.
“Yeah,” Will says, pushing egg around his plate. “Next time.”
He can picture it, trailing behind Hopper and Joyce and Jonathan and Jane and Max through the echoing mall, stopping at record stores and pretzel stands and that weird shop that sells lava lamps and black-light posters. It sounds… loud. Overwhelming. A little wonderful.
But today is paint, and Mrs. Worthington’s clipboard, and the guilt that coils in his stomach when he thinks about skipping stage crew for anything that isn’t an emergency.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, there’s Eddie’s campaign next week and the Friday game and banners and—
“Hey,” Jonathan says, as if reading his mind. “You’re making that face again.”
“What face,” Will mumbles.
“The one that looks like you’re juggling flaming knives,” Jonathan says. “And none of them are actually real."
Will huffs a breath that’s close to a laugh.
“Just thinking,” he says.
“Thinking’s good,” Joyce says. “Just don’t think so much you walk into a pole on your way to school, okay?”
He rolls his eyes but nods.
As he eats, his gaze flicks to his backpack by the door, where his sketchbook is tucked between textbooks. Last night he’d added another drawing to the growing pile: rough lines forming the shape of Chance hunched over the banner, marker in hand, brows pinched in concentration. The R on the paper in front of him had been shaded with almost more care than the face.
He’d gone to sleep with his fingers still smudged with ink.
Now, with the taste of burnt toast and apples in his mouth, he feels the urge to draw again, like an itch under his skin. But there’s no time; the clock is already sliding past 7:30.
“Come on,” Jonathan says, grabbing his keys from the hook. “I can get you two halfway before I have to cut over to the paper. The rest you walk. Think of the exercise.”
“Cruelty,” Will says, but he stands.
Jane presses the catalog to her chest, eyes bright.
“I will look at the stores in the car,” she says. “So I am ready.”
Will grins despite himself.
The school day begins the way it always does: a rush of cold air as they step out of the car, the mixed smell of exhaust and wet leaves, the distant shriek of the first bell warning that they’re cutting it closer than usual.
Will’s backpack feels heavier than normal with the added weight of his obligations. Set. Campaign. Game. The words stack in his head like props backstage, each one waiting its turn.
At the lockers, the usual chaos has already assembled.
Dustin is in full rant mode, gesturing wildly with a pencil, his curly hair frizzed out around his head like he’s been static-shocked.
“—and I am telling you, a level 14 spellcaster needs at least one oh-shit button,” he insists. “You can’t just rely on Counterspell and sheer optimism, Michael.”
“You absolutely can rely on sheer optimism,” Mike argues, slamming his locker shut. “That’s been Steve’s entire strategy for the last three years and he’s still alive.”
“That is not reassuring,” Jane murmurs, hovering beside Will with her binder hugged to her chest.
“Steve is barely alive,” Dustin says. “He survives on hairspray fumes and poor life choices.”
Max leans on the lockers a few doors down, one boot hooked casually behind the other. She’s wearing her usual uniform of jeans, layered shirts, and an expression that says she’s seen everything and been unimpressed by most of it. A set of headphones hangs around her neck, the cord looped through her fingers.
“Morning, nerds,” she says.
“Morning,” Dustin fires back.
Jane steps closer to Max, face brightening in a way that has softened the redhead’s edges over the last year.
“You are still coming to the mall?” Jane asks, just to be sure. “With Hopper? After school?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Max says, straightening. “Got a whole plan. New jeans, maybe a jacket that doesn’t look like Hopper bought it at a yard sale, and if we have time, we’re hitting the music store so I can fix your cassette situation.”
“My cassettes are fine,” Jane says, affronted. “I like the one with the man who yells about money for nothing.”
“Dire Straits,” Max says. “Yeah, that one can stay. But we’re adding some variety. Trust me, it’s for your own good.”
Will can’t help smiling. Seeing Jane with Max still feels like watching someone gently teach a stray cat to accept affection, not that Jane is a cat, exactly, but there’s the same wary start, then slow lean-in.
He fiddles with his locker door, trying to frame the words he needs.
“Hey, Max,” he says, after Dustin and Mike have segued into measured argument over spell slots. “Can I ask you something?”
She arches a brow. “You can try.”
“Nice,” he mutters, then plunges ahead before his courage evaporates. “Eddie wants to start the new campaign next week. Like, actually start it, not just… talk at us for three hours. But stage crew is still going to be insane. If I can’t make the first session… would you maybe sit in? Like, temporarily? Just so he doesn’t stall the whole thing waiting on me?”
Max’s nose wrinkles skeptically.
“You want me to… voluntarily stick myself in a basement with Eddie ‘Monologue’ Munson and his merry band of snack-gremlins,” she says slowly, “so you can go paint wooden houses?”
“When you say it like that—” Will starts.
“Oh, hell no,” Max cuts in. “I am not being sacrificial substitute nerd so you can stress about stage flats. I already have plans. Cool plans. I’m teaching Jane how to skateboard.”
Jane looks up sharply. “You said we would start with balance,” she reminds Max. “No ramps.”
“We’re starting on grass,” Max assures her. “I’m reckless, not suicidal. And anyway, I will tolerate one of you falling on your butt at a time, thanks.”
“I won’t fall,” Jane says, utterly certain.
“You will, but that’s okay,” Max says. “Falling is half the— whatever, we’ll get there. Point is: I am not spending the first official session getting yelled at by Eddie because I don’t know your spell list.”
“You wouldn’t get yelled at,” Mike says, half-listening in now. “He’d just, like, dramatically plead with the universe like you’ve betrayed his vision.”
“Exactly,” Max says.
Will groans internally.
“I just…” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to screw it up for everyone. Eddie keeps saying he ‘wrote this one for me’ or whatever, and if I’m not there—”
“Then he’ll sulk, eat sixteen Doritos, and reschedule,” Max says bluntly. “Will, you’re allowed to have more than one thing going on. If it means the campaign starts a week late, he’ll live.”
“Will he, though?” Dustin says. “We don’t actually know if he can physically survive postponing drama.”
“He’ll live,” Max repeats, with the confidence of someone who has seen Eddie bounce back from much worse.
Jane tilts her head, studying Will.
“You can still come later,” she says. “For vampires. After the play.”
“I know,” Will says. “It’s just… he’s excited. And I miss it. And I don’t want to walk in late and have everyone be behind because of me.”
Max rolls her eyes, but there’s a glint of understanding there.
“If it makes you feel better, we can, like, power-train someone else,” she says. “But it’s not gonna be me. I like you all, but not enough to voluntarily learn math for fun.”
“It’s not math,” Dustin protests.
“Is there counting?” Max asks.
“Yes,” Dustin says.
“Then it’s math,” she says firmly. “Case closed.”
The bell shrieks overhead, slicing through their half-arguments.
“Come on,” Mike says, slamming his locker shut.
Dustin mutters, but he slings his bag over his shoulder and follows.
Jane glances at Will.
“Hopper said I go straight home after school,” she reminds him quietly. “For the mall. We will not wait for you at the auditorium.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ll… figure out my ride.”
She nods, eyes flicking over his face like she’s checking for cracks.
“You always do,” she says simply, and then she’s gone, swept away down the hall toward history.
Will stares at the hallway for a beat, then forces himself into motion.
The day drags and flies at the same time.
In English, he tries to pay attention to the class discussion about Piggy’s glasses and the “loss of innocence,” but the margins of his notebook fill up with sketches: a rough top-down layout of the Our Town stage, boxes for the houses and church; a quick doodle of a vampire throne room for Eddie; a tiny, almost throwaway drawing of a backwards baseball cap and the curve of a smile.
When the teacher calls on him out of nowhere, Will snaps upright.
“Byers,” the teacher says, peering over his glasses. “Care to share with the class what you’re so intently illustrating back there?”
Heat floods his face. He slams his notebook shut on reflex.
“I—sorry,” he stammers. “Um. I think… the glasses are a symbol of reason? Like, they represent the civilized part of the boys, and when they break, it’s sort of like… the last piece of that breaks too.”
He squints, then nods slowly.
“Good,” he says. “If you can think that clearly while drawing, maybe you should consider a career in political cartooning. Put the sketchbook away until lunch.”
“Yes, sir,” Will murmurs.
He tucks the notebook into his bag, fingers lingering for a second on the worn cardboard cover. Drawing is the thing that keeps his thoughts from spiraling into static, but it also makes him careless; he feels like he’s always getting caught half-in, half-out of his own head.
At least he’d managed a coherent answer. A year ago, he might have just sat there in silence and let the awkwardness swallow him.
In art elective later, things feel more natural. The room smells like paper and tempera paint, and Mr. Clarke moves between easels with quiet encouragement. Will’s project—a series of charcoal studies he’s pretending are “hands in motion” but which are mostly excuses to draw Chance’s fingers gripping a marker, Chance’s hand palming a basketball, Chance’s knuckles resting against a table, sits in front of him like a secret.
He tries to make them generic. Less Chance and more “hand,” in case anyone looks too closely. But his eyes keep remembering specifics: the faint scar along the base of the thumb, the way the veins stand out when he’s tensing his grip.
“It’s good detail,” Clarke says when he pauses behind Will. “You’re looking carefully. That’s half of drawing, you know—teaching yourself to really see.”
Will’s throat feels odd.
“Thanks,” he says.
Clarke moves on, and Will adds more shading to the knuckles, like he can bury recognition under graphite.
Lunch arrives too slowly and then all at once.
He finds the others at their usual table, trays scattered with whatever vaguely edible options the cafeteria has offered up, mystery casserole, fries, a gelatinous approximation of fruit.
Eddie is already there, boots kicked up on the table bench, Hellfire shirt stretched under his denim vest. He’s in full performance mode, hands carving shapes in the air as he talks.
“Okay, listen,” Eddie says the second Will sits down. “You have exactly one week before we descend into gothic glory, and I need to know: are you going wizard again?”
“Hi, Eddie,” Will says, because someone has to.
“Hello, my radiant muse of arcane destruction,” Eddie says, unbothered. “Now answer the question.”
Will pokes at his mashed potatoes.
“I… don’t know yet,” he admits. “I haven’t had time to really think about it.”
“Tragedy,” Eddie groans, leaning back like he’s been struck by lightning. “How am I supposed to tailor the emotional journey of this campaign if my star player is undecided?”
“You have, like, twelve star players,” Mike says. “You call all of us that.”
“That’s because I’m a generous god,” Eddie says loftily. “But Byers here has—” he waves a hand, searching “—vibes.”
“Vibes,” Will repeats.
“Yes. Haunted wizard vibes,” Eddie says. “Listen, I’m not saying the entire spine of the narrative rests on your shoulders or anything, but, like…” He wiggles his fingers ominously. “It kind of does.”
Dustin snorts. “You literally told me yesterday the whole thing hinges on whether my artificer can craft a cursed chandelier.”
“A chandelier is set dressing,” Eddie says. “The wizard is pathos.”
“Can pathos play from the stage?” Will asks weakly. “Because I’m pretty sure Mrs. Worthington’s going to have us working late some of those nights.”
Eddie’s face immediately shifts from theatrical offense to something more like real disappointment.
“Right,” he says. “The play.” He drums his fingers on the table, thinking. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Next week, we’re starting, whether Worthington likes it or not. If you can’t be there the very first session, we do the prologue without you. We set the mood, establish the villains, do the opening scene in the creepy chapel. Then when you show up—” his eyes light “—dramatic entrance.”
“I am sensing a theme,” Lucas says. “Have you considered subtlety, Eddie?”
“Subtlety is for cowards,” Eddie says. “I have considered it and rejected it.”
Will chews the inside of his cheek.
“What if I can’t make it for a few sessions?” he asks quietly. “We’re painting the whole town. It’s a lot. I don’t want to keep everyone waiting just because—”
“Hey.” Eddie leans forward, expression suddenly serious in a way that’s almost scarier than the jokes. “You are not ‘keeping everyone waiting.’ You’re doing something you love. That’s not… a crime, man. I’ll work around it. We always do. Worst case, we start at level one with the others and do your stuff when you’re free.”
Dustin makes a small strangled noise.
“Level one?” he says. “Eddie, you promised me high-level spells.”
“You’ll get your high-level nonsense,” Eddie says. “Calm down, Henderson.”
Max, across the table, catches Will’s eye and flicks a fry at him.
“See?” she says. “Told you he wouldn’t die.”
“He looks like he might,” Mike mutters, watching Eddie rub at his temple.
“That’s just his face,” Lucas says.
Will manages a laugh. The knot in his chest loosens a little.
He still feels caught between worlds,between the darkness of Eddie’s upstairs Hellfire lair and the bright, echoing stage where Mrs. Worthington demands “universality”—but knowing Eddie isn’t going to throw a fit if he’s not there on day one helps.
Still, as the lunch period winds down and people start packing up, Will jots a quick note to himself on the back of his hand.
Find backup so they’re not stuck.
He doesn’t know yet what that will look like. But the thought of walking into the basement a week late and finding everyone stalled and irritated because of him still makes his stomach twist.
He taps his pen against his knuckles, the ink forming a faint gray dot on his skin.
There has to be a way to be in two places at once.
Or at least to make sure both places keep moving without him.
The afternoon moves on: math, where Jane turns and flashes him a tiny thumbs-up when Kopec hands back her geometry homework with a rare, grudging “Good”; history, where Max passes Jane a note that appears to be a frankly terrifying stick-figure representation of skateboarding injuries with little arrows that say things like pad here and helmet or death; science, where they watch a filmstrip about tectonic plates that looks like it was made in 1963.
By the time the last bell rings, the hallway outside his locker is a crowded river.
Jane appears at his elbow with her backpack already zipped.
“Hopper is in the parking lot,” she says. “He has the list.”
“What list?” Will asks, swapping out his textbooks for his sketchbook and the folder with Mrs. Worthington’s scene breakdowns.
“The mall list,” she says, like it should be obvious. “For school clothes. And socks.” She glances past him. “Max is meeting us there. She said she has a ‘mission.’”
“I’m scared,” Will says honestly.
“You should be,” Max says, appearing from the opposite direction, board under one arm, headphones tangling with her hair.
“I thought we were getting pretzels,” Jane says, momentarily thrown.
“We are,” Max says. “Pretzels, orange sugar drink, and maybe a hat that doesn’t scream ‘my dad is my stylist.’ No offense, Hop.”
“Offense taken,” Hopper says from the doorway, where he’s leaning with his arms crossed. “I happen to have impeccable taste.”
“You own three shirts,” Max says. “Two of them are plaid.”
“Plaid is classic,” Hopper protests.
Jane bounces on the balls of her feet, caught between them.
“Have fun,” Will says, adjusting his bag.
“I will,” she says. “Do not get lost in the theater."
“I’ll try,” he says.
Hopper peers over.
“You good on rides?” he asks. “We’ll be back late. Joyce is closing, Jonathan’s at the lab. If Worthington tries to keep you past five, tell her no.”
“Yeah,” Will says, even though he’s not as sure as he sounds. “We talked about it. I’ll… call if anything.”
“Good,” Hopper says. “Don’t let them work you to death. That’s illegal. Probably.”
“It definitely is,” Max says.
Jane reaches out and squeezes Will’s wrist briefly.
“See you at home,” she says. “I’ll show you my new socks.”
“Can’t wait,” he says, smiling.
Then they’re gone in a flurry of denim and flannel, and the hallway feels a little emptier without their noise.
Will slings his backpack on both shoulders and heads toward the auditorium.
Stage crew has already claimed the stage by the time he gets there. The place smells like paint and sawdust and whatever weird cleaner the janitors use on the floor: sharp, almost citrus, with a chemical bite.
The backdrop looms at the back of the stage, Grover’s Corners slowly becoming a real town one brushstroke at a time. Today, they’re working on the sky and finishing the shading on the church. Jane’s earlier fences are lined neatly along the wings, waiting to be wheeled into place like soldiers.
“William!” Mrs. Worthington calls the moment he steps into the wings, as if she’s been lying in wait. Her scarf today is a dramatic swirl of deep purple, and she has specks of white paint on her reading glasses. “Our visionary. You’re just in time. We’re marrying the sky to the streets.”
Will bites back a smile.
“What do you want me on?” he asks.
“Clouds,” she says promptly. “I don’t want cartoon puffs. I want… memory. Mood. The kind of clouds that make you feel like something is about to happen and you’re not sure if it’s good or bad.”
“Ambiguous clouds,” Will says. “Got it.”
She presses a palette and a big, soft brush into his hands and steers him toward the towering canvas.
As he climbs the short ladder to reach the upper edge, he can feel the familiar shift, his brain sliding into the quiet, focused space where the rest of the world blurs at the edges. Up here, the worries about Hellfire and games and car rides shrink down to little dots somewhere below the horizon line.
He mixes gray into the blue, lightening and darkening by degrees, laying in soft shapes, then feathering out the edges with a dry brush. The clouds become layered, some barely there, more implied than painted, others thickening near the top as if a storm might be just out of frame.
Below, crew members move flats and test lighting cues. Someone rolls a ladder across stage left with a crash that makes everyone flinch. A lighting kid argues with another over gel colors.
Will works until his shoulders ache.
At some point, Mrs. Worthington floats back through, makes an appreciative noise at the sky, and just says, “Yes. Yes. That,” before flitting away to scold someone about stapling too close to the edge of a flat.
Time slips.
He’s shading the underside of a cloud when a small, nasty thought intrudes: You’re going to miss the campaign. You’re going to miss the game. You’re going to be up on this ladder while everyone else is living actual life.
He pauses, brush hovering.
The ladder wobbles slightly as someone moves a flat beneath him, and he grabs the top rung, heart stumbling.
Focus, he tells himself. One thing at a time.
Clouds first.
Then everything else.
He finishes the section he’s on before climbing down, legs a little rubbery. When he checks the clock hanging on the back wall of the auditorium, his stomach drops.
4:52.
He’s supposed to be out of here by five.
He wipes his brush on a rag and goes in search of Mrs. Worthington, dodging a kid carrying an armful of fake gravestones.
He finds her center stage, mid-lecture to a knot of actors about “internalizing the inevitability of death.” She pauses only long enough to give him a bright, expectant look.
“How’s the sky?” she asks.
“Moody,” he says. “Ambiguous. Possibly threatening.”
“Perfect,” she says. “What can I do for you, dear?”
He shifts his weight.
“Um. I actually… need to leave at five,” he says, forcing the words out before he can lose his nerve. “My family, they’re all busy tonight, so I don’t have a ride if I stay later. I can make up the hours tomorrow.”
For a moment he braces for pushback: the familiar art demands sacrifice speech, the guilt trip about commitment.
Mrs. Worthington just tuts sympathetically.
“Oh, no, no, we can’t have you stranded,” she says. “This is theater, not indentured servitude. You absolutely may leave at five.” She waves her clipboard like a wand. “We will muddle through without you for one afternoon.”
Relief washes through him so fast his knees almost unlock.
“Thanks,” he says. “I just… wanted to make sure.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’d rather not have your mother storm the castle, as she so charmingly put it last time we spoke.” Her eyes twinkle behind her smudged glasses. “And besides, sometimes the best thing you can do for your art is go home, have a meal, and think about something else."
Will doubts he’ll be thinking about anything but art—just… not only this art—but he nods.
He checks the clock again: 4:56.
If he hustles, he can call Joyce at the store before her shift starts proper, or catch Jonathan at the lab, see if he’s done early, or—
“Go,” Mrs. Worthington says, already turning back to her actors. “Fly, my boy. Before I think of something else for you to shade.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
The pay phone stands in the main hallway near the front doors, a metal box bolted to the wall with a scratched plexiglass hood over it. The handset is slightly sticky, the cord twisted into a mess. There’s a faint smell of metal and old gum.
Will digs in his pocket for change as he walks, coming up with a few nickels and a quarter he’s pretty sure he stole from the couch cushions.
The hallway is mostly empty now; most kids have already left or migrated to sports and clubs. The distant echo of shouting from the gym filters down the corridor, along with the squeak of sneakers.
He feeds the coins into the slot and dials the store where Joyce is working, the numbers so familiar he doesn’t have to look.
It rings. Twice. Three times.
Then the bored voice of the front counter girl answers and, after a brief exchange, informs him that Joyce “just went into the back” and “won’t be out for a while, sweetie.”
“Okay,” he says, throat tight. “Can you tell her Will called? I’m just gonna walk.”
He hangs up and chews the inside of his cheek. Walking home is an option; it’s not that far, and he does it most mornings. But it’s colder now, and dusk comes quicker. And after a few hours on ladders, his legs feel like they’ve been replaced with someone else’s.
He considers calling Jonathan next, but remembers his brother’s work schedule. He’ll be covered in chemicals and film strips, elbow-deep in trays.
He’s about to dig for another coin anyway, just in case, when a voice carries down the hall.
“Byers? That you?”
He turns, hand still on the phone.
Chance is jogging toward him, hair damp at the temples, green and gold jacket slung over one shoulder now that practice is done. His t-shirt underneath is dark with sweat between his shoulder blades. A basketball is tucked under his other arm, and there’s a strip of athletic tape wrapped around two fingers.
The sight of him hits Will like a small, sharp shock.
“Uh. Yeah,” he says. “Hey.”
Chance slows as he reaches him, shifting the ball to his hip.
“You ghosted on us,” he says, mock-wounded. “No banner-prep today?”
“Stage crew,” Will says, holding up paint-stained fingers. “Worthington wanted me to finish the sky.”
“Ah,” Chance says sagely. “Cloud duty. Serious stuff.”
“Yeah,” Will says. “Very… nebulous.”
Chance stares at him, then bursts out laughing, the sound echoing off the linoleum.
“Did you—did you just make a cloud pun?” he demands.
“I’m tired,” Will says, mortified.
“No, no, that was great,” Chance says. “I’m honored to witness this side of you.”
Will wants to sink into the floor.
“Anyway,” he says, gesturing weakly with the receiver, “I was just trying to get a ride. My mom’s at work, my brother’s stuck at the lab, and Hopper’s at the mall with Jane and Max. So. I think I’m stuck walking.”
Chance shifts his weight, fingers drumming lightly on the basketball’s surface.
“Walking from here?” he asks, brow creasing. “In this cold? That sucks.”
“It’s not that bad,” Will lies. “I usually walk or bike in the mornings. I just… wasn’t planning on it tonight, I guess.”
Chance chews on the inside of his cheek for a second, thinking.
“Where do you live again?” he asks.
“Um.” Will squints. “The Byers place? On Mirkwood. The… one with the weird mailbox and the fence that leans a little.”
“Oh, I know that street,” Chance says. “I live off Maple, it’s not far. I can drive you.”
Will’s brain blanks.
“Drive me?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” Chance says, like it’s obvious. “I’ve got my car. You don’t have to hoof it.”
He says it so casually, as if offering to lend a pencil. Like this is a normal thing, jocks offering rides to stage crew kids at the end of the day.
Will stares for a beat too long.
“I—are you sure?” he manages. “You don’t have to do that. I’m out of your way, probably, and—”
Chance rolls his eyes like Will has just suggested he carry him home on his back.
“It’s ten extra minutes, tops,” he says. “I’ve got nothing else going on except homework I’m going to pretend doesn’t exist. Come on. Let me be a Good Samaritan or whatever.”
Will’s heart is doing something weird and fluttery in his chest.
“You know how to drive?” he blurts, because his filter has apparently left the building.
Chance’s mouth curves.
“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says. “Yeah, I know how to drive. Taught myself. Stick shift, too.” There’s a little swagger in the way he says it; then it softens into nervousness. “I could, uh, teach you. I mean—only if you don’t know already. And if you… wanted to be taught.”
Will has absolutely never been more aware of his own face.
“I— I don’t,” he stammers. “I mean, I don’t know how. Yet. Drive, I mean. Not that I don’t— want to. I just—”
Chance’s grin widens, the edges turning a little shy.
“Cool,” he says. “Then, you know. If you ever get bored of walking in the snow, I can… show you sometime. Big empty parking lot, no cops.”
Will’s laugh comes out a little breathless.
“I’m leaning into it. Look, are you coming or what?” He jerks his thumb toward the front doors. “My car’s freezing and lonely.”
Will hesitates only one more second, long enough for the old, ingrained voice in his head to mutter something about how this is a bad idea, jocks don’t do things for free, you don’t belong in that world before he shuts it up.
“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Chance’s shoulders relax like he’d been holding something tense there.
“Cool,” he says again. “Come on.”
Chance’s car is not what Will expects.
He’s picturing some spotless, shiny thing like the upperclassmen drive,Camaro, maybe, or a Trans Am. Instead, the vehicle waiting near the edge of the lot is a sun-faded blue Chevy Nova that looks like it’s survived at least three minor apocalypses. There’s a dent in the rear bumper, one hubcap is missing, and the passenger door has a patch of primer where the paint’s wearing off.
But there’s also a string of plastic dice hanging from the rearview mirror, a stack of cassette tapes spilling out of the console, and a crumpled fast food bag on the floor.
“I know, she’s a beauty,” Chance says with exaggerated pride as they approach. “Try to contain your jealousy.”
“I like her,” Will says, and realizes he means it.
The car looks… lived-in. Not like a trophy. More like a person. Scratched, a little awkward, but still going.
Chance clicks the lock up from the inside and pushes the passenger door open for him.
“Mind the… everything,” he warns. “I’ve been meaning to clean it out since, like, July.”
Will steps over a pile of gym socks, their smell contained in a plastic shopping bag, and a battered pair of sneakers. He slides onto the cracked vinyl seat, his backpack on his lap, and pulls the door shut.
The interior smells like a mix of gas station air freshener, sweat, and that faint citrus soap again. The plastic dice knock lightly together as the car shifts.
Chance tosses the basketball into the back and drops into the driver’s seat with easy familiarity, pushing the seat back with his knees. He slams the door, jams the key into the ignition, and the engine turns over with a rough cough before settling into a low rumble.
“You sure this thing is road-legal?” Will asks, half-teasing.
“Hey, don’t insult her,” Chance says, patting the dashboard. “She’s temperamental, but she’s loyal.”
Will laughs.
“So you really taught yourself?” he asks, nodding at the gearshift.
“Yeah,” Chance says, putting it into reverse. “My uncle showed me the basics in his truck. Then I stolen-borrowed this baby from the lot down at Miller’s when I was fifteen and spent an entire summer stalling it in the church parking lot until I figured it out.”
“That seems… dangerous,” Will says.
“It was heavily supervised by Jesus,” Chance says. “Pretty sure he wasn’t thrilled, but we came to an understanding.”
Will shakes his head, grinning despite himself.
Chance glances sideways at him as he eases out of the parking spot.
“I’m serious about teaching you, by the way,” he says, more quietly now. “Driving, I mean. It’s not as scary as it looks. Once you’re in gear, it feels like… I don’t know. Like the road is just… there for you.”
Will swallows.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” Chance says. “Plus, then you don’t have to rely on everybody else’s schedules, you know?” His fingers drum lightly on the steering wheel. “Feels good to just… go when you want. Where you want.”
The words land somewhere deep in Will’s chest, heavier than they should. The idea of not having to ask for rides, not having to coordinate with Hopper’s shifts and Joyce’s overtime and Jonathan’s lab hours… it sounds like breathing in a bigger room.
He glances at the stick shift, the plastic knob smooth and worn.
“I’d probably stall it a thousand times,” he says.
“Everybody stalls a thousand times,” Chance says. “That’s part of the deal. You grind the gears, curse a little, hope nobody you know is watching, and then… eventually, you’re just doing it. Feet and hands and brain all working together.” He shrugs, then smirks. “You’d be fine. You’ve got good timing.”
“From watching me not trip over the paint cans?” Will says.
“From watching you catch the passes in gym when you think nobody’s looking,” Chance says lightly. “You’ve got better reflexes than half the guys on the team.”
Will feels his face heat; he hadn’t realized Chance noticed him at all in gym, let alone enough to form an opinion.
He looks out the window, watching the school recede as they pull out onto the main road. Trees blur by, leaves just starting to turn properly red and gold, scattered piles of them in the ditches.
“So,” Chance says after a moment, flicking on the turn signal. “Game’s Friday.”
Will huffs a quiet laugh.
“I noticed,” he says. “There are, like, thirty flyers around school. In case anyone missed the memo.”
“Subtlety is for the chess club,” Chance says. “We’re not above begging for an audience.”
Will glances over at him.
“I thought you said the gym gets packed no matter what,” he says.
“It does,” Chance says. “You get the usual crowd. Parents, band geeks, people who just want an excuse to scream for an hour. But I meant…” He shrugs, searching for words. “I meant it’d be cool if you were there.”
The world seems to narrow to the space inside the car: the low hum of the engine, the soft hiss of the heater, the faint drum of rain starting against the windshield.
“Why?” Will asks before he can stop himself. The question comes out smaller and more vulnerable than he intended.
Chance’s hands tighten slightly on the wheel, knuckles whitening for a second.
“Because you helped with the banner,” he says eventually, like he’s drawing from the safer pile of truths first. “Because, like, half the stuff going up in that gym is gonna be yours. And because Lucas looks like a little kid when his friends show up and I’m a sucker for that.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “And because it’s nice having somebody there who… doesn’t just see you as the jersey.”
Will’s chest does a weird, soft ache thing.
“I mean, I’m not going to pretend I understand the finer points of… whatever you guys are doing out there,” he says, to cover the way his heart jumps at that last part. “I can barely tell a good play from a bad one.”
“You saw Lucas sink that three the other day,” Chance says. “You know more than you think. And honestly, you don’t have to understand all the math of it.” He flicks him a grin. “That’s my job. You can just, like, be there. Exist. Maybe judge the banners. Make sure my R’s don’t look like they’re dying.”
Will picks at a loose thread on his backpack strap.
“I still don’t know if I can come,” he says quietly. “We might have rehearsal. And if not, Eddie’s probably going to want to do more prep. And I…” He trails off.
You’re scared, his brain supplies. Not of the game, exactly. Of stepping into that bright, loud space and realizing you don’t belong. Of hoping for something and then feeling stupid for hoping.
Chance nods, like he understands all the words Will didn’t say.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I get it. Life’s… busy.” He shifts in his seat. “Look, no pressure, seriously. But if you can come? Even for a half, or ten minutes, or to just stick your head in and laugh at the mascot costume? I’ll… I’ll be glad you’re there.”
Will swallows against the lump rising in his throat.
“I’ll try,” he says. “I mean it.”
Chance’s smile is small but bright, like someone turning on a light in the next room.
“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he says.
For a while they ride in silence, the kind that’s surprisingly comfortable. The car’s engine hums, the wipers squeak as they drag across the glass when Chance flicks them on against a light drizzle. The town rolls past: the gas station with the flickering sign, the convenience store with the always-crooked “OPEN” placard, the little park with its swing set and perpetually empty merry-go-round.
“So, uh,” Chance says, breaking the quiet just as it starts to edge toward awkward. “Explain this whole... vampire thing, right?What’s your character gonna be?” Chance asks, glancing over.
Will turns his head.
“Assuming Eddie lets you pick and doesn’t assign you something tragic like, I don’t know, a bard.”
“Bards aren’t tragic,” Will protests automatically. “They’re just… misunderstood.”
“That sounded like a personal thing,” Chance says, amused.
Will shrugs.
“I usually play casters, my whole character revolves around being 'will the wise'” he says. “Magic. Big spells. This time, maybe something different.” He hesitates, then adds, “I kind of want to draw them first. Sometimes the drawing tells me who they are.”
Chance’s lips quirk.
“Of course it does,” he says. “You ever draw people you know as characters?”
Will’s stomach flips.
“Sometimes,” he says cautiously. “If they let me.”
He doesn’t mention the sketchbook pages full of Chance in half-finished armor, Chance in a cloak with a bow across his back, Chance with a sword resting on his shoulder.
“Maybe you can draw me sometime,” Chance says, so offhand it almost doesn’t land. “Like, if I was in your… what is it, a campaign? See what kind of guy I’d be.”
Will looks at him properly then, really looks.
Sun-faded blue car, plastic dice on the mirror, athletic tape around his fingers, a boy who taught himself to drive stick in a church parking lot and fumbles his words when he offers driving lessons.
“I already know,” Will says softly, before he can stop himself.
Chance glances over, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah?” he says. “What am I?”
Will’s brain scrambles.
“A… ranger, probably,” he blurts. “Or a fighter with, um, good ranged stats. Fast on your feet. Good aim.” His voice steadies as he leans into the safer territory of game mechanics. “You side with the underdog. You talk too much. You’d definitely try to convince the villain to switch sides instead of just, like, stabbing them.”
Chance laughs, delighted.
“Wow, you got all that from watching me almost eat it on a layup?” he says.
Will smiles, a little self-conscious. “From watching you give Lucas crap and then… help him run drills after everyone else leaves,” he says. “And from the way you panic when letters aren’t straight on a banner.”
Chance opens his mouth, then shuts it again, like he’s not sure what to do with that level of observation.
“Well,” he says eventually, a bit rough around the edges. “If I ever roll up a character, I’m calling you first. You can be my… what do they call it? Consultant. Art department. Casting agent.”
“All three,” Will says.
“Multiclass,” Chance says.
They grin at each other, and it feels like someone’s nudged the universe just a little bit sideways into a configuration that fits better.
“You said Mirkwood, right?” Chance asks after a moment, glancing ahead as they turn onto a familiar street. The houses here are smaller, some with peeling paint, most with bikes or toys in the yard. There’s a crooked mailbox halfway down, the letters BYERS faintly visible through flaking white.
“Yeah,” Will says, pointing. “That’s us. The leaning fence is a landmark.”
“I see it,” Chance says, pulling toward the curb. He eases the car into park with practiced motion. The engine idles for a second, then he twists the key and the motor coughs off, leaving a sudden, almost shocking quiet.
For a beat, neither of them moves.
Then Will fumbles with his backpack strap.
“Thanks for the ride,” he says, trying to keep how much it meant from showing in his voice. “You, uh. Saved me from becoming a popsicle.”
“Anytime,” Chance says. “Seriously. If you’re ever stuck after practice or whatever, just… look for the ugly blue Nova. She’s hard to miss.”
“I like her,” Will says again, without thinking.
Chance ducks his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“She likes you too,” he says. “She only makes that wheezing noise when she’s nervous.”
As if on cue, the car gives one last creak as it settles.
Will hesitates with his hand on the door handle.
“About the driving thing,” he says. “Teaching me. Were you… serious?”
Chance’s eyes flick to his.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I was.”
Will swallows.
“Okay,” he says. “Maybe… after the game. Or… whenever. We could… go to that church parking lot.”
Chance’s grin returns in full force.
Will laughs, the sound bubbling up easier than he expects.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, finally opening the door.
“See you, Byers,” Chance says quietly. Then, after a beat, “Hey.”
Will pauses, half-out of the car.
“Yeah?”
“Game’s at seven,” Chance says. “Friday. In case you… needed the specifics.”
Will feels his heart do that silly little stutter again.
“I’ll… remember,” he says.
He steps out into the cool air and shuts the door carefully, lifting a hand in an awkward half-wave.
Chance taps the steering wheel in a little return salute and, a moment later, backs away from the curb, the Nova’s engine grumbling as it pulls off down the street.
Will stands there for a second, watching the taillights until they disappear.
Then he turns toward the house.
The Byers-Hopper house is unusually quiet when he steps inside.
No TV blaring. No radio. Just the tick of the wall clock in the living room and the faint hum of the fridge.
There’s a note on the kitchen table in Joyce’s looping handwriting:
LEFT EARLY FOR SHIFT – HOPPER HAS THE GIRLS, JONATHAN AT THE LAB.
LEFTOVER PASTA IN FRIDGE. DON’T EAT JUST POP-TARTS.
LOVE YOU. – MOM
There’s another note underneath in Hopper’s sharp scrawl:
TOOK MAX & JANE TO MALL. IF YOU’RE HOME BEFORE US, DON’T TOUCH THE ICE CREAM. THAT’S FOR “REWARDING GOOD CONSUMER BEHAVIOR” APPARENTLY.
Someone, probably Jane, has added a tiny smiley face between the notes, drawn in blue pen.
Will snorts softly, dropping his backpack by the wall. The house feels bigger without the usual noise, the silence pressing in on his ears.
He grabs a glass of water from the sink and wanders into the living room.
The coffee table is covered in one of Jonathan’s photography magazines and a stack of mail. The couch still has the indent from where Hopper probably sat earlier, lacing up his boots and complaining about the mall.
Will drops down into that spot, stretching his legs out, and lets his head fall back against the cushion.
For the first time all day, he has… nothing immediately assigned to him. No clouds to paint, no triangles to solve, no banners to rescue from terrible letters. Just him and the quiet and the knowledge that in a week, Eddie’s campaign is supposed to begin, and on Friday there’s a basketball game he might actually have to make a decision about.
The thought presses in again, heavy and familiar: you’re going to hold them back. If you’re not there, Eddie will stall. If you are, you’ll be distracted, thinking about brushstrokes and bleachers. If you go to the game, you’ll be thinking about the campaign. If you skip it, you’ll be thinking about green and gold and an empty section of bleachers where you could have sat.
You can’t be everywhere.
A fly buzzes lazily against the window for a second, then disappears.
Will sits up abruptly.
You can’t be everywhere, he thinks, but maybe someone else can be there when you’re not.
