Chapter Text
CHAPTER 3 : Party in the Lake house
The silence that followed Dustin’s invitation on the graduation field was surreal, a humming vacuum that seemed to suck the noise of the cheering crowd right out of the air. For a long, suspended moment, the five of them stood in a tight circle on the sun-baked turf, diplomas clutched in sweaty hands like strange, rolled-up weapons. The world around them was moving in fast-forward—parents sobbing into handkerchiefs, cameras clicking, polyester gowns fluttering in the humid breeze—but in their small radius, the atmosphere was thick with disbelief.
"Did that just happen?" Lucas was the first to break, his voice cracking a full octave. "Did Dustin Henderson just get a personal invite to Stacey Albright’s lake house? From Stacey Albright herself?"
"She touched his arm," Max added, her eyes wide behind her sunglasses, her voice tinged with a mix of horror and awe. "I saw it. Actual skin-to-skin contact. No hives, no immediate shriveling. It’s a miracle. Or a sign of the apocalypse!."
Dustin beamed, his chest puffed out so far the 'Hellfire' logo on his shirt was straining against the fabric. "I told you. The speech changed the game. The social contract of Hawkins, Indiana, has officially been rewritten in my image. We aren't just the weird kids anymore. We’re the legends who blew the roof off the gym."
"We aren't actually considering this, are we?"
The group turned to Mike. He was standing with his arms crossed over his gown, a deep, defensive scowl etched onto his face. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. He looked, more specifically, like he wanted to go back in time about five years.
"Mike, it’s the lake house," Lucas argued, throwing his hands up. "Nobody from our zip code gets into the lake house unless they’re delivering pizza or mowing the lawn. This is the inner sanctum. This is the mountaintop."
"Exactly!" Mike snapped. "It’s a trap. It’s going to be a thousand jocks high-fiving Dustin while they use the rest of us as coasters. I thought we had a plan. I thought we decided to play D&D tonight. You know… for old times' sake."
Dustin groaned, a loud, theatrical sound. "Mike, we have played D&D every weekend for seven years. We can play D&D when we’re forty and boring. We cannot go to a Stacey Albright graduation party when we’re forty. We’ll be arrested for loitering."
Mike didn't argue with Dustin. Instead, he turned his head slowly toward Will. This was his tactical strike, and he knew it. He stepped closer, dropping his arms so he could look Will directly in the eye.
Then came the eyes. It was the look that had defeated Will since they were six years old—the wide, shimmering ( "puppy dog" ) stare that made Mike look vulnerable and entirely too hopeful. His dark lashes fluttered, and his lower lip gave the tiniest, most subtle quiver in history. It was a look that said I need you on my side, or the world falls apart.
"Will," Mike whispered, the word carrying a weight of shared history. "Back me up here? Please?"
Will looked at Mike, trapped in the gravitational pull of that stare, and felt that familiar, sharp tug in his chest. He looked at the way Mike’s knuckles were white as he gripped his diploma, the way his eyes seemed to be searching for an answer on Will’s face.
The idea of the lake house didn’t sound too bad, it would be a new scene, sure. But how would they know they’d hate it if they didn’t even try it? But here, in this small circle with Mike looking at him like he was the only person who mattered, there wasn’t much he could do after that…
"I mean," Will started begrudgingly, his voice low and hesitant. "D&D does sound… easier. Less chance of getting beer spilled on our shoes." He said lamely hating how much of a hold Mike still had over him.
"Mike’s right," he continued, his voice gaining a sudden, quiet conviction as he broke eye contact before Mike could make him melt completely. "We’ve spent so much time just... trying to survive the next thing. The next disaster, the next year. Tonight was supposed to be for us. If we go to the lake house, we’re just background characters in their party." He finished even though he knew it wasn’t true.
Mike’s expression softened instantly, a look of profound victory and relief washing over him. "See!" He pointed a finger at the others. "It’s about the tradition. Think about it. We could go down there, order three pizzas, and keep the story going. It’s the summer before we all go our separate ways. Don't you want one last night where things are just… us?"
Mike stepped closer into their huddle, his voice dropping into a register that was uncharacteristically soft, almost bruised.
"Look," Mike said, looking at each of them in turn. "It would be a full circle moment. Think about the summer of '83. The night before it all began. Before the woods, before the lab, before… everything. We spent that whole night in the basement, and it was the last time things were simple. It was the last time we were just kids in a room who didn't know what a real nightmare looked like."
He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. "It would only be fair if we played again tonight. The summer after it all ended. After we finally won. We owe it to each other to close the loop. To have one night where we aren't 'the survivors.' Just the Party."
The silence returned, but this time it wasn't disbelief; it was a heavy, aching nostalgia. Max looked away, biting her lip. Lucas deflated, his excitement replaced by a quiet realization that Mike was right. There was a poetry to it that they couldn't ignore, a desperate need to touch the childhood they had been robbed of.
