Chapter Text
Hawkins was no longer holding its breath; it was learning how to speak again. The heavy hum of military Humvees and the oppressive, wire-fenced silence of the lockdown camps had finally been replaced by the chaotic, hopeful symphony of a town being reborn. The air was thick with the scent of fresh pine and drying concrete as crews pulled the storefronts on Main Street back out of the earth. Overhead, the sky was a mocking blue, so bright it made your eyes ache. It was a day that insisted on a happy ending, even for those who weren't sure they were ready for one.
From the radio of a nearby worker’s truck, Robin Buckley’s voice crackled through the local frequency, high-energy and familiar.
“Hi there, strangers… do you guys… even remember me? Maybe I’m being too modest—let’s be honest, who could forget this soothing voice with a Debra Winger rasp? That’s right, it’s me, Robin Buckley, aka Rockin' Robin. Jimmy was kind enough to let me back into the booth for a guest stint. But you’re gonna have to cut me some slack 'cause I’m feeling rusty. What do I even talk about? My go-to subjects are as old as my friend’s bowl cut.”
Will felt a small, involuntary smile tug at his lips as he adjusted the collar of his graduation robe. Behind him, Dustin Henderson was practically vibrating with a newfound, sharp-edged confidence. As the class Valedictorian, Dustin wasn't just surviving anymore—he was winning. He stood tall, his posture straightened by the weight of the speech tucked into his sleeve, his eyes reflecting the bright morning sun with a look of "I told you so" directed at the universe.
“I mean, there’s no soldiers, no fences, and no Big Brother cameras,” Robin’s voice continued. “People are happy and smiling and going to the movies. I am almost too superstitious to say this, but I think the Hawkins curse has finally lifted. But at the same time, this isn’t even the Hawkins that I remember. It feels so different. Maybe it’s not the town, maybe it’s me that’s changed. We all probably have. At least that’s certainly true of my friends. Who, by the way are graduating today! That’s right, Hawkins High Class of ‘89 are walking the podium today. I hope you all come out and support them. I know I will. If anyone deserves a standing ‘O,’ they do! So, to get their party started, a new favorite…”
The music kicked in, but the upbeat tempo didn't quite reach Mike. He stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks, hidden beneath the billowing Tiger-orange fabric. His graduation cap was tilted low over eyes that were perpetually searching for a shadow that wasn't there anymore. To him, the rebuilding of Hawkins felt like an erasure—every new brick laid was another layer of dirt over the memory of Eleven.
"We should go," Mike said, his voice sandpaper-dry. "The ceremony starts in two hours. My mom’s already at the school setting up chairs. She’ll... she’ll have a breakdown if we’re late."
"Relax, Wheeler," Max said. She was standing firmly on her own two feet, her recovery a living miracle that she wore with a defiant shrug. In her orange robe, she looked regal and tough all at once, her eyes bright behind her sunglasses. "The school isn't going to start without the guy giving the keynote speech. Dustin would just make them restart the whole thing anyway."
Dustin grinned, tapping his temple. "She's not wrong. Knowledge is power, Mike. And today, I have all the power." He gave Eddie Munson’s headstone a playful, lingering salute. "See ya, big guy. We're graduating. Can you believe it? Even me."
Lucas smiled, keeping close to Max as they began to walk. "Come on, genius. Let's get you to your podium before you start reciting the laws of thermodynamics to the gravestones."
Will followed them, his sketchbook tucked under his arm. He felt a strange, buoyant lightness he hadn't experienced in years. But as he climbed into the back of the van and Mike started the engine with a jerky, impatient motion, Will felt a sudden vacancy in his lap.
"Wait! Stop! Mike, pull over!" Will shouted as the van began to roll.
"What? What is it?" Mike slammed on the brakes, his head snapping around. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a frantic, protective panic.
"Will, are you okay? Did you feel—"
"I’m fine, Mike! Really," Will said quickly, reaching out to steady Mike’s shoulder. "I just dropped my sketchbook. I must have left it by Eddie’s grave. Just—go on! I’ll run back and meet you at the gates in five minutes. I know a shortcut through the East woods, I'll beat you there!"
"Will, it’s fine, we can wait—" Lucas started.
"No, you guys are already cutting it close to meet your parents! I’ll be fast, I promise!" Will was already sliding the door open, his orange robe fluttering behind him like a cape.
“No, we're waiting," Max cut in firmly, looking at Will with an expression that brooked no argument
Will accepted his fate as he ran.
He found the book quickly, splayed open to a charcoal drawing of a castle. He exhaled, relieved, and tucked it securely under his arm. But as he turned to head toward the shortcut, a flash of that same bright orange caught his eye near the far East section of the cemetery—the "Rich Side."
It was a graduation robe.
Against the vibrant green of the grass and the golden sunlight, the Hawkins Tiger orange looked like a flare. Curiosity pulled his feet forward. As he got closer, he recognized the broad shoulders and the perfectly styled hair. It was Chance Perez. The Golden Boy. The captain of the basketball team, Hawkins High's undisputed royalty.
Will felt a familiar surge of heat in his chest—pure, unadulterated dislike. He hated everything Chance represented. He hated the way the Tigers had hunted Dustin like an animal during the Hellfire panic. He hated the effortless, wealthy grace Chance moved with, and the way the school treated him like a saint just because he could hit a three-pointer. To Will, Chance wasn't just a jock; he was the last standing pillar of a group that had made his friends' lives a living hell.