He remembers a younger girl in Scoops Ahoy’s back room, eyes sharp as knives, calling them nerds and then, slowly, grudgingly, joining their games. Erika Sinclair, who never did anything halfway. Who’d picked up the mechanics of D&D faster than most of the boys who’d been playing for years.
He fumbles for the phone on the side table. It’s the same clunky beige model they’ve had for years, the cord twisted in a permanent figure eight.
He dials Lucas’s number from memory.
It rings. Once. Twice.
“Sinclair residence,” a woman answers, a little breathless, like she was caught mid-task.
“Hi, Mrs. Sinclair,” Will says. “It’s, um, Will. Byers.”
“Will!” she says, instantly warmer. “How are you, honey?”
“I’m good,” he lies by reflex. “Is Lucas there?”
“He’s out back,” she says. “Hold on, I’ll get him. Erica! Get your brother, and don’t you slam that—”
The rest of the sentence gets swallowed by the clunk of the receiver being set down on a table.
Muffled chaos ensues on the other end: a door opening, someone yelling about “my socks,” and what sounds like a brief argument about who’s supposed to be doing what.
Finally, a familiar voice comes on the line, slightly out of breath.
“Yo,” Lucas says. “Will? That you?”
“Yeah,” Will says, tucking the cord around his fingers. “Sorry, did I catch you in the middle of something?”
“Nah, I was just destroying Dustin at HORSE in the driveway,” Lucas says. “He claims the wind’s cheating. What’s up?”
“I, uh… had a question,” Will says. “About the campaign. And… Erica.”
There’s a pause.
“What about her?” Lucas asks cautiously, like he’s bracing for a complaint.
“You said she has a character,” Will says. “Lady… Applejack?”
From somewhere in the background, a voice shrieks, “DON’T YOU DARE SAY HER NAME WRONG,” followed by a slam and the sound of someone wrestling the phone.
“Gimme that,” Erica hisses, and then her voice comes through the line, sharp and clear. “Who is this?”
“It’s Will,” he says, startled into a laugh. “Hi.”
“Oh,” she says, switching from attack mode to mild curiosity at lightning speed.
“I am begging you not to psychoanalyze my friends, Erica,” he mutters. “Give me the phone back—”
“No,” she snaps, then, directly into the receiver, “What do you want?”
He clears his throat.
“Uh. I heard you made a character,” he says. “Lady Applejack?”
Her voice immediately gains about ten decibels of pride.
“Lady Applejack, a powerful level fourteen chaotic good half-elf rogue,” she recites like she’s reading it off a card. “She is elegant, ruthless, and the only one at that table who knows how to plan ahead.”
“I plan,” Dustin protests faintly in the background.
“You panic,” Erica says. “Anyway. Why?”
Will smiles helplessly.
“I was just… wondering if you’d be interested in… I don’t know. Playing more,” he says. “Eddie’s uh starting a new campaign next week. And I might not be able to be there for every session, because of the play. I don’t want to hold everyone back. So I thought… maybe if Lady Applejack were there, she could carry some of the… narrative weight. Or whatever.”
He winces at his own wording, but Erica does not laugh. In fact, she sounds almost insulted on his behalf.
“You think they can’t play without you?” she demands. “That’s dumb.”
“I just— Eddie built a lot of it around my character,” Will says. “If I’m not there, he’ll stall. And everyone else will get stuck. I don’t want that.”
Erica sniffs.
“Sounds like a you problem,” she says. “But. Lady Applejack does not like to see campaigns flounder under weak leadership.” There’s a rustle, like she’s standing up straighter. “I will consider it.”
From the background, Lucas yells, “You will what? You’re not hijacking Hellfire, Erica—”
She covers the receiver, but not well enough to muffle her retort.
“If Eddie can’t handle having a girl at the table, that’s his problem,” she says. Then she’s back in Will’s ear. “I already told them what she is,” she adds. “Half-elf rogue, expert in infiltration, deception, and stabbing people in the back who deserve it. And she has a horse.”
“A horse?” Will repeats, charmed.
“A magical horse,” Erica corrects. “With a better name than Lady Applejack, but I haven’t decided that yet.” She pauses. “If I play, I’m not being anyone’s backup. I’m there to win. Got it?”
Will feels something in his chest unclench.
“Got it,” he says. “That’s… actually perfect. If you’re there, even if I’m late or can’t show up one week, the story’ll keep going. Eddie will have someone to yell dramatic speeches at.”
“He already does,” she says. “He loves to yell at Dustin. But, yeah. I’ll keep them in line. For a price.”
“A price,” Will repeats, amused and only a little scared.
“I want more snacks,” Erica says. “Better snacks. And I want to pick the music sometimes. I’m not listening to ten hours of shrieking guitars. Deal?”
“I’m not in charge of snacks,” Will says, laughing, “but I can talk to Eddie. I’m pretty sure he’d let Lady Applejack call the shots if it means you show up.”
“You better,” she says. “Or I’ll start my own club. With better branding.”
Lucas finally wrestles the phone away; there’s a brief scuffle, a “Ow, watch the hair,” and then his voice comes back on, slightly out of breath.
“Sorry,” Lucas says. “She’s… Erica.”
“I like her,” Will says honestly.
Lucas groans.
“Don’t encourage her,” he says. “What did you say to her, man? She looks like she’s planning a coup.”
“Maybe she is,” Will says. “But it’s a coup that might save Eddie’s campaign. If she plays more, he can start without me, and I can join when stage crew calms down. Nobody has to wait around.”
Lucas is quiet for a second.
“That… actually makes sense,” he says grudgingly. “As long as she doesn’t try to kill us all and take our loot.”
“She probably will,” Will says. “But at least you’ll go out in style.”
“Great,” Lucas sighs. “Death by little sister. Just how I always pictured my heroic end.”
They lapse into easier chatter: Lucas asks about the set, Will tells him about the clouds and the gravestones; Will asks about practice, Lucas complains about Coach’s obsession with suicides. The conversation winds from there to Friday’s game, looping back inevitably.
“You coming?” Lucas asks in the middle of describing a new play. “Like, actually? You don’t have to, but—”
“I’m trying,” Will says. “Worthington knows she can’t keep me late that night. And Chance offered me a ride. So… probably. For at least some of it.”
Lucas’ whoop of delight is loud enough that Will has to hold the receiver away from his ear.
“Hell yes,” Lucas says. “Okay, okay, don’t make a big thing of it, but… I’m really glad. It’s gonna be cool having you there. And, you know. If you get bored, you can always make fun of my free-throw percentage.”
“As long as you don’t make fun of me for not knowing what the hell is happening,” Will says.
“I’ll explain it in terms of D&D,” Lucas says. “Basketball is just, like, a series of contested rolls, anyway.”
The idea works its way under Will’s skin, calming something raw.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. That… I can understand.”
They hang up a few minutes later with a promise to meet up before first period tomorrow. Will sets the receiver gently back in its cradle.
The house is still quiet, but it feels less oppressive now. There’s a plan forming: Erica at the table to keep the story going, Lucas on the court, Chance under the basket, the set steadily becoming a town where people live and love and die.
He’s still not sure how he’s going to balance all of it. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel impossible.
He wanders back to his room, grabs his sketchbook from his backpack, and flops onto the bed.
For a moment he just looks at the blank page, the weight of the pencil in his fingers. Then he starts to draw.
He sketches the stage first, rough outlines of the church and fences, the sky stretching up and off the edge of the paper.
In the corner, he draws a round table, a scattering of dice, the curve of someone’s hand reaching for them,slim fingers, a pinky ring, a stack of character sheets.
He adds a second figure, the outline of a girl with a high ponytail and a tiny crown tilted rakishly on her head. Lady Applejack, he decides, with a smirk that could level an army.
And above it all, almost as an afterthought, he sketches the hint of bleachers: rows of lines, little scribbled circles for heads. In one, he puts a baseball cap drawn backward. In the one next to it, a messy bowl of hair.
Two boys, side by side, watching the same game.
He sits back, pencil resting against his lip, and lets the lines swim in front of his eyes.
There are still too many moving parts. Stage crew. Campaign. Game. People who want different pieces of him.
But looking down at the page, at least they’re all on the same paper.
The front door bangs open downstairs, followed by laughter and the thud of multiple sets of feet.
Will smiles, closing the sketchbook around the new drawing.
The house fills up again: voices, footsteps, the rustle of shopping bags, the smell of pretzels and some overly sweet drink drifting up from the kitchen.
He slides the sketchbook under his pillow for now, a secret anchor.
Tomorrow, there will be more clouds to paint, more banners to fix, more practice schedules to navigate.
Friday, there will be a game.
Next week, vampires.
Chapter 5: aisles & answers
Summary:
Jonathan comes home from work that night and ropes Will, Max, and Jane into a quick trip to Family Video to return a monster movie and pick something for a future movie night. While everyone else browses, Will wanders into the drama aisle and finds a VHS of Maurice, a film about forbidden love between men that hits a little too close to home. Robin catches him staring at the box and, in a low-key, awkwardly honest conversation, comes out to him, shares her relationship with Vickie, and gently coaxes Will into admitting he isn’t straight and is scared of what that means in Hawkins, especially with a boy named Chance quietly becoming important to him. By the time they leave with Back to the Future instead of Maurice, Will has decided to go to Chance’s basketball game, feeling less alone and a little more brave.
Chapter Text
By eight o’clock, the house had settled into that soft, cluttered evening chaos that meant everyone had survived the day and now had no idea what to do with themselves.
Max and Jane were on the living room floor with the new skateboard, the wheels removed so it was just the deck while they worked on “balance drills.”
“Feet shoulder width apart,” Max said, nudging Jane’s ankles with the toe of her sock. “Knees bent. You are not a statue. Statues crack and fall over. You’re… water or whatever.”
“Water,” Jane repeated, concentrating. Her arms floated out from her sides a little, fingers spread, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall like Max had told her.
Will sat cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook open on his lap, pencil tapping lightly against the paper as he tried to capture the angle of Jane’s arms, the focused furrow between her brows, the way Max hovered half a step away, hands ready to catch if things went sideways.
He’d started the sketch intending it to be some generic “person balancing” study, but it was already becoming itself: Jane’s new jean jacket with the slightly too-big shoulders, Max’s wild hair, the uneven floorboard by the coffee table.
“Don’t look at your feet,” Max said. “That’s the first rule. You look at your feet, you eat it.”
“I do not want to ‘eat it,’” Jane said through gritted teeth.
“Then pick a spot and glue your eyes to it,” Max said.
Her weight shifted. The board tipped. One arm windmilled.
Max’s hands shot out, steadying her.
“Hey,” she said. “That was better. You lasted way longer than the first time.”
Jane’s shoulders lowered a fraction, tension easing.
“I lasted twelve seconds,” she said, almost proud.
“That’s eight more than Lucas did when I taught him,” Max said. “Don’t tell him I told you that.”
“I will not,” Jane promised solemnly.
Hopper, half-watching from his armchair with the newspaper in his lap, snorted.
Will smiled without really thinking about it. His pencil moved over the paper almost on autopilot now: the arc of Max’s fingers, the tilt of Jane’s chin, the newspaper folded across Hopper’s knee like a shield he forgot he was holding.
He heard the car pull up in the driveway before anyone else reacted—old habit, ears tuned to the specific cough of Jonathan’s engine.
Headlights swept briefly across the living room windows. Gravel crunched. Car doors thunked.
A second later, the front door opened, and cold air spilled into the room.
“Hey,” Jonathan called, voice roughened by too many hours breathing in chemical fumes and darkroom dust. “I’m home!”
“You’re late,” Joyce said, but there was no bite to it. “You were supposed to be done at seven.”
“Boss asked me to stay and help with a rush job,” Jonathan said, stepping into the doorway and pushing his hair back with ink-stained fingers. “Apparently nobody else knows how to not fog the negatives.” He glanced at the clock. “Also, I underestimated how long it takes to scrape dried developer off your shoes.”
“You what?” Joyce said, turning fully from the stove.
Jonathan lifted one foot sheepishly, showing a dark stain on the sole of his sneaker.
“I was careful,” he said. “Mostly. Anyway, I come bearing good news and a potential field trip.”
Max perked up instantly, hopping off the skateboard.
“Field trip?” she said. “If it’s back to the mall, I call shotgun.”
“No mall,” Jonathan said. “Family Video.”
“Pass,” Max said immediately, deflating. “We were just there this weekend. The Steve & Robin Show is reruns at this point.”
Jane, though, looked curious.
“What is the field trip?” she asked. “Is there cotton candy?”
“No sugar,” Jonathan said. “Just capitalism.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a VHS case with a garish sci-fi cover. “I have to return Creature From the Black Lagoon before Keith starts charging me late fees.”
Hopper snorted. “Tell Keith I said he can take his late fees and shove—”
“He knows,” Jonathan said. “He knows. But seriously, if I don’t get this back tonight it’s, like, six bucks by tomorrow, and I am not letting the monopolistic video rental machine win.” He glanced at Will, at Max, at Jane. “You guys wanna come? We can grab something for a movie night later this week.”
“A movie night?” Jane’s eyes widened. “With popcorn?”
“If Hop doesn’t burn it,” Joyce said.
“I will not burn it,” Hopper said. “You set one kitchen on fire and nobody lets you forget it.”
“You set two kitchens on fire,” Joyce said. “That we know of.”
Max grabbed the skateboard, tucking it under one arm.
“Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll come. Maybe we can convince Steve to let us into the non-lame section.”
“I would like to see the one with the time travel car,” Jane said, very seriously. “Mike told me about it.”
“Back to the Future,” Will supplied. “We can ask if it’s in.”
Joyce shook her head, but she was smiling.
“Be back by ten,” she said. “And no R-rated stuff, please. I’m not arguing with Keith about whether a movie with three murders and one boob counts as ‘light violence.’”
“Very specific example, Mom,” Jonathan said, grinning.
“Don’t you start,” Joyce said, pointing a spoon at him. “If I find Porky’s in this house again, I’m burning it”
Will slid off the couch, tucking his sketchbook under his arm.
“I’ll go,” he said. “I mean, if there’s room.”
“There’s always room,” Jonathan said. “Max, Jane, you in?”
Jane nodded immediately. “Yes,” she said. “I have been to Family Video but I have not studied it.”
“You’re such a nerd,” Max said affectionately, bumping her shoulder. “Let’s go.”
They bundled into jackets and shoes, the usual chaos of mislaid gloves and someone’s scarf going missing (Hopper’s; he accused the dog, who yawned, unimpressed). The air outside had a bite to it that hinted at real cold not too far off, the stars sharp and bright in the clear sky.
Jonathan’s car, older and boxy and perpetually on the edge of needing a new muffler, idled in the driveway, exhaust curling white into the dark. Will slid into the front seat with the returned VHS in his lap, while Max and Jane claimed the back, immediately falling into an argument about which mixtape they were allowed to put in the tape deck.
“No Steve tapes,” Max said. “His taste is punishment.”
“I like some of his songs,” Jane said thoughtfully. “The one that goes ‘just like the white-winged dove’—”
“Fine,” Max said. “One Steve song, maximum.”
Jonathan started the engine, the radio crackling to life before he pushed in a cassette. Tinny drums and a guitar riff filled the car—Phil Collins again, one of Jane’s current obsessions.
The road to Family Video was familiar, lit by a mix of streetlights and the glow from storefronts. The mall parking lot sign loomed off to their right as they passed, neon buzzing. Jane craned her neck to look at it, like she was worried it might vanish while she wasn’t there.
“We will go back,” Max said, reading her mind. “When your feet are less… wobbly.”
“They are not wobbly,” Jane said. “They are learning.”
“Same thing,” Max said.
In the front seat, Jonathan glanced over at Will.
“You doing okay?” he asked quietly, under the music.
Will watched the dark blur of trees and houses out the passenger window.
“Yeah,” he said. “Eddie called the house earlier.”
“Oh?” Jonathan said.
“He wanted to yell about how Lady Applejack is ‘both the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to the campaign,’” Will said, a smile tugging at his mouth. “He’s… excited. And weirdly okay with me not being there every single session.”
“Told you,” Jonathan said. “The world doesn’t fall apart if you miss one game. Or if someone else steps up.”
“I know,” Will said, but it felt less like he was trying to convince himself now and more like stating a fact.
“Still thinking about the game?” Jonathan added after a beat.
“Yeah,” Will said softly. “Chance… kinda invited me again. In the car. Yesterday.”
Jonathan’s eyebrows climbed.
“In the car,” he repeated.
“He gave me a ride,” Will said, voice stumbling over the words. “We… talked. About driving. And the campaign. And… stuff.”
“Stuff,” Jonathan echoed, like he wasn’t going to push but also wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t care.
Will exhaled slowly, watching his breath fog the glass for a second.
“I think I’m going,” he said. “At least for part of it. Worthington let me go early that day. And Lucas… he really wants me there.”
“And you?” Jonathan asked.
“I…” Will hesitated. “I think I want to go.”
There it was. Out loud.
Jonathan’s smile was small and genuine.
“Then you should,” he said.
Will nodded. The words eased something tight and anxious inside him, even if they didn’t magically fix everything.
They pulled into the Family Video lot a few minutes later, the store’s green and yellow sign buzzing merrily above the entrance. The front windows glowed, displays of VHS covers arranged in lopsided pyramids and themed endcaps: “Fall Frights,” “Family Favorites,” “New Releases.”
Inside, the world shifted from cold autumn air to warm fluorescent light and the faint smell of popcorn and plastic.
The bell over the door jingled as they stepped in.
“Welcome to Family Video, where late fees are our love language,” came a familiar voice from the counter.
Steve Harrington leaned against the register, nametag crooked, hair doing its usual gravity-defying thing. He had one hand wrapped around a Styrofoam cup, the other flipping a pen between his fingers.
Behind him, Robin Buckley perched on a stool, label maker in hand, a stack of returns beside her. She wore the vest over a band t-shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair pulled back with a headband that did absolutely nothing to keep the shorter pieces from falling in her face.
She squinted at a tape in her hand, then at the screen in front of her, then banged the label maker once on the counter like that would help.
“Oh, thank God,” she said when she saw Jonathan approaching. “Customers who aren’t weird middle-aged men asking if we have more movies with ‘European sensibilities.’”
“That happened one time,” Steve said. “And the guy was probably actually European, Robin. You can’t just assume everyone is a pervert.”
“Everyone is a pervert,” Robin said. “Statistically.”
She hopped off the stool as Jonathan held up the tape.
“Back to return this before Keith sells your soul?” she asked.
“That’s the plan,” Jonathan said. “I can’t afford to owe that man anything. Last time he made me reorganize all the kung fu tapes as ‘payment.’”
“Truly a fate worse than death,” Steve said, taking the tape from him and sliding it onto the counter with practiced ease. “We still on for movie night Thursday?”
“If we can pry Hopper away from Magnum, P.I. reruns,” Jonathan said. “And if you promise not to bring anything that will scar Jane and the others for life.”
“I have taste,” Steve said, offended.
“You wanted to rent The Thing for her first movie night,” Robin pointed out.
“It’s a classic!” Steve protested. “And it has, like, heart or whatever.”
“It has exploding dogs,” Robin said. “Exploding. Dogs.”
“Dogs?” Jane said, eyes widening as she drifted closer.
“No exploding dogs for you,” Will said hurriedly. “No dogs exploding anywhere near you.”
Jane nodded. “Good,” she said. “I like dogs.”
“See?” Robin said. “This is what I’m saying.”
“We’ll find something PG-13 with no dogs and minimal trauma,” Jonathan said. “In the meantime, can these nerds wander?”
“Wander away,” Steve said, sweeping an arm wide. “Just don’t knock over the horror display again. Keith wrote me up for that.”
“That was you,” Robin said.
Will drifted toward the aisles, sketchbook still tucked under his arm, though he knew he wouldn’t use it here. Family Video was like a library of worlds he hadn’t quite stepped into yet: rows and rows of stories lined up in their battered plastic cases, cover art promising drama and comedy and explosions and awkward romance.
Jane gravitated toward the “Family Favorites” shelf, Max toward the horror endcap with its lurid boxes—dripping fonts, screaming faces, lots of red. Jonathan wandered off to the “Classics & Foreign” section, where Robin would give him grief about being a snob and then recommend something weird but good.
Will wasn’t sure where he belonged in the maze.
He walked slowly down the “Drama” aisle, fingers trailing just above the tapes, careful not to knock anything askew. Covers flashed past: earnest faces, sweeping landscapes, taglines about passion and destiny and war.
Halfway down the aisle, something made him stop.
A dark green spine with a white label. The title in serif letters: Maurice.
He slid the tape partway out, curiosity more like gravity than conscious choice.
The cover showed two men in period clothes. One, dark-haired and serious, in profile; the other, lighter, face turned toward him, expression somewhere between sad and hopeful. There was something about the way they were standing, too close, not close enough that buzzed faintly under his skin.
He read the tagline, lips moving soundlessly.
A story of forbidden love in Edwardian England.
His chest tightened.
He knew, vaguely, that there were… stories like this out there. He’d heard about them in whispers, half-mocked, half-terrified. Magazines with lurid covers in the back of gas stations, paperbacks hidden under floorboards. In Hawkins, it was mostly jokes and slurs scrawled in bathroom stalls.
But seeing it here, on a shelf in Family Video, slotted between some random courtroom drama and a movie about a teacher inspiring his students… it felt different. Less like something dirty and more like proof that somewhere, somehow, people like him existed enough to be put on a box and rented for $2.99 a night.
He traced the edge of the cover with his thumb.
He imagined bringing it up to the counter and dropping it on the stack with whatever Jonathan picked. The way Joyce would squint at the back later, reading about repressed feelings and British boarding schools. The way Hopper would probably make some crack. The way the air might go tight and weird.
He slid the tape half back into its slot.
“Good choice,” a voice said casually over his shoulder. “If you’re in the mood to be emotionally destroyed by repressed British dudes in high collars.”
Will nearly dropped the tape.
He turned.
Robin stood at the end of the aisle, leaning on the neighboring shelf, a stack of tapes balanced against her hip. She’d shed the vest somewhere between the counter and here, leaving her in a faded local band t-shirt and jeans. A label maker dangled from one wrist by its little strap like a bracelet.
She nodded at the tape in his hand.
“That one’s… a lot,” she said. “In a good way. But also in a ‘wow, society is garbage’ way.”
Heat shot up Will’s neck.
“I was just—” He fumbled, shoving the tape fully back into place like it had burned him. “Curious. I haven’t seen it. I was just looking.”
Robin raised an eyebrow.
“Sure,” she said lightly. “Just browsing the repressed gay tragedy section on a casual Tuesday.”
He makes a small choking sound.
“I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t say—”
She winced, lifting a hand.
“Sorry,” she said, voice immediately softer. “That was… blunter than I meant it to be. Habit. My mouth has, like, a head start on my filter.”
“It’s fine,” he lies.
It isn’t, exactly. It’s… exposing. Like she’s flipped on a light in a room he was trying to keep dim.
She steps a little closer, lowering her voice.
“Look,” she says. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I just… recognized the look.”
“The look?” he echoes.
She nods toward the shelf where Maurice sits, innocuous again among its neighbors.
“I used to stare at that box like it was radioactive,” she says. “Before we had it here, there was a poster for it at the Plaza. I think I walked past it every day for a week pretending I didn’t see it.” Her mouth twists. “I’d tell myself I was just… really into British literature. Or, like, male friendship. Or whatever nonsense you tell yourself when your brain is trying not to say the word it actually means.”
Will swallows.
“What word,” he says, even though he already knows.
She looks at him, blue eyes sharp and kind all at once.
“Gay,” she says, without hesitation. “Or… whatever applies.” She shrugs one shoulder. “In my case, ‘lesbian with a panic disorder’ covers most of it.”
His heart stutters.
He knows, in a foggy kind of second-hand way, that Robin likes girls. Part of him has known since that strange summer when Steve came back from a terrible mall job with a new best friend and a new gigantic crush on Nancy Wheeler, Round Two; Robin appeared by his side like she’d always been there, a sarcastic, fast-talking blur.
But no one ever says it. Not in Hawkins. Not out loud.
“You… are?” he says, voice small.
“Very much so,” Robin says. “Trust me, no straight girl spends that much time obsessing over the way other girls’ hands look when they play clarinet.”
“Clarinet,” he repeats, thrown by the specificity.
She smiles.
“Vickie,” she says. “You know Vickie, right? Band? short hair, freckles, smile that could cause traffic accidents?”
Will searches his mental Rolodex.
“Red curls?” he hazards. “Plays with the marching band at games. Always looks like she’s about to trip over her own shoes.”
“That’s the one,” Robin says, fondness dripping off every word. “She graduated with me and Nance last year. Class of ‘86. She’s… she’s my girlfriend.”
Girlfriend.
The word hits like someone dropping a pebble into a still pond; the ripples go all the way out.
“She is?” Will says, too quickly.
“Yeah.” Robin’s grin softens into something almost shy. “It’s… relatively new. We’re still figuring it out. Her parents think I’m her ‘good influence friend from work,’ which is objectively hilarious because I am the opposite of that. But. It’s real.” She shrugs. “We keep it quiet. You know. For… obvious reasons.”
Obvious reasons.
Will looks down at his hands. At the faint graphite smeared along the side of his finger, the little nick near his knuckle from a stray staple earlier.
“I—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m… not…” The word tangles. “I don’t—”
“Hey,” Robin says, stepping closer, voice gentle. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
He sucks in a breath.
It would be so easy to back away. To laugh it off, say he was just curious about film history, make a joke about tragic British teeth and move on.
But the store hums quietly around them, distant sounds from the horror aisle where Max is probably trying to convince Jane that animatronic sharks are fine, the faint thump of Steve messing with the shelves behind the counter. The world hasn’t ended because Robin said girlfriend out loud.
And Will is so, so tired of holding all of this inside like something that might explode.
“I am,” he blurts.
Robin blinks. “You are…?”
“Not straight,” he says, the words coming in a rush, tripping over each other. “I’m not— I mean, I like— guys. Boys. I think. I know.” He winces. “Sorry, that sounded stupid.”
“Totally not stupid,” Robin says. She looks more like herself again now, bright, fast, a little scattered. “Also, welcome to the club.”
He huffs out a laugh that sounds half like it might break.
“I’m not exactly… out,” he adds quickly. “I mean. My mom knows. And Jonathan. And… the guys. Like, the party. Sort of. They know something.” He twists the hem of his sleeve between his fingers. “Hopper and I are still… working on it.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Working on it?”
“He’s… trying really hard,” Will says, complicated fondness threading through the words. “He’s… Hopper. He says stuff like, ‘You know I don’t care who you like, right?’ and then five seconds later he goes on this whole rant about how he’ll ‘kill any boy who looks at my kid wrong.’” He smiles weakly. “I think he forgets I might be the boy in that equation.”
Robin snorts. “Classic dad move.”
“I just…” Will stares at the tape spine again, the word Maurice suddenly too loud. “I’m kind of scared. This town isn’t exactly welcoming to anyone who isn’t—” He gropes for the right word. “‘Normal.’”
He thinks of lockers tagged with slurs, the whispered jokes in the hallway, the way kids like Tommy H. make those slurs sound like a threat and not just an insult. Of the way adults look away when they hear it. Of the quiet, brutal stories that circulate like ghost tales, some kid a few towns over beaten up behind a diner, someone’s cousin sent away to “camp” and coming back never quite the same.
Robin’s face sobers.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Hawkins is… not exactly San Francisco.”
“Steve said San Francisco is full of hippies and people who don’t wear socks,” Will says, because his brain is an idiot that reaches for humor when it’s close to panic.
“Steve also thinks Footloose is a documentary,” Robin says. “We don’t listen to Steve.”
Will laughs, the tension loosening a fraction.
“I just…” He gestures helplessly, words spilling now because if he doesn’t say them here, in this fluorescent-lit aisle of melodrama and soft-focus movie stars, he might not say them anywhere. “I know my friends aren’t going to, like, hate me. Or my mom. Or Jonathan. But the rest of this place—” He swallows. “I keep thinking if I’m… too obvious or whatever, it’ll just… stick. People will decide, and then that’s all I get to be. The weird gay kid.The one they whisper about.”
He doesn’t mention the other fear, that someone might do more than whisper.
Robin studies him for a long moment, expression softer than he’s ever seen it when she’s not making a joke.
“Can I tell you something kind of personal?” she asks.
He blinks. “You just told me you’re gay and dating a band girl. I think we’re past the small talk stage.”
She huffs a little laugh, then sobers again.
“I told Steve,” she says. “Like, full breakdown. There was… music and vomit and I was crying and yelling at him and I basically screamed it in his face.”
“Sounds… intense,” Will says.
“It was,” she says. “And I was positive he was going to either freak out or, like, pat me on the head and tell me it was just a phase or something. Because that’s what this town trains you to expect, right? Best case, you’re a joke. Worst case…” She makes a vague, ugly gesture. “They make sure you know what you are’s not welcome.”
The fluorescent lights buzz quietly over their heads, someone laughs distantly near the comedy section, a tape case clicks shut as a kid examines the back and then puts it back.
“But he didn’t,” she continues. “Freak out, I mean. He just… sat there. And listened. And then he told me I was an idiot for thinking that I was unlovable and he was an idiot for ever making me feel like that. And then—” She flicks a hand toward the front of the store, where Steve is currently arguing with some guy over the definition of “rewound.” “Now we’re stuck together for life, apparently.”
A smile tugs at Will’s mouth despite the heaviness in his chest.
“Yeah,” he says. “You kind of are.”
“And then,” Robin says, “later, when I realized that the stupid choir girl I’d been singing harmonies with in my head for a year was actually looking at me the same way… I almost threw up.”
“Romantic,” Will says.
“Shut up,” she says, but there’s no sting in it. “I was terrified. Because it’s one thing to say it to the reformed King of Hawkins, whose whole deal is being weirdly chill about this stuff now. It’s another to say it to someone who might break your heart or, worse, say ‘that’s gross.’”
“Did she?” Will asks, unable not to.
“She got so nervous she knocked over her juice,” Robin says, eyes going distant. “Then she laughed, and I laughed, and we both did this really awkward, ‘oh my God, same,’ and then spent, like, three weeks trying to figure out what the hell that meant.” Her mouth softens. “And now she’s my girlfriend. We go to movies and talk about music and complain about our parents and sometimes she looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.” She looks back at him. “And it’s still scary. Every day. But it’s also… really, really good.”
Will’s throat feels tight.
“That sounds…” He searches for a word that doesn’t sound stupid or too small. “…nice,” he finishes lamely.
“It is,” Robin says. “It’s also messy and complicated and there are days when I want to hide under my bed because someone used a slur too loudly in the hallway. But I guess what I’m trying to say is… it’s not all like the sad British movies.” She nods at Maurice. “It’s not all secret letters and ruined lives.”
He glances back at the tape. The two men on the cover seem to be looking at each other differently now.
“You don’t… regret telling people?” he asks quietly. “About you? About Vickie?”
She considers.
“I don’t tell everyone,” she says. “I’m not out to my parents. Or, like, most of the grown-ups in this town. Not because I’m ashamed.” She shrugs. “Because I like having a house to live in. And a job. And the ability to walk down the sidewalk without someone deciding to use me as target practice.” She shifts the tapes against her hip. “But with the people I’ve told? Steve. Nancy. Vickie. A couple of others who figured it out because they actually pay attention… I don’t regret it, no.”
Will wraps his arms around himself, thumb rubbing at a loose seam in his sleeve.
“I keep thinking… if I say it out loud too many times, it becomes real,” he says. “Like, up here—” he taps the side of his head “—it’s still… mine. If other people know, they can… do things with it.”
“Weaponize it,” Robin says quietly.
He nods.
“Yeah.”
She takes a breath.
“It’s already real,” she says. “Even if you never say it again ever. Not saying it doesn’t make it less true. It just makes you lonelier.” She offers a small, crooked smile. “You don’t owe it to anyone. You don’t owe anyone your label or your crushes or your entire internal monologue. But you deserve to not be the only one holding it all.”
The words land with the same soft weight as the ones Jonathan had offered earlier: you’re allowed to like people, whoever they are.
“I have—” Will starts. Stops. Tries again. “There’s this guy.”
Robin’s eyebrows shoot up, but she keeps her voice carefully even.
“Yeah?” she says.
“I don’t even know if I like him like that,” Will says quickly, heat creeping up his neck. “I mean, maybe I do. I think I do. I… feel weird around him. Good weird. And also like my brain forgot how to operate my body. It’s confusing.”
“Sounds pretty like-that,” Robin says. “But continue.”
“He’s on the basketball team,” Will says, as if that piece is the most absurd part. “He’s friends with Lucas. We had art together last year. He keeps... Talking to me.” He laughs, a little breathless. “He gave me a ride home yesterday. Offered to teach me how to drive. Keeps inviting me to this game on Friday.”
“And you want to go,” Robin says.
His eyes lift to hers.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think so. But that feels like… a lot. Like a thing. Even if it’s not, you know? It’s just a game. But it’s also… not.”
“No, I get it,” Robin says. “Walking into the gym is like voluntarily stepping onto a stage you didn’t audition for. There are all these rules about who’s supposed to sit where and cheer for what and you’re just there like, ‘do I clap now or will that get me punched.’”
He huffs out an involuntary laugh.
“Exactly,” he says.
She leans one shoulder against the shelf, tapes balanced on her other arm.
“Okay,” she says, like she’s laying out pieces on a table. “You’ve got this boy who makes your neurons short-circuit, a group of friends who, while insufferable, love you to death, a mom who already knows and hasn’t exploded, and a grumpy cop-dad who is trying very hard not to be a caveman. That is already, like, five things more than some of us had at your age.” She pauses. “And yeah, Hawkins sucks. It’s going to keep sucking, probably, for a long time. But… there are pockets where it sucks less. Like around that idiot—” she jerks her chin toward the front, where Steve is attempting to explain the concept of rewinding to an elderly customer “—and the people he’s collected. Like around your table of dice-obsessed weirdos. Like around… this basketball boy, maybe?”
“Chance,” Will says quietly, before he realizes he’s decided to.
“Chance,” she repeats, filing it away. “Cool name.”
“And you,” she says, “are allowed to see where it goes. Or doesn’t. You don’t have to stamp it with a label or make a big speech on the cafeteria table. You can just… like him, in the privacy of your own freaking skull, and let yourself be happy that he’s inviting you to a game.” She taps the Maurice tape lightly with her knuckle. “And if you ever want to watch the depressing British movie about repressed guys who never got the chance to be together, you can come here and we will put it on for you. After hours. Secret club.”
“Secret sad movie club,” Will says, mouth quirking.
“With popcorn,” she adds. “Steve makes good popcorn. Don’t tell him I said that.”
He smiles, something loosening in his chest.
“How do you do it?” he asks after a beat. “Walk around like… like you are, in this town. Without wanting to… disappear.”
She considers, eyes flicking up to the flickering fluorescent tubes.
“Some days I do,” she says. “Want to disappear. Some days I put on this vest and I stand behind that counter and I feel like I’m wearing a costume of a normal girl. But then… I come around a corner and I catch Steve doing some dumb dance to get a baby to stop crying, or Vickie leaves me a note hidden in a tape case, or I see some kid staring at Maurice like it’s a portal. And I remember it’s not just me.”
He feels his eyes sting a little.
“You’re not alone,” she says, like she’s reading his mind. “Even if it feels like it. And I know that sounds like a cheesy after-school special line, but it’s true. Maybe not in the way you want yet. Maybe not holding hands in the hall or kissing under the bleachers or whatever the hell straight kids get to do loud and proud. But in the quiet ways.” She offers him a small, conspiratorial smile. “In the aisles at Family Video. In late-night campaigns in somebody’s basement. In rides home from basketball practice.”
He thinks of the Nova’s cracked vinyl seats, the plastic dice swinging from the mirror, the way Chance’s hands tightened on the wheel when he said he’d be glad if Will came to the game.
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rough. “Okay.”
Robin straightens, adjusting the stack of tapes on her hip.
“And hey,” she says, tone lighter now. “For what it’s worth, if that Chance kid ever gives you crap or makes you feel like garbage, I will personally march into that gym and set all the basketballs on fire.”
He laughs, the mental image too vivid.
“Please don’t burn Lucas’ basketballs,” he says.
“I’ll spare his,” she says. “The rest are fair game.”
There’s a beat of companionable silence. He reaches out, almost without thinking, and slides Maurice halfway out of its slot again.
“Do you think…” He swallows. “If I rented this, and… my family saw it, they would…”
He can’t quite finish the sentence.
“Ask questions?” she supplies gently. “Make faces? Freak out?”
He nods.
“Maybe,” she says honestly. “Maybe not. Joyce seems like she’d be more concerned about whether it has a happy ending than who kisses who. Hop would probably act weird about it for, like, a day, then get into an argument with the TV about class politics. Your siblings… I don’t know. But I do know this.” She reaches out and pushes the tape back into place with a soft click. “You don’t have to test the whole world at once.”
He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
She smiles.
“Take something you can pretend is for Jane,” she suggests. “Or Max. Or movie night. And next time—” her eyes flick to the tape “—if you want to add that one to the stack, you can. Or you can wait. No timeline. No exam. Just… you, at your pace.”
He nods, throat tight.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
“Don’t mention it,” she says. “Seriously. Don’t. I have a reputation to maintain.” She jerks her head toward the counter. “If dingus sees me having a heartfelt conversation, he’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
Will laughs, the sound less brittle now. The fluorescent lights seem less harsh, the aisles less like maze walls and more like shelves in a place that, somehow, belongs to him too.
“What are you weirdos doing back there?” Steve calls. “You’re scaring away the paying customers.”
“There are no paying customers,” Robin says. “It’s eight-thirty on a Tuesday in Hawkins. The only people here are us and the guy in the trench coat who pretends he’s not renting The Exorcist for the fourth time.”
“I heard that,” a voice grumbles from somewhere near horror.
“Good,” Robin mutters, then looks back at Will. “Go grab something before your brother picks the most depressing foreign film in the building. If he brings Eraserhead to movie night, I’m quitting.”
Will snorts.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
He wanders out of the aisle feeling lighter, the weight of the un-rented tape behind him somehow a promise instead of an accusation. Max is indeed in horror, trying to convince Jane that Jaws is “not that scary.”
“It’s a shark,” Jane says, suspicious. “In the water.”
“Yeah, but it’s clearly fake,” Max says. “And the mayor is the real monster anyway, trust me.”
“I do not trust that,” Jane says.
“Pick something else, then,” Max says, huffing. “But no cartoons. I can’t handle another ninety minutes of talking mice.”
Jonathan stands near the end of the aisle with a couple of options already in hand: a John Hughes movie and something older that looks depressing and black-and-white.
“We’re not watching your sad French film,” Max tells him preemptively.
“It’s not French,” Jonathan says. “It’s Italian.”
“That’s worse,” she says.
Will grabs Back to the Future off the “Staff Picks” shelf—he knows Jane will love it, and he’s already seen it twice, enough times to find comfort in the familiar beats. He adds it to the stack in Jonathan’s arms.
“Here,” he says. “Compromise. Time travel and moms making bad choices.”
“Oh, that one,” Max says. “Yeah, okay. I’ll allow it.”
Jane traces the Delorean on the cover with one finger, fascinated.
“This is the car that goes very fast,” she says.
“And also teaches you why you shouldn’t flirt with people from the future,” Max says.
“I would not,” Jane says.
“Great,” Max says. “You’re already smarter than half the people in this town.”
They converge on the counter, where Steve scans the tapes with exaggerated flair, giving each one a running commentary.
“Excellent,” he says, holding up Back to the Future. “Educational. Teaches important lessons about not messing with the space-time continuum and never trusting a guy with that much hair gel.”
“You use hair gel,” Robin points out.
“I use a tasteful amount,” Steve says. “There’s a difference.”
“What about this one?” he says, picking up Jonathan’s more serious choice. “You trying to impress someone with your deep, intellectual appreciation of bleak European cinema?”
“It’s for me,” Jonathan says. “To remind me that things could always be worse.”
“Worse how?” Steve asks. “More subtitles?”
“More existential dread,” Robin says.
“We have enough of that already,” Steve says. “High school exists.”
As they bicker, Robin glances at Will, eyes flicking briefly to the shelves behind him, then back. She doesn’t say anything, but the look is unmistakable: I’ve got you. No rush.
He nods, just once.
On the way out, Jane clutches the Back to the Future case to her chest like a relic.
“Will we watch this tomorrow?” she asks.
“Maybe Friday, before the game,” Jonathan says.
Will’s heart trips.
“The game,” he echoes.
Max smirks.
“You’re going,” she says. It isn’t a question.
He opens his mouth to argue, to hedge, to fill the space with probably or maybe or we’ll see. The words die on his tongue.
“I’m going,” he hears himself say.
There’s a beat of silence, like the universe waiting to see if he’ll take it back.
He doesn’t.
Max grins, sharp and pleased.
“Good,” she says. “Someone has to sit with me and make fun of the cheerleaders’ hair.”
“I will not make fun of their hair,” Jane says. “Some of them have very nice hair.”
“You can be nice,” Max says. “We’ll balance each other out.”
Jonathan unlocks the car with a jangle of keys.
“You sure?” he asks softly as they climb in.
“Yeah,” Will says, surprising himself with the steadiness in his voice. “Chance invited me. Lucas wants me there.” He looks out at the glowing Family Video sign, at the silhouettes of Steve and Robin moving around behind the glass. “Feels… stupid not to go.”
“Okay,” Jonathan says. “Then I will be in the bleachers with you, pretending I understand what a double dribble is.”
Max snorts. “You’re thinking of double feature, Byers.”
“They both sound made up,” Jonathan says.
As they pull out of the parking lot, Will twists in his seat, watching the store recede, the bright rectangle of light in the dark, Robin’s shape passing briefly in front of the window as she restocks a display.
Somewhere behind the drama aisle, a copy of Maurice sits on its shelf, the two men on the cover frozen in their almost-touch.
He knows now that he doesn’t have to take it home tonight for it to mean something. He knows it will still be there later, when he’s ready. When he’s braver. When he’s not so tangled up in his own fear.
For now, he’s got a time travel movie, a loud family, a campaign that won’t fall apart without him, a boy in a green and gold jacket who keeps showing up, and a girl behind the Family Video counter who said gay out loud and didn’t flinch.
The town is still Hawkins. It still sucks in a hundred ways.
But there are pockets where it sucks less.
He leans his forehead briefly against the cool glass of the window and lets the hum of the engine and the murmur of his siblings’ argument about popcorn flavors wash over him.
Friday looms ahead with bleachers and banners and the roar of the crowd, and somewhere on the court, Chance looking up into the stands.
For the first time, instead of dread, the thought of it sends a flicker of something else through his chest.
Not quite hope.
But close.
Chapter 6: tiger stripes & what-ifs
Summary:
On the morning before the big game, Will gets dragged out of bed early so Jonathan can drive Max back to her trailer and everyone to school on time. In the car and later with Jonathan alone, Will admits he’s pretty sure his growing crush on Chance is one-sided and worries about being “that guy,” but Jonathan reassures him that having feelings isn’t selfish and that staying friends can still be real and brave. At school, game hype is everywhere. Will keeps spotting Chance, whose easy attention makes the word crush finally settle into place. After stage crew, Mrs. Worthington cancels Friday’s work for the sake of “school spirit,” freeing Will to go to the game. when he wanders into the gym, Chance is openly thrilled he’ll be there and jokingly ropes him into future driving and drawing lessons. On Friday night, surrounded by family and friends, Will walks into the buzzing gym scared but not alone, choosing to show up for himself.
Chapter Text
The next morning starts with someone pounding on Will’s bedroom door like they’re trying to break through a dungeon wall.
“Up!” Jonathan’s voice comes through, muffled but urgent. “We’re gonna be late!”
Will surfaces from sleep with a full-body flinch, disoriented. For a second, he’s back in some nightmare hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing, footsteps echoing but then the smell of coffee and the faint hiss of the heater bleed in, and it’s just the house. Just morning.
He rolls onto his back and squints at the alarm clock.
6:32.
“Why,” he groans into his pillow.
“Because I promised to get Max home for her stuff before school,” Jonathan calls, knocking again. “And because Hopper will kill me if I make him write me another ‘tardy note’ for an entire car full of teenagers. Let’s go!”
The mention of Max jogs his memory: the skateboard on the living room floor last night, Jane wobbling on the wheel-less deck, Max’s running commentary. The mall. Family Video. Robin’s voice in the aisles, saying girlfriend and not alone like those are safe words.
Will shoves the blanket off and sits up, hair sticking up on one side. The room is chilly; he pulls on a sweater without really looking, jeans from the chair, mismatched socks he doesn’t have the brainpower to fix.
By the time he opens the bedroom door, the house is already humming.
Jane is in the hall, pulling on her sneakers, hair tangled around her face. She has a banana in one hand and her backpack in the other.
“You are slow,” she informs him. “Jonathan is on a schedule.”
“I gathered,” Will says, stifling a yawn.
Down the hall, Max is in the bathroom, fixing her hair somewhat. Her duffel bag is slumped by the door, half-zipped, skateboard leaning against the wall beside it. Hopper’s voice drifts up from downstairs, grouchy and low, Joyces’ sharper in response.
“…if you’d called ahead, I could’ve—”
“I did call—”
“You called after I already took my boots off, that doesn’t—”
Will sidesteps the argument and heads for the kitchen.
Joyce is at the stove, still in her work polo from last night with a flannel thrown over it, hair pinned up haphazardly. She’s flipping pancakes with more energy than seems strictly necessary. Hopper sits at the table in his robe, coffee mug in one hand, the morning paper in the other, glowering at a headline.
“You’re up,” Joyce says, like she summoned him. “Good. Eat this.” She slides a pancake onto a plate and shoves it in his direction.
Jonathan barrels in a second later, jacket half-zipped, keys in one hand, a piece of toast in his mouth.
“Max ready?” he asks around the toast. “We gotta drop her at the trailer, swing back this way, and still make it to school before El’s nightmare geometry teacher starts her pop quiz crusade.”
“No pop quiz,” Jane says as she and Max appear in the doorway. “She said today we will review.”
“Right, sorry,” Jonathan says. “Quiz tomorrow, then. All the more reason to get there on time.”
Max swings her duffel over one shoulder.
“Your brother is very dramatic about punctuality,” she tells Jane.
“He is dramatic about many things,” Jane says seriously.
Jonathan stares at them, affronted.
“I am a responsible adult,” he says.
Hopper snorts into his coffee so hard he chokes.
“Yeah, sure,” he wheezes. “Tell that to the developer on your shoe.”
Jonathan looks down at his sneaker, still faintly stained.
“It washed off,” he lies.
Joyce shakes her head, but she’s smiling.
“All right,” she says. “Max, you get ten minutes to grab what you need. Clothes, homework, whatever you teenagers consider essential these days. No more.”
“I can do it in eight,” Max says.
“That’s… not as reassuring as you think,” Jonathan mutters.
He looks over at Will.
“You coming?” he asks. “We’ll be back past the house anyway, but if you want an extra fifteen minutes of sleep, I won’t judge.”
Will hesitates. The part of him that is perpetually tired votes for fifteen more minutes and maybe closing his eyes on the couch. The rest of him, the part that actually wants to see outside his own head before diving into school nudges.
“I’ll come,” he says. “I need to, uh, remember what the outside world looks like.”
“Trees,” Max says. “Trash. Keith’s ugly car.”
“Thank you,” Will says. “Very helpful.”
They pile out to the car in a tangle of jackets and backpacks.
The morning air is cold enough that Will’s breath shows in faint clouds. The sky is pale gray, the sun still low and weak behind the bare trees. Frost edges the grass like sugar.
Jonathan’s car coughs to life, heater wheezing as it slowly pulls in non-frozen air.
Will takes the front seat again, Max and Jane piling into the back.
“So,” Max says as Jonathan backs out of the driveway, “are you going to chicken out about the game or are we actually doing this?”
Will glances back at her. She’s buckling her seatbelt with one hand, the other cradling her skateboard like it might leap to freedom.
“I’m not chickening out,” he says. “I told Lucas I’d be there.”
“And Chance,” Max says, not quite sing-song but close.
He feels heat creep up his neck.
“And Lucas,” he corrects. “It’s his game. His season. I want to support him.”
Jane leans forward, chin poking between the front seats.
“And also Chance,” she says, like she’s listing supplies for a science project.
“Traitors,” Will mutters.
Jonathan hides a smile.
“It’s okay to want to be there for more than one person,” he says. “You don’t have to pretend it’s only about Lucas.”
“It’s mostly about Lucas,” Will insists.
“But not only,” Jane says, eyebrows nudging up.
Will makes a strangled noise and turns his attention firmly to the windshield.
The road out to the trailer park is less dreary in early morning light. The sky is washed-out blue now, sun gathering its strength behind thin clouds. The fields are edged with frost, the skeletal trees throwing long shadows.
“How late did you guys stay up?” Jonathan asks, maybe mercifully changing the subject. “I heard some thumps around midnight.”
“We were watching the skateboard movie,” Jane says. “The one Max brought.”
“Thrashin’,” Max clarifies. “It’s important research.”
“You mean important proof no one knows how to act while holding a skateboard,” Jonathan says.
“It was very dramatic,” Jane says. “They had… gangs.”
“That’s LA,” Max says. “We have, like, one gang and it’s just Tommy H and his dumb friends.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they formed a gang called ‘The Douchers’ or something,” Jonathan says.
“Language,” Jane says automatically.
“Wow, Hopper’s training is strong,” he says.
Jane considers this. “He says bad words,” she says. “But he says I cannot say them. That is hypocrisy.”
“Welcome to adulthood,” Jonathan says. “It’s mostly hypocrisy and taxes.”
Max sighs heavily.
“Can we not talk about taxes before seven a.m.” she says. “I’d like to maintain the illusion I will die before thirty.”
“You won’t,” Jonathan says.
“Rude,” she says, but she smiles.
They pull into the trailer park a few minutes later. The gravel crunches under the tires, the rows of trailers lined up, some with sagging steps, others with plastic tricycles tipped on their sides in the yard. Max’s place is halfway down, familiar now.
Jonathan parks and leaves the engine running.
“Eight minutes,” he says.
“Seven,” Max shoots back, already unbuckling. “Come on, El, help me find my other assignment.”
They sprint out of the car, identical flares of energy in different hair colors.
Will watches them go, the way Max’s hand automatically reaches back when they hit the loose gravel, like she’s ready to catch Jane if she slips. Jane doesn’t, but she grabs Max’s hand anyway, for balance.
“They’re good for each other,” Jonathan says, following his gaze.
“Yeah,” Will says. “They are.”
He taps his fingers on his knee.
“Hey,” he says after a beat. “Can I ask you something kind of… stupid?”
Jonathan glances over.
“I mean, you can always ask,” he says. “I retain the right to call it stupid after.”
Will huffs.
“Do you think it’s… bad?” he says slowly. “That I’m… starting to uh.. like Chance? Like that.”
Jonathan’s expression softens.
“Bad how?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Will says, frustrated with himself. “Like… complicated. Unfair. To him. He isn’t… he’s not like me. He’s… a jock, for one thing.” He laughs weakly. “He’s nice, but he’s probably straight. And I don’t want to be that guy. The one who… secretly pines after someone and then acts weird and ruins everything.”
“You’re not going to ruin anything by having a crush,” Jonathan says. “That’s not how it works.”
“But if he finds out,” Will says. “If he figures it out. Or if I… say something wrong. Or if I’m too obvious and then he gets uncomfortable and stops… being my friend.”
The word feels too big in his mouth and too small all at once.
Jonathan is quiet for a second, letting the words hang.
“It’s… possible,” he says eventually, carefully. “People can react badly. Especially guys like him. Jocks. People who are used to being… seen a certain way. But from what I’ve seen of Chance?” He shrugs. “He doesn’t seem like that. He seems like he actually likes being around you. Like he goes out of his way to talk to you, not the other way around.”
“He’s friendly,” Will says.
“He’s interested,” Jonathan counters. “In who you are. In your art. In what you think. That’s not nothing.”
“Yeah, but…” Will stares at the dashboard, chewing his lip. “Even if he… is okay with me being… me… it doesn’t mean he’s gonna, like… like me back. Like that.” He exhales, the breath shaky. “And that’s fine. It should be fine. I think I just… need to get used to the idea that this is going to be one-sided.”
The word lands with a dull little thud inside him. He waits for the sharp pain, the familiar sting of humiliation.
It doesn’t quite come.
There’s something else there instead, something quieter: resignation, maybe. Or acceptance.
“And… if it is,” he continues, voice softer, “I still want to be his friend. I like him. Even if he never thinks of me like that. I like talking to him. Riding in his ridiculous car. Planning banners. I don’t want to mess that up because my brain decided to… do this.”
“Do… what?” Jonathan says mildly. “Feel things?”
Will makes a face.
“I know it’s not a crime,” he says. “It just feels… selfish. To want more when he’s already being really nice. And to still take the friendship if that’s all there is.”
“I think,” Jonathan says, “that wanting more is not selfish. It’s just… human. And deciding to be okay with just friendship, even if part of you wants something else? That’s actually the opposite of selfish.”
Will fidgets with the strap of his bag.
“You don’t think it’s pathetic?” he asks, almost whispering. “To… know it’s one-sided and still… stay?”
“No,” Jonathan says, with more certainty than Will expects. “I think it’s… brave. In its own stupid way. As long as you’re honest with yourself about what you’re doing.”
“And what is that?” Will asks.
“Letting yourself feel something,” Jonathan says. “Without making it his problem.”
Will considers that.
He thinks of Chance’s easy grin, the way he’d said I’ll be glad you’re there about the game. Of his ridiculous stories about learning to drive in the church parking lot. Of the plastic dice swinging from the mirror.
“I can do that,” he says slowly. “I think.”
“You can,” Jonathan says. “And if it ever stops feeling okay—if it hurts more than it helps—you can step back. You get to make that call.”
Will nods, the tightness in his chest loosening again.
“Okay,” he says.
“Also,” Jonathan adds, “it’s high school. Half of everybody’s crushes are one-sided. It’s not just you.”
“That’s… comforting?” Will says.
“It’s meant to be,” Jonathan says, grin crooked.
The back door bursts open then, Max and Jane tumbling back into the car in a rush of cold air and canvas.
“Six minutes,” Max announces triumphantly. “Told you.”
Jonathan shoves the car back into gear, pulling away from the trailers.
“Next stop: academia,” he says.
School hums with a different sort of energy that day.
It’s not just the usual Thursday drag; there’s a low buzz under everything, like someone plugged the building into a different socket. Conversations in the hallway are louder, laughter more frequent. Posters for FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS: HAWKINS TIGERS vs. MUNROE MUSTANGS seem to multiply on every surface.
“Tigers,” Will mutters to himself as they pass one by the trophy case. “Right.”
“Did you think we were hawks?” Dustin asks, horrified. “We haven’t been the Hawks since, like, the fifties.”
“I know that,” Will says defensively. “I just… got confused. There were a lot of birds on the banner sketches.”
“Those were for the pep rally,” Lucas says, sliding in beside them. “You know, when cheer was arguing about doing a hawk theme or a tiger theme? They went tiger because the mascot costume already exists and no one wants to be a bird.”
“Bird heads are cursed,” Max says. “Everyone knows that.”
Jane looks up at the giant painted tiger on the main gym banner as they pass.
“He looks angry,” she observes.
“That’s how you know he’s a real mascot,” Dustin says. “If he looks like he’s about to maul someone, you win.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how sports work,” Mike says.
Eddie materializes at Will’s elbow like he’s been conjured, Gareth and Jeff trailing behind him with their own trays and backpacks.
“Ah, yes, nothing says ‘small town ritual sacrifice’ like a Friday night game,” Eddie intones. “Are we all in attendance for the bloodletting?”
“I’m playing in it,” Lucas says dryly. “So… yeah.”
“A willing sacrifice,” Eddie says. “Bold.”
Gareth elbows Will lightly.
“You going?” he asks. “To the game?”
Will feels his shoulders hitch, then drop.
“Yeah,” he says. The word still feels new. “We’re… going. To support Lucas.” He tacks that last part on automatically, like an excuse no one asked for.
Eddie pats Will’s shoulder.
“All joking aside,” he says, dropping his voice. “It’s cool you’re going. Seriously. Babysit Sinclair’s ego for us, yeah? If he sinks three shots in a row, he’s insufferable for days.”
“I will keep him humble,” Will says, even as his stomach flips at the thought of walking into that gym.
They scatter for homeroom as the bell shrieks.
The morning classes slide past in a familiar rhythm: English (where Kline goes on a tangent about foreshadowing and marks half the chalkboard with slanted lines), math (where Jane looks almost smug when Kopec hands back her homework with a small, terse “Good improvement” written at the top), history (where Max doodles little tigers mauling tiny stick-figure mayors in the margins of her notes), science (filmstrip about cell division narrated by a man who sounds like he’s already died and doesn’t know it).
Between classes, Will keeps catching flashes of green and gold.
Chance at his locker, laughing at something one of the guys says. Chance in the hallway, spinning a basketball on his finger as he walks backwards. Chance in the cafeteria doorway, scanning the room like he’s trying to spot someone.
Once, their eyes actually meet.
It’s between second and third period, the hall jammed, bodies moving in all directions. Will is weaving his way toward his locker, backpack threatening to slip off his shoulder, when he hears the familiar hollow thump of a basketball hitting a palm.
He looks up and there he is.
Chance stands with his back to the trophy case, ball tucked under one arm, jacket unzipped. His hair is slightly damp, like he just came from an early-morning shootaround. He’s not talking to anyone, for once, just… waiting, gaze drifting over the crowd.
Then it snags on Will.
His whole face lights.
“There he is,” he says, like he’s found exactly what he was looking for. He pushes off the wall and threads his way through the knot of freshmen like it’s nothing. “Art guy. How’s the sky?”
Will’s brain does a brief, panicked tap dance.
“It’s… still there,” he says. “Moodier. More… ambiguous.”
Chance grins.
“Can’t wait to see it make me question my life choices from the back row,” he says. “You coming to the dress rehearsal?”
“I’m on stage crew,” Will says. “So… yeah. I’ll be there. Somewhere in the rafters.”
“Right,” Chance says. “Invisible ghost of stagecraft.” He shifts the ball, spinning it absently. “Hey, uh. You and your crew free tomorrow? Or is Worthington chaining you to the flats again?”
The question sends a little jolt through Will.
“Tomorrow?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” Chance says. “Game night.” His voice flickers with quick anxiety. “Did she… say you have to work? ‘Cause if she did, that seriously sucks. I can go yell at her about school spirit or whatever.”
Will swallows.
“I don’t… know yet,” he says. “We’ve got a meeting today. She might—” He breaks off as a thought hits. “Actually, if the school’s making a big deal about the game, she might cancel for Friday.”
Chance’s relief is quick and obvious, like someone took a weight off his shoulders too.
“That’d be good,” he says. “It’d be… cool if you didn’t have to sprint from the paint cans to the bleachers.”
The implication, that he’s already imagined Will in the bleachers—sends a weird warmth through Will’s chest.
“I’ll… let you know,” he says. “If she cancels.”
“Do that,” Chance says. “I’ll be on the edge of my seat all day. Metaphorically. Literally, I’ll be running suicides.”
“That sounds… awful,” Will says.
“It is,” Chance says cheerfully. “But hey, maybe I’ll see you in art. Or… around.”
“Yeah,” Will says. “Around.”
The late bell rings, slicing through their bubble.
“Shit,” Chance says, jolting. “Kopec’s gonna kill me if I’m late again.” He starts backing away, then stops. “Hey, Will?”
“Yeah?”
Chance hesitates just a fraction.
“Thanks,” he says.
Will stares at him, throat suddenly too tight for words.
He manages a nod.
“Okay,” he says. “Good luck not dying in math.”
Chance laughs .
“No promises,” he says, then vanishes into the flow of students.
Will stands there for a moment longer, the hallway noise rushing back around him like water.
Crush, something in him says quietly. It lands with less shock than he expected. More like an acknowledgment of something he’s been carrying for days.
Yeah. Okay.
Crush.
He can live with that.
At lunch, the Hellfire table is even more chaotic than usual.
Eddie has commandeered a full quarter of the surface for his campaign notebook and a stack of graph paper. Gareth and Jeff argue over set lists for their band between bites of whatever the cafeteria is passing off as food. Mike and Dustin bicker over spell lists; Lucas tries to review plays under the din.
“You can’t just max out charisma and dump wisdom,” Eddie insists, jabbing his pencil at Dustin’s character sheet. “You’ll sweet-talk the vampire lord and then walk into a trap.”
“That’s my whole brand,” Dustin says. “Let me be me.”
“You, but with slightly more self-preservation,” Mike mutters.
Will picks at his fries, half-listening. Eddie’s voice and the clatter of dice on the table are comforting in a way he hadn’t realized he’d missed.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Gareth says, nudging him with an elbow. “You okay?”
“yeah, fine,” Will says.
He searches for the defensive panic that usually comes when someone teases him like that, especially now that it’s… true.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, there’s a weird, almost fond exasperation at himself.
“I’m thinking about stage crew,” he says honestly. “Mrs. Worthington’s meeting after school. If she cancels tomorrow, I’m… free. If she doesn’t, I have to decide whether to ditch.”
“Ditch,” Eddie says immediately.
“You ditched everything for Hellfire,” Mike points out. “You are not a neutral party.”
“I ditched everything important,” Eddie says. “Stage crew is fun, but it is not fate-of-the-world level fun. Basketball, on the other hand…” He wiggles his fingers. “Is at least medium fun.”
“Plus, Lucas might actually murder you if you skip,” Dustin says around a mouthful of food.
“I will not murder anyone,” Lucas says. “I will just passively-aggressively miss every shot and make you all feel guilty about it.”
“Oh no, the real curse,” Gareth says. “Sinclair from the free-throw line.”
Lucas flips him off.
Max watches the whole exchange with an air of disdain.
“You are all disasters,” she says. “If you want to go to the game, go. If you want to paint sad houses, paint. The world will not end either way. Probably.”
“Thank you, Yoda,” Jeff says.
“Who?” Max frowns.
“Don’t ask,” Lucas says. “You’ll only encourage them.”
Will lets the noise wash over him, half his brain already in the auditorium, the other half in the gym.
He’s still running that mental tightrope when the last bell rings and they all scatter for their after-school habitats: the gym, the band room, the drama wing, the parking lot.
The auditorium is cooler than usual when Will steps inside, the echo of his footsteps bouncing off the high ceilings. Stage crew is already trickling in: kids in paint-splattered jeans, techies with gaffer’s tape looped around their wrists, actors who wander in by mistake and are shooed away by Worthington’s withering look.
Mrs. Worthington stands center stage, scarf tied in an elaborate knot, clipboard in hand. The Grover’s Corners backdrop looms behind her, clouds and steeples bathed in the dusky angle of the late-afternoon light.
“Ah, there’s my artist,” she says when she spots Will, beckoning him closer. “Good, good. Before we dive into today’s work, I have… news.”
“News” in Worthington-speak could mean anything from “we’re changing the entire set concept two weeks before opening” to “the principal has finally agreed to fund a second spotlight bulb.”
The crew gathers on the edge of the stage, some sitting cross-legged, others slumping onto paint cans. Will stands near the front, hands shoved into his back pockets.
Mrs. Worthington clears her throat theatrically.
“As you all know,” she says, “our beloved Hawkins Tigers are playing a Very Important Game tomorrow night.”
Someone in the back makes a noise that could be either enthusiasm or a yawn.
“The administration has decided,” she continues, “that in the interest of school spirit and the safety of our exhausted set builders, we will not be meeting for stage crew tomorrow.”
There’s a beat of silence, then a scatter of reactions: groans from the kids who’d been using stage crew as an excuse to avoid going home, cheers from those who desperately needed a break, a relieved sigh from the lighting guy whose midterms were eating him alive.
Will feels something leap in his chest.
No stage crew.
Free.
She’s still talking.
“—which means,” Mrs. Worthington is saying, “that today is our last chance this week to get the sky finished and the gravestones sealed. I want everything dry and safe by Monday. Tonight, we work hard; tomorrow, you may go scream at boys in shorts to your heart’s content.”
A few people laugh.
Will grabs onto the important part like a lifeline.
Tomorrow, he won’t be up on the ladder. He won’t be testing light cues or touching up paint. He’ll be… in the bleachers. With Max. With Jane. With Mike and Dustin. With everyone.
With Lucas on the court.
With Chance.
The thought makes his stomach swoop, half-excitement, half-nerves.
He catches himself grinning and forcibly schools his face back to neutral.
You’re going to support Lucas, he reminds himself firmly. Chance is just… there. Also. Existing. With his stupid smile and his stupid car and his stupid way of making your brain turn into static.
Still. The relief is tangible.
He hadn’t realized how much of him had been braced for a last-minute Worthington speech about dedication and sacrifice.
Instead, she taps his clipboard with her pen.
“All right,” she says briskly. “Will, my dear, you’re on final cloud detail. Make them… whatever it is clouds are in your head. Everyone else, you know your assignments. Let’s make something beautiful and then, tomorrow, we’ll let the Tigers have the stage.”
Tigers.
He pictures the mascot costume, the oversized head, the striped tail. It’s ridiculous. It’s exactly what high school is supposed to be like.
He climbs the ladder again, brush in hand, heart lighter than it has been all week.
They work for two hours straight, the kind of focused exhaustion that leaves his muscles humming. By the time Mrs. Worthington claps her hands and declares them done for the day, the sky looks like it might actually mean something: layers of gray and blue and pale streaks of almost-sun, the kind of clouds that make you think of endings and beginnings all at once.
“Beautiful,” she says, clasping his charcoal-stained fingers briefly. “Truly. Go home, William. Rest your eyes. Tomorrow, let someone else be on stage for a change.”
He laughs.
“I think that’s the first time anyone’s told me to not go to the auditorium,” he says.
“There is a world outside Grover’s Corners,” she says, sweeping her scarf over her shoulder. “You should visit it now and then.”
He gathers his bag, stuffing his paint-shirt into the front pocket, wiping his hands on a rag until the smears are mostly gone. His legs protest as he jogs down the aisle; it’s a good ache.
In the hallway outside the auditorium, the noise from the gym is a low roar even now—pre-game day practice, the team’s voices echoing through the cinderblock.
He should go home. Jonathan will be circling the block soon. Jane will want dinner, and there’s probably some geometry problem lurking in Jane’s backpack that she’ll want to conquer before Kopec’s quiz.
But his feet are already turning toward the gym.
He tells himself he just wants to see how the banners look.
The gym doors are propped open, the smell of floor polish and sweat wafting out. Inside, the sound is sharp and alive: sneakers squeaking, balls hitting the floor, the whistle’s shrill punctuation.
He slips just inside, hugging the wall, backpack still on. From here, he can see the whole court.
The Tigers are running drills in their practice jerseys, yellow and white over t-shirts. Lucas sprints down the sideline, catches a pass, plants, shoots. The ball sinks through the net with a satisfying swish.
Above the bleachers, the banners hang.
TIGERS RISE stretches across one end of the gym, letters clean and bold, the edges crisp. Under the main banner, smaller ones cheer specific players: SINCLAIR #8, CARVER #12, LAWSON #22. His handwriting is all over them.
Seeing them in place, catching the light, is weirdly satisfying. They look… right. Like they were supposed to be there all along.
He’s so caught up staring that he doesn’t realize someone’s noticed him until a ball bounces toward his feet.
“Byers!” someone shouts. “Heads up!”
He instinctively steps aside; the ball hits the wall and ricochets, rolling toward him. He kneels to grab it.
A pair of shoes squeak up in front of him.
“Man, you’re gonna get decapitated if you hover in the doorway like that,” Chance says, breathless and laughing. Sweat has darkened the collar of his t-shirt; his curls are damp at the temples. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Will says, straightening with the ball in his hands. “I’m just… observing. Making sure my artistic vision is being executed properly.”
Chance follows his gaze up to the banners.
“Your artistic vision looks awesome,” he says. “Coach even said, and I quote, ‘Those don’t suck.’ Which is, like, Oscars-level praise from him.”
Will smiles.
“High honor,” he says.
“Seriously,” Chance says. He rocks back on his heels, shifting his weight. “So. What’s the verdict? Worthington letting you off the hook tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Will says, the grin coming back full force. “She canceled stage crew. Said we should… yell at boys in shorts instead.”
Chance’s eyes light up like someone flicked a switch behind them.
“For real?” he says. “So you’re… free?”
“Yes,” Will says, feeling his cheeks heat. “I’m… free. To go to the game. With my friends. For Lucas.”
He adds the last part reflexively, but it doesn’t erase the way Chance is looking at him.
“Good,” Chance says. “I mean—yeah, no, that’s… good. Lucas is gonna be stoked.” He fumbles the order of his words, then laughs at himself. “I am also stoked. In a… cool, non-desperate way.”
“You sound very cool,” Will deadpans.
Chance groans.
“I’m sweaty and my brain’s fried,” he says. “Don’t judge my vocabulary right now.” He gestures with his chin at the ball in Will’s hands. “You gonna toss that back or are you keeping it hostage?”
“Oh.” Will looks down, startled. “Right. Sorry.” He bounces the ball once, then awkwardly attempts a chest pass.
It goes a little off, but Chance catches it easily.
“Not bad, Byers,” he says. “You sure you don’t wanna join the team? We could use another guy who knows how to spell ‘perspective.’”
“I’d die,” Will says. “And also you’d regret it instantly.”
“Would not,” Chance protests.
“Would too,” Will says.
Chance spins the ball on his finger, eyeing him.
“Tell you what,” he says. “After the game. At some point. I’m teaching you to drive and you’re teaching me how to draw a straight line.”
“You really can’t draw a straight line?” Will asks.
“My rulers fear me,” Chance says gravely.
Will laughs.
“Deal,” he says.
“Cool,” Chance says. He shifts the ball under his arm. “Hey, you wanna sit in our section tomorrow? If you’re coming with, like… your whole crew and uh your brother and everyone, that’s cool, I get it, family seating chart, blah blah. But if you want… we can save you a spot with the band. Better view.”
The offer makes his pulse skip.
“My family will probably… split up anyway,” he says, thinking aloud. “mom likes to sit where she can see the whole court. Hopper is, like, allergic to sitting near the band because they ‘don’t know how to tune.’” He shrugs. “I’ll find you. If that’s okay.”
Chance’s grin is blinding.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s definitely okay.”
Will pictures the bleachers, the way Chance will probably be shouting plays between gulps of Gatorade.
“I’ll bring a sign,” he says before he can stop himself.
“You’ll what?” Chance’s eyes go wide.
“Not a big one,” Will says quickly. “Not, like… glitter. Just something for Lucas. And maybe one for… the team.”
Chance laughs, delight bubbling out of him.
A whistle blasts from the other end of the court.
“Chance!” Coach bellows. “You flirting or running drills?”
Will’s heart slams into his ribs more at the word than the volume.
Chance’s ears remain the same.
“Coming!” he yells back, then lowers his voice. “He calls everything flirting. I said hello to the lunch lady once and he gave me a thirty-minute lecture about distracting women from their jobs.”
“Terrible,” Will says, trying to sound normal, trying not to fixate on the fact that Coach’s harmless chirp had landed so close to something else.
“Anyway,” Chance says, backing toward center court. “See you tomorrow. Game starts at seven, but get there early. The band’s doing some new Tiger song they’re very proud of.”
“I’ll be there,” Will says. The words feel solid now. True.
Chance hesitates one more second, then lifts the ball in a little salute.
“Later, Byers,” he says.
“Later,” Will echoes.
He watches until Chance blends back into the formation of players, his movements folding into the practiced patterns of layup lines and passing drills.
Somewhere in the stands, his banners hang, letters straight and bold.
He turns and slips back out of the gym, heart still racing.
One-sided, he reminds himself, as he heads toward the front doors. You know that. You’re okay with that. You just… like being around him.
He says it again in his head to see if it still hurts.
It stings a little. But not in the way it used to when he thought about crushes and impossibilities. It’s more like the ache after a good run: there, but bearable.
If all he ever gets is this, banners and car rides and dumb jokes in hallways…he can live with that.
He still has Lucas. And Max. And Jane. And Dustin and Mike and everyone else. He has the campaign. The set. The sky he painted that will hang over a whole audience.
He has pieces of a life that feel like his.
For the first time, the fact that Chance might never look at him the way he wants doesn’t feel like the end of the world.
It just feels like… part of it.
Friday comes in a blur of alarms and cereal and nerves.
The house wakes earlier than usual; Joyce has an opening shift at the store, Hopper has paperwork at the station, Jonathan has a morning lab block.Jane moves through the morning like she’s rehearsing for something: hair brushed more carefully, new jean jacket smoothed down, sneakers double-knotted.
“You look nice,” Will says as they head out to the car.
She frowns slightly.
“I am the same,” she says. “The jacket is different.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I mean.”
She considers, then accepts this.
“You will be… okay?” she asks as they pull onto the main road. “At the game?”
He glances at her, surprised.
“Yeah,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You do not like crowds,” she points out. “Or loud. Or balls flying in your direction.”
“True,” he says. “But I like Lucas more than I dislike all of that.”
She nods, satisfied with the equation.
The school day feels longer and shorter at once.
Everyone is in game mode. Teachers mention the Tigers in passing, reminders about “representing Hawkins with pride.” The band kids carry their instruments like badges. The cheerleaders are excused from last period to “prepare,” which mostly seems to mean perfecting hair and practicing flips in the hallway.
Between classes, Will keeps catching Lucas glancing at the clock like it’s personally offended him.
“Stop staring at time,” Will tells him at their lockers. “It won’t go faster.”
“I’m trying to will it,” Lucas says.
“That’s my job,” Will says. “I’m the Will. You’re the Lucas.”
Lucas glares at him for the pun, then laughs, some tension bleeding off.
“You really coming?” he asks for the millionth time.
“Yes,” Will says, for the millionth time. “I promised, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, I know,” Lucas says. “I just… I keep thinking something’s gonna come up.”
“Stage crew’s canceled,” Will says.
“At least for tonight,” Will amends. “We’ll be there. Me, Max, Jane, Jonathan. Probably Dustin and Mike and… half the town.”
“You better scream,” Lucas warns. “If I don’t hear you, I’m gonna assume you bailed and miss all my shots in protest.”
“Great,” Will says. “Emotional extortion. Love that for me.”