Will should have turned around. If Mike saw him now, he’d lose his mind. If Dustin saw him, he’d feel a sting of genuine betrayal. Even Lucas, who had tried so hard to bridge the gap between their worlds, would probably just shake his head and wonder why Will was wasting his breath on a guy who had stood by while they were branded as cultists. But as Will looked down at his own orange sleeve, he realized that in exactly one hour, the labels would expire. They wouldn't be Tigers or Nerds or D&D kids anymore. They’d just be people, drifting out into a world that didn't care about Hawkins High social hierarchies. Would it even matter? he wondered.
Still, the resentment was thick in his throat as he approached. Curiosity, sharp and nagging, pulled him closer, even as his pulse thrummed.
Chance didn't look like a Golden Boy right now. He looked small sitting on the grass near the graves of Jason Carver, Chrissy Cunningham, and Patrick McKinney.
"We would’ve graduated together," Chance said. His voice wasn't the loud, commanding tone from the locker rooms. It was hollow. "All of us. In these stupid orange robes... sitting side by side."
Will stayed frozen, ten feet away. He wanted to say something biting—to tell Chance that Jason Carver didn't deserve a seat at the podium, But the sheer weight of Chance’s grief stopped him. It was a heavy, stagnant air that Will knew too well. It was the air of someone who had lost the person they were closest to and was now breathing in the vacuum they left behind.
"I bought Patrick’s favorite drink," Chance continued, nodding toward a bottle in the grass. He still hadn't looked back. "He’s not here to drink it. Chrissy isn't here to complain about the calories, and Jason isn't here to tell her she's perfect anyway. And I'm just... the one left standing. It feels like a joke, doesn't it, Byers?"
Will’s breath hitched, but he kept his expression guarded. "How did you know it was me?"
Chance finally turned. His eyes were bloodshot, the practiced "Captain" mask slipping to reveal someone exhausted by the sunlight. But he didn't look at Will with the usual mockery. His gaze was uncomfortably observant—as if he was looking past the "Zombie Boy" labels and the "Spooky Kid" stories, straight into the part of Will that kept itself hidden.
"Everyone knows the stories, Will. And I’ve heard the rumors," Chance said, his voice dropping. It was a look that acknowledged the whispers about why Will didn't have a girlfriend, about why he was always "different."
Will felt a flare of irritation. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear in the locker room, Chance. Not that you ever had a problem with it before."
"People call you fragile," Chance continued, ignoring the snap in Will's voice. "They call you a freak . But I see the way you look at this town. You’re the only one who looks like you’re actually seeing it, and not just the version of it you want to see."
"I'm not the only one," Will said, his voice tight. He still remembered Dustin's bruised face from senior year, and the memory made his blood simmer. "The town is coming back, Chance. It’s not a joke. People are moving on, even if you can't."
"Yeah, but you stayed you," Chance muttered. He let out a bitter, dry laugh. "Look at us. The freak and the jock. If Jason saw me talking to you, he’d probably crawl out of that hole just to punch me. Or tell me I'm losing my edge."
"He probably would," Will agreed, his voice cold. "He wasn't exactly known for his open-mindedness."
“How would you know? You were never here.”
There was a long silence where neither of them moved. The tension between them wasn't just the old high school rivalry; it was something newer, a vibrating chord of recognition. They were both survivors of a war the rest of the town was already trying to forget. They both had holes in their lives that no amount of new construction could fill.
"He wasn't a fan of anything he couldn't control," Chance said, and for a second, Will saw a flash of real resentment in the other boy’s eyes—a hint that being the Golden Boy had been its own kind of cage. Chance looked at the sketchbook. "You still drawing? Even when everything is finally turning 'normal'?"
"It’s the only thing that makes sense," Will admitted, though he hated giving Chance even that much.
"Must be nice. Having something that makes sense." Chance stood up. He was taller than Will, possessing that easy, athletic build that usually made Will want to disappear, but here, in the graveyard, the Tiger-orange robe just looked like a burial shroud. "My whole life was supposed to be this—basketball, championships, the guys. Now it just feels like I'm playing a part in a movie where the rest of the cast got cut."
He stepped closer, moving forward until he was standing directly in Will’s space. The air between them felt charged, heavy with the things they weren't saying about the people who weren't there. Chance looked Will up and down, his gaze unblinking and far too close.
"You should go," Chance said softly, his voice a low vibration. "Your friends are probably looking for you with a search party. Especially Wheeler. He looks like he’s about to snap in half if a breeze hits you."
"They're protective," Will snapped, his eyes flashing with a sharp, defensive heat. "And they're not 'searching' for me. They're waiting. There's a difference."
"They treat you like you’re breaking," Chance said, taking that final half-step until they were nearly chest-to-chest. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with the smell of damp earth was overwhelming. He tilted his head, his eyes searching Will’s with a piercing, almost desperate intensity. "Are you? Breaking?"
Will squared his shoulders, refusing to flinch, looking Chance right in the eye. He didn't want this guy’s pity, and he certainly didn't want his observation. He wanted to prove that he had more steel in him than the "Golden Boy" ever did.
"No. Not anymore."
Chance nodded slowly, a spark of something—maybe respect, maybe a challenge—flickering in his eyes. He reached out, his fingers briefly brushing the sleeve of Will’s robe. The contact was electric, a sharp jolt that made Will’s heart hammer against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with the Upside Down.
"Good. Because if you were as fragile as they think you are, you wouldn't be standing here talking to me. You’d be running back to the safety of the van." Chance lingered for a heartbeat, hints of his breath warm against Will's face, before finally pulling away.
"See you at the finish line, Byers."
As Chance walked away toward his car, Will stood among the graves, his mind racing. He had spent years resenting Chance Perez as the face of everything that made Hawkins High a battlefield, but in the quiet of the morning sun, he had caught a glimpse of something raw beneath the varsity jacket—a version of Chance that didn't fit the script.