At lunch, Hellfire is a mix of campaign nonsense and game hype.
“Okay,” Eddie says, slamming his hands on the table to get everyone’s attention. “Ground rules for tonight.”
“We have… rules?” Gareth asks.
“Rule one,” Eddie says, ticking it off. “No blood sacrifices in the bleachers. Sinclair’s game is rated PG-13.”
“Why would we bring blood sacrifices to the game?” Mike asks.
“Rule two,” Eddie continues, ignoring him. “We are pre-gaming tomorrow’s campaign planning by people-watching. Take notes. The guy who sells hotdogs? NPC. The drunk dad yelling at the ref? Future boss fight. The mascot? Obviously a druid in a cursed suit.”
“Obviously,” Dustin says.
“Rule three,” Eddie says. “Byers here is not allowed to think about the set for at least three hours. If he says the word ‘perspective,’ you’re legally required to throw popcorn at him.”
“Harsh,” Will says.
“You’ll live,” Eddie says. “You’re going to a game, man. That’s… growth. I’m proud of you.”
He says it like he’s joking, but there’s something real under it.
“Thanks, I think,” Will says.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of half-attended classes.
In art, Mr. Clarke gives them a free drawing day—“Express your feelings about autumn,” he says—which Will uses as an excuse to sketch a tiger’s head in profile, stripes morphing into lines of a basketball court. He adds a tiny figure under the net, curly hair, backwards cap. Another figure in the bleachers, head bent, sketchbook in his lap.
He shades the faces lightly, so their features aren’t distinct, just… suggestions.
After school, he heads home instead of to the auditorium.
The house feels weird at that time of day, light coming in at a different angle. Joyce isn’t there yet; Hopper’s at the station. Jonathan beats him home by ten minutes and immediately starts popping popcorn for their mini movie pre-game.
“Back to the Future, then basketball,” Jonathan says, juggling bowls. “Time travel and then time-outs.”
“Nice,” Will says. “Very thematic.”
Max and Jane arrive together, Max’s board tucked under one arm, Jane’s new jacket already adorned with a Hawkins Tigers pin someone must’ve pressed on her at school.
“Mike gave it to me,” she says when Will raises an eyebrow. “He says it is for team spirit.”
“You look very spirited,” Will says.
They watch the movie squeezed onto the couch, the popcorn bowl migrating from lap to lap. Jane gasps at the appropriate places, covers her eyes when Marty’s mom flirts with him, laughs outright when Doc says “Great Scott!” for the third time.
By the time the credits roll, there’s a low hum in the house that isn’t just the heater.
Game time is close.
Joyce bursts in midway through the ending theme, cheeks flushed from the cold, name tag askew.
“Did I miss the part with the skateboard?” she asks, flopping into the armchair and kicking off her shoes.
“Yeah,” Max says. “We’ll rewind it for you later.”
“I will rewind it,” Hopper corrects as he comes in behind Joyce, shrugging off his coat. “You are banned from touching the VCR after the last… incident.”
“That was E.T.,” Joyce says. “I hit the wrong button one time.”
“You erased the whole tape,” he says.
“We don’t speak of this,” she says.
Will half-listens, heart ticking faster.
They eat a quick thrown-together dinner, leftover pasta, garlic bread Hopper slathered with enough butter to make Joyce wince. Conversation circles the game, as if they’re orbiting it.
“You kids sticking together?” Hopper asks, reaching for the salt. “Or are we dividing and conquering?”
“We’re all going,” Jane says. “Together.”
“Probably splitting once we get there,” Max adds. “Jonathan wants to take pictures. Joyce wants to yell at the refs. Hop wants to argue with the band.”
“I don’t want to argue with the band,” Hopper protests.
Will pokes at his food.
“I… might sit with the band,” he says, casual as he can manage. “Or near them. Chance said they have a good view.”
Joyce glances at him, something knowing in her eyes.
“Okay,” she says. “Just… stay where you feel safe. And where you can get to an exit if idiots start doing idiot things.”
“Mom,” he says, both exasperated and grateful.
“I’m serious,” she says softly. “You see anything that feels wrong, you come find us. Or a teacher. Or Hopper. Or… anyone you trust.”
He nods.
“I know,” he says.
He thinks of Robin’s words in the video store: pockets where it sucks less.
He has those now. He just has to remember where they are.
At six-thirty, they start bundling up. Coats, scarves, gloves, hats. The air outside is sharp, wind cutting through the trees. The school parking lot is already filling, headlights sweeping across the front steps, voices echoing.
They walk together: Joyce and Hopper slightly ahead, Jonathan with his camera bag, Max kicking at patches of ice, Jane clutching her Tigers pin like a talisman. Will lags half a step behind, heart thudding in his throat.
The gym doors glow ahead, light spilling out each time they open.
He can hear it already: the rumble of the crowd, the band tuning, the squeak of sneakers on polished floor. Someone yells; someone laughs; the PA crackles as somebody tests the mic.
Max bumps his shoulder.
“You ready?” she asks, eyes bright.
“No,” he says honestly.
She grins.
“Good,” she says. “Means it’ll be interesting.”
Jane loops her arm through his.
“We will sit together,” she says. “You do not have to be brave alone.”
The words hit him harder than he expects.
“Okay,” he says.
They step up onto the concrete.
The doors loom in front of them, painted in school colors, the word TIGERS stenciled above in big block letters.
Joyce pushes one open. Warmth and noise rush out like a wave.
Will takes a breath.
And steps inside.
Chapter 7: tigers & tiger stripes
Summary:
At Hawkins High’s packed gym, Will watches the basketball game from the band side with Max, Jane, and the Hellfire crew, his handmade banners hanging over the court. Lucas plays brilliantly, Chance is quietly clutch, and the Tigers win in a nail-biting 63–61 finish that leaves the whole town roaring. Will feels unexpectedly proud of Lucas, of the banners, of simply being part of the crowd instead of watching from the margins. After the game, Chance invites Will and the others to the diner to celebrate, where they share fries, shakes, and easy conversation that feels startlingly normal. Outside afterward, Chance asks for Will’s phone number so they can plan driving lessons, tucking the napkin away like something that matters. Back home, Will falls asleep thinking about the game, the diner, and the promise of a future that might still be one-sided but no longer feels hopeless just uncertain, and strangely, beautifully open.
Chapter Text
The noise hits first.
It’s already loud in the gym by the time Will steps through the doors with his family, the sound layering over itself, band tuning, sneakers squeaking, people yelling to be heard two rows away. The air smells like floor polish, popcorn, and too many bodies in one place.
He stops just inside, eyes wide.
The banners look different up here.
He’d seen them from the doorway during practice, watched them get taped to the walls, adjusted the way they hung until the edges sat straight. But now, with the bleachers full and the lights bright, they feel… alive.
TIGERS RISE arches over the far wall in clean, block letters, the tiger head mascot stenciled big and mean in the middle. Below it, the individual name banners line the rail: SINCLAIR #8, LAWSON #22, CARVER #12, MCKINNEY #23, HARPER #20—each one in the same steady hand, black marker over gold paint.
His hand.
“There,” he says, stupidly proud, pointing up.
Jane follows his finger, her eyes widening.
“You made those,” she says like she’s witnessing a magic trick, not something he’d done hunched over a long table with tape stuck to his fingers.
“Sure looks like it,” Jonathan says, tipping invisible hat. “Nice work, Picasso.”
Max squints at the center banner.
“You should’ve made the tiger scarier,” she says. “Like, dripping blood from its fangs.”
“It’s a school game,” Joyce says, corralling them closer so they don’t block the entrance. “We’re not trying to traumatize the sixth graders.”
“I am,” Max says under her breath.
The pep band blares something vaguely recognizable in the corner,too many horns, not enough rhythm. The bleachers are a patchwork of green and gold jackets, Hawkins Tigers sweatshirts, and the occasional homemade sign. The cheerleaders are lined up by the baseline, ponytails high, pom-poms flashing.
“Okay,” Hopper says, raising his voice over the chaos. “Game plan. I’m sitting somewhere that doesn’t make my ears bleed.” He jerks his chin toward the band. “That’s off the table. No offense to the fine arts.”
“Some taken,” Will says.
“I want to see Lucas,” Joyce says, craning her neck. “I’m sitting where I can see the bench.”
“I’ll go with Joyce,” Jonathan says. “Better angle for photos.”
Max hooks her thumbs under her backpack straps.
“I’m sitting where the action is,” she says. “Right behind the team. So Lucas can hear me yell at him if he misses. and for uh, moral support”
Jane looks between them, then at Will.
“Where will we sit?” she asks.
He swallows.
“I’m… gonna try the band side,” he says. “Chance- i mean, i heard it’s a good view. And… you know. We can still see Lucas. We’ll just be… elevated. Emotionally.”
“Emotionally,” Max repeats, amused.
“We can go with you,” Jane says immediately, as if that’s the obvious answer.
Relief flickers through him.
“Yeah?” he asks, quieter than he means to.
“Duh,” Max says. “I’m not missing the chance to see Eddie arguing with a tuba player.”
“I will sit where you sit,” Jane says, simple.
“Okay,” Will says, feeling something steady in his chest. “Band side, then.”
They split at the base of the bleachers, Joyce and Hopper drifting toward the middle, Jonathan with them, camera bag thumping against his hip.
“Wave if you need us,” Joyce says, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at Will. “I’ll be watching.”
“I know,” he says, half exasperated, half grateful.
They climb the bleacher steps on the right side, working their way up toward the section near the band. The metal rattles under their feet; the noise gets bigger as they rise.
The band kids are a small chaotic ecosystem of their own. Trumpets, trombones, clarinets, flutes, a couple of drummers ready to bash out rhythms on their snares. The banner over their heads reads ROAR, TIGERS, ROAR, not one of his, but close enough.
Will spots a gap three rows above the band, near the middle. He gestures.
“There?” he asks.
Max nods. “Perfect,” she says. “Prime heckling territory.”
They squeeze in, knees knocking. Will ends up in the middle: Max on his right, Jane on his left, pressing close enough that their shoulders touch. Below, the band switches from uncertain tuning to the school fight song, brass blaring slightly out of key.
Across the gym, the doors open again.
The visiting team, Munroe’s Mustangs, files in wearing ugly orange warmup shirts that make their coach look like a traffic cone. Their small section of fans cheers half-heartedly.
“Already hate them,” Max says. “That orange is a war crime.”
“They look like cheese puffs,” Jane adds.
The Tigers emerge from their locker room a minute later.
For a moment, all he sees is a blur of green and gold and white, jerseys and warmups, the flash of sneakers. The crowd around them surges to its feet, the noise spiking.
Then he finds Lucas.
Number 8, green jersey, hair tied back with a sweatband. He jogs onto the court with the others, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grin flashing as the crowd chants his name “SIN-CLAIR! SIN-CLAIR!”—and the band tries to match the rhythm.
Beside him, Jason Carver looks like he stepped out of a sports magazine: captain’s band on his arm, number 12 emblazoned on his chest, jaw set nicely heroic. Andy trails a step behind, lankier, with his hair longer and flopping into his eyes. Patrick, tall and solid, twirls the ball on one fingertip like it’s nothing.
And there’s Chance.
Number 22, gold under the lights. He jogs out near the middle of the pack, but Will spots him immediately. The hair, the easy smile, the way he slaps Andys’ hand as they pass one another.
Chance glances up toward the bleachers, as if on instinct, as if he knows exactly where to look. It takes a second, with all the bodies and movement, but then his gaze finds Will.
His face brightens just a notch more.
He lifts two fingers off the ball in a tiny salute. It’s nothing. It’s everything.
Will’s stomach swoops.
He raises his hand, small wave, and hopes it doesn’t look as shaky as it feels.
“What did I miss?” Eddie Munson’s voice cuts through the noise like a cymbal crash. “Did they sacrifice a goat yet or are we still in the boring part?”
Will twists around.
Eddie, Gareth, Jeff, Dustin and Mike are climbing the bleacher steps toward them, each carrying a mess of poster board and markers like they’re smuggling art supplies into a war zone. Dustin huffs behind them, arms full of snacks.
“You’re late,” Will says as they squeeze onto the row, rearranging knees and ankles. “Game hasn’t even started and you’re late.”
“Fashionably late,” Eddie corrects. “Plus, we had to finish these works of genius.”
He unfurls one of the posters with a flourish: LUCAS “LONGSHOT” SINCLAIR #8 in big letters, surrounded by doodled lightning bolts and a tiger with suspiciously bat-like wings.
“That’s… not what tigers look like,” Will says.
“You don’t know,” Eddie says. “You’ve never seen a tiger in its natural high-school habitat.”
Gareth holds up a second sign: EAT ‘EM UP, TIGERS! with a crude drawing of a basketball devouring a horse.
“Subtle,” Max says approvingly.
Dustin’s contribution is more restrained: GO TIGERS! GO LUCAS! with a surprisingly good little doodle of Lucas taking a shot.
“How did you have time to do all this?” Will asks.
“Study hall,” Mike says proudly. “We used all our academic potential for good.”
“Kopec’s gonna murder you when she sees your test scores,” Will says.
The announcer’s voice crackles through the PA, barely audible over the crowd.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO HAWKINS HIGH SCHOOL, HOME OF YOUR TIGERS,” he said, flustered. “TONIGHT, YOUR HAWKINS TIGERS TAKE ON THE MUNROE MUSTANGS!”
The crowd roars. The band blasts the fight song again, this time closer to in-tune.
The teams line up for the national anthem. Everyone stands. Will keeps his hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, eyes tracing the lines of the court instead of the flag.
He feels Jane sway slightly next to him, likely trying to match the band’s slow tempo. Max mutters something snarky about patriotism under her breath.
The anthem ends; the gym explodes in noise.
The ball goes up.
Tip-off is a blur. Jason and the tallest Munroe player jump, hands swatting at the ball. It arcs, gets tipped, and ends up in Patrick’s hands. The Tigers’ offense moves like a practiced machine, spreading the floor, bodies cutting and looping.
Will doesn’t really know basketball. He knows points and fouls and vaguely that you get three if you shoot from far away. But watching Lucas, he understands enough: the way he reads the court, decides in a split second whether to drive or pass, when to pull up for a shot instead of barreling into the wall of defenders.
Lucas gets the first points—quick cut inside, layup off the glass. The crowd erupts.
“YES, LUCAS!” Dustin screams, sign bouncing.
“Nice!” Will yells, cupping his hands around his mouth, the word ripped from his chest without forethought.
Lucas glances toward their section as he jogs back on defense, grin wide, pointing briefly with both hands like he’s acknowledging the noise.
“Okay, that was cool,” Max admits, not quite hiding her pride.
The game settles into its rhythm.
Munroe isn’t bad. Their point guard is fast and sneaky, weaving through gaps that don’t look big enough. Their center is a brick wall under the basket, elbows out. The score keeps trading hands early: Tigers up by two, Mustangs answer with a three, Tigers claw back with steals and fast breaks.
Chance plays with a fluid, easy confidence. He’s not as flashy as Jason, who likes to drive hard and make crowd-pleasing shots, but there’s something satisfying about the way he moves. He sets solid screens, makes smart passes, cuts to the right place at the right time.
Midway through the first quarter, he gets the ball at the top of the key, defender on him tight. He fakes a drive right, steps back, and drains a three so clean it barely touches the rim.
The gym explodes.
Will forgets, for a second, that he’s supposed to be vaguely trying to stay cool.
He’s on his feet before his brain catches up, hands in the air.
“YES!” he yells, and his voice cracks like he’s thirteen again.
Chance jogs back on defense, cheeks flushed, hair damp with sweat.
He glances up at the stands, just briefly, scanning—his eyes snag on Will, who’s still half-standing, arms mid-air, sign bent against his chest.
Chance’s mouth quirks into a quick, hidden smile. He lifts his chin in the smallest nod, like, saw that.
Will drops back onto the bench, heart hammering, trying not to die.
“You okay?” Mike asks, eyeing him.
“Fine,” Will says. “Just… enthusiastic.”
“Yeah, you’re drooling enthusiasm,” Eddie mutters.
Max smacks him on the arm without taking her eyes off the court.
At the other end, Jason takes a wild three that clangs off the rim.
“Stop hot-dogging, Carver!” Coach yells from the sideline. “Move the ball!”
Jason grimaces, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, but the look he shoots toward the bench is more sheepish than resentful. On his way back, he claps Lucas on the back.
“My bad, man,” Will sees him say. “Next one’s yours.”
Lucas nods, breathless. “Just pass,” he pants. “We got this.”
Jason’s reputation in Will’s head has always been tied up with stories, half-whispered bits about him being a jerk to nerds, about him trash-talking Hellfire, about his stupidly perfect hair. And okay, he still probably thinks D&D is the devil. But watching him clap Lucas’ back, chest heaving, eyes fierce and bright, Will can’t quite slot him into the cartoon villain space anymore.
People contain multitudes, Robin’s voice says in his head.
Annoying, he thinks, but he doesn’t disagree.
The first quarter ends with Hawkins up 18–15.
Will only knows this because Dustin has taken it upon himself to keep a running commentary in his ear, translating the scoreboard into a story.
“Okay, so we’re up by three,” Dustin says, breathless. “Which is good, but also not enough, because Munroe’s number 23 has a freaky good jumper—”
“I don’t know what that is,” Will says, eyes still on the court.
“It’s… magic,” Dustin says. “Basketball magic. Don’t worry, we’ve got Lucas and Lawson.”
“Chance has better footwork,” Mike throws in. “Jason’s gonna get called for a charge at some point.”
“You say that like it’s English,” Eddie says. “My language is dice and consequences.”
“You’re here,” Will says. “You’re absorbing the lore by osmosis.”
Eddie makes a face like he’s being forced to read the phone book.
Second quarter, the fouls start to stack.
Jason picks up two quick ones, face tightening with annoyance. Coach benches him for a few minutes, barking something about “fouling out early and leaving your teammates in the lurch.”
Without him, Lucas and Chance shoulder more of the offensive load.
Lucas drives, gets fouled on a layup. The ref blows the whistle; Lucas heads to the free-throw line.
The gym settles, sound dimming.
Lucas bounces the ball twice, breathes, shoots.
Swish.
The crowd roars. The band slams a quick drum riff.
On his second shot, Will catches something out of the corner of his eye. Chance, waiting just outside the lane, glances up toward the bleachers again—quick, almost reflexive.
Will’s already watching him.
Chance’s eyes catch his. The tiniest smile tugs at his mouth.
Will does it without thinking: raises both hands, index fingers up like a pair of invisible little flags, a stupid, silent you got this.
Lucas sinks the second shot.
As he jogs back, he follows Chance’s gaze, realizes what he was looking at.
Lucas tips his head up toward the bleachers too, squinting.
When he spots their cluster of posters and flailing arms, his grin splits his face.
He cups his hands around his mouth.
“YOU’RE LATE!” he yells at them.
“We’re fashionably late!” Eddie yells back, waving the LONGSHOT sign.
“NEVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN!” Lucas hollers, but he’s laughing.
Patrick slaps his shoulder, grinning.
“Your fan club showed,” he says.
Lucas snorts.
“They’re not my fan club,” he says.
Patrick rolls his eyes.
“Whatever you say, man.”
The second quarter blurs into a tangle of possessions, bodies cutting and leaping. Hawkins pulls ahead by eight, then Munroe claws back with a couple of long shots. The gym gets louder, then quieter, then louder again.
At one point, Lucas dives for a loose ball, skids across the floor, and crashes into the baseline. Will’s stomach drops. So does Max’s.
“Get up, get up, get up,” she mutters under her breath, fists clenched around her sign.
Lucas pops up, face slightly pained, and brushes it off with a grin he probably saves for his mom. The crowd exhales as if in one collective breath.
“See?” Dustin says. “He’s fine. Lucas’s indestructible.”
“Shut up,” Max says, but she relaxes by degrees, shoulders lowering.
Halftime arrives with Hawkins up 34–29.
The buzzer blares; the crowd explodes into movement. People stretch, stand, talk. The band wrangles their sheet music for the halftime show, the cheerleaders assemble for a routine, and the team jogs toward the bench.
Instead of heading straight to the locker room, Chance detours.
He walks toward the edge of the court, close to where the main banner hangs over the wall.
He stops beneath TIGERS RISE and LAWSON #22 and tips his head back to look at them, hands on his hips.
Then he finds Will in the bleachers again and points up. First at the banner. Then at Will. Then back at the banner.
His meaning is obvious even from thirty feet away.
This. You did this. It worked.
Will feels something swell in his chest that he doesn’t have a name for. Pride, maybe. Or just sheer, ridiculous joy.
He cups his hands around his mouth.
“LOOKS GREAT!” he yells, before his brain can stop him.
Chance laughs, the sound lost in the noise but visible on his face. He gives a tiny, theatrical bow toward the wall, then toward the bleachers, before Coach whistles and jerks a thumb toward the locker room.
“CHANCE, LET’S GO!” Coach calls. “You can date the banner after the game!”
The guys on the bench snicker.
Will’s entire face ignites.
“Not subtle!” Eddie crows in his ear. “Absolute zero stealth! Stealth roll: natural one!”
“I’m going to push you down the bleachers,” Will mutters, dragging his hands over his face.
Max fans him with her GO LUCAS sign.
“This is delicious,” she says. “Better than halftime popcorn.”
Jane, who has been watching all of this with enormous eyes, leans closer.
“He pointed at your banner,” she says, quiet but certain. “He liked it.”
“He likes not being embarrassed in front of the whole school,” Will says, forcing his voice light. “That’s all.”
The halftime show distracts them for a while.
The band launches into a medley that’s supposed to be “Eye of the Tiger” and “We Will Rock You,” but somehow turns into a fight between the trumpets and the drummer. A couple of sophomores in tiger ears run across the court with flags. The cheerleaders’ routine includes a pyramid that makes Will insanely nervous until everyone’s feet are back on the ground.
Somewhere near the concession stand, he spots Chrissy Cunningham in her cheer uniform, blonde ponytail bouncing. She’s handing out cups of water to a cluster of younger girls, smiling gently when one of them spills and looks close to tears.
Jason materializes beside her, hair damp, a towel draped around his neck. He leans down, says something in her ear; she laughs, swats his chest lightly, then adjusts his sweatband like she’s fixing a crown.
They look disgustingly cute.
Will hates that it makes him feel… weirdly okay. Like not every quarterback-cheerleader combo is a pair of villains. Like maybe some of them are just… kids.
Third quarter, the game tightens. Munroe comes out of the locker room with new energy, hitting a couple of quick threes. The Tigers go cold from the field, shots rolling around the rim and out.
Hawkins’ lead shrinks. Four points. Two. One.
The gym gets nervous-loud.
“Here we go,” Eddie mutters. “The part of the movie where the ref makes a bad call and the whole town riots.”
“You’ve never been to a basketball game, have you?” Mike says.
“Don’t need to,” Eddie says. “I’ve seen Hoosiers.”
The Mustangs tie it; then their number 23 hits another long jumper. Munroe up by two.
“Boo!” Dustin yells. “Travel! Offensive wizardry!”
“That is not a thing,” Lucas’s voice drifts faintly up from the court.
Lucas drives the lane, draws another foul. At the line again, he bounces the ball, breathes deep, shoots.
First one drops. The crowd exhales.
Second one rims out.
Groans.
Before panic can fully bloom, Chance swoops in from the weak side, snags the rebound, and tips it back in before anyone else can react.
The gym goes nuclear.
“YES!” Will whispers, voice shredding. He grabs Max’s shoulder and shakes it; she head-bangs like they’re at a concert.
Chance lands, stumbles, and throws his arms out in a wide, triumphant gesture, face flushed. Lucas claps him hard on the back as they jog back on defense.
“Nice!” Will can just make out Lucas shouting.
“Had to salvage your free throw,” Chance yells back.
Patrick slaps both their hands.
“Subtle heroics,” he says.
The game becomes a tug-of-war.
Jason sinks a three. Munroe answers. Lucas gets a steal, takes it coast to coast; the Mustangs respond with a fast break of their own.
Will doesn’t fully understand the mechanics, but he understands momentum, the way the crowd leans forward every time Hawkins has the ball, the collective inhale when someone goes up for a shot, the roar or groan that follows.
He understands how Chance moves just a little differently today when he’s on their side of the court, eyes flicking up toward the bleachers like he wants to make sure they’re watching.
He understands the brief, weirdly intimate eye contact they make after a particularly good defensive possession, both of them grinning like idiots for half a second before snapping back to their respective roles.
End of the third, it’s tied: 49–49.
By the start of the fourth, Will’s heart feels like it’s been dribbling along with the ball.
“Is it always this stressful?” he asks, half-laughing, half-panicking.
“Yes,” Lucas’s voice echoes faintly as he passes by. “Welcome to my hell.”
Max is on her feet more than she’s sitting now, shouting directions even though nobody on the court can hear her.
“Shoot! No, pass! Not to him! Block out! Block out, you idiots!”
Jane mirrors the crowd in miniature, clapping enthusiastically whenever the band plays, gasping every time someone hits the floor.
“What if someone breaks their nose?” she asks at one point, horrified.
“Then they get a cool story,” Eddie says. “And possibly a concussion.”
“Comforting,” Will mutters.
With three minutes left, the Tigers are down by four.
The gym hums with anxiety. The cheerleaders chant louder, the band plays faster like they can push the ball into the hoop with sound alone.
On the court, Jason wipes his hands on his shorts, jaw tight. Coach yells something about spacing; Chance nods sharply, tapping his chest once in acknowledgment.
Lucas, panting, glances toward the bleachers in a quick flicker of panic.
Will sees it.
He jumps to his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth.
“YOU GOT THIS!” he yells. “LUCAS!”
The name rips out of him like a spell.
Lucas hears it.
He straightens, shoulders rolling back, expression shifting from frantic to focused.
“All right,” he says, mostly to himself. “All right.”
The next possession, he threads a perfect pass between two defenders to Patrick under the basket. Easy layup.
Two-point game.
Munroe scores again.
Back to four.
The clock ticks down: 2:30, 2:05, 1:50.
Chance gets the ball on the wing, fakes a drive, kicks to Jason for a three.
Jason hesitates just for a second, maybe remembering his earlier brick.
Then he lets it fly.
The ball arcs.
It drops clean.
The gym detonates.
Jason pumps his fist, face split in a grin that’s mostly relief. He turns and yells something wordless, pointing upward, not at his own name banner, but at the TIGERS RISE one.
Will’s heart clutches.
We did that, he thinks, dizzy. I did that. A little.
Tie game.
Munroe calls time-out.
The buzzer wails; the teams jog to their benches.
The band blares some kind of war song. People stomp their feet. The bleachers vibrate.
From the huddle, Will hears snatches of Coach’s shouting—“Defense first,” “No stupid fouls,” “Chance, you take their 23.”
The Tigers break with a loud “TIGERS!” clap.
Last minute.
Munroe ball.
They run some kind of play that looks like chaos but is clearly supposed to free up their shooter. Chance shadows 23 like a shadow, arms out, feet light.
The pass goes up.
Chance jumps the passing lane like he’s been waiting all game for this.
He snags the ball with both hands, almost overbalancing, then takes off.
The gym sucks in a breath as one.
He dribbles the length of the court, defender on his hip. Instead of forcing the shot, he slows just enough, glances to the side.
Lucas is there, filling the lane, hand ready.
The pass is clean.
Lucas catches, goes up.
The layup kisses the glass and drops.
The place comes unglued.
“YES!” Max shrieks, nearly flipping herself over the bench.
“HELL YEAH, SINCLAIR!” Eddie yells so loud Will’s ear rings.
Will screams something wordless, his throat raw.
Lucas, landing, snarls in triumph and slams his fist down, then immediately looks embarrassed, half-laughing. Chance grabs his shoulders and shakes him, yelling something into his face.
“ONE MORE STOP!” Coach bellows.
Munroe, down two, rushes their last possession. Their shooter forces a long three over Patrick’s outstretched hand.
Time slows.
The ball hits the front of the rim.
Bounces straight up.
Hits the backboard.
Falls.
Every eye in the gym tracks it.
It rolls around the rim once, twice—
And spills out.
Patrick and Chance both jump for the rebound. Patrick grabs it, clamps it to his chest like he’d rather die than give it up.
The buzzer blares.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
Then the gym explodes.
The noise is physical. Will feels it in his lungs. People are on their feet, jumping, shouting. The band plays something triumphant and off-key. The cheerleaders launch into a routine they probably weren’t supposed to perform without a rehearsal.
On the court, bodies crash together. Jason tackles Lucas in a half-hug, half-headlock; Chance jumps on both of them from behind. Patrick punches the air, yelling incoherently.
“Hawkins wins!” the announcer howls, voice cracking. “Your Tigers win, 63–61!”
The scoreboard blazes the numbers in red and green.
Max is jumping up and down so hard the bleachers shake.
“I told you!” she hollers. “I told you he’d crush them!”
Dustin is doing some sort of victory dance, signs flapping wildly. Mike just sits there, laughing in disbelief, hair sticking up.
Jane claps until her palms are probably red, face shining.
“You did it,” she says toward the court like they can hear her. “You won.”
Will doesn’t realize he’s grinning until his cheeks hurt.
He watches Lucas get mobbed by teammates and fans, swallowed up in green and gold.
Joyce and Hopper are on their feet across the gym, clapping and cheering, faces proud. Jonathan lifts his camera, capturing snapshots, arms in the air, sweat and smiles, green jerseys blurred in motion.
The bleachers start to empty as people surge down toward the court, wanting to get closer, to touch the edge of the victory.
Will hangs back a row, not quite ready to plunge into the crush. Max is already halfway down, elbowing her way as close as she can get to Lucas, yelling his name.
Jane stays pressed to his side, hand wrapped around his wrist.
“We can go down,” she says softly. “If you want.”
He hesitates. The tangle of bodies, the shouting, the pushing—it prickles at his skin.
“I can see from here,” he says. “It’s okay.”
She studies his face for a moment, then nods.
“Okay,” she says. “We will wave from here.”
On the court, Lucas finally extracts himself from the dogpile. He’s panting, hair plastered to his forehead, jersey sticking to his shoulders. Max manages to get close enough to smack his arm and yell something; whatever it is makes him laugh so hard he doubles over.
Chance, a few feet away, high-fives a cluster of teammates, Andy, Patrick, a handful of bench players whose names Will doesn’t know. Jason swings around and clasps Chance’s neck, foreheads bumping in a jocky, exuberant way.
Will takes all of it in and feels… proud. Not in a “this is my victory” way, he’d barely understand how to set a pick but in a “this is my people” way. Lucas, sweaty and triumphant. Max, yelling. The banners above them. The knowledge that he’d contributed a small piece to the picture.
And under that: the quieter awareness of Chance looking… different. Looser. Brighter. Alive in a way Will has only seen in flashes before.
As if sensing the stare, Chance turns.
Even from across the court, through all the bodies and raised arms, his gaze finds Will’s like it’s on a string.
His smile settles, changes. It’s still big and happy, but there’s something else in it now—something more directed, less generic THRILL OF VICTORY.
He lifts a hand, almost tentative, and waves.
Not to the crowd. To him.
Will’s heart does something stupid.
He lifts his own hand in return, fingers wiggling in a small wave.
For a few seconds, in all the chaos, it feels like they’re in their own little pocket. Noise all around, connection just between them.
Then Coach claps Chance hard on the shoulder, yelling something about “post-game talk,” and it breaks.
The players start to funnel toward the locker rooms, still trailed by fans. Jason is intercepted by Chrissy, who throws her arms around his neck in a quick hug before shoving a water bottle into his chest. Andy and Patrick get pulled into conversations with dads in trucker caps.
Lucas disappears for a moment into the crowd around the baseline, swallowed by congratulations and back-slaps.
“Come on,” Jonathan says, appearing behind them. “Hopper wants to beat traffic out of the lot before half of Hawkins decides to do donuts in their pickups.”
“Donuts sound good actually,” Dustin adds.
“That’s not what he meant,” Mike says.
They gather their stuff, rolling up signs and jamming bags of half-eaten popcorn under the bench. Max reappears, cheeks flushed, satisfied grin plastered on her face.
“Did you tell him he did great in, like, seventeen creative ways?” Will asks.
“Eighteen,” she corrects. “I’m very proud of him. Don’t tell him I said that.”
“Too late,” Lucas says, breathless, sliding into the aisle between rows. His hair is damp, sweat still beading on his forehead; he’s changed into a Hawkins Tigers hoodie, jersey peeking out underneath. “I heard ‘very proud.’ That’s going in my ego bank.”
“You have an ego bank?” Dustin asks.
“Everyone does,” Lucas says. “Higher interest rates than the real kind.”
He turns to Will.
“You came,” he says. It’s not a question, but it still sounds amazed.
“I said I would,” Will says. “You were… insane out there.”
Lucas’ grin softens into something more vulnerable.
“You yelling helped,” he says quietly. “Seriously. I kept… looking. For you guys. Made it easier to breathe.”
Will swallows around a sudden lump.
“Anytime,” he says.
Lucas claps his shoulder, then gets yanked away by a teammate calling his name.
The crowd swirls them toward the exits. Will’s family naturally bunches back together, forming a little cluster in the flow: Joyce, Hopper, Jonathan, Will, Jane, Max. Eddie and the others peel off toward the parking lot, shouting over their shoulders about “post-game snack planning” and “tomorrow’s campaign of glory.”
“Tell Sinclair he did us proud!” Eddie hollers. “His performance will be immortalized in the ballads!”
“I’ll tell him you said he’s good with balls,” Dustin cackles, earning a smack.
Will laughs weakly, too full of everything else.
They push through the main doors into the cold night.
The parking lot is a mess of headlights, exhaust plumes, and people milling around. Kids in jackets over jerseys, parents corralling younger siblings, someone already blasting music from a truck with its windows down.
Will shoves his hands into his pockets, breath puffing white.
“Well,” Hopper says, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath the whole fourth quarter. “Nobody died. That’s my bar for a good game.”
“Lucas almost fell on his face,” Joyce says.
“Almost,” Hopper repeats.
“He was very fast,” Jane says. “Like the… DeLorean.”
“Now that’s a compliment,” Jonathan says, grinning.
They start toward their car, weaving between clusters of people.
Will’s eyes scan the crowd, not consciously looking for anything, and then—
“Will!”
He turns.
Chance is jogging toward them, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp, hoodie unzipped to show the green of his jersey underneath. His sneakers slap the pavement; his breath fogs in the cold.
He looks like the game is still in him, like he hasn’t come down yet.
“Hey,” he says, a little breathless as he skids to a stop in front of them. “I was hoping I’d catch you before you bailed.”
Will’s brain momentarily blanks out everything except he was hoping to catch you.
“You caught me,” he manages.
Chance grins, then seems to remember they’re not alone. He glances at Joyce and Hopper and Jonathan and Jane and Max in quick, polite succession.
“Uh, hi, Sir, Mrs. Byers,” he says, clearly guessing and only halfway right.
Will wants to sink into the asphalt.
“What’s up?” he asks, desperate to redirect before this turns into an awkward parent-jock meet-and-greet.
Chance shifts his weight, suddenly weirdly shy.
“Right, yeah,” he says. “So, um. We’re, some of us are going down to the diner to celebrate. Nothing huge, just, like… fries, milkshakes, probably Patrick seeing how many sugar packets he can eat before he pukes.”
“Disgusting,” Jonathan murmurs.
“Tradition,” Chance says. “Anyway, I was wondering if you… wanted to come? It’ll be me, Sinclair, his girlfriend…” He jerks a thumb toward Max, then hesitates. “You’re Max, right? He talks about you a lot.”
Max raises an eyebrow.
“Depends what he says,” she says. “But yeah.”
“Mostly that you boss him around,” Chance says. “And you’re scary in a good way.”
Max looks satisfied. “Accurate,” she says.
Chance nods, then looks back at Will.
“And, uh… your friends can come too,” he adds quickly. “If they want. Dustin, Mike… Jane.” He glances at her like he remembers she aced him in a stare-down that one time in the hallway. “If it’s not… weird. Or if you’re not, like, wiped after all that noise. No pressure.”
The way he says it makes it clear he’s thought about this. That it’s not just an off-hand, “everyone’s invited” thing. He’s chosen who he wants there, and that list includes Will.
It’s only day three or four of actually… knowing him. But it doesn’t feel out of nowhere. They’ve been orbiting each other all week, art room, banners, pay phone, car rides, glances in the hall. This just feels like the next logical step.
Will’s heart does a weird little tumble anyway.
He opens his mouth.
“I—”
He glances instinctively at Joyce and Hopper.
He can’t just say yes. Not because he doesn’t want to, he really, really wants to, but because if he disappears to the diner without warning and they get home to a dark house, Joyce will have a coronary and Hopper will put the whole police department on alert.
As if reading his mind, Joyce lifts a hand.
“If you want to go,” she says, calm, “go.”
He blinks.
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” he says. “You and Hop and… rides, and—”
“We have cars,” Jonathan says. “And maps. And a basic understanding of how time works.”
Hopper crosses his arms.
“You got a curfew,” he says. “That’s the only thing I care about. You’re home by eleven. You call if you’re going to be even five minutes past that. And if any of those boys”—he nods toward the gym, meaning the faceless rest of the team more than Chance—“start acting like idiots, you walk out and you call me. Got it?”
Will nods, amazed and weirdly close to embarrassed.
“Got it,” he says.
Joyce smiles.
“Go get fries with your friends,” she says. “You like fries.”
He does like fries.
He also likes the idea of sitting in a booth somewhere with Chance across from him, telling dumb stories. It feels so… normal. So small. For years, small normal things have felt like luxuries he wasn’t allowed to think about.
Now he has permission.
“I’ll go,” he says, turning back to Chance. “If the offer’s still… open.”
Chance’s entire face lights.
“Yeah,” he says, a little too fast. “Yeah, definitely. It’ll be... it’ll be cool. Just us.” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly flustered. “I mean, not just us-us. Me, you, Sinclair, Max, whoever else wants to come. Not—”
“I get it,” Will says, warmth blooming under his ribs. “It’s okay.”
Chance huffs a laugh, relief in it.
“Okay, good,” he says. “Uh, we’re meeting there in, like, fifteen? I have to pretend to listen to Coach’s speech about ‘humility in victory’ first.” He makes air quotes. “You can ride with your folks and I’ll… see you there?”
“Yeah,” Will says. “We’ll… figure it out.”
“We will go,” Jane says suddenly, stepping forward. “To the diner. For fries and milkshakes. With Lucas and Max and Chance and Will.”
Chance looks pleasantly startled.
“Yes,” he says. “Exactly that.”
Max shrugs one shoulder, trying to look like she doesn’t care, already calculating the optimal fry-to-shake ratio.
“Fine,” she says. “But I’m not doing small talk with Jason.”
“You will not have to,” Chance says quickly. “Carver and Andy are doing their own thing. Team party at Patrick’s or something. The diner’s just… us. Less yelling. Different yelling.”
Relief flickers across Will’s face before he can hide it.
Chance sees it. His expression gentles.
“Those guys are… fine,” he says carefully. “But I know they’re not really your- i mean you guys scene”
Will lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
Chance shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“Selfish,” he says. “I want to actually talk to you without worrying Jason's going to start a crusade against satanic dice games or whatever.”
“Thank you,” Will says again, a little more emphatic.
Chance grins.
“I’ll see you at the diner.”
He jogs backward a couple of steps, then turns and runs toward the locker room entrance, duffel bouncing against his hip.
Hopper mutters something about “ Teenagers” but his eyes are crinkled at the corners. Joyce loops her arm through his, turning them toward the car.
“Eleven,” she repeats to Will. “Don’t make me come in there and drag you out by your ear.”
“You would not,” Jane says, scandalized.
“She would,” Jonathan and Will say in unison.
Everyone laughs.
Ten minutes later, they’re in a booth at the local diner, the kind with sticky vinyl seats and a jukebox in the corner that hasn’t worked right since 1983.
The place is busy, but not full. A few tables of parents with kids still hyped from the game, a knot of older guys at the counter nursing coffee, the occasional couple in letterman jackets sharing a milkshake like a living cliché.
Will slides into the booth across from Chance and Lucas. Max and Jane claim the seats beside him, practically hemming him in, a living buffer.
The table is immediately covered in menus, even though everyone already knows what they’re getting. The waitress—Tina, name tag crooked, senior at Hawkins—takes their order without writing it down.
“Fries and chocolate shake,” Lucas says.
“Fries and vanilla shake,” Max says. “And onion rings.”
“Extra crispy fries, strawberry shake,” Jane says, carefully reading the menu like it’s a test.
“Fries, chocolate shake,” Will echoes. “And… maybe a burger.”
Chance orders fries and a vanilla shake too, plus a plate of mozzarella sticks “for the table,” because he apparently doesn’t believe in moderation.
“So,” Lucas says as soon as Tina walks away, slumping back against the seat, “did I suck or did I suck less?”
“You were amazing,” Jane says. “You were like the man in the movie who jumps to catch the ball at the very last minute and then everyone yells his name.”
“Hero shot,” Max says. “You nailed it. Ten out of ten, would yell at again.”
Lucas beams.
“You guys are obligated to say that,” he says. “You like me.”
“I am not obligated to say anything,” Max says. “I just do.”
“That’s worse,” he says, grinning.
Will leans his arms on the table, fingers playing with the paper napkin dispenser.
“Chance saved your butt,” he says. “He got that steal at the end. That was insane.”
“I will accept shared credit,” Lucas says graciously. “We are a duo. Like… Batman and Robin.”
“I’m not saying which one of you is which because I don’t want to restart that fight,” Max says.
Chance laughs, rubbing at a faint bruise on his arm.
“That guy’s elbow is a weapon,” he says. “I’m gonna have ‘Spalding’ imprinted on my ribs for a week.”
Will’s chest does that warm thing again, listening to him talk about it. Not the game itself, but the way he talks about Lucas, about the team—as if all of this matters, but not in a way that excludes everyone else.
They talk. About plays, about weird calls, about the band’s attempts to stay in tempo.
Max recounts, in dramatic detail, one of the refs stepping in gum and nearly face-planting.
Jane listens to all of it with the same intensity she brings to geometry proofs.
“I liked when everyone yelled,” she says at one point. “But not at the man in the stripes. I felt bad for him.”
“Stripes man deserves it,” Max says. “He made three bad calls.”
“He is doing his job,” Jane says. “Jobs are hard.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Chance says, smiling at her warmly.
At some point, Dustin and Mike barrel in, dragging Erica behind them. She clearly insisted on coming; they clearly knew better than to say no.
“She needed to congratulate her star player,” Dustin says, gesturing at Lucas.
“I needed fries,” Erica corrects, sliding into the end of the booth and snagging one from Lucas’s plate without asking. “The game was adequate.”
“High praise,” Lucas says. “I’ll put that on a plaque.”
The food arrives in a blur of plates and clinking glasses. Fries steaming, shakes sweating in their tall metal cups, burgers and onion rings and cheese sticks.
They eat like they didn’t just consume half the popcorn supply of Hawkins High.
Conversation loops.
Jane tells a deadpan story about Kopec’s latest geometry metaphor.
Will mostly listens, adding comments where he can, feeling… full.
Not just from the fries.
Full in his chest. In his head.
This is what he always thought he wasn’t going to get: a post-game diner booth, fries trading hands, arguments about strategy and movies and hypothetical fireball three-pointers. Different kinds of people crammed into one small space, overlapping in messy, noisy ways.
And he’s in the middle of it.
Not on the outside, watching through the window.
He catches Chance looking at him more than once. Not staring, just glancing, checking in, making sure he’s still there. Their eyes meet; Chance smiles, quick and almost shy, then looks away again.
Each time, Will feels that little ache of one-sidedness. But it’s… manageable. He already decided. He’s okay with this. With being here. With being Chance’s friend.
With wanting more and still choosing this.
Toward the end of the night, the crowd thins. The older guys at the counter shuffle out. The jukebox cycles back to a song it’s already played twice.
Tina swings by with the check, dropping extra napkins and a wink.
“Congrats, Tigers,” she says. “Don’t forget to tip.”
“We will tip adequately,” Erica says.
“Generously,” Max corrects.
“I don’t believe in generosity,” Erica says. “I believe in exact change.”
They chip in crumpled bills and coins, a chaotic pile that Chance manages to sort into neat stacks.
“Please tell me someone brought a ride that isn’t on its last legs,” Dustin says as they slide out of the booth. “It’s cold and I’m full and if I fall down, I’m staying there.”
“Mom’s picking us up,” Mike says. “We’re not all orphans, Dustin.”
“I’m not an orphan,” Dustin protests. “My mom loves me more than your mom loves you.”
“That’s not how love works,” Jane says, puzzled.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dustin says. “Point is, I am not walking home. My legs are in retirement.”
They spill out into the cold night, a little looser, a little slower, all of them talking over each other as they head toward the parking lot.
Hopper’s truck is parked under a flickering streetlight, Jonathan’s car beside it. Joyce leans against the truck with her hands in her pockets, breath puffing white; Hopper stands beside her, police jacket over flannel, watching the door like he’s been timing them.
He checks his watch theatrically as they approach.
“Ten-forty,” he says. “Well within curfew. I am… moderately impressed.”
Joyce swats his arm.
“I told you,” she says. “They’re responsible.”
“They’re teenagers,” he says. “Responsibly stupid sometimes, but still teenagers.”
“How was it?” Joyce asks, eyes flicking over Will’s face like she’s checking for cracks. “You look… happy. Tired. But happy.”
He realizes she’s right.
Despite the noise and the crowds and the adrenaline drop, there’s a lingering warmth in him that feels like more than leftover fries.
“It was good,” he says simply. “The game. The diner. All of it.”
“Lucas did very well,” Jane says solemnly. “And Chance got the ball at the very end like the man in the sports film Jonathan made me watch.”
“Clutch steal,” Jonathan says. “Wish I’d brought the camera inside. Next time.”
Hopper eyes Will, then Chance, who’s hanging back a few feet away, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.
“Your chaperone here was decent?” Hopper asks Will, voice half-gruff, half-wary.
Will rolls his eyes.
“He was great,” he says. “We didn’t even do crimes.”
“Boring,” Max mutters.
Chance steps forward a little, clearing his throat.
“Sir,” he says, posture going unconsciously straight. “I, uh. Wanted to say thanks. For letting him come. It was… cool. Getting to hang out without… you know. Banners and stuff.”
Hopper squints at him like he’s trying to see inside his skull.
After a long beat, he nods once.
“You got him home on time,” he says. “That buys you some goodwill.”
Chance looks like he just passed a test he didn’t know he was taking.
Joyce’s expression softens even further.
“Door’s always open,” she says to Chance. “If you ever want to come by. We have… chaotic dinners.”
“And rules,” Hopper adds.
Chance nods, a little overwhelmed then turns to Will.
For a second, he just stands there, shifting from foot to foot, as if he’s working up to something.
“Hey, uh,” he says finally. “About the… driving lesson thing.”
Will’s heart stutters.
“Yeah?” he says, trying not to sound too eager. Or terrified.
“I wasn’t just saying it to sound cool,” Chance says. “I mean, I am cool, obviously—” he gestures at his own hoodie, making Jane laugh “—but I actually… want to. Teach you, I mean. If you still want to learn.”
“I do,” Will says. It comes out faster than he intended. “I mean… yeah. Totally. At some point.”
Chance nods, moves his hands like he needs something to do with them.
“Okay,” he says. “Then, uh… maybe we should, like… plan it. So I don’t just show up at your house honking like a maniac and freak everyone out.”
“Please don’t do that,” Hopper says dryly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Chance says quickly. He looks back at Will, cheeks pink from the cold and maybe something else. “Do you… have a number? Your house? So I can, you know. Call. When I’m free. Or if I’m heading past your street anyway.”
He says it casually, like it’s purely logistical.
It doesn’t feel purely logistical.
Will feels every heartbeat between them.
“Yeah,” he says. “We do, uh. Have a phone.”
“Usually how numbers work,” Max mutters, but there’s no bite.
Will digs in his pocket for a pen. The napkin dispenser from the diner is still in his hand, he grabbed a spare napkin on the way out, mostly on autopilot. He smooths it against the side of Hopper’s truck, hand trembling just a little, and writes down their home phone number in his neatest handwriting.
He hesitates at the end.
Then, impulsively, he adds: – Will.
In case Chance has a dozen numbers given to him every week. In case he needs the little anchor.
He tears the napkin free and holds it out.
Chance takes it carefully, like it’s more fragile than it is. His fingers brush Will’s briefly, warm, callused, still smelling faintly of ball leather and cheap soap.
“Cool,” he says, folding the napkin and tucking it into the front pocket of his hoodie. “I’ll, uh. Call. Before I show up with the death trap.” He jerks his thumb toward the road, where his battered Nova sits at the edge of the lot. “We’ll start slow. Church parking lot. Limited chance of casualties.”
“Looking forward to it,” Will says.
It’s terrifying how much he means it.
Chance smiles, small but sincere.
“Night, Will,” he says.
“Night,” Will replies.
“Night, Chance,” Jane adds, formal.
“Night, Jane,” he says, easy now. “Night, Max. Night, Mr.Hopper, Mrs. Byers, uh… other Byer.”
“Jonathan,” Jonathan supplies, amused.
“And goodnight to you too,” Joyce says.
Chance backs away a step, lifts a hand in a little wave, then turns and jogs toward his car, breath fogging in the cold.
They watch him go. The Nova coughs to life, headlights flicking on. He pulls out of the lot, the car’s taillights blinking twice as he turns onto the main road.
Will stands there for a second, hands jammed into his pockets, heart thrumming in a way that’s both too much and exactly right.
A hand rests lightly on his shoulder.
Joyce.
“You okay?” she asks, soft.
He exhales, watching it fog.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”
Max nudges his arm with hers.
“Dude,” she says. “You’re gonna learn to officially drive before me. That’s messed up.”
“You can both learn,” Jane says. “Then you can take turns.”
“I am not getting in a car with both of them,” Hopper grumbles. “One reckless child at a time.”
They pile into the vehicles, the night folded soft and dark around them. The adrenaline of the game fades into a quieter glow as they drive home,past the diner’s neon sign, past the darkened storefronts, back to the house with the leaning fence and the crooked mailbox.
Later, in his room, Will lies awake in the dim light, staring at the ceiling.
His hoodie still smells faintly like the diner and the gym grease, sweat, a hint of popcorn. In his pocket, his fingers find the corner of something folded.
He pulls it out.
Not the napkin, Chance took that with him, but another, crumpled scrap. A piece of paper he’d shoved there earlier in the day: a quick sketch of the TIGERS RISE banner, the letters rough, a tiny figure standing under it with a number 11 on his jersey.
He hadn’t finished the face.
He doesn’t, now.
He folds the paper back up and slides it under his pillow, alongside his sketchbook and all the other half-drawn things that feel too big to leave in the open.
Monday, there will be stage crew again. Clouds to touch up. Gravestones to arrange. Eddie’s campaign to plan, Lady Applejack’s demands to negotiate.
Maybe, there will be a phone call, a battered blue Nova in a church parking lot. A stick shift and a boy with a nervous joke about Jesus supervising.
The way Chance pointed at the banner, the way he said I’ll call like he meant it.
One-sided, Will reminds himself, as his eyes drift closed.
Maybe.
He can live with that.
He falls asleep with the ghost of a basketball game in his ears and the phantom weight of a napkin in someone else’s pocket, the future not any clearer, but for once, not entirely terrifying.
Chapter 8: parking lots & proof
Summary:
Will’s Saturday plans get complicated when Mrs. Worthington wants him for set work the same morning Chance calls to cash in on their promised driving lesson. A shaky first time behind the wheel in the empty church parking lot turns unexpectedly painful when Chance’s sweet, very real ex-girlfriend Emily appears, giving Will a sharp reminder that it’s 1987 and Chance Lawson is almost certainly straight. Reeling but determined, Will quietly reshapes his expectations, choosing to keep learning to drive in Chance’s beat-up Nova, and to keep this growing friendship, even if his feelings stay stubbornly "one-sided."
Chapter Text
Saturday mornings in the Byers-Hopper house were a different kind of loud.
Not school-day frantic, not all sharp edges and missing shoes and Hopper swearing about traffic. Weekend noise was softer. the radio a little too loud in the kitchen, the hiss of bacon in a pan, the shuffle of slippers, the occasional thump of Jane practicing some skateboard balance exercise in the hall because Max told her “center of gravity never sleeps.”
Will woke to the smell of coffee and something frying, sunlight slicing through the gap in his curtains at an angle that said you actually slept in for once.
He blinked at the clock.
9:17.
His body felt heavy in that good, post-adrenaline way…like the echoes of last night’s game and the diner and the laughter were still tangled up in his muscles. For a second, he just lay there staring at the ceiling, letting the remembered noise roll over him in waves.
The buzzer. The crowd. Lucas’ grin. Chance pointing at the banner.
He smiled into his pillow, helpless.
The phone rang faintly in the distance. He heard Joyce answer, voice muffled through the wall, then closer as she moved through the house.
He rolled up to sitting, blankets slipping down, and stretched until his spine cracked.
On his desk, his sketchbook lay half-open, last night’s quick scribble of the TIGERS RISE banner peeking out from under the cover. A stick-figure 11 stood under it, lines barely there.
He reached out, tapped the edge of the page once like it was a good luck charm, then shoved his hair out of his face and shuffled for the door.
The hallway floorboards were cool under his feet. Jane’s door was half-open 3 inches, he could hear the scratchy murmur of the radio on her bedside table, tuned to some pop station Max had convinced her was superior to Hopper’s classic rock. Jane herself appeared around the bathroom corner, damp-haired, pulling a sweater over her head.
“You woke up,” she observed, like there had been a version of the morning where he slept until noon.
“I am” he replied, rubbing his eye.
Downstairs, the kitchen was a the pure definition of a weekend.
Joyce stood at the stove in a faded Hawkins Hardware t-shirt and pajama pants, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. Hopper sat at the table in his robe, paper spread out, a plate already half-cleared. Jonathan leaned against the counter, buttering toast, hair still flattened on one side from sleep.
“Hey, honey,” Joyce said as Will padded in. “Eat before it gets cold. And by ‘it’, I mean everything. Your brother made enough toast for an entire town.”
“I like my options,” Jonathan said.
Hopper grunted his appreciation without looking up from the paper.
Will dropped into a chair, accepted the plate Joyce handed him scrambled eggs, two strips of bacon, toast, half a sliced orange and started eating, hungry in that bottomless-teenage-boy way that had startled Joyce the first few months it kicked in.
“You staying around today?” Jonathan asked between bites. “Or does Worthington have you on call?”
“Actually…” Joyce glanced over her shoulder at Will, eyebrow raised. “She called earlier. Before you woke up. Asked if you could come in for a few hours to touch up the set. Said something about ‘the final coat of magic.’”
Will groaned softly around a mouthful of egg.
“On a Saturday?” he said, though he wasn’t actually surprised. Mrs. Worthington’s concept of work-life balance was “do theatre until your limbs fall off, then use your severed arms as props.”
Joyce gave him a sympathetic look.
“I told her I’d ask,” she said. “No pressure. It’s your weekend too.”
“I mean…” He hesitated. Part of him didn’t want to set foot in the auditorium. He wanted to stay in pajamas, draw, maybe replay last night in his head like a favorite movie. But the other part, a big, loyal chunk thought of the still-drying sky backdrop, the gravestones, the unfinished trim. “We are kind of close to done,” he admitted. “It’d be nice to finish the clouds without actors breathing down my neck.”
“Worthington said you could just come in for a bit,” Joyce said. “No full-day indentured servitude. I made sure.”
“I’ll go,” Will decided. “Just a few hours. Before… anything else happens.”
“Anything else?” Jonathan asked, amused. “Got a hot date with graphite?”
“Shut up,” Will said automatically.
The phone rang again, closer this time.
Hopper grunted and didn’t move. Joyce shot him a look.
“I’m making your breakfast,” she said. “You can get the phone.”
“I’m very comfortable,” he complained, but he heaved himself up anyway and shuffled to the wall phone by the fridge. “Hopper residence,” he barked into the receiver. “Yeah?”
Will forked another bite of eggs, only half-listening, until he notice Hopper’s gaze slide toward him.
“Yeah, he’s here,” Hopper said into the phone, and mouthed for you at Will, covering the receiver with his palm.
Will’s heart did a weird little flip.
“Who is it?” he asked, wiping his hands on a napkin as he stood.
Hopper squinted at the phone like it was personally responsible for all the world’s problems.
“guess"
Something dropped and rose at the same time in Will’s chest.
He grabbed the receiver, suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes on him.
“Hello?” he said, trying very hard to sound like a person who got calls from boys all the time.
“Hey, Byers,” Chance’s voice came tinny but bright through the line. “I, uh—sorry if this is too early. I wasn’t sure when you guys, like… did Saturdays.”
Will turned slightly away from the table, curling the phone cord around his finger.
“It’s not too early,” he said. “I was already up. Sort of.”
“I figured you might be in, like, artist coma,” Chance said. “Recovering from all the banner greatness.”
The words made heat prickle at the back of Will’s neck.
“What’s up?” he asked, before his brain could invent thirty-six responses and pick none of them.
“Right,” Chance said, like he’d almost forgotten the point. “So… I just got off the phone with Coach. He pushed practice to tomorrow because half the guys are going to some… family thing.” He made “family thing” sound like “government conspiracy.” “Which means I’m actually free this afternoon. Like, after one. And I was thinking… if you still wanted to do that driving lesson, we could… you know. Try. Today.”
The idea of getting into his car, Chance’s car and being in the driver’s seat made his stomach swoop in equal parts terror and excitement.
“I… yeah,” Will said, after a half-second too long. “Yeah, that’d be… cool. Definitely. I mean, if you’re sure you want your car to die that early in its life.”
“My car has survived worse than a baby’s first clutch,” Chance said. “So that’s a yes?”
“Yes,” Will said, more firmly. “Definitely yes. I just… I told my teacher I’d go help at school for a bit. But I can… do that this morning and be done by one, I think. So… yeah. After one is perfect.”
“Sweet,” Chance said, and Will could hear the smile in his voice. “We can hit the church lot on Maple. It’s usually dead on Saturdays except for the pastor washing his car, and he owes me at least three parking lot scratches’ worth of forgiveness.”
“The big brick church with the weird bell tower?” Will asked.
“That’s the one,” Chance said. “I’ll swing by your place, pick you up around one-fifteen? One-thirty at the latest, if Coach’s pep talk about ‘yesterday’s win not meaning jack for next week’ runs long.”
“Okay,” Will said, dizzy with the pace at which his day was filling. “Cool.”
“Cool,” Chance repeated, like he didn’t know any other adjectives. “See you then, Byers.”
“See you,” Will said softly.
He hung up, aware of the way everyone in the kitchen was suddenly pretending they weren’t listening.
Jonathan was sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just tracked every word. Joyce was tending the pan with exaggerated focus. Hopper was making a big show of rattling the newspaper.
Only Jane made the mistake of making it public.
“That was Chance,” she said to the room at large. “He is coming here at one to take Will to the church parking lot, and then they will drive.”
”what—how did?”
Max, who’d arrived via the back door somewhere between eggs and phone call, froze with one foot out of her sneaker.
“Wait, what?” she said. “You’re learning to drive today? With the basketball boy?”
"Jesus kid, do you live here now?"asked Hopper.
“I might be,” Will said completely ignoring hopper’s comment.
Joyce’s eyes softened.
“Sounds like a good day to me,” she said. “If you’re sure you’re okay skipping out on Worthington for part of it.”
“I’m not skipping,” Will protested. “I’ll go for a few hours this morning. Do the last coat on the gravestones. Then I… have a life.”
Jonathan bumped his shoulder gently as he headed for the sink.
“Proud of you,” he murmured.
Hopper grunted in a way that might, if you squinted and translated from Hopper-ese, have meant me too.
“Just remember,” he said aloud. “Driving is a weapon in the wrong hands. You listen to that boy. Don’t try to show off.”
“I don’t have anything to show off,” Will said.
“Good,” Hopper said. “be careful.”
Max bounced on the balls of her feet.
“If you crash before I officially learn, I’m going to be so mad,” she informed him.
“I’ll… try not to?” Will said.
He called Mrs. Worthington after breakfast.
The phone in the auditorium office rang six times before she picked up, sounding like she’d already been there for hours.
“Hawkins High Theatre Department, making magic on a shoestring, Worthington speaking.”
“Hey, it’s Will,” he said, wrapping the phone cord around his fingers. “About today.”
“Ah, William,” she said. “My angel of structural integrity. You’re still coming?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just… only for the morning. I can be there by ten and stay until… like, twelve-thirty? I’ve got… stuff this afternoon.”
“Stuff,” she repeated, amused. “What kind of stuff? Secret matinee? Eloping?”
“A friend’s helping me learn to drive,” he said before his brain could come up with a less revealing answer. “In the church lot.”
There was a pause.
“My, my,” Worthington said. “Look at you. Getting behind the wheel of your own life and a vehicle. I approve.”
“So… is it okay if I duck out early?” he asked. “I can finish the last gravestone names, and that fence base, and—”
“William,” she interrupted. “Breathe. Yes, you may ‘duck out’ early. You have done more than enough unpaid labor for this production. I’d rather you not become a permanent fixture in the fly loft.”
Relief loosened the knot between his shoulders.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Go, make questionable choices in someone’s car,” she said. “Just don’t crash before opening night. I need you.”
“I’ll… try to avoid death,” he said.
“Splendid,” she said. “See you soon.”
He hung up, grinning, then felt a flicker of nerves chase the smile away.
Driving.
With Chance.
In a parking lot.
His palms had gone sweaty just thinking about it.
Maybe if he focused really hard on the mechanics—clutch, brake, gas—he could trick his brain into not focusing on the fact that the person teaching him had the exact smile that short-circuited his synapses.
Worth a try.
The theater was half-lit and echoey when he arrived, the weekend quiet wrapping around the rows of seats and the yawning stage like a blanket.
A few other crew kids were already there, moving slowly, weekend-brain hazy. Someone fiddled with a light on a stand; someone else was sweeping.
Mrs. Worthington stood at the edge of the stage, clipboard in hand, scarf slightly askew, as if even she wasn’t fully awake yet.
“Ah, William,” she said when she saw him coming down the aisle, brown paper bag with a sandwich in one hand, paint shirt slung over his shoulder. “Come to bless us with your presence.”
“I brought my own brush,” he said, lifting the bag.
She chuckled.
“The gravestones await,” she said, gesturing him toward stage right. “I took the liberty of pre-priming, so they’re ready for your particular brand of melancholy lettering.”
The hours slid by faster than he expected.
There was something soothing about the repetition: gray paint, darker gray shadows, black letters carefully spaced. W. GIBBS, 1893–1912. M. WEBB, BELOVED MOTHER. The names of fictional dead people who, for the next few weeks, would stand in for the mortality of a small New Hampshire town.
In the background, Worthington moved like a cross between a general and a guardian angel repositioning flats, calling gentle corrections to a kid hanging a gobos, humming to herself when the radio caught a Sinatra song she liked.
Now and then, one of the other crew members drifted over to comment on the game.
“Banner Boy,” Tom, one of the lighting guys, said, balancing a coil of cable on his shoulder. “Those signs were sick. My little brother tried to steal one after the game.”
“Please don’t let him,” Will said. “It’ll unbalance my sense of symmetry.”
Tom smirked.
“Chance looked like he wanted to marry that SINCLAIR sign,” he said. “He kept slapping it when he ran past.”
Will flushed, focusing on the curve of a letter.
“He was just happy he didn’t miss every shot,” Will said.
By twelve-thirty, his hands were streaked with gray and black, but the gravestones looked… done. Settled. Like they’d always been part of the stage.
Worthington wandered over, arms folded, surveying his work.
“Someday,” she said, “someone is going to pay you actual money for your ability to make plywood evoke mortality. Until then, I am very grateful.”
“I’ll accept payment in less ladder duty,” he said, peeling his paint shirt off and stuffing it into his bag.
“You may have bought yourself out of at least three ladder trips,” she said. “Go. Live. Remember what sunlight looks like.”
He checked the clock on the wall.
12:41.
His heart did an impatient little kick.
“See you Monday,” he said, jogging down the steps.
Outside, the day was crisp and bright. The sky had that washed-out blue that only happened in mid-October, the trees edging toward full color. His breath puffed faint in the air as he cut across the parking lot.
He had just enough time to get home, scrub the worst of the paint off his hands, and change his shirt before—
The blue Nova pulled up to the curb in front of the house at exactly 1:19 p.m., engine rumbling, paint still slightly faded but valiantly hanging on.
Will saw it through the living room window before it honked.
Butterflies dive-bombed his stomach in formation.
“Your chariot awaits,” Jonathan said from the couch, not looking up from his magazine.
“Don’t crash,” Max called from the kitchen. “Or if you do, do it somewhere interesting.”
Jane popped her head around the corner.
“Is he here?” she asked, eyes bright.
“Yeah,” Will said, smoothing his sweater down for no reason. “Don’t… stare out the window like you’ve never seen a car before.”
She stared at him instead.
“You are nervous,” she observed.
“I’m… excited,” he corrected. “And mildly terrified. That’s different.”
Hopper appeared in the doorway, arms folded.
“You remember what I said?” he asked. “Careful. Listen. No showing off. No racing. No ghosts in the rearview mirror.”
“There are no ghosts,” Jane said.
“You don’t know that,” Hopper countered automatically, then shook his head. “That’s not the point. Point is—”
“I’ll be careful,” Will said. “Promise.”
Joyce emerged from the hallway, keys in one hand even though she wasn’t going anywhere.
“If you get tired or freaked out, you don’t have to keep going just because you feel bad,” she said. “You can come home. Or call. Or change your mind. Learning to drive isn’t a test of your moral character.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll be okay.”
He hoped his voice made that sound true.
He grabbed his jacket, slung his bag over his shoulder, took one more steadying breath, and stepped outside.
Chance leaned against the hood of the Nova, hands shoved in the pockets of his flannel, hair ruffled by the slight wind. He’d changed out of his team hoodie into a worn band tee under the shirt, jeans, scuffed sneakers.
He straightened when he saw Will, grin spreading.
“There he is,” he said. “The man, the myth, the legend.”
“I’m gonna die if people keep calling me that,” Will said, but he was smiling too hard to sell the complaint.
“Consider it your superhero identity,” Chance said. “Mild mannered stage crew by day, banner wizard by night.”
“Very heroic,” Will said dryly. “Getting high on paint fumes to support your local high school.”
Chance laughed.
“You ready to endanger my transmission?” he asked, tipping his head toward the passenger side.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Will said.
A faint tapping on the living room window drew his eye.
Jane stood there, face pressed to the glass, hand lifted in a small wave. Max peered over her shoulder, mouth moving.
Chance followed his gaze.
“Oh,” he said, lifting his hand to wave back. “Hey! Hi!”
Jane grinned and waved more enthusiastically. Max gave Chance a thumbs-up, which was marginally better than the finger.
“You have an audience,” Chance said.
Together, they climbed into the car.
The Nova’s interior was familiar now, the cracked vinyl seats, the faint smell of old upholstery and some kind of cheap citrus air freshener, the dangling plastic D20 from the rearview mirror.
Last night, Will had sat in this passenger seat with post-game noise still ringing in his ears, Chance glowing beside him.
Now he was going to sit on the other side and pretend his heart wasn’t trying to climb out of his throat.
Chance buckled his seatbelt, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb with the easy confidence of someone who’d been driving this car long enough to know its moods.
The drive to the church took maybe five minutes, but it felt longer.
They passed the usual Hawkins landmarks Meltzer’s General Store, the Laundromat, the corner where the arcade stood, its neon sign dark in the daytime. Will watched the familiar houses slide by, part of him cataloging light and shadow out of habit, the other part hyper-fixated on the way Chance’s hands rested on the wheel, the subtle flex of his forearms when he shifted, the little hum he made under his breath when the radio fuzzed between stations.
“So,” Chance said at one point, glancing over. “How’s it feel? Knowing the whole school basically went insane under your artwork last night?”
Will blinked.
“I don’t—” He shrugged, eyes on the road ahead. “It’s not really… about me. It’s about the team. And school spirit. And… tigers.”
“Tigers,” Chance agreed solemnly.
“Shut up,” Will muttered, because he deserved that.
Chance grinned.
“But seriously,” he said. “It’s, like… cool. Seeing your stuff up there. Made the whole place feel less… bland. My mom couldn’t stop talking about how ‘professional’ it looked.”
Will startled.
“Your mom was there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Chance said. “She hates missing games. Even the ones where we lose and I come home smelling like defeat and cafeteria hotdogs.” He shot Will a quick look. “She’s… a little intense. In a good way. I think she wants to adopt Lucas.”
“That tracks,” Will said, picturing Lucas’ easy charm and the way every adult he met seemed to end up liking him.
They pulled into the church lot a minute later.
The building loomed ahead red brick, white steeple, the big wooden cross over the front doors. The lot itself was mostly empty, lines painted fading yellow, a couple of cars parked near the side entrance.
Chance cruised toward the far end, away from the building, and pulled into a space near the edge where a stretch of open asphalt yawned in front of them like a practice field.
He put the car in park, killed the engine, and blew out a breath.
“All right,” he said. “You ready for Clutch 101?”
“Is there a written exam?” Will asked. His palms were sweating again.
“Only the exam of my heart,” Chance said, then made a face. “That came out weird. Ignore it.”
“Already done,” Will said, absolutely not having done that.
They climbed out and traded sides.
Sitting in the driver’s seat of the Nova felt… wrong at first. Like he’d snuck into someone else’s space. The angle was different; the view over the hood slightly higher. The steering wheel felt bigger in his hands than it looked.
Chance leaned over from the passenger side, reaching for the seat adjustment lever.
“Okay,” he said. “First things first. Positioning. You want to be able to reach the pedals without having to, like, dislocate your hip.”
He tugged the seat gently forward; Will felt his knees come closer to the dash.
“Try that,” Chance said. “Feet on the pedals.”
Will obeyed, left foot finding the clutch, right hovering between brakes and gas. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel his pulse in his fingertips.
“Too close?” Chance asked.
“It’s… okay,” Will said.
“You want a little bend in your knee,” Chance said, leaning in to look. His shoulder brushed Will’s, warm even through the fabric of their jackets. “There. That’s good.”
Will tried very, very hard to focus on the mechanics and not the fact that there was a whole person pressed up against his side.
“Okay,” Chance said, retracting his arm. “Hands on the wheel. Ten and two.”
“Like a clock,” Will murmured, adjusting his grip.
“Exactly,” Chance said. “All right. Clutch in. That big left pedal. Press it all the way to the floor like it offended you.”
Will pressed.
“Good,” Chance said. “Now turn the key. Keep the clutch down.”
The engine rumbled to life, the familiar vibration skittering up through the steering wheel into his hands. It felt different like this—more immediate. Like he’d suddenly been given the reins to a giant metal animal.
His breath caught.
“You okay?” Chance asked, tilting his head.
“Yeah,” Will said. “It just… feels big.”
“Cars are big,” Chance said. “That’s why we start here and not, like, on Elm Street.”
“Thank God,” Will muttered.
Chance laughed.
“Okay,” he said. “Shifter. You’re in neutral right now.” He pointed. “First is up and to the left. Clutch still in, move it gently. Don’t force it. You want it to slide.”
Will wrapped his fingers around the gearshift, the textured knob rough against his skin, and moved it.
It resisted for a second, then slipped into place with a little mechanical thunk.
“Nice,” Chance said. “Now, the tricky part. You’re gonna ease your foot off the clutch slowly while you give it a little gas. Not a lot. Just… enough.”
“What’s ‘enough’?” Will asked, panicked.
“You’ll feel it,” Chance said. “Listen for the engine. If you give it too much, you’ll peel out. Too little, you’ll stall. We want the middle. The golden mean.”
“I hate the golden mean,” Will said.
“You haven’t even met it yet,” Chance said. “Okay. Breathe. I’m right here.” He braced a hand on the dashboard, as if that would do anything if they suddenly lurched into space. “Slowly.”
Will inhaled, exhaled, and began to lift his left foot as he pressed down on the gas with his right, trying to balance the two motions.
The engine whined, then coughed, then—
The car jolted forward a foot and died.
The silence that followed was brutal.
Will’s heart rocketed into his throat.
“Shit,” he blurted. “Sorry. Sorry. I killed it.”
“You didn’t kill it,” Chance said calmly. “You just… made it nap. Stalling is part of the process. If you weren’t stalling, I’d be suspicious.”
Will glanced at him.
“You’re not just saying that?” he asked.
“I stalled like, twenty times my first night,” Chance said. “In front of the pastor, no less. He did not appreciate my language. You’re doing fine.”
He meant it. Will could tell. There was no trace of mocking, no exasperation. Just simple, steady encouragement.
“Okay,” Will said, unclenching his jaw. “Again.”
“Again,” Chance agreed.
They repeated the sequence. Clutch in, turn key, engine rumble, first gear.
Will went even slower this time, hyper-aware of every inch of movement in his feet.
The car shuddered, then rolled forward, just a little.
“Hey,” Chance said. “There you go. You feel that? That’s the bite point.”
“The what now?” Will asked, terror briefly giving way to curiosity.
“Where the clutch and the engine start talking to each other,” Chance said. “You find that little… tug? That’s your friend. You hold that, give it a little more gas, and… you’re moving.”
He was.
The car crept forward, very slowly, but undeniably, purely because of what Will’s feet were doing.
A ridiculous grin broke over his face.
“I’m doing it,” he said, slightly breathless.
“Hell yeah, you are,” Chance said. “Just go straight for now. Don’t worry about turning. We’ll do NASCAR later.”
They toddled forward, maybe three miles per hour, the far edge of the lot inching closer.
“Okay,” Chance said. “Now you’re gonna brake. Clutch in first, then ease off the gas and onto the brake. Smooth. No slamming, we’re not in an action movie.”
Will obeyed.
The car slowed. Jerked. Stopped.
It did not stall.
He blew out a breath, laughing a little.
“This is…” He shook his head. “Kind of wild.”
Chance watched him, smile fond.
“You’re doing great,” he said. “Let’s do that a few more times, then we’ll try turning. Maybe even second gear if we’re feeling spicy.”
They did.
He stalled twice more, once jerky enough to make them both lurch forward and laugh. But he also managed half a dozen decent starts and stops, finding the “bite point” more reliably, feeling the car respond under his hands.
Once, they took a slow, wide loop around a painted island of scraggly bushes, Chance talking him through the wheel movements, when to start straightening out, how much to turn.
The more they went, the less his panic screamed, and the more a quiet, fierce pride crept in.
He was doing it.
He was driving.
Well. He was coaxing a reluctant old car around a mostly empty lot at a cautious crawl. But it counted.
They coasted to a stop near the far corner after one particularly smooth circuit.
Chance stretched, cracking his neck.
“Not bad, Byers,” he said. “Definitely not the worst first lesson I’ve seen.”
“How many first lessons have you seen?” Will asked.
“A couple,” Chance said. “Me, my cousin, one of the guys from church…”
The word snagged Will’s attention.
“Church?” he echoed.
“Yeah,” Chance said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I used to go more. My mom’s big on Sunday mornings. I’m more of a ‘Christmas and Easter to make Nana happy’ kind of guy.” He shrugged. “But the pastor’s cool. Lets me use the lot. Well. Pretends not to notice I use the lot.”
Will shifted in his seat, sliding the car into neutral and taking his feet off the pedals, grateful for the brief rest.
“You had, like, a youth group?” he asked. “Games and hymn singalongs and all that?”
“Yep,” Chance said. “Pizza, bad guitar, lots of ‘fellowship’.” He made air quotes. “I went a bunch my freshman year. Peter, the guy who helps run it was teaching a couple of us to drive back here.” He smiled crookedly. “I almost took out a trash can. It was a religious experience.”
Will smiled despite himself.
“You go now?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” Chance said. “Not as much. Practice and games and homework and…” He trailed off, then added, a little lighter, “Art class.”
Will felt that like a warm little spark.
“And boyfriend obligations?” he said, teasing before he could think better of it.
Chance laughed.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m juggling, like, six boyfriends. It’s a problem.”
The joke landed like it always did, with humor but that little sting underneath, the automatic assumption that this was the kind of joke you made because the idea itself was absurd.
Will looked down at his hands.
“Girlfriends, then,” he said, voice lighter than he felt. “Plural?”
Chance made a face.
“Hardly,” he said. “I’m not that smooth.” He shifted in his seat, gaze going briefly distant. “I had one. Here. Back when I was still going to youth group all the time.”
Will’s grip tightened on the steering wheel without his permission.
“Oh,” he said.
“Emily,” Chance said. “She sang in the choir. Her parents loved hymns and casserole. It was a whole aesthetic.” He huffed a laugh. “We dated for, like, six months. My mom was thrilled. Nana knitted her a sweater. Very serious stuff.”
“What happened?” Will asked, before he could decide if he wanted to know.
“She dumped me,” Chance said, matter-of-fact. “Said I loved basketball more than I loved her.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“And she wasn’t wrong,” he added. “I was an idiot. I kept missing things. Youth events. Movie nights. Her brother’s little league games. Practices, practices, more practices. I thought if I just… won enough games, everything would balance out.” He shrugged. “Turns out that’s not how relationships work.”
Will’s chest did something complicated.
“Are you… okay?” he asked.
“It was a year and a half ago,” Chance said. “She’s fine. I’m fine. We’re cool. Just… not like that anymore.”
“Still friends?” Will asked.
“Mostly,” Chance said. “We see each other around. Say hi. She invites me to Christmas pageants. I forget to go.” He smiled wryly. “I’m a coward.”
Before Will could respond, the sound of a door opening drifted across the lot.
He glanced toward the church.
A small group of people was spilling out of the side entrance—college-age, maybe, or older high schoolers like them. A couple of guys in flannels, a girl with a Bible tucked under her arm, another girl in a denim skirt and oversized sweater.
The second girl spotted the Nova.
Her face lit up.
“Oh my God,” she said, voice carrying. “Chance?”
She broke into a trot across the asphalt, waving.
Will’s hands froze on the wheel.
This is Emily, something in him whispered. He knew it without being introduced. It was the way Chance straightened unconsciously, the way his smile appeared—genuine, if slightly wary.
“Speak of the devil,” Chance murmured. “And of God.”
He unbuckled, turning in his seat as she reached the car.
Up close, she was… pretty. Not in the overly done, big-hair-cheerleader way. In a soft, clean kind of way. Light brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, a few wisps loose around her face. Freckles. Eyes that crinkled when she smiled.
“Hey,” she said, leaning on the open window. “It is you. I thought that was your car. How many beat-up blue Novas can there be in Hawkins?”
“Hey, Em,” Chance said, smile relaxing into something familiar. “Long time no see.”
She flicked her gaze over him, taking in the hoodie, the scuffed sneakers, the smudge of something dark on his wrist.
“I heard you guys won last night,” she said. “Peter was going on about ‘our boys bringing glory to the town’ this morning. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Chance said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was… wild.”
“I bet,” she said. “Lucas played great, too. Mom kept yelling ‘that Sinclair kid’ during the prayers.” She laughed.
“Sounds like her,” Chance said, amused. “How’s choir?”
“Loud,” she said. “Sister Marsha is making us do this new descant on ‘How Great Thou Art,’ and I think my ears are bleeding.” She glanced past him then, like she was just now noticing there was someone else in the car. “Oh! Sorry. Hi.”
Will had been trying very hard to exist as neutrally as possible.
Now he had to locate his voice.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m… Will. Byers.”
Her eyes lit with recognition.
“Jonathan’s little brother,” she said. “He used to take pictures for the paper, right? The school paper? I’ve seen you around.” She extended a hand through the window. “I’m Emily. I, uh… used to date this doofus.”
She said it lightly, but the word date landed in his chest like a dropped weight.
He shook her hand, fingers damp.
“Nice to meet you,” he managed.
“What are you guys doing out here?” she asked, glancing around the mostly empty lot. “Car trouble? Pastor Bob’s inside. He knows a guy.”
“Driving lesson,” Chance said quickly. “I’m trying to teach Will how to not stall every two seconds.”
“Every three seconds,” Will said weakly. “I’m improving.”
Emily laughed, warm and easy.
“Well, you picked a good teacher,” she said. “He only hit one trash can when he was learning. And it was already making the building look bad.”
“Don’t tell Pastor Bob,” Chance said.
“Oh, he knows,” she said. “He forgave you. Publicly. From the pulpit. It was very dramatic.”
Chance groaned.
“Of course he did,” he said.
She rested her forearms on the window frame, the picture of relaxed familiarity.
“So,” she said, “are you coming back to youth group now that the season’s cooler? We’ve got the fall retreat next month. Bonfire, s’mores, lots of ‘Kumbaya’ around the lake.” She grinned. “Peter’s desperate for someone who can actually throw a football this year.”
Chance shifted in his seat.
“Maybe,” he said. “Practice is still, like… my entire life. But I’ll… think about it.”
“You say that every time,” she said, sing-song, but there was no bite in it. “Seriously, though. It’d be nice to see you. Mom asks about you.”
She laughed again, then glanced at her watch.
“I should go,” she said. “We’re going to the mall. Tract distribution. You know?’” She mimed handing out a pamphlet.
“Sounds… intense,” Will said before he could stop himself.
Emily smiled kindly at him.
“It’s not so bad,” she said. “People mostly pretend we’re not there. Saves time.” She looked back at Chance. “Really, though. Good game. I’m proud of you.”
She reached through the window and squeezed his arm in a quick, familiar gesture.
Will saw the way Chance’s face softened at that, an old reflex, maybe, muscle memory of a relationship that had once been something else.
Jealousy, sharp and embarrassing, flashed hot under his skin.
Emily stepped back, hoisting her tote bag.
“See you around,” she said. “Nice to meet you, Will.”
“Yeah,” Will said, mouth dry. “You too.”
She trotted back across the lot toward the others, who were already piling into an old station wagon. One of the guys called something; she laughed, tossing her head.
Will watched her get in, watched the car pull away, watched the taillights disappear down the road.
He suddenly felt like he’d been knocked off-balance, like the car had lurched even though they hadn’t moved.
Of course Chance had an ex.
Of course she was pretty, and sweet, and part of a world where teenagers dated and broke up and then had gentle conversations in church parking lots and invited each other to retreats.
Of course.
It was 1987 in Indiana.
Boys like Chance dated girls like Emily, not boys like him.
He knew this. He’d always known this, in the abstract. But seeing her, seeing them, made it real in a way that twisted something deep in his chest.
He stared straight ahead, fingers tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned pale.
“You okay?” Chance asked, after a beat.
“Yeah,” Will said quickly. “Just… thinking about all the places I could crash into cilantro casserole.”
Chance laughed.
“She’s nice,” he said. “You’d like her. Or… tolerate her. She’s very choir.”
“I can tell,” Will said, aiming for neutral. “You guys… seem fine.”
“We are,” Chance said. “Now. Took a while, but… yeah. I’m glad, actually. It’d suck if we had to, like, cross the street to avoid each other every Sunday.” He glanced sideways. “You ever dated anyone?”
The question hit Will like a slap.
He fought the urge to shrink into the seat.
“No,” he said, too fast. “I mean. Not… really.”
“‘Not really’?” Chance echoed, curious.
Will swallowed.
“There was… someone,” he said carefully. “I liked. For a long time.” He stared at his hands. “We were… friends. I thought… maybe… something. But.” He trailed off, every sentence leading to a wall he couldn’t climb.
“But?” Chance prompted gently.
“But it was stupid,” Will said, forcing a little laugh. “H— they— liked someone else. We’re better now. As friends. It just… took a while.”
Chance studied him.
“That sucks,” he said, simply.
“Yeah,” Will said, voice small.
He thought of Mike’s face when he’d talked about El that first year. The way his eyes had gone soft, the way the whole world had seemed to rearrange around that single axis.
He thought of the quiet, ugly weeks after, when he’d realized, really realized that whatever he felt wasn’t going to be returned.
He’d survived it.
He’d grown around it. Like a tree growing around a nail.
He could do that again.
Except this time, he had more information up front.
Chance had dated girls. Was still invited to church retreats and family dinners. His ex said she was proud of him. They joked about casseroles.
He wasn’t secretly hiding on the same side of the line Will stood on. He wasn’t some closeted, quiet hope.
He was… normal.
Normal in the way the world understood.
Of course he was.
The realization hurt. It was small and sharp, like biting down on a cherry pit you hadn’t known was there.
He’d told himself, in the last few days, that he was okay with this being one-sided. That he could want and still choose something smaller. That friendship was enough.
But wanting and seeing proof that it wouldn’t be returned were two different beasts.
The second one had fangs.
“Hey,” Chance said, voice soft. “If that person ever… makes you feel like crap again, I’ll key their car.”
Will huffed out a surprised laugh.
“I’ll let you know,” he said.
“Seriously,” Chance insisted. “Unrequited anything blows. You deserve someone who looks at you like you’re the whole game, you know?”
The words hit and slid off at the same time, the metaphor almost painful.
Will turned them over in his head anyway, like picking at a bruise.
He was not going to get that from Chance or so he thought.
He knew that now.
He’d suspected before. Assumed. But now the universe had sent him an ex-girlfriend in an oversized sweater to underline it.
He could either wallow in the unfairness of that.
Or he could… adjust.
He’d already decided, in the bleachers last night, that he wanted Chance in his life even if nothing ever came of the crush bursting quietly in his chest.
Here was his chance, no pun intended to prove he meant it.
He took a breath that felt like it went all the way down to his bones.
“Okay,” he said. “We… should probably do more… clutch… stuff. Before your pastor comes out and exorcises us.”
Chance blinked, then smiled slowly.
“Look at you,” he said. “Eager student.” He reached for the dash. “All right. Round two.”
They practiced some more.
It was harder to focus now, the edge of his earlier excitement dulled by the weight in his chest. He stalled more. Missed the bite point. Turned too sharply once and had to overcorrect.
But Chance didn’t seem to mind.
He corrected gently. Joked. Told more stories.
About Emily, briefly how they’d met at a church picnic, how she’d beat him at horseshoes and he’d “fallen in love with being beaten at things.” About his mom, who still asked after her because “Emily always remembered to bring a dish to potlucks.”
About his own first driving lesson gone wrong, the trash can, the mortifying squeak of his sneakers as he’d tried to get out and pick it up while everyone watched.
Will listened, let the stories wash over him like white noise, focusing on the rhythm of clutch and gas, on the way the car responded.
Wooden cross. Brick. Empty asphalt. The smell of engine oil and autumn.
He could do this.
He could learn to drive from a boy he liked too much.
He could make room for the fact that the boy had an ex-girlfriend who hugged him in parking lots and that he smiled back.
He had practice in this: wanting and not getting. Taking what he could.
After an hour, his legs ached and his brain felt like it had run a marathon.
Chance called it.
“Okay,” he said, as Will rolled the Nova to a stop near where they’d started. “If I make you do this any longer, your left foot is going to secede from your body.”
Will blew out a breath, letting his hands fall from the wheel.
“My brain already did,” he said.
“You did awesome,” Chance said. “Seriously. You’re better than half the guys on the team were on their first try. Don’t tell Andy I said that.”
“I won’t,” Will said. “I’m too tired to gossip.”
Chance laughed.
“You wanna drive us back?” he asked. “Or you want me to take over?”
The idea of navigating actual streets, with actual other cars, made his stomach drop.
“You can… take over,” he said. “This much power is enough for one day.”
“Wise,” Chance said. “You’re already drunk on horsepower.”
They traded places again. The passenger seat felt… safer. Smaller. Simpler.
Chance pulled out of the lot, turning back onto Maple with casual ease.
They drove in companionable silence for a few minutes.
The houses along the route flicked past. A kid on a bike. Someone raking leaves into a rustling pile.
Will stared out the window, feeling raw and oddly hollow.
“You got quiet,” Chance said eventually, voice gentle. “Too quiet.”
“I’m just… tired,” Will said, which wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole one.
“Tired I get,” Chance said. “This is intense. Mentally.” He tapped his temple. “But you also look like someone kicked your puppy.”
Will let out a short, humorless huff.
“I don’t have a puppy, well i had a dog” he said.
“Fair,” Chance said.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“If I did something stupid, you can tell me,” he added. “I won’t… like. Burst into flames.”
“You didn’t do anything,” Will said quickly. “Seriously. Today was… good. I had fun. The stalling was… a bonding experience.”
Chance smiled faintly.
“Good,” he said. “I’d rather be your ‘fun stalling’ guy than your ‘weird church ex’ guy.”
The phrase hit Will in the chest, hard.
“You’re neither,” he said before he could swallow it. “You’re… Chance.”
Chance’s grip tightened briefly on the wheel.
“I’ll take that,” he said quietly.
They pulled up in front of the house a minute later.
The yard was the same as always, leaning fence, patchy grass, the mailbox with its peeling paint. The front curtains twitched; someone (Max) was almost definitely watching.
Chance put the car in park, let the engine hum for a second, then shut it off.
They sat in the sudden quiet, the tick-tick of cooling metal loud.
“Thanks,” Will said, breaking the silence. “For… today. For teaching me your secrets.”
Chance shrugged, looking pleased.
“Anytime,” he said. “You’re a good student. I don’t feel like my car is in immediate mortal peril.”
“High praise,” Will said.
“Very high,” Chance agreed. “Next time we’ll get you into second gear without inventing new curse words.”
“Bold of you to assume there’s a limit to my vocabulary,” Will said.
Chance laughed.
There was a moment, just a breath, where Will thought he might say something else. Something that would make this heavier or lighter, he couldn’t tell.
Instead, Chance cleared his throat.
“I, uh…” He fished in his hoodie pocket, pulling out the folded napkin from last night, worn a little softer around the edges but still intact. “I’m glad you gave me this. The number. I know I said that yesterday, but… yeah. I mean it.”
Will looked at the napkin, then at him.
“Me too,” he said.
Chance shoved it back into his pocket like it was something valuable, something he didn’t want to risk losing.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna go before your father decides to come out and interrogate me about my driving credentials.” He smiled. “I’ll call you later. Maybe tomorrow. See when you’re free again. We can tackle parallel parking. Or, like, not. We’ll build up to it. No need for that much trauma.”
“Sounds good,” Will said.
He meant it.
Even with the ache in his chest, even with the new weight of Emily in his mental picture of Chance’s life, he still wanted to sit in this car again. Still wanted to fight with the clutch while Chance laughed and coaxed him through it.
He was in too deep now to pretend otherwise.
He opened the door, climbing out, the cold air sharp on his flushed face.
“Hey, Will,” Chance said as he swung his own door open.
Will leaned down, hand on the frame.
“Yeah?”
Chance hesitated, then smiled, small and a little unsure.
“nevermind, later, Byers,” he said.
“Later,” Will echoed.
He watched the Nova pull away, taillights blinking once as Chance turned the corner, then stood there a moment longer, breathing in the quiet.
The front door creaked open behind him.
Max leaned against the frame, arms folded.
“So,” she said. “Did you hit anything?”
“Only my self-esteem,” Will muttered.
She snorted.
“Jane owes me five bucks,” she said. “She bet you’d run over a cone.”
Jane appeared behind her, offended.
“I did not,” she said. “I bet he would not crash. I had faith.”
“Same difference,” Max said, stepping back to let Will in. “Come on, Mario Andretti. Tell us everything.”
They drifted into the living room. Jane sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes bright. Max flopped onto the couch. The TV was off; the house hummed gently around them.
Will sank onto the other end of the couch, suddenly exhausted.
“It was… good,” he said. “Scary. But… good. I made the car go and stop and turn and everything. No casualties.”
“Good,” she said.
“Did he, like, grab your hands to show you?” Max wiggled her eyebrows. “Is this the part where we hear about the romantic gear shift?”
Will rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.
“It was not romantic,” he said. “It was… teaching. And making fun of me when I stalled.”
“Ugh, boring,” she said, but there was something sharp and searching in her eyes. “You okay? You look… weird.”
He hesitated.
He could say nothing. Could tuck this away like he’d tucked so many other things away over the last few years and let it calcify.
But Max was Max, blunt, often rude, but also one of the few people in the world who actually saw him.
“His ex showed up,” he said quietly. “From church. She was… nice. Pretty. Normal. The whole thing.”
Jane tilted her head.
“Emily,” she said. “The ex-girlfriend.”
Will blinked.
“How do you—”
“You said her name when you came in,” she said. “Soft. Like a whisper. Your face did the… thing.”
He made a face.
“What thing?” he demanded.
“The ‘I got punched in the feelings’ thing,” Max said. “I’ve seen it before.”
He stared at his hands.
“It just… reminded me,” he said. “Of… reality. He’s… him. And I’m… me. And this is… 1987. And people like him date girls like her.” He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “I knew that. I just… seeing it. It was like… confirmation. Or whatever.”
Max’s expression softened, which was worse, somehow, than if she’d made a joke.
“Yeah,” she said. “That sucks.”
Jane scooted closer on the floor, resting her chin on the edge of the couch cushion by his knee.
“She was… friendly. She told me he was a good teacher. Told him she was proud of him.” He huffed. “She has, like, the mom approval and the pastor approval and the casserole approval. I can’t compete with casserole.”
“You shouldn’t have to compete with casserole,” Max said. “Casserole is a scam.”
He smiled weakly.
“I know this was always… one-sided,” he said. Saying it out loud felt like touching a bruise. “I told myself I was okay with that. I still am, I think. It just… hurt. For a minute. Seeing… proof.”
Jane reached up, curling her fingers lightly around his wrist.
“It is okay to hurt,” she said. “Even if you knew. Knowing is not the same as… seeing.”
He looked down at her.
“How are you this smart?” he asked, voice rough.
“I watch TV,” she said. “And I have been hurt.”
Max snorted.
“You memorized all the soap operas,” she said. “You’re basically a doctor of drama.”
Will laughed, the sound small and real.
“I’m… okay,” he said again. “Really. It just… knocked me off balance for a second. But… I still had fun. I still want to learn. I still… like being with him. Even if he… never… you know.”
He trailed off, the words clumping in his throat.
Max leaned over and flicked his forehead lightly.
“Hey,” she said. “You don’t have to figure all of that out today. Or ever, really. You just… do what makes you feel okay. If hanging out with him, even if it’s… like this… feels more good than bad? Do it. If it ever flips? Stop. Easy math.”
“Emotional calculus,” he said.
“Regular math,” she said. “See? Geometry is useful.”
Jane squeezed his wrist once more and let go.
“I like when you are happy,” she said. “You were happy last night. At the game. At the diner. You were happy today. Before… the girl. I saw it. If he makes you happy… it is good. Even if it also makes you… sad sometimes.”
Tears prickled behind his eyes.
He blinked them away, because crying over a boy in his living room when his little almost-sister was saying wise things was a level of vulnerability he wasn’t ready for.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think… that’s it.”
They ended up putting a movie on—some rented comedy Jonathan had brought home, not very funny but distracting enough.
Will watched half of it and thought about the clutch. About the way the car had responded when he’d hit that invisible point. About the feel of Chance’s shoulder brushing his in that brief moment of adjustment.
He thought about Emily’s hand on Chance’s arm, the ease in their conversation. The way they embodied the kind of connection the world recognized as valid.
He thought about Robin in the video store aisle, saying you’re not alone and you don’t owe anyone your label and you deserve to not be the only one holding it all.
He thought about Chance saying you deserve someone who looks at you like you’re the whole game—not knowing, maybe, how those words sounded coming out of his mouth.
He couldn’t control the world they lived in or the rules it tried to set.
What he could control, right now, was what he did with what he felt.
He could choose, consciously, to stay in this. To take the friendship being offered and treat it as something real, not just a consolation prize. To be there for practices and games and parking lot driving lessons, even if there was a part of him that quietly wanted more.
He could also choose, later, if the hurt outweighed the joy, to step back.
The phone rang once that evening, while Joyce was making dinner and Hopper was complaining about the news.
Will’s stomach did a weird flip as Joyce picked up.
Her face lit slightly.
“Oh, hi, Chance,” she said.
Will groaned, pressing his hands over his eyes.
Joyce’s voice softened.
“He’s here,” she said. “Do you want to talk to him?”
She held the phone out.
Will took it, heart drumming.
“Hello?” he said.
“Hey,” Chance said.
There was a pause. “Hey, uh… I was thinking. If you’re free next Saturday, we could… do round two. Maybe even hit second gear.”
Will smiled, a small, private smike.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
“Cool,” Chance said, and Will could hear the smile again. “I’ll call you tomorrow. We can figure it out.”
“Okay,” Will said.
“Night, Byers,” Chance said.
“Night,” Will said.
He hung up and stood there for a moment, hand resting on the phone, feeling a little less hollow.
Chapter 9: dress rehearsals & saving throws
Summary:
In the weeks between their first driving lesson and opening night, Will’s days blur into a mix of stage crew, art, and learning stick shift in the church parking lot with Chance. Each lesson loosening the sting of Chance’s past with Emily and making their easy, teasing friendship feel deeper. At home and school, Will’s world quietly fills in: Hellfire pauses their final campaign arc until his play is over, Mike and Jane help turn her ceiling into a glowing growing constellation, and Max teaches Jane to skate while Will sketches them, all of it reminding him he’s finally part of something. As rehearsals intensify and the sky he painted for *Our Town* becomes the emotional backbone of the show, his friends push him to ask Chance to come see it. Two days before opening night, in an empty gym, Will finally invites him. Chance not only says yes but admits he’d been hoping to be asked, accidentally calling it a “date” before backpedaling. Will walks home buzzing with nervous hope, feeling like something in his life has finally shifted from stuck to in motion.
Chapter Text
Time doesn’t really skip so much as blur.
The days between the church parking lot and opening night don’t vanish, they just stack, one on top of the other, until Will can’t always tell which memory came from which afternoon. There’s paint on his hands and graphite smudges on his wrist and the faint phantom feel of the Nova’s clutch under his foot, all layered over each other like transparent pages.
Some things, though, stand out clean.
The second driving lesson happens exactly one week after the first.
Chance calls on Friday night, right after dinner, the kitchen still smelling like tomato sauce and garlic bread. Will is drying dishes; Joyce is humming along to the radio; Hopper’s pretending to read the paper while clearly listening.
“Is this a good time?” Chance asks when Will picks up. “Or are you in the middle of some intense family ritual? Sacrificing VHS tapes to the rewinding gods?”
Will glances at the mess of plates in the sink.
“Just dishes,” he says. “And trying to convince Hopper not to put ketchup on spaghetti.”
Hopper grunts from the table.
“Tomato is tomato,” he says.
“That’s a crime,” Chance says, horrified. “Anyway—so, uh. Coach moved practice tomorrow morning instead of the afternoon, which means I’m actually free after, like, noon. You wanna… go again? Church lot, take two?”
The last time they’d been there, Emily had walked out of the doors and straight into Will’s illusions.
He hesitates for half a beat—and then realizes that if he lets that feeling dictate everything, he’ll never go back.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”
“Cool,” Chance says. “I’ll pick you up around twelve-thirty. You can show off your clutch mastery.”
“Mastery is a strong word,” Will says. “Survival, maybe.”
“Baby steps,” Chance says. “See you then.”
The next day, the sky is overcast but dry. The church lot is just as empty, the brick building looming, the cross shadow cutting the asphalt.
No Emily this time. Just them.
Will stalls fewer times. He gets into second gear once and lets out a noise of incoherent triumph when the car doesn’t immediately explode. Chance whoops loud enough that a bird startles off the steeple.
“You’re doing it, Byers!” he crows. “I can feel my transmission learning to trust you.”
“Tell the transmission it’s making a mistake,” Will says, but he’s grinning too hard.
They spend almost two hours out there. They talk about nothing and everything between loops of the lot—music, teachers, whether parallel parking should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment.
When Chance mentions Emily, it’s in the past tense. Light, unforced. Like a chapter closed neatly.
Each time, it pinches. Each time, the pinch hurts a little less.
By the time Chance drops him at home, Will’s legs are jelly, but the steering wheel imprint is starting to feel familiar in his palms.
“That was good,” Chance says, leaning over the wheel as they idle at the curb. “You’re, like, halfway to being a real person now.”
“I was a real person before,” Will protests.
“You know what I mean,” Chance says. “Soon you’ll be able to escape awkward conversations at family gatherings in your own car. That’s, like, adulthood.”
The word adulthood used to sound terrifying. Now it sounds… possible. Like something in the same universe as him.
“I’ll save my awkward conversations for school,” Will says. “I’m collecting them.”
Chance laughs.
“See you Monday, Byers,” he says. “Watch out for rogue casseroles.”
Will watches the Nova pull away, the familiar ache in his chest settling into something quieter, more manageable.
He can do this.
He can choose this.
The weeks that follow are a jigsaw of routines.
After school, the auditorium is his second home.
Worthington moves from frazzled to borderline possessed as opening night creeps closer. She flutters around the stage in increasingly elaborate scarves, muttering, “We open in how many days?” to her clipboard like it personally betrayed her.
Dress rehearsals start.
Actors drift in and out in half-costumes, makeup smudged, practicing their lines to the echo of the empty seats. The stage crew buzzes around them, adjusting flats, running light cues, double checking props. The Grover’s Corners sky that Will painted watches over everything, its layered clouds catching the light in ways that make his chest tighten each time he sees it.
More than once, Worthington pauses beside him, eyes on the backdrop.
“You’ve given them a whole world to stand under,” she says quietly. “That’s no small thing, William.”
He ducks his head, embarrassment prickling his ears, but the words land and stay.
Between set calls and light checks, he steals pockets of time in the art room to tweak maps not of Grover’s Corners, but of a very different world.
Hellfire’s new campaign has been taking shape in stolen minutes and notebook margins.
Eddie treated planning it like a sacred ritual. They’d commandeered a corner table in the cafeteria one afternoon, binder stuffed with graph paper, dice scattered around like fidget toys.
“So,” Eddie had said, smacking his pencil against his palm. “We’ve got the set-up. We’ve got the big bad. We’ve got the moral dilemma. What we need is… an ending.”
Dustin, eyes shining behind his cap, had leaned in.
“Will’s ending,” he’d said. “We can’t finish without him.”
“Yeah,” Mike had agreed, pushing his glasses up. “He’s the one drawing half the maps. His city, his rules.”
Eddie had looked over at Will, who’d been half-distracted shading a mountain range.
“This is your campaign too, Byers,” he’d said. “Co-DM or bust. We’re not clearing the final dungeon without you.”
Will had swallowed around something thick in his throat.
“You don’t… have to wait,” he’d said. “You could… I don’t know. Run a one-shot to test the mechanics. Or—”
“Nope,” Dustin had cut in. “We decided. The last arc starts when the paint dries and Worthington releases you from your stage crew chains.”
He’d leaned forward, conspiratorial.
“Besides,” he’d said. “Eddie wrote this cool monologue that introduces you at the end. Like this whole ‘the mysterious cartographer steps out of the shadows’ thing.”
Eddie had waved his hands theatrically.
“Picture it,” he’d said. “The final fight looks hopeless. The party is on the ropes. They’re facing certain doom. And then—boom. The architect of the dungeon reveals himself. And it’s you. You walk in, throw down a scroll, drop some absolute banger one-liner, and then we roll for initiative.”
“That’s… very dramatic,” Will had said, cheeks warm.
“We are very dramatic,” Eddie had replied. “It’s in the job description.”
Will had been torn between wanting to sink under the table and wanting to see it happen.
The idea that they’d not only made space for him, but built that space around him, was still new. Still startling. Still a little unbelievable.
He’d smiled anyway.
“Okay,” he’d said. “But if I have to deliver a monologue, I’m making you help me rewrite it. I refuse to call anyone ‘mortals.’”
“We’ll negotiate,” Eddie had said. “But the entrance stays. I have a vision.”
In the days that followed, they fine tune the campaign whenever Will isn’t trapped under flats. Erica hounds Eddie about Lady Applejack’s loot distribution. Lucas suggests trap ideas between drills. Dustin keeps a running list of “possible painful ways to die” in his notebook “for flavor.”
But the final session remains untouched.
They’re all waiting.
For the sets to be done.
For the lights to be set.
For Will to be free.
Life at home weaves through everything like a quieter thread.
Mike comes over one Tuesday night with a brown paper grocery bag filled with tiny plastic stars.
“They’re the glow kind,” he says, dumping them onto Jane’s bed. “They charge up with light and then look like, y’know, space once the lamp’s off.”
“I know what glow-in-the-dark is,” Jane says, but her voice is breathless with excitement.
Jonathan hauls in a battered step stool from the hall closet. Will moves Jane’s bed away from the wall a little. Max stands in the doorway with her arms folded, pretending she isn’t invested.
They all crowd into Jane’s room, heads tilted back as Mike peels stars off their backing and sticks them to the ceiling.
“You have to do it random,” he says seriously. “So it looks like real constellations.”
“There are real constellations, they match the ones me and will put up” Jane says, eyes following his movements.
“Put one there,” she says, pointing to a blank patch. “And there. And… more on that side. It looks… empty.”
“Space is mostly empty,” Will says, from where he’s sitting on the floor against the wall. “That’s kind of the point.”
“That’s sad,” she says.
“That’s why we make up stories about it,” he replies. “Fill the empty with… meaning.”
Mike glances down at him, something soft flickering across his face.
“You do that with everything,” he says. “Not just space.”
Will shrugs, heat creeping up his neck.
Max, pretending not to listen, smirks.
“Congratulations,” she says. “You’ve all turned jane's ceiling into the NASA gift shop.”
“Jealous?” Mike says.
“Only of the stars,” Max replies.
They turn off the main light when they’re done.
For a second, the room is dark.
Then the stars ignite, soft and greenish, scattered across the ceiling in unplanned clusters and accidental constellations.
Jane’s face lights in the glow.
“It’s like the movie,” she whispers. “When the boy and the girl look at the sky and make wishes.”
“You can make wishes without the boy,” Max says, but she leans back and looks up too.
Will lies on the floor beside Jane’s bed, shoulder bumping hers through the frame, and thinks that if he could freeze one moment in time, this would be a contender.
Quiet.
Safe.
All their weird little lights shining.
Max teaches Jane to skate in the middle school parking lot because “the high school is crawling with jocks” and “I don’t need an audience for her early falling-on-her-ass phase.”
Will comes along because someone has to bring the extra Band-Aids and because he’s secretly obsessed with watching the way they move together.
Jane is all elbows and concentration at first, feet awkward, arms out.
Max is pure efficiency, adjusting her stance, pushing her gently, catching her when she wobbles too hard.
“Bend your knees,” Max says. “Lower. Yeah. You’re not a tree. You’re… a spring. Like a coil. You gotta be ready to move.”
“I am ready,” Jane says, determination etched into every line of her body.
“Good,” Max says. “Now, shove the ground away. Little pushes. You’re not stomping a bug. You’re… telling the earth you’re done with it.”
Will sketches their outlines as they glide (and occasionally crash) across the asphalt—Jane’s stiff form slowly relaxing, Max’s easy, practiced lines. The way Jane’s hair flies when she picks up speed. The way Max’s hand hovers near her elbow without touching unless she absolutely has to.
Sometimes Jane falls.
When she does, she scowls, accepts Max’s offered hand, and gets back up.
“Again,” she says every time.
Will’s pencil captures that too.
The getting up.
He knows something about that.
Chance becomes a regular part of the landscape in a way that feels both sudden and completely natural.
They don’t hang out every day. They don’t even always sit together at lunch. Their lives still orbit different planets, practice and stage crew, youth group and Hellfire, geometry tutoring and banner tweaks.
But there are little moments, scattered.
One Monday, Will is leaving art class at the same time Chance is slouching past, ball tucked under his arm.
“Hey,” Chance says, falling into step beside him. “Did you know paint can get on places that aren’t humanly possible? I just found a blue streak on my ear.”
“That might actually be fashionable,” Will says.
Chance grins.
“Cool,” he says. “New trend. Basketball chic.”
Will laughs, and Chance’s eyes flick down to his mouth and then away again so fast Will almost thinks he imagined it.
Another afternoon, Will is hauling a crate of props across the hall when Chance appears from nowhere and takes half the weight without asking.
“You don’t gotta carry everything yourself, you know,” Chance says, like it’s obvious.
“I’m capable,” Will says.
“I know,” Chance replies. “You don’t have to prove it every second, man. Even Atlas took breaks.”
“Atlas got turned into a mountain,” Will says.
“Exactly,” Chance says. “I’m trying to save you from geological doom.”
Will rolls his eyes, but he lets Chance carry the crate to the stage.
Over the course of a few days, a pattern emerges.
Whenever Will catches Chance looking at him, Chance looks away a little slower.
His jokes get slightly more tangled when Will answers. His hands are weirdly busy when Will is around—spinning his keys, fiddling with the fringe of his hoodie, drumming on the nearest surface.
Once, in the hallway, Will is too deep in thought, running light cues in his head to notice he’s staring straight at Chance as he laughs at something Andy says.
Chance turns and catches the look.
For a heartbeat, they’re just… locked.
Will jerks his gaze away, heart slamming.
When he dares a glance back, Chance’s face is… pinker.
He ducks his head, says something nonsense to Andy, and then goes out of his way to catch Will after school and ask if he wants a ride home.
Will starts to suspect that maybe he’s not… the only one feeling off-balance.
He doesn’t trust that suspicion.
But he can’t quite shake it either.
Two days before opening night, everything sharpens.
The calendar in the auditorium office has the date circled in thick red marker: OPENING.
Wednesday.
Two more nights of rehearsals.
Two days until Will’s sets aren’t just background; they’re part of the performance.
He tries not to think about it too hard. Whenever he does, his lungs go weird.
The day starts normal enough.
Alarm. Breakfast. Hopper complaining about a weather report like it’s a personal attack. Jane drilling geometry problems at the kitchen table, muttering, “If a triangle has three sides, why do they give it more?” Max wandering in mid-equation to steal toast.
At school, the energy is buzzier than usual in the drama wing.
Wearing his paint-splattered hoodie, Will threads his way through the hall, nodding to familiar faces: Tom lugging a coil of cable, Hannah practicing lines under her breath, Worthington barking into thin air about someone’s missing hat.
He meets Lucas at his locker.
“You coming tonight?” Lucas asks, slamming his locker door shut. “Dress rehearsal. I mean, I know you have to because Worthington owns your soul, but like… are you…” He gestures vaguely. “Ready?”
“I think so,” Will says, adjusting his backpack strap. “Everything is… painted. Or, like, 98% painted. We’re doing cue-to-cue tonight.”
“Cool,” Lucas says, impressively unfazed by theater lingo. “We’re playing Munroe again Next Friday.”
“This is a rematch?” Will asks. “Is this your dramatic revenge game?”
“We already beat them,” Lucas says. “Now we have to prove it wasn’t a fluke.”
“Ah,” Will says. “The sequel.”
“I liked the first one,” Lucas says. “The sequel would be nice.”
Will laughs.
The morning classes feel semi-peripheral. Will hears his teachers, takes notes, participates when called on, but part of his brain sits in the auditorium, watching light cue numbers tick forward.
By lunch, his nerves are humming.
He slides into his spot at the Hellfire table, tray mostly untouched.
“Behold!” Eddie announces as he drops a sheaf of paper onto the table with a theatrical thump. “The final, absolutely-not-overdramatic intro speech.”
Dustin leans forward.
“You finished it?” he asks, eyes wide.
“I perfected it,” Eddie corrects. “I took all the raw chaos of my earlier drafts and channeled them into pure, distilled radness.”
Jeff snags a page.
“‘The architect steps forth’,” he reads. “I thought we agreed no one was called ‘the architect.’”
“I’m workshopping it,” Eddie says, snatching the paper back. “It’s a metaphor.”
“For what?” Gareth asks. “Pretentiousness?”
“For Will,” Eddie says, like that answers everything.
Will chokes on his soda.
“Please don’t use me as a metaphor,” he says. “That’s too much responsibility.”
Dustin grins at him.
“We’re not kidding,” he says. “We’re actually waiting for you to be done with the play. Eddie has this whole final act planned out around your big entrance.”
“You’re overhyping it,” Eddie says. “It’s only, like, two pages.”
“Two pages?” Mike says. “Straight?”
“Don’t worry, there’s, like, stage directions,” Eddie says. “I’m not a monster.”
He turns back to Will.
“Seriously, though,” he says, and the joking drops a notch. “Campaign’s on pause until after opening night. We’ve got our characters leveled, our spells prepped, our snacks budgeted. We’re just… holding the door. For you.”
Something stutters in Will’s chest.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “I mean. You could run something short to tide you over. Or—”
Dustin cuts him off again.
“We want to,” he says. “We’re not just being, like… polite. This is yours too. It’s cooler if we all cross the finish line together.”
Mike nods.
“We planned it that way,” he says. “It gives you something to look forward to besides… theater panic.”
“Eddie promised no goblins,” Lucas adds from the end of the table, poking at his mashed potatoes.
“I did not promise that,” Eddie says immediately. “There are always goblins.”
“Fine,” Lucas says. “He promised no evil clones of us.”
“That I did promise,” Eddie says. “I’m not that unoriginal.”
Will looks around the table.
At Dustin’s eager face. At Mike’s small, earnest smile. At Lucas, clearly listening even as he eats. At Erica, pretending not to care while obviously caring deeply about whether Lady Applejack gets a dramatic entrance of her own.
At Eddie, watching him like he’s trying to make sure the weight of what he’s saying actually sinks in.
It does.
“Okay,” Will says, voice thick. “Then… I’ll hurry up and get this play onstage so I can join your dramatic nonsense.”
“That’s the spirit,” Eddie says. “Use your theater powers for good. And for my ego.”
Dustin leans closer, lowering his voice.
“You know what else you have to do before opening night?” he says.
“Sleep?” Will guesses. “Remember to eat? Avoid falling off the ladder?”
“Ask Chance to come see your sets,” Dustin says bluntly.
Will nearly knocks over his milk.
“I— what?”
“You heard me,” Dustin says. “You went to his world last time, right? Game. Gym. Banners. Now you bring him into your world. Auditorium. Fancy backdrop. Theatrical people whispering in the dark.”
“I can’t just—” Will stammers. “He’s… busy. He has practice. And games. And… his own life.”
“Opening night is Friday,” Dustin says. “No game. Unless the school board suddenly decides drama kids are less important than varsity.” He rolls his eyes. “Which they do, but this time you’ve got Lucas, so basketball is already covered.”
“Also,” Mike adds, picking at his french fry, “you’re always going to have an excuse to not ask. Stage crew. Campaign. Homework. The world ending. Whatever. At some point, if you want him there, you have to… say it.”
“We can all sit together,” Max says, arriving with her tray and dropping into the seat beside Jane. “Diner crew reunion: theater edition.”
Jane nods thoughtfully.
“I think he would like the play,” she says. “He liked the banner. The play is like a big banner, but with feelings.”
They’re right.
He knows they’re right.
That doesn’t make the idea of walking up to Chance and saying, hey, come watch me hide in the shadows while my art gets stared at any less terrifying.
“I’ll think about it,” he says.
“Think faster,” Dustin says. “You’ve got forty-eight hours.”
That night, dress rehearsal feels like the biggest thing he’s ever done.
Cue-to-cue is mostly technical, stop, start, move lights, mark where actors cross but with opening so close, everything feels sharper. Lines more urgent. Shadows more defined.
Backstage, the controlled chaos is familiar now. Costumes on racks, labeled and organized. Props laid out meticulously on tables: coffee cups, fake flowers, a small pocket watch that looks real enough to tick. The smell of dust and sawdust and makeup and nerves.
Will ties his paint shirt around his waist, headset crackling in one ear as Tom calls light cues from the booth.
“Cue 12… go,” Tom says. “Cue 13… and… go.”
The sky he painted shifts from morning blue to soft dusk under the lights, the colors deepening in a way that makes his breath catch.
Actors hit their marks. Voices rise and fall.
There’s one moment in the cemetery scene, when Emily stands onstage looking out over the town she’s left behind that hits him harder than he expects.
“Good-bye, Grover’s Corners,” she says softly. “Good-bye to clocks ticking… and mama’s sunflowers…”
Under her, the gravestones Will lettered stand in tidy rows, names gleaming in the wash.
He’s the one who made the place she’s saying goodbye to.
The thought makes his chest tight and aching.
By the time Worthington calls it for the night, his feet hurt and his head is full.
She claps her hands in the middle of the stage as everyone gathers.
“We are,” she says, “dangerously close to having a show.”
There’s a scatter of tired, relieved laughter.
“You are doing good work,” she says, taking them all in. “All of you. Go home. Sleep. Hydrate. Whatever it is young people do to keep your bones from falling apart. Tomorrow we run it straight through. Friday we open. Try not to spontaneously combust in the meantime.”
“And you?” one of the actors calls from the front row.
“Oh, I’ll be here,” Worthington says. “Whispering notes to the ghosts.”
She catches Will’s eye as he comes down the steps.
“William,” she says. “The sky was particularly beautiful tonight. Whatever you did to the clouds between yesterday and today… keep doing it.”
“I didn’t… do anything,” he says, bewildered.
She smiles.
“Then maybe you are changing,” she says. “And bringing the sky with you.”
He blinks at her, thrown, then shakes his head.
At home, the house feels both exactly the same and slightly tilted.
Mike and Jane are on the couch when he comes in, a bowl of popcorn between them. The TV plays some sitcom rerun, laugh track tinny through the speakers.
“How’s fake New Hampshire?” Mike asks.
“Still depressing,” Will says. “Still beautifully lit.”
Mike pats the cushion beside him.
“Sit,” he says. “Tell us everything.”
Will flops down, head landing back on the armrest.
"will you invite him? Tomorrow?" asked Jane.
“I didn’t say tomorrow,” he protests. “I said… I’d think about it.”
Jane tilts her head.
“Do you want him there?” she asks.
The question hangs in the air.
Yes.
It’s immediate, reflexive, bigger than the fear.
“Yes,” he says. “I… do.”
Mike smirks.
“Then ask,” he says. “You’re not proposing. You’re asking him to sit in a dark room and clap at the end.”
“With my family staring at him,” Will points out.
“Yeah, okay, there’s that,” she concedes. “But still. He can handle it. He handles Coach yelling at him.”
Jane scoots closer.
“You told me once,” she says slowly, “that you wished… when you were little… that someone had been there. For your things. Your art. Your drawings. That someone had said, ‘I see it. I like it.’”
He feels heat creep up his neck.
“I said that?” he asks, embarrassed.
“Yes,” she says. “In the kitchen. When we were eating pancakes. You were sad about the field trip you missed when you were sick, and you said… you wished… someone had seen the picture you made of the museum.”
He remembers, vaguely. He’d been tired. Off-guard. Less careful with his words.
Jane continues.
“Now you have many someones,” she says. “Mike. Me. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Eddie. Joyce. Jonathan. Hopper. We will all be there. That is good.”
She tilts her head.
“But you also want Chance there,” she says. “That is also good. It is not… bad… to want that.”
He presses his palms over his face.
“How are you this emotionally devastating?” he mumbles.
“I watch soaps,” she says.
Mike laughs.
“She’s right,” he says. “You get to want things. Ask. If he says no, it’s because of schedules or whatever. It’s not because you’re awful. You know that, right?”
He nods, but it’s hesitant.
“Say: I know that,” Mike pushes.
“I know that,” he repeats.
“Again,” He says.
“I know that,” he says, a little more firmly.
“Good,” he says. “Now tomorrow, when you see him, you’ll be already warmed up.”
He groans.
“That’s not how brains work,” he says.
He lies awake longer than he means to that night.
In the dark, the afterimage of the set floats behind his eyes. The curve of the sky. The blocky silhouette of the houses. The lines of the cemetery fence.
He thinks about Chance sitting somewhere in the audience, looking up at that sky. Seeing the world Will built.
He wants that more than he wants to avoid the vulnerability of asking.
When he finally falls asleep, it’s with the taste of that decision in his mouth.
The next day, two days before opening night, he goes on a mission.
The opportunity finds him sooner than he expects.
He’s heading out of the auditorium after last-period set checks, backpack slung over one shoulder, when he hears the familiar dull thump of a basketball on tile.
The gym doors are propped open; the sound echoes down the hall.
He could keep walking.
He should probably go home, eat something, get some sleep before tonight’s full run.
But his feet turn toward the sound like they have their own ideas.
Inside, the gym is mostly empty, varsity practice ended an hour ago. The bleachers are retracted against the walls, the banners rolled up. The Tigers’ world is mostly put away for the day.
Mostly.
Chance is alone on the court.
He’s in sweats and a practice jersey, hair damp, sneakers squeaking softly as he moves. He dribbles from half court, crosses over, spins, pulls up for a jumper.
The ball arcs.
Swish.
He jogs to retrieve it, catching it on the bounce, and spins on his heel to go back.
“Just showing off now,” Will calls, before his courage can evaporate.
Chance startles slightly, then turns.
His face lights when he sees who it is.
“Hey!” he says, the ball coming to a stop under his palm. “What, no Worthington-induced exhaustion tonight?”
“Not yet,” Will says, coming down onto the first row of the retracted bleachers. “She’s saving that for the full run later. I’m on a temporary furlough.”
Chance bounces the ball once, then tucks it under his arm and walks over, wiping his forehead with the hem of his jersey.
He stops a few feet away, looking up.
From here, Will has the high ground. He feels ridiculous about it.
“How’s fake New Hampshire?” Chance asks. “Still cloudy?”
“Very cloudy,” Will says. “Emotionally and literally.”
“Sounds like my last geometry test,” Chance says. He leans a shoulder against the end of the bleachers, close enough that Will can make out the faint freckles across his nose. “You look… tired. In a ‘I did something important’ way.”
“I painted sad gravestones for three hours yesterday,” Will says. “So, yeah. Very important.”
Chance grins.
“Goth,” he says. “I like it.”
Something in Will loosens at that. The way Chance says it, like it’s cool, not weird.
He fiddles with the strap of his bag, heart thudding.
This is it. This is the moment. He can feel it, like the bite point on the clutch—if he waits too long, he’ll stall. If he goes too fast, he’ll jerk the whole car.
He needs the middle.
“Hey, um,” he starts.
Chance straightens slightly.
“Yeah?” he says.
Will’s mouth goes dry.
Suddenly, all the practice phrases he’d rehearsed in bed last night—it’d be cool if you came, no pressure, the sky looks better in person scatter like pigeons.
He stares.
Chance stares back.
His eyes are very brown up close. Not just brown. There are flecks of amber near the pupils. Gold, maybe, where the light hits. His eyelashes are absurd. It’s stupid, how pretty his eyes are.
Will knows he’s staring.
He absolutely cannot stop.
It feels like seconds stretch into minutes.
Chance’s ears slowly turn pink.
“You—uh…” Chance says, and then he laughs once, quiet, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “You’re looking at me like I forgot to wear pants or something.”
“I—what? No,” Will splutters, jerked out of his trance. “You’re wearing pants. I can see them. I mean—not, like, see them, but—”
He wants to die.
Chance’s laugh cracks and turns into a cough.
“Okay,” he says, cheeks definitely flushed now. “That was maybe the weirdest sentence anyone’s ever said to me, and I play on a team with Andy, so that’s saying something.”
Will drags a hand down his face.
“Sorry,” he says, muffled. “My brain is… somewhere else. Worthington fried it. I’m… socializing at half-capacity.”
“No, it’s—” Chance leans his head against the bleacher, exhaling. “It’s fine. It’s just… when you do that….”
“Do what?” Will asks, wary.
“Stare,” Chance says, ears pinker. “Like that. Like… deer-in-headlights. Or like you’re trying to figure out how to draw me. It’s… very… distracting.”
The word comes out a little strangled.
Will blinks.
“Distracting,” he repeats. “In a… bad way?”
“In a… way,” Chance says, voice dropping. “My brain forgets how to speak English for a second, so… you tell me.”
Will’s heart does a full somersault.
He forces himself to breathe.
“Sorry,” he says again, but softer. “I’ll… stop doing that. Maybe.”
Chance smiles at him crookedly.
“No,” he says. “You don’t have to… stop. Just… give a guy warning.” He blows out a breath. “What were you gonna say before?”
Will has to rearrange his brain around that.
Right.
The reason he came in here.
“I, uh…” He grips the edge of the bleacher. “I wanted to… ask you something. About… Friday.”
Chance’s brows draw together.
“Friday?”
“Opening night,” Will says. “For the play. Our Town. We… open Friday. Two days.” He waves a hand vaguely. “Big sky. Sad people. You know.”
“Right,” Chance says. “Wow. That’s… soon.”
“Yeah,” Will says. “It kind of… snuck up on me.”
Chance straightens fully now, ball hugged against his hip.
“You guys ready?” he asks.
“I think so?” Will says. “We’re running the whole thing tonight. Worthington says we’re ‘dangerously close to having a show,’ which is… encouraging and terrifying.”
“I bet,” Chance says. “She seems like she’d be intense about success.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Will says.
The moment is right there.
He inhales.
“So,” he says. “I was wondering if… maybe… if you’re not busy… that night… you might want to… come?”
The last word comes out painfully high.
Chance blinks once.
“Come,” he repeats. “To… opening night?”
“Yeah,” Will says, words tumbling now that the gate is open. “I mean, you don’t have to. I know it’s… not really your thing. And it’s a school play, not, like, an actual Broadway production. But you came to the game. And you… liked the banners. And I thought maybe… you’d want to see what we’ve been doing. What I’ve been… doing. With the sets. And the sky.” His cheeks burn. “You don’t have to sit near my family. They’re… loud. We can save you a seat with the others, or—”
“Will,” Chance says.
His voice is soft.
Will shuts up.
Chance is looking at him like he said something completely unexpected. Like someone just handed him a present he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.
“You’re inviting me,” Chance says slowly. “To your opening night.”
“I mean, yeah,” Will says, suddenly unsure. “If you… want to come.”
“Of course I want to come,” Chance blurts, then visibly reels himself back in. “I mean. Yeah. That would be… awesome. I’ve never seen a play that wasn’t, like… my cousin’s nativity thing where the wise man fell off the stage. This is… legit. You built… a whole town. I wanna see it.”
Relief washes through Will so fast his knees feel wobbly.
“You… do?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Chance says, a little breathless. “Honestly, I was kinda… hoping you’d… ask?” He rubs the back of his neck again, gaze skittering away and back. “I didn’t want to invite myself and make it weird. Like, ‘hey, can I show up to your special thing and sit there like a creep?’”
Will’s brain short-circuits.
“You were hoping?” he repeats, stunned.
Chance shrugs, cheeks definitely pink now.
“You’ve been, like… living in that auditorium,” he says. “Every time I see you, you’ve got paint somewhere and dark circles under your eyes. And you talk about it like it matters.” He swallows. “I… wanna see the thing that… matters. To you.”
The words land somewhere tender and unguarded.
It takes Will a second to remember how to speak.
“Well,” he says, voice small but steady, “you’re… officially invited.”
Chance’s grin is huge and real and a little shy around the edges.
“Then I will officially be there,” he says. “What time?”
“Seven,” Will says. “Doors open at six-thirty. Worthington will be lurking like a gargoyle.”
“Perfect,” Chance says. “I’ll… sit wherever you want me. I mean, not like a dog. That came out wrong. I just mean… if there’s, like, a spot you can see from the stage or whatever, I’ll be… there.”
Will laughs, the sound thinner than usual but genuine.
“I’m not… onstage,” he says. “Mostly. I’m in the wings. Or up in the catwalk.”
“Then I’ll wave at the catwalk,” Chance says. “I’ll be the guy craning his neck like an idiot looking for you.”
“You’ll blend right in,” Will says. “This is theater.”
Chance chuckles.
“Fair,” he says. “Okay. Then it’s a date.”
There’s a small, sharp beat after the word date.
Chance’s eyes widen a fraction.
“I mean—not a date-date,” he stammers, suddenly flustered. “Just—like—a calendar date. A time. We’re… friends. I’m… going to a thing. That you… made. With your… hands.” He makes a face at himself.
Will’s heart is hammering so hard it’s embarrassing.
He could let Chance off the hook. Laugh. Shrug it off.
Instead, he finds himself tucking the moment away like a small, delicate thing. Not saying anything that would scare it.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Friday at seven.”
“Friday at seven,” Chance echoes, like a promise.
From down the hall, a teacher’s voice calls his name, something about locker room forms. Chance startles.
“Shit,” he murmurs. “I gotta… yeah.” He backpedals toward the doors, then stops.
Will smiles, something warm blooming behind his ribs.
Chance gives him one more quick, almost bashful smile, then pushes through the gym doors and vanishes into the hall.
Will sits there on the first bleacher step for a moment, pulse pounding, staring at the spot where the banner used to hang.
Then he lets himself flop back, arms spread, staring up at the rafters.
He did it.
He asked.
And Chance hadn’t just said yes..he’d… wanted to be asked. Wanted to be there.
It doesn’t magically erase the reality of 1987. It doesn’t undo the way the world would react if some lines got crossed out loud.
But it’s a small, bright thing. An invitation accepted. Friday feels suddenly both too far and too close. Two days to fix any last smudges on the gravestones.
Two days until the sky he painted has an audience. Two days until Chance Lawson sits in the dark and looks up at a world Will help built.
Two days before opening night, Will walks home feeling like he’s found a new bite point, not between clutch and gas, but between fear and wanting.
For the first time, he known maybe, just maybe he’s finally moving.
Chapter 10: spotlights & soft shirts
Summary:
Will’s opening night working on the school play doesn’t feel real at first. It’s just another gray October morning, full of family chaos, pancakes, and quiet, buzzing dread. As the day barrels toward curtain, he throws himself into stage crew work, watching from his beloved catwalk while the world he painted, the sky, the gravestones, the town it comes alive under the lights and pulls the audience in.
When Chance actually shows up, dressed up and impossibly handsome, Will’s panic sharpens into something brighter: small, secret glances in the dark, a subtle wave from the audience that feels like a spotlight just for him. After a standing ovation and an unexpected bow for the crew, Chance finds Will in the lobby with a crumpled bouquet “for the guy who made the sky,” tells him he sees him even when he thinks he’s invisible, and nervously suggests they make art together again! a mural for the gym, maybe a milkshake tonight. Surrounded by his loud, loving family and friends, flowers in his hands and Chance waiting just out of frame, opening night finally feels real, and so does the possibility of something new.
Chapter Text
Opening night to will doesn’t feel real at first.
It feels like any other Friday in October: gray light through the curtains, the hum of the heater kicking on, Hopper swearing at the radio because the weatherman sounds too cheerful about “unseasonably chilly temperatures.” Will wakes up too early and too wired to go back to sleep, his stomach already doing anxious somersaults. For a minute, he just lies there, watching the shadows on his ceiling, letting the word opening roll around his head until it stops sounding like English.
Opening night. People are going to sit in seats and look at this hard work. Lots of people. Including, if the universe doesn’t spontaneously combust, Chance. His heart jumps at the thought, and then immediately face-plants into a wall of what-ifs. What if Chance gets sick? What if Coach springs an extra practice? What if the Nova dies on the side of the road and that’s a sign from God that Will should never have asked in the first place? His brain goes from zero to apocalypse in three seconds. He throws the covers off and sits up before it can get worse. From down the hall, he hears movement Jane’s footsteps, the clink of dishes the murmur of the TV. The house is awake. Will drags on the least-paint-splattered jeans he owns and an old t-shirt, then pads into the hallway, rubbing sleep grit from his eyes. Jane is at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, pen tucked behind one ear, History book open.
Joyce stands at the stove, flipping pancakes, Hopper pours coffee with the intensity of a man diffusing a bomb.
“Morning,” Will mumbles.
Four heads swivel toward him.
“Oh, hey, star of the set,” Jonathan says from where he’s perched on the counter, camera bag at his feet. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just existential dread,” Will says, grabbing a mug.
Joyce turns, spatula in hand, expression soft.
“Nervous?” she asks.
“A little,” he says.
“You’re going to be fine,” Joyce says.
Joyce plates a stack of pancakes and puts them in the middle of the table.
“Eat,” she says. “You have a big day, ahead.” Joyce speaks pausing for a sec.
"I'm so so proud of you honey."
As he eats, the conversation buzzes around him. Jonathan is running through his mental shot list for tonight, Joyce is reminding Hopper to handle the phone bill. Jane listens to all of it like it’s a script she’s memorizing and loved.
“How many people will be there?” she asks Will suddenly.
He shrugs, cutting a pancake corner that’s a little too small.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Most of the parents. Some teachers. Random people who like three act tragedies. The whole town if Worthington has her way.” He hesitates. “I uh, invited Chance.”
Hopper grunts.
“Basketball kid?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Will says. “He said he’d come.”
Joyce smiles like she’s been waiting for him to say it out loud.
“I think that’s great,” she says. “It’ll be good for him to see what you’ve been working so hard on.”
"I mean, it wasn't just me, Jane helped with the fence and-" he shuts up.
Heat creeps up Will’s neck. He stares at his pancakes so he doesn’t have to look at anyone. They’re all… very obvious about their support. It’s embarrassing and also weirdly, fiercely comforting. After breakfast, Will feels like things move way too fast. Jane disappears to finish homework so she can “watch the play with a clear brain.” Hopper goes in search of a tie that isn’t stained and looks "presentable". Joyce fusses with the laundry like she isn’t going to pick the first decent shirt she sees. Will retreats to his room. His opening-night outfit is already hanging on the back of his closet door: black jeans that don’t look too beat-up, a charcoal button-up shirt that makes him feel more put together than he usually does. Worthington had given a whole speech about “presenting yourselves as a unified force of theatrical competence” and then looked directly at his paint-streaked hoodie. He changes, fingers clumsy on the buttons, then stands in front of the mirror and tries to see himself the way someone else might. He looks Just… him. Neater. Hair actually brushed.
By late afternoon, the auditorium is a hive.
Actors dart in and out of the dressing rooms in various stages of costume. The air smells like hairspray, foundation, and caffeine. Stage crew weaves between them with purpose, checking the prop table for the tenth time, double-knotting curtain ropes, adjusting spike tape. Will slips into that role easily, despite it being his first year working on a set. He checks the gravestones one last time, running his fingers lightly over the painted letters as if they might peel away. They don’t. They’re solid. Fixed. Tom checks headset connections in the booth. “Channel check,” crackles in Will’s ear, and he murmurs “Clear” out of habit. Worthington paces at the edge of the stage, notes in hand, scarf trailing behind her like a theatrical comet.
“All right, my lovelies,” she calls, clapping once. “This is it. Opening night. The audience will love you. Some of them will understand you. The rest will, at the very least, clap politely and then gossip in the parking lot.”
There’s a ripple of nervous laughter.
“Places in twenty,” she says. “Breathe. Hydrate. Remember that this is just the beginning. We do this two more times after tonight. Try not to peak too early.”
Will double checks the small flashlight on his belt, the coil of gaffer’s tape around his wrist like a bracelet, the folded program he’s tucked into his back pocket so he has something to fidget with. As soon as Worthington dismisses them, for a brief five-minute window before the house opens will bolts up the side stairs to the catwalk. The catwalk has become his favorite place in the building. Up here, above the lights, the world feels suspended. The metal grates rattle softly under his feet as he walks, the air a little warmer from the heat of the instruments. Through gaps in the curtains and lighting grid, he can see the seats below, still mostly empty. The ushers are straightening programs, checking tickets. The first few audience members trickle in, parents in slightly nicer clothes, a couple of teachers, a group of younger kids already whispering too loudly. He leans on the railing, heart thudding, scanning the doors every time they open.
Ten minutes pass.
The house fills slowly. Lucas arrives with his mom, Max and Erica, who looks too cool to be there and yet clearly is. He gestures animatedly toward the stage, probably talking about the gravestones or how Will almost fell off a ladder last week. The Hellfire contingent shows up in a cluster, Dustin’s curls bouncing as he craned his neck for a better view, Mike already clutching a program like he’s going to annotate it. Eddie wears his leather jacket over a button-down that somehow makes him look more like himself, not less.
Jane comes in with Joyce and Hopper and Jonathan, the four of them forming a little nucleus mid-house. Jane’s hair is pinned back with a clip Will doesn’t recognize, which is weirdly disarming. Joyce looks proud already. Will’s fingers tighten on the railing. The doors open again. Will sees him immediately. Chance stands in the lobby doorway for a second, like he’s calibrating to the dimmer light. He’s not in his usual varsity jacker -and-jeans uniform.
Instead, he’s wearing a short-sleeved, cream-colored button-up, a soft, open collar that makes his neck look longer, the loose fabric draping over his shoulders just right. It’s tucked into black slacks that fit better than any pair of dress pants Will’s ever owned, the lines clean, the waist sitting high. His dark hair is pushed back off his face, less messy than usual but still very much him, longer at the nape and around his ears. There’s a ring on one hand, a simple band with some kind of seal on it. It flashes gold when he fiddles with the program an usher hands him.
He looks... will doesn't even know where to begin.
Not bad way in any way of course. He looks straight out of a movie poster. Like he could be the guy leaning on the jukebox in some eighties film, all smirk and soft shirt and eyes that look straight through the camera. Will’s brain short-circuits. He feels it happen. One second, he’s a functioning human. The next, he’s just a collection of static noises and the word oh repeated on loop. On the stage below, someone calls a cue. On the headset, Tom says something about the preshow music. Will hears none of it. Chance scans the rows like he’s searching for someone.
For a moment, Will thinks, he’s looking for Lucas. Which would make sense. Lucas, his teammate, his friend, the one who dragged half the town to the last game. Then Chance’s gaze lands on the cluster of Byers, Hopper, and Hellfire in the middle. He smiles.
Will watches, from above, as Chance makes his way down the aisle, moving with a sort of careful looseness, like he’s aware of every eye in the room and is trying not to trip over anything anyway. He stops beside their row. They stand to let him squeeze past. Max wolf-whistles loud enough that Will can hear it from up where he was.
Chance makes a face at her, but his hand goes automatically to his shirt, smoothing the front like he suddenly remembers he’s wearing it. He sits on the aisle, next to Jane who was still talking to mike, program tucked into his lap, knees bent just enough to not block anyone’s view. He says something and Jane beams. Max turns around and nudges Lucas, Lucas looks back to look and Chance laughs, eyes crinkling. From this distance, Will can’t hear a word.
It doesn’t matter. His pulse is in his throat. He has to stop staring before his brain jumps out of his skull and lands in Chance’s lap via the law of narrative irony. He drags in a breath that tastes like dust and electric heat.
“William?” Worthington’s voice crackles in his headset, making him jump. “We are almost at half. Are you alive up there?”
“Yes,” he says, a little too quickly. “I’m… here. Everything’s… good.”
“Splendid,” she says. “Do try not to fall into the audience.”
He forces himself to step back from the railing. Chance is here. Chance is here in a fancy shirt and black slacks and a ring, sitting in a chair, holding a program with Will’s name in it.Full of overheated thoughts, will knows he can shove them into a mental box for the next three hours. He has a job to do.
Five minutes to curtain, the house lights dim to half. The incoming chatter hushes, shifts to a quieter buzz. Will moves along the catwalk, checking the positions of the first few instruments, even though Tom already did it twice. It gives his hands something to do.
“House to black,” Tom says into the com. “Stand by cue one.”
Will glances down one last time. The audience is a murky ocean of heads and shoulders. But there, near the middle he knows where his people are.
He spots Joyce’s profile, lit by the faint spill of the aisle light. Hopper’s broad shoulders. Jonathan’s camera tucked at his side. The flash of Max’s red hair. Jane, sitting very straight, hands folded on her lap like she’s about to take communion. Eddie’s wild curls tilted toward Dustin as they whisper. And Chance. He sits with his elbows resting lightly on his knees, program folded but uncrumpled in his hands. When the house lights dim further, he tips his head back, eyes drawn automatically to the sky Will painted, now hidden behind the curtain. Will’s chest does a small, painful thing. He knows. Rationally. That Chance isn’t looking for him. He can’t see him on the catwalk from there. No one can. The lighting booth is a brighter silhouette, the catwalk shadows are just that, shadows. But it still feels, for a heartbeat, like Chance is looking right at him.
“House out,” Tom calls. “Cue one… and… go.”
The house goes dark.
The curtain rises.
And the sky comes up.
Once the show starts, Will settles into the rhythm. He moves when he needs to move crossing the catwalk to keep an eye on a sticky light, hurrying down the side ladder at intermission to help fix a torn hem, adjusting a prop left slightly off mark. But mostly, he watches. From up here, the stage looks like a tiny, self-contained world. Act One: the small town wakes up. Milkman, paperboy, gossip. The morning sun washes over the backdrop, the colors he layered taking the light just the way he’d hoped. The houses look like real houses, not flats. The sky looks big enough to hold the whole story. Sometimes, during rehearsal, he’d gotten bored with the scenes. The slow, everydayness of it all. No dramatic twist, just people living their lives. Tonight, with the audience breathing below, it hits different. He watches Mrs. Webb shell peas. Watches George worry about homework. Watches Emily step out onto the front steps and take a breath of pretend morning air beneath his painted clouds. He glances down at the audience. They’re… in it. Heads tilted forward. Eyes tracking every movement. Joyce leans forward in her seat, elbows on her knees. Jane’s brow is furrowed in concentration, like she’s trying to memorize everything. Even Hopper looks… invested. His usual scowl has softened into something like quiet attention.
Hellfire has surprisingly good theater etiquette. Eddie only whispers during scene changes, and even then, it looks more like him pointing out something cool in the lighting than cracking jokes. Dustin’s eyes are wide, reflecting the stage. Lucas watches with the steady focus of someone analyzing a game. Chance sits very still.
That surprises Will. He’d expected fidgeting. A foot bouncing. Hands playing with the program. A glance at his watch. Instead, Chance watches like he watched game film the one time Will had seen the team reviewing: present, tuned in, taking it seriously. During one of the quieter moments in Act One, a conversation between the Stage Manager and the audience about time and routine Will sees Chance shift. He leans back a little, angling his head toward the ceiling. His gaze slides past the lighting booth, up toward the dark rafters.
For a second, their eyes meet.
It shocks Will enough that he almost misses his footing. Chance can’t possibly see him. The catwalk is more suggestion than visible structure from down there. Will’s wearing black. The light is behind him. But Chance’s eyes go right to the spot where Will is leaning against the railing, headset slightly askew. His pupils catch a glint of reflected stage light. Chance’s lips curve, just a little. He lifts his hand in his lap, fingers wiggling in the smallest, subtlest wave. From anyone else’s perspective, it probably looks like he’s adjusting his program. Will’s heart ratchets up two notches. He swallows and lifts his own hand off the rail, thumb tapping twice against his fingers in a tiny answer. Chance’s smile tips wider. Then the Stage Manager steps forward for the next line, and Chance’s attention drops back to the stage like a curtain.Will presses his forehead briefly to the cool metal of the railing.
He’s here.
He sees this.
He sees me.
It’s ridiculous to feel that from a barely there wave and a maybe-eye-contact in the dark.
Act Two slides by in a haze of nerves and little victories. The set changes that had been wobbly in rehearsal, tables not quite in place, chairs squeaking snap into clean transitions. The audience laughs in the right places. There’s a murmur of recognition when George awkwardly proposes over sodas at the drugstore, and someone up front actually sighs during the wedding. At one point, when the lights cut briefly between scenes, Will’s headset crackles.
“Sky looks good tonight,” Tom says quietly.
Will blinks.
“Thanks,” he says. “Yours too.”
Tom smiles, then cues the next blackout. Between acts, the house lights come up partway. People stretch, whisper, shuffle. From his perch, Will watches Chance.
Max and Jane are talking at him in stereo. Max turned gestures, animated, Jane points at something on the program with intense scholarly energy. Chance listens, nodding, smile soft and slightly overwhelmed. He looks… happy. Will lets himself look, just for a few seconds, cataloguing everything like he might draw it later. The way the cream shirt glows under the house lights, picking up a faint gold tone. The way the fabric falls when Chance leans back, collar opening enough to show a hint of collarbone. The way the ring glints when he gestures. He drags his eyes away before his brain enters that frozen deer zone again.
Act Three comes.
The cemetery. The gravestones he painted roll on from the wings and lock into place, transforming the stage from town to hill. The sky darkens to that deep blue he’d worked at for hours, trying to get right. Emily stands, dead and serene, watching her life from above.
“Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?every, every minute?”
Will has heard the line a dozen times. Tonight, it lands. He looks down. In the dim, he can still make out faces.
Joyce’s hand has crept toward Hopper’s, resting lightly on the back of it. He doesn’t move it away. Jane’s eyes shine. Mike stares at the stage like he’s seeing something he can’t quite name. Eddie has gone uncharacteristically still. Chance sits forward again. His elbows are on his knees, program forgotten. His brow is furrowed, but not in confusion. In… recognition, maybe. When the act ends, there’s a long breath of silence before the applause starts. Will lets it wash over him, muted from up here, but still loud enough to feel in his chest. He did this. They all did. Together.
“Curtain call,” Worthington’s voice says in his ear. “Places, everyone. Stage crew, be ready.”
Stage crew doesn’t usually come out for bows. Worthington has Opinions about “backstage magic” and “letting the illusion remain intact.” But at the last dress rehearsal, after she’d watched Will paint yet another layer of shadow on the fences Jane had done and nearly fall asleep in a folding chair between scenes, she’d made an announcement.
“Tonight we preserve mystery,” she’d said. “Tomorrow, after we’ve proven to ourselves that the show can withstand the presence of an audience, we will invite them to see you as you are. That includes you, my dears.”
So for opening night, she’d decided: one quick bow for the crew. A moment where the ghost lights stepped into the circle. Will hadn’t been sure how he felt about that. Now, as the actors line up for their curtain call, he realizes he’s… okay with it. Maybe even a little grateful. The first bow goes to the smaller roles, then builds up.
Applause swells and settles.
He hears his name somewhere, faint.
“Stage crew,” Worthington says into the com. “Go.”
His pulse spikes. He jogs down the side ladder, heart hammering, landing lightly in the wings just as the last row of actors steps forward.
“Go on,” Tom says behind him, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze.
Will steps out. The stage lights hit like a warm wall. For a second, he can’t see anything but brightness and the vague, moving mass of the audience beyond. Then his eyes adjust and the sea of faces comes into focus. Rows of people clapping and cheering. They’re standing. Not just politely, either full on, on their feet, some whistling, some yelling, standing. His stomach flips.
He’s flanked by the other crew kids—Tom on one side, Hannah on the other so he doesn’t feel fully exposed. Still, the awareness that all these eyes might, even for a second, land on him is dizzying. He forces himself to look out, not down. Find your people, he thinks. Anchor. He spots them almost immediately. Joyce, hands pressed together in proud, enthusiastic clapping. Hopper, clapping in his own restrained way but definitely on his feet. Jonathan, camera hanging forgotten around his neck, cheering. Jane, small beside them, clapping with an intensity that makes her hair bounce.
Eddie stands on his chair for a second just to be extra, nearly getting swatted by an usher. Dustin’s curls are a blur of movement as he clap-shouts something Will can’t make out. Lucas looks like he might burst from smiling. And Chance. He’s on his feet too. Will realizes, with a shock, that he’d stood the moment the crew emerged not when the lead stepped out or when the Stage Manager took her bow, but when the kids in black t-shirts appeared from the shadows. His hands are moving, clapping hard enough that his ring flashes under the lights.
His eyes find Will’s like they have a magnet. For a heartbeat, the whole rest of the crowd fades.
Chance’s face is lit up, pride, pure and uncomplicated, written all over it. There’s no teasing in it, no casual sarcasm. He looks at Will like… this is a big deal. Like what Will did matters just as much as a game-winning shot. Will feels heat crawl up his neck, but he doesn’t look away. Chance lifts his chin in a small nod, as if to say that’s you. He mouths something. Will squints. He thinks it’s told you. He can’t be sure.
Worthington appears at the edge of the stage like a proud dirigible and gestures broadly, they all bow again. Will bends at the waist, the world tipping, the roar of the crowd washing over him like surf. When he straightens, he sneaks one more glance at the middle of the house. Chance is still watching him. Still clapping. Then the lights fade a notch, the curtain begins to come down, and the theater’s gentle machinery swallows the moment.
After the final blackout, backstage erupts. People yell. People cry. Someone pops a confetti cannon Worthington definitely disapproved. The air is thick with sweat and hairspray and the intense adrenaline of something finished for the first time.
Will grins like an idiot and then immediately starts helping strike the more delicate pieces, the coffee cups, the small props that might get trampled.
“Go,” Worthington tells him eventually, shooing him toward the door with her clipboard. “Leave the remains for the morning. There are admirers in the lobby waiting to shower you with praise. Do not keep them from their joy.” He’s about to argue there’s still so much to do, but her expression is firm in that way that brooks no argument. “Okay,” he says, a little dazed. “I… guess.”
He ducks into the dressing room to grab his button-up, it had gotten a bit paint-smudged during a quick touch-up—and shrugs it back on. His hair is a mess, he pushes it back with his fingers. The hallway leading to the lobby is crowded with people already. Parents hugging their kids, little siblings darting under arms, teachers offering awkward congratulations. When he steps through the doors into the lobby, the noise hits him like a wave all over again.
“Will!”
Dustin barrels into him first, nearly knocking him back a step.
“You did it!” Dustin yells directly into his ear. “The sky! The gravestones! Everything ! Dude, you made the town. The whole town. It was amazing.”
“Breath,” Will gasps. “Oxygen—”
Mike appears at Dustin’s shoulder, eyes bright in a softer way.
“He’s right,” he says. “It was… awesome. The way the light hit the clouds and then went darker in Act Three… it felt like… like time passing.”
"Thank you,” Will says, words small against the flood.
Eddie swoops in, smelling like smoke and leather and way too much excitement. “Byers,” he declares, grabbing him by the shoulders. “You absolute maniac. That was art. That was capital A Art. That sky? That sky was, like, a character. If you don’t put that on your college applications-.”
“I… don’t have college applications,” Will says weakly. “yet.”
Max and Lucas push their way through the cluster. Max shoves a slightly crumpled program into his hands.
“Sign it,” she says. “So I can sell it when you’re famous.”
Jane who was coming out with their family was excited as ever. She looked up at Will, eyes shining like they were reflecting the stars in her ceiling.
“It was perfect,” she says. “The sky, and the town, and the sad part. It felt… real. Even though we are not in New Hampshire. I forgot I was in Hawkins. and my fences! did you see them?”
That might be the highest praise anyone could give.
“Thanks,” he says, his own eyes pricking. Joyce’s full of warmth, Jonathan’s quietly proud, Hopper’s gruff but sincere. It all blends into background noise after a while, a soothing static of you did good, kid. There’s one voice he’s listening for beneath all of it. He doesn’t have to look for long.
“Hey.”
The word is soft, at his shoulder. Will turns. Chance stands there, a little apart from the others, hands in his pockets, cream shirt somehow still mostly unwrinkled despite the crowd pressing around him. Up close, the effect of the outfit is even worse, better. The fabric has a faint sheen under the lobby lights, his hair has fallen a bit out of its careful push-back, framing his face. He’s looking at Will like there’s no one else in the room. For a second, Will’s brain blanks out again.
“Hey,” he manages.
Chance takes a breath, like he’s rehearsed this, then laughs under it.
“That was…” He shakes his head, searching. “I don’t even know where to start, man. The sets. The sky. Everything. It was—” He snaps his fingers once, as if he’s trying to pull the right word from the air. “It was… alive.”
Will blinks.
“Alive,” he repeats, surprised.
“Yeah,” Chance says. “Like uh, you know how the gym feels totally different on game nights? Same floor, same hoops, but it’s, like, charged? This was like that. The stage was… charged. Because of what you did.”
Will’s chest feels too tight and too open at the same time.
“Well,” he says, voice unsteady. “The actors… you know. They did… most of it.”
“The actors were great,” Chance says. “Don’t get me wrong. But it’s like… they were playing in the world you built. You gave them… a place to exist.” He huffs a laugh, embarrassed. “Listen to me. I sound like Worthington. Kill me.”
“Don’t,” Will says quickly. “I like you better.”
Chance’s eyes flick up to his, startled, then soften.
“Yeah?” he says, voice low.
“Yeah,” Will says, heat flushing his cheeks.
For a moment, the noise of the lobby recedes.
He can feel the warmth of Chance this close, the slight chill of the air where the door keeps opening letting in October night, the weird little bubble they’re in
"uh, give me a sec" Chance says as he jogs off in the direction of the audience, returning a few seconds after. His Arms were behind his back, hiding something from view. Chance shifts his weight, hands coming out . He’s holding something. Will blinks down at it. It’s… flowers. Not a grand bouquet. Just a small, slightly lopsided bunch of things that were probably from the grocery store on the edge of town—white daisies, a couple of yellow mums, a sprig of green. They’re wrapped in brown paper, secured with a piece of string.
“For uh you,” Chance says, suddenly looking shy in a way Will hasn’t seen before. “I mean, my mom said you always bring flowers to, like, performers on opening night. And I didn’t know if that applied to the person who, you know, made the sky, but I figured… you deserve some too.”
Will stares.
“Oh,” he says intelligently.
“Unless that’s weird,” Chance says quickly. “If it’s weird, you can say it’s for Worthington and I’ll pretend it was all a misunderstanding.”
Will clutches the stems before he can think better of it.
“It’s not weird,” he says, fast. Then, less breathless: “It’s… really nice, actually.”
Chance relaxes incrementally, shoulders dropping a fraction.
“Cool,” he says. “I… stood up when you came out, you know.”
Will remembers. The image flashes behind his eyes, the moment Chance rose from his seat, clapping, eyes locked on him.
“I saw,” he says softly.
Chance’s mouth tips into a grin that’s half sheepish, half satisfied.
“Yeah, well,” he says. “The others were standing up for everybody. I was standing up for you.”
That lands somewhere deep.
Will’s fingers tighten on the flower stems.
“I—” he starts, then stops, throat thick.
He thinks of Emily in the church lot. Of youth group retreats. Of the invisible lines around what’s safe to say. He chooses something true that lives in the space between.
“I’m glad you were there,” he says. “Up here it feels like… we’re just painting in the dark. It’s… nice to know someone… saw it.”
Chance looks like he wants to say something bigger. His jaw works, then resets.
“I see it,” he says instead. “I see you. Up there. Even when you think you’re invisible.”
Will’s breath catches. They stand there, held in that tiny, charged moment. Someone jostles past, clipping Chance’s shoulder. He sways, then steadies, laughing it off.
“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat. “If you ever get bored with New Hampshire, I’ve been thinking… we could work on something for the gym. For the next game. Not banners. Like… a big mural or something? Coach’ll have a coronary about ‘graffiti,’ but I think if we call it ‘school pride’ we can sneak it past him.”
Will blinks, a small burst of delighted panic flaring. “Mural,” he echoes.
“Yeah,” Chance says. “Something…I mean i know i'm not the best Artist. I had a C+ in art—” He pauses for a sec, registering what he said and stumbles slightly over the word, then rushes forward. “ Just, like… from us. You know. Your art. My… complaining. The usual.”
Will’s heart drums.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. “okay.”
“Cool,” Chance says, visibly relieved. “We’ll… talk soon. After your… theatrical run.”
From the doorway, Joyce calls his name, waving, time to take a photo with the whole messy, mismatched family. Will looks back at Chance.
“Do you want to…?” He gestures vaguely toward the group, immediately embarrassed by his own boldness. “I mean, you don’t have to. It’s a lot. We’re… loud.” Chance glances at the cluster, Joyce already tugging Hopper into place, Jonathan fiddling with the camera settings, Jane arranging herself very precisely next to Hopper, the Hellfire kids hovering at the edges, Lucas pulling Erica and Max into the frame while she protests. He looks back at Will.
“If it’s okay,” he says slowly, “I’ll… wait. Let you have… that. But if you want… after? Maybe I can… I don’t know. Get you a milkshake. Or something. To celebrate not falling off the catwalk.”The offer lodges in Will’s chest like a warm stone.
“Yeah,” he says, feeling ridiculously light. “Sounds good.”
Chance’s smile turns crooked, gentle.
“Then I’ll be… over there,” he says, nodding toward the row of trophy cases,
Will takes the flowers and threads his way back to his family, heart somehow quieter and louder than it’s been all night. As he steps into the loose semicircle, Joyce’s eyes catch on the bouquet.
“Ooh,” she says. "that's a very sweet thing."
Will glances back over his shoulder, just long enough to see Chance leaning casually against the trophy case, program in hand, watching him with a small, private smile that’s only for him.
“yeah, they're from a friend,” Will says. His voice is steady.
“A really good friend.”
The camera clicks. For one second, everyone is frozen, Max mid eye roll, Dustin mid-grin, Jane mid serious gaze, Hopper mid scowl that’s not really a scowl.
And Will, in the middle of all of it, holding flowers while the world he built still echoes behind him on the dark stage, and the boy in the cream shirt waits patiently at the edge of the frame.
Chapter 11: vhs & the first flicker
Summary:
The morning after Will’s play, Chance can’t shake the memory of giving him flowers or how seen he felt in that auditorium crowd. At practice, his teammates’ veiled speculation about his friendship with “Zombie Boy” force him to defend Will out loud, only to realize Will overheard everything. Shaken but determined, Chance wanders into Family Video, where a gay British film and a quietly wise Steve Harrington nudge him toward the possibility that his feelings for said boy might be more than gratitude or school spirit. Driving home with Maurice hidden in a rental case and plans to invite Will to his next game, Chance admits, if only to himself, that something inside him has started to change, the first flicker of an awakening he isn’t ready to name yet.
Chapter Text
The night at the diner had been similar to the one Chance and Will had experienced after his game.
Chance woke up with the sound of the crowd still in his ears. For a second, in that blurry space between dreaming and awake, he thought he was back on the court, the squeak of sneakers under him, the burn in his lungs, the roar coming down from the bleachers. Then a different image snapped into focus: painted clouds glowing under stage lights, rows of people on their feet, and Will standing in a line of black shirted crew kids, flushed and startled under the applause.
He stared up at his ceiling, listening to the refrigerator hum and the pipes knock in the wall. Morning light leaked in around the shade, pale and cold. His shirt from last night, cream, soft, the one his mom had ironed three times, “because this is culture, Chance Lawson, at least try not to look like you rolled out of a laundry basket” hung over his desk chair, half slid off, one sleeve grazing the floor. His program lay facedown on the nightstand, page folded where Will’s name was printed under “Set Design.”
He hadn’t meant to keep the flowers thing a secret, but he also hadn’t exactly volunteered the information when he’d come home. Mom had been waiting up, hair in a scarf, asking how the play was with that hopeful look she got when anything remotely wholesome happened in Hawkins. He’d told her it was good. That it was sad and funny and weirdly quiet. That the sets were “insane,” which earned him a look for language. He had not mentioned that he’d bought a crooked little bunch of daisies and mums and handed them to Will in the middle of the lobby like he was in some sort of Hallmark commercial. He rubbed his hands over his face now and groaned softly into his palms. If he thought about the moment too hard, the way Will had looked at him, eyes wide and bright. The way his own voice had come out rough when he said, I was standing up for you, his stomach did the swoopy thing again.
God.
He rolled out of bed before his brain could start replaying the catwalk wave or the line about seeing Will even when he thought he was invisible. If he let himself linger, he’d turn into a cliché. Boy lies on bed, staring at ceiling, thinking about another boy. Somewhere, an after school special would spontaneously generate. Practice. He had practice. Reality. Sweat. Yelling. That would snap him out of it. Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like coffee and slightly burnt toast. The radio murmured some soft rock ballad. His mom stood at the counter in her robe, flipping through coupons, while his little sister, Megan, sat at the table with a bowl of cereal and three different colored highlighters that had nothing to do with breakfast.
“Morning,” he said, grabbing the orange juice.
Mom looked up and softened. “Morning, honey. How was the show?”
“Good,” he said automatically, then caught himself.
Mom checked the oven clock. “You’re gonna be late to practice if you don’t get moving. Coach said eight sharp, right?”
“Yeah.” He drained his juice, grabbed his duffel. “See you guys.”
“Play nice,” Mom called after him. “And tell Lucas I said hi.”
The air outside bit at his face, that faint metallic taste of October. He climbed into the Nova, tossed his bag into the passenger seat, and sat there for a second with his hands on the wheel, engine off. The quiet pressed in around him. He pictured Will again, standing under the stage lights, a little stunned by the noise of the standing ovation. The crooked flowers in his hands. The way he’d said, I’m glad you were there. Chance started the car before his brain could go any further.
Hawkins High’s locker room smelled like it always did, sweat, detergent that only half worked, cheap body spray, and the faint damp of old concrete. The fluorescent lights hummed. Someone’s boombox in the corner leaked tinny hip-hop under the echo of voices and slamming locker doors. Chance changed on autopilot, the old movement of jersey off / practice shirt on, sneakers laced tight, the clatter of his locker door a familiar punctuation. He nodded at Patrick, who was arguing with Andy about whose jump shot was worse, and bumped fists with Lucas as the other boy passed, already halfway into his shoes.
“Hey,” Lucas said. “You look awake. You get actual sleep last night or are you running on pure theatrical adrenaline?”
Chance smirked. “There was sugar at the cast party. I’m good for at least three hours.”
“You going again tonight?” Lucas asked, voice lower, like this was a secret they shared.
“Thinking about it,” Chance said. “You?”
Lucas made a face. “I’m there whether I want to be or not. My mom is dragging my dad and us to see him."
Before they could get any deeper into it, Coach blew his whistle, the shrill sound cutting through the chatter. “Let’s go, ladies!” he shouted. “Warm-ups!”
Weekend Practice was intense in that relentless, mind-numbing way Coach excelled at. Sprints. Drills. Endless repetitions of plays they’d run a hundred times. Chance fell into the rhythm, letting his body take over, muscle memory smoothing out the thoughts pinging around his skull. Left, right, up, shoot. Box out. Rebound. Defense. Again.
By the time Coach finally called it, his shirt was plastered to his back and his lungs burned in that clean, satisfying way that said he’d pushed himself without dying.
“Good work,” Coach said, pacing back and forth at the sideline. “You all keep this up, Munroe’s not going to know what hit them.” His eyes flicked to Chance. “Lawson, nice focus today. Sinclair, you keep talking on defense like that, I might actually stop yelling at you in my sleep.”
“I think you dream of yelling,” Lucas muttered, but he looked pleased.
They jogged off the court in a loose cluster, sweat cooling on their skin. The locker room swallowed them again, all echoes and steam from the showers turning on. Chance dropped onto the bench in front of his locker, tugging his shirt over his head. He liked this part the after. The ache in his muscles, the low-level satisfaction humming under the exhaustion. He could feel good about himself here, uncomplicatedly. He’d put the ball in the hoop, he’d done what he was supposed to do. Nobody could really argue with a made shot. He was halfway through untying his shoes when he heard Jason’s voice, louder than usual. That was never a good sign.
“So, Lawson,” Jason said, drawing out the vowels. “How was your little culture field trip last night?”
Chance didn’t look up right away. He tugged at a knot in his laces, keeping his tone casual. “It was good,” he said. “Play was solid. sets were insane.”
“What did they do, paint a tiger on the stage?” Andy snickered from somewhere to Jason’s right. “Wow, incredible,” Patrick added. “Truly transformative art.”
Chance rolled his eyes, finally glancing up. They were clustered a few lockers down. Jason with his towel slung over one shoulder, Andy still in half his practice gear, Patrick leaning back like this was all hilarious. Lucas sat at his own locker, a row away, knotting his warm-ups, jaw tight.
“Yeah, actually,” Chance said. “There were no tigers. It was a town. And a sky. And some of the creepiest gravestones I’ve ever seen. It looked like a real place up there. People were freaking out in the lobby.” Jason snorted. “Man, listen to you. ‘The gravestones were so evocative.’” He pitched his voice higher, mocking. “What are you, a critic now?”
“I’m just saying it was good,” Chance said, more annoyed than he wanted to show. “Dude worked his ass off. Least I could do is show up.”
“Sure,” Andy said. “But, like bro it’s one thing to talk to him because of banners, right? That was cool. School spirit, all that. You get us that big win vibe, he gets to feel useful, everybody wins.” He shrugged. “Going to some sad little play, though? Sitting with all the drama kids? It’s a little…” He made a face, searching for the word. “…different.”
“Different how?” Chance asked, voice flat.
Andy exchanged a look with Jason, the kind of look people thought was subtle when it absolutely wasn’t.
“I mean, come on,” Jason said. “It’s Byers. Dude’s always… over there.” He flapped a hand vaguely, as if “over there” was a recognized address. “Quiet. Art kid. Stage crew. The whole school knows he’s…” He trailed off, eyes sliding sideways. “Well. You know.”
Patrick snickered. “He gives off a vibe,” he said. “My cousin’s in his homeroom, she says he never talks about girls. Like, ever. Not even crushes. That’s not normal.”
Chance’s jaw tightened. He forced his fingers to relax on his shoelace.
Lucas spoke up from his bench, tone sharp. “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about that stuff with your cousin,” he said. “Ever think of that?”
Patrick shrugged, unconcerned. “Whatever. I’m just saying, man.” He looked back at Chance. “You’re out here driving him around, going to his plays. People are gonna… wonder.”
Wonder. The word landed harder than Chance wanted it to.
“Yeah,” Jason said, seizing on it. “Like, I get the banner thing. That’s team business. But hanging out all the time?” His mouth twisted into a smirk. “That kind of thing makes people talk.”
Chance blew out a slow breath through his nose. He’d seen this coming a mile away. He’d known, last night, handing Will flowers in the lobby, that some part of this would filter back to the locker room. Hawkins might be small, but its rumor mill was a well-oiled machine. Still, hearing it out loud made his skin prickle. He kept his voice nonchalant, because blowing up would just feed them. “Since when do you care what plays I go to?” he asked. “If I can sit through ninety minutes of your bad jump shots, you can handle me watching something with actual lines.”
Andy laughed, but Jason didn’t take the bait. His eyes narrowed.
“Since people started asking me if our small forward has a new best friend,” Jason said. “Look, man, it’s just...image, okay? You’re on varsity. You’re supposed to, I don’t know, hit parties, date hot cheerleaders, not hang out with the artsy kid who spends all his time with the Hellfire freaks.”
Chance felt something hot flare in his chest at that. The word “freaks” dug in, not just for Will, but for Lucas too! Lucas, who straddled both worlds carefully, who’d spent last year defending his club every time someone called it Satanic. “That ‘artsy kid’,” Chance said evenly, “stayed after school for like a week straight to make us banners that weren’t lame. He painted half the set for the pep rally. And then he spent every free minute building a whole town onstage. The least anybody can do is not talk crap about him behind his back.”
Jason held up his hands, as if fending off some invisible blow. “Whoa. Relax. I’m not saying he’s a bad guy. I’m just saying he’s… uh… different. And people are gonna connect dots that aren’t there. That’s all.” Andy chimed in again, more uneasy now that Chance wasn’t laughing along. “We’re just looking out for you, man,” he said. “You know how this town is. Guys like him… they get labeled. And people who hang with them get labeled too.”
Chance stared at his open locker for a second, the taped-up photo of last season’s team blurring. He thought of the words he’d heard spat out in hallways, the way kids’ lockers had been defaced, the way gym class jokes always seemed to circle the same ugly drain. He also thought of Will on the catwalk, giving him that tiny wave only he could see. Of the way his face had lit up when Chance showed up in the lobby. Of the flowers, crinkling in his hands. He swallowed, then shrugged, forcing his tone light. “Maybe people should worry less about who’s sitting next to me in a theater and more about not missing layups,” he said. “Will’s my friend. He’s a good guy. He worked his ass off on those sets. That’s what I care about.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Chance said. He gave them a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You guys can obsess about rumors if you want. I’m gonna obsess about Munroe’s defense.” Jason opened his mouth like he might push it, then shut it again, maybe because Coach was still in his office a few feet away, maybe because Lucas was looking at him like he was ready to take someone’s head off. “Whatever, man,” Jason said finally, grabbing his towel, backing off with a shrug that tried too hard to be casual. “Just saying. Don’t be surprised when people talk.”
“People always talk,” Lucas muttered. “They just change the subject.” Chance looked over at him. Lucas met his gaze for a second, something like gratitude and apology flickering behind his eyes, then looked away, pulling his hoodie over his head. The conversation broke off, drifting into other topics, homework, some party rumor, Andy’s latest attempt at impressing a girl from marching band. On the surface, it was like nothing had happened. But Chance could feel the shape of it lingering, like smoke after a candle is snuffed out.
He finished changing and grabbed his bag. The room felt smaller than it had before. As he pushed the locker room door open, cooler hallway air hit his face. He almost plowed right into Will. Will stood a few yards away, back pressed lightly to the cinderblock wall, program in one hand, the other curled around the strap of his bag. He wore his usual soft sweater, hair still a little mussed from the day, as if he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. His eyes were wide, but not in that startled deer way Chance had started to recognize. More like he’d been listening and only just realized he’d been caught. Chance was startled, it was a Saturday morning, he for sure thought will would be at home sleeping in from the events of last night.
“Oh,” Will said, voice small. “Hey.”
Chance’s stomach dropped. “Hey,” he replied, trying to read his face. “You—uh—what are you doing here?” Will lifted the program, then seemed to realize what it was and shoved it quickly under his arm, like that would somehow make him invisible. “I came in early to clean up the set from last night, but Worthington wanted me to ask Coach about using the gym for some… fundraiser thing. Car wash. Chair wash. I don’t know. Something with wash in it.” He laughed once, awkward. “I got here a little early. I didn’t mean to… interrupt.”
Chance winced internally. The locker room door had been open a crack. Voices carry. “How much did you hear?” he asked quietly.
Will’s gaze flicked away and back. “Enough,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m used to people… talking.” He tried to make it a joke and it didn’t quite land. “It’s kind of a Hawkins pastime.” Something in his expression, guarded, but not shattered it made Chance’s chest hurt.
“Hey,” Chance said, stepping closer so his voice wouldn’t carry. “For the record, they’re idiots.”
“I know,” Will said. His shoulders rose and fell. “It’s still…” He shrugged, words trailing off.
Chance fought the urge to glance back at the locker room, to march in and say something louder, harsher. That would only make it worse for Will. For Lucas. For himself. The world they lived in didn’t reward that kind of defense. It punished it. So he did what he could here, in this hallway, with no one else listening.
“Will,” he said, making sure the other boy was looking at him. “I meant what I said. You’re my friend. You’re a good guy. You did something really freaking cool last night, and if those morons can’t see that because they’re too busy worrying about how it looks, that’s on them. Not you.”
Will’s eyes searched his face like he was trying to find a crack, some sign that Chance didn’t really mean it. Whatever he found there made his shoulders loosen the tiniest bit. Some tension around his mouth eased.
“Okay,” Will said softly. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Chance said.
That startled an actual laugh out of Will, small and real. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Before Chance could say anything else, Coach’s office door opened. “Byers?” Coach called. “You looking for me?”
Will straightened. “Yeah, sorry. Worthington wanted me to—”
Coach waved him in with a sigh. “I swear she thinks the gym is a community center. Come on, let’s hear it.”
Will gave Chance one last quick look, something grateful and a little relieved, and disappeared into the office. Chance stood there for a moment, alone in the hallway, the muffled voices of his teammates behind him, Coach’s low grumble drifting out from the office, the echo of Will’s relief sitting heavy and bright in his chest. He’d expected Will to look hurt, maybe angry. To pull back. Instead, what he’d seen, underneath the practiced indifference, was something like… surprise. Like he hadn’t been counting on anyone taking his side. The fact that merely not being grossed out by the idea of him being “different” was a pleasant surprise? That sat wrong with Chance in a way he didn’t know how to put into words. He shook his head, adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and headed for the exit. Fresh air would help. Or at least a change of scenery.
The Nova smelled faintly like fries and old cassette tapes. Chance let the engine idle for a minute in the parking lot, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He should go home. He had homework, a little sister to help with spelling lists, a mom who would ask him about practice. But the locker room conversation prickled under his skin like fiberglass, and he wasn’t ready to drag that energy into the house. He tugged the gear shift into drive almost without deciding to and pulled out, letting the roads of Hawkins take him wherever. It didn’t take long for muscle memory to steer him toward Family Video. The tape sitting on the passenger seat, some sci-fi thing his mom had rented and forgotten to watch had been there for almost a week. If he didn’t return it now, they’d get hit with a late fee, and Mom would give him the disappointed eyebrows. That was a problem he could actually fix.
The Family Video lot had a few cars in it, but it was quiet for a Saturday afternoon. He parked, grabbed the tape, and headed inside, the bell over the door jangling that familiar, slightly off-key note. Warm light, rows of shelves, the comforting mix of plastic and popcorn and floor cleaner. The counter was manned by Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ own former king of the hallways, hair still doing that impossible swoop thing even in a Family Video polo. A girl with short, feathery hair and an army surplus jacket, Robin.
“Hey, man,” Steve called as Chance approached with the tape. “Here to save this poor movie from another week of captivity?”
“Something like that,” Chance said, sliding it across.
Steve scaned it with a practiced flick, dropped it into the return bin. “Cool. Let me know if you want anything that doesn’t involve exploding spaceships this time."
He drifted past New Releases, then Horror, letting his fingers skim the plastic cases without really seeing them. His head was still busy replaying Jason’s voice, the words people are gonna wonder looping until they blurred. Every time Will’s face slipped into the mental montage, Chance’s chest tightened, and his brain did that stupid two-step: He’s my friend, he’s my friend, he’s my—
He made a sharp right at Comedy, dodging a cardboard cutout of Bill Murray. The covers here were bright, crowded with goofy expressions, people tripping over things, dogs in sunglasses. Easy. Harmless. But his feet kept moving. Past the end of Comedy, into the next row.
Drama. The lighting felt different here, even though he knew that was just in his head. The covers were quieter. More shadows. People looking away from each other, lost in thought. Hands almost touching. Landscapes. None of the screaming fonts and slapstick chaos of the next aisle over. He ran his fingers along the spines absentmindedly. He wasn’t really looking for anything. A title pulled at his eye.
Maurice.
The cover art was understated, muted greens and browns, a field, two young men in early-1900s suits standing just a little too close, their faces turned toward each other with an expression Chance couldn’t immediately name. Not quite smiling, not quite miserable. Serious. Maybe… unsure. Behind them, a stone university building rose, all ivy and big windows. He didn’t know why he stopped. Maybe it was the way the letters curved. Maybe it was the fact that, unlike most of the other boxes, this one didn’t feel like it was trying to sell him anything with bright colors or a half-dressed woman. It just… was. His hand moved before his brain made a decision. He slid the case off the shelf. It had some weight to it. The plastic felt cool under his fingers. On the back, above the film stills and the small block of text, a Family Video sticker shouted NEW in red.
He ignored that and read the printed blurb.
A tender story of a young man’s awakening…
His heart stumbled, then picked up faster.
He kept reading, eyes skimming.
…as he comes to terms with his love for his friend in Edwardian England…
The rest of the sentence blurred.
Love.
Friend.
Awakening.
The words hung there, heavy.
He suddenly felt like someone had turned up the brightness in the aisle. Like if he glanced over his shoulder, he’d see a spotlight aimed right at him. His thumb pressed into the edge of the box. Young man. Love. His friend. His brain, unhelpfully and without permission, supplied an image: Will at the wheel of the Nova in the church parking lot, biting his lip as he eased off the clutch, eyes flicking to Chance for reassurance. Will on the catwalk, mostly invisible, giving that small, secret wave. Will in the lobby last night, cheeks pink, clutching that stupid little bouquet like it was some rare artifact. He heard his own voice, from not even twenty-four hours ago: I see you. Even when you think you’re invisible. Chance swallowed, the back of his throat suddenly dry. He read the blurb again. A young man’s awakening as he comes to terms with his love for his friend.
Okay. So.
This was a movie. About a dude. Who realizes he loves his friend. Another dude. In, like, England a long time ago, with horrible hats and too much tea.
It didn’t have anything to do with him. On paper. Lots of people picked up VHS cases and read the back and put them back. It was part of the video store experience. You grabbed one, read the description, decided if you wanted to waste two hours of your life on it, moved on. Just because his pulse had jumped at the word love didn’t mean anything. He liked girls. That had been true his whole life, hadn’t it? Emily with her choir voice and earnest eyes. The cheerleader whose name he always forgot but who had a great laugh. The girl behind the register at the grocery store who wore cool eyeliner and sometimes added an extra handful of lollipops to Megan’s bag. The poster of that one movie star in a red dress he’d stared at way too long.
He wasn’t blind. He liked girls. Except his brain, traitor that it was, slid another thought in alongside that one: since when did liking girls automatically mean you couldn’t also…
He looked back down at the box. His thumb had drifted over the word love, covering it, like that would somehow make it quieter. His heart kept up its anxious little tapdance anyway. He thought about Will again. About the weird flutter of nerves he’d had when he’d asked if he could come to the game after Munroe. The way his stomach had flipped when Will looked at him like the invitation meant something. He thought about last night at the diner after the play, how normal it had all been. Burgers, fries, Lucas and Max arguing about something, Jane watching everything with wide eyes, Will laughing until he’d had to wipe his eyes. Chance remembering, halfway through a milkshake, that he’d assumed for years he would never talk to this kid, much less know what his laugh sounded like. His chest squeezed.
He wasn’t… He couldn’t be—
He glanced up, suddenly hyperaware of the end of the aisle, of how visible he probably was standing there holding a movie whose entire back cover screamed “gay” to anybody who bothered to read it. Family Video on a Saturday afternoon was no place to have a personal crisis. He imagined Andy or Jason wandering in with their girlfriends, spotting him with this in his hands. The comments that would follow. The way Jason would drag it out in the locker room for weeks. He imagined someone from church seeing him. His mom hearing about it through the grapevine. Her face going tight, that crease appearing between her eyebrows the way it did when the news mentioned anything labeled “controversial.” He imagined people “wondering” louder. His chest got even tighter.
He slid the tape halfway back onto the shelf. If he pushed it in, just a little, it would disappear between two other dramas and that would be that. He could walk away. Forget it. Chalk the whole thing up to curiosity. “Hey, you finding everything okay over here?”
The voice made him jump. He jerked his head up, guilt flaring hot even though he hadn’t done anything. Steve stood at the end of the aisle, hands in his back pockets, that lazy slouch he always seemed to carry at the store. He didn’t look suspicious and he looked like a guy doing his job, checking on a customer. Chance realized belatedly that he was still holding the tape mostly out of the shelf, the cover tilted at just the right angle for Steve to see. Panic flared. He pushed it fully back into place a little too fast. “Yeah,” he said, voice too loud. “Just. Browsing.”
Steve’s eyebrows rose the tiniest bit. He didn’t comment on the quick hide. Instead, he walked a few steps closer, glancing at the row Chance had been looking at. His eyes flicked over the spines, totally casual. “That’s a good section,” he said. “Bit heavy for a Saturday, but, y’know. Sometimes you need sad British guys to balance out all the car chases.”
Chance huffed out a weak laugh. “Yeah. Sure.” Steve nudged one of the cases with his knuckle. “You into period stuff?”
“Sometimes,” Chance said. “My grandma makes us watch all the BBC things at Christmas. Lots of… bonnets.”
“Hot,” Steve said, deadpan. Then, with the faintest hint of a smirk: “Robin made me watch this one British thing a while back.” He tapped a spine. “About these two guys at some fancy school. Very… repressed. Lots of crying in fields.” Chance’s throat went dry. He realized Steve’s hand was resting just above the tape he’d almost taken. Maurice.
“Yeah?” Chance said carefully. “Yeah,” Steve said. “I thought it was gonna be boring as hell, not gonna lie. I was waiting for, like, a car explosion or at least a sword fight. But it was… actually kind of great.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Made me feel things. In a non car chase way.”
Chance couldn’t tell if his heart was leaping or trying to escape. “Didn’t, uh… freak you out?” he asked, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to strained. Steve blinked. “Freak me out?” “I mean.” Chance gestured vaguely at the shelf. “Two guys. Together. People around here are…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Understanding flickered across Steve’s face. His posture shifted, just slightly, like he’d moved from generic customer service to something more specific.
“People around here are idiots,” Steve said plainly. “Or, like, thirty years behind.” He cocked his head, considering. “Look, man. It’s just a movie. Watching it doesn’t turn you into anything. But if you see yourself in it a little…” He shrugged again, easy. “That’s not the movie’s fault. That’s just… you getting to know yourself better.”
Chance stared at him. This was not the conversation he’d expected to be having with Steve Harrington of all people, patron saint of heterosexual hallway drama circa 1985.
He tried to play dumb. “Who said anything about seeing myself in it?”
Steve’s mouth quirked. “You’re standing in Drama on a Saturday staring at gay British movies,” he said. “I’ve seen that look before.”
“Yeah?” Chance asked before he could stop himself.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
Chance avoided his glance. Robin looked up then, sensing eyes on her, and called down the aisle, “If you’re trash-talking my taste again, Harrington, I swear to God—”
“Relax,” Steve called back. “I’m doing missionary work for your sad movies.” She went back to her magazine.
Steve looked at Chance again. “Point is,” he said, “it’s a good film. If you want to watch it, you should. If you don’t, that’s cool too. But don’t not watch it because you’re scared some jackass is going to make a joke.” Chance thought of Jason’s voice: people are gonna wonder. The way Andy had said guys like him. The way Will had looked in the hallway, half resigned and half waiting for the blow.
“I’m not scared,” he said, knee-jerk. Steve gave him a look that was half amusement, half sympathy. “Sure you’re not.” He stepped back, giving him space. “Anyway, I’ll be up front. Take your time." Steve nodded once, like that settled something, then wandered back toward the counter, whistling under his breath.
Chance stood there in the aisle, heartbeat thudding in his ears, the shelves rearing up on either side of him like walls in a maze.
He looked down at Maurice again. The cover stared back, calm and patient. Two men in a field, standing too close, about to say something they probably shouldn’t in a world that wouldn’t make it easy for them. He reached out and picked it up. Again. This time, his hand didn’t shake.
He flipped it over, read the blurb one more time. The words didn’t feel as much like an accusation now. More like… a possibility. A story that had already been told somewhere else, long before Hawkins, long before him, long before Will. He still didn’t know what any of it meant. Not really. He knew he liked girls. He knew his heart did something stupid and skittery when Will smiled at him, when Will looked for his face in a crowd, when Will said things like I’m glad you were there. He knew that thinking about asking Will to his next home game made him as nervous as thinking about taking Emily to homecoming had. Maybe more. He knew that the idea of watching this movie made his stomach swoop in a way that was equal parts fear and… something else. He slid the case under his arm. Then, because he was still himself and still a little bit of a coward, he grabbed an action movie at random from the nearby shelf and stacked it on top, hiding Maurice under explosions and a guy holding a gun. At the counter, Steve didn’t say anything when he set both tapes down. He just scanned them, glanced at the titles, and slid them into the plastic rental case with the faintest hint of a smile. “Due back next Friday,” he said.
He walked out into the autumn evening with a clamshell case under his arm, the Nova keys cold in his palm, and his thoughts even messier than before. But there was a strange lightness mixed into the mess now, like he’d cracked a window in a room that had been closed up for a long time. In the car, he set the tapes on the passenger seat and sat there for a minute, fingers drumming on the wheel. The sky overhead was a flat, even gray, nothing like Will’s careful clouds, but it still made him think of that backdrop—of how Will had somehow made paint look like it was about to move. He thought about the next home game. About the banner plans, the potential mural, the way Will’s eyes had lit up when Chance had suggested it. He’d told Will he’d call about bringing him to the game. About sitting in the stands again, this time maybe in a slightly better seat, not shoved all the way to the side.
He’d been planning to do it casually. “Hey, there’s a game, you should come.” No big deal. That’s what friends did. That’s what he’d been telling himself. But now, with Maurice sitting two feet away, with Steve’s words in his head and Jason’s earlier ones in his ears, the idea of dialing Will’s home number made his heart thump like he was asking him out. Not that he was. He wasn’t. He was just… inviting a friend to a game. Like a normal person. So why did his hands feel sweaty just thinking about hearing Will’s voice on the other end of the line? Why did he suddenly care so much whether Will said yes?
He rested his forehead briefly on the steering wheel and laughed under his breath, the sound half exasperation, half disbelief. “When did you get like this, man?” he muttered to himself.
The steering wheel didn’t answer. He straightened, started the car, and pulled out of the lot. He’d go home. He’d pretend to start his homework. Maybe he’d put the action movie on first, let the noise fill the living room while his sister did coloring books on the rug. Later, when the house was quiet and his mom had gone to bed, he’d bring the VCR into his room “to test it,” like he sometimes did before movie nights, and see what two young men in Edwardian England had to teach him about anything. And sometime between now and the next game, he’d call Will.
He’d ask, voice as steady as he could make it, if Will wanted to come cheer Lucas on again. Maybe grab fries after. Maybe talk about murals and maps and the way light looks when it hits gym rafters. He wouldn’t know, for a while, what exactly that invitation meant. For him. But as he drove down Maple, the Halloween decorations in people’s yards blurring by, he realized whatever label anyone else might try to slap on it, whatever his teammates muttered in the locker room, it felt… right. Will was his friend. A good guy. Someone who made incredible art with a heart of gold.
Chance, somewhere between the hobby hut, last week’s game and last night’s standing ovation, had started caring about that in a way that went just a little beyond gratitude and school spirit. As the Nova hummed along and the case with Maurice inside slid a little on the seat with each turn, he let himself admit, that whatever this was, it felt a lot like the beginning of his own something. Definitely… the first flicker.