"Fine," Dustin muttered, though there was no heat in it. "Basement it is. But I’m choosing the snacks. And I want the good chairs."
The transition to the Wheeler’s basement felt like stepping into a time capsule. The wood-paneled walls, the smell of dust and old sleeping bags, the flickering light of the single lamp over the card table—it was exactly as it had been. It was their sanctuary.
They had been playing for three hours, but the energy was different. Usually, their games were loud, filled with shouting matches over rules and frantic dice rolls. Tonight, it was quiet. The campaign Mike had built was intricate and beautiful, but they were barely halfway through. The map was sprawling, half-uncovered, revealing a journey that was far from over.
Will sat in his usual chair, his sketchbook open but forgotten. He watched Mike behind the DM screen. Mike wasn't being his usual tyrannical self; he was narrating with a tenderness that made the hair on Will's arms stand up. He was describing the way the campfire light flickered against the faces of their characters who were still a long way from home, the quiet camaraderie of a group that had seen too much.
As Mike described a moment of rest between the heroes—a rare beat of peace in a world of chaos—the fiction began to bleed into reality. The metaphor was too sharp.
Lucas was the first to sniffle. He tried to hide it by coughing, but then a heavy tear hit his character sheet, smearing the ink on his Strength stats. Max was staring at her d20 with eyes that were swimming in unshed tears, her jaw tight. Dustin was chewing on his lip, his shoulders shaking with a suppressed tremor.
Mike stopped narrating mid-sentence. He looked at his friends, his own eyes red-rimmed and glassy. He looked at the map he had spent weeks drawing—the meticulous lines, the hand-lettered names—and then he looked back at the people who were the only real things in his world.
"Oh, for God's sake," Mike whispered, his voice thick and broken. He let out a shaky breath that turned into a sob. "Fuck it. You guys are so sappy. You’re being so emotional and it’s… it’s ruining the game."
"You started it!" Dustin sobbed, a loud, honking sound as he wiped his nose with his sleeve. "The way you talked about them finally feeling safe to sleep without a lookout? That was cheap, Mike! That was a low blow!"
"I’m not crying, you’re crying," Lucas managed, even as a fresh sob escaped him.
They were all in tears now—a messy, pathetic, beautiful heap of eighteen-year-olds trapped between the comfort of childhood and the terrifying unknown.
They were smiling through the crying, the kind of laughter that only comes when you're so overwhelmed by the sheer weight of history that you have no other outlet.
Mike shoved his DM screen over, the cardboard clattering against the table. He leaned forward, his face serious and raw despite the tears.
"Listen to me," Mike said, his voice trembling but firm. "This campaign… we’re not even halfway through. I wanted this to be perfect. But look at you. I’m not making you sit here and cry in the dark any longer. At the rate this is going, you’re all going to die of nostalgia, and honestly, so am I."
He laughed, a wet, shaky sound, and the others joined in, the tension breaking like a fever.
"This campaign is personal," Mike said, wiping his eyes. "I want to keep playing when we aren't getting snot all over the handbooks. When we can actually see the dice through the tears. I want to continue this when we’re happy, not when we’re mourning the end of high school."
He stood up suddenly, grabbing his denim jacket.
"I say we go to that stupid, fucking party," Mike declared, a wild, defiant spark in his eyes. "Let’s go see what the Tigers are up to. Let’s go be teenagers for once in our miserable lives. But we finish this campaign before the summer ends. I mean it. We keep playing. Promise?"
He held out his hand over the center of the table.
Dustin stood up, slamming his hand onto Mike’s. "Promise."
Lucas added his. "Promise."
Max stood, wiping her cheeks, her eyes bright and fierce. "Promise."
Will was the last. He stood up, feeling a surge of warmth—a golden feeling that pushed back anything that was worrying him. He placed his hand on top of the pile.
"Promise," Will whispered.
"Alright then," Mike said, sniffing loudly and giving them a watery smirk. "Wipe the snot off your faces. Get your stuff. We’re going to the lake house."
As they scrambled to get ready, the fear hadn't vanished for Will, but it had changed. He wasn't going alone. He was going with the Party.
They had piled into the Wheeler’s station wagon, though by the time they reached the iron gates of the Albright estate, the car felt far too small for the sheer magnitude of the night.As they pulled through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Albright estate, the gravel crunching under the tires was drowned out by a literal wall of sound.
It wasn't just a party; it was a neon-soaked fever dream.
The Albright lake house was a sprawling, multi-level beast of cedar, glass, and dark stone that seemed to grow directly out of the limestone cliffs. Tonight, it was a living, breathing creature of the eighties. The sensory overload hit Will the second the door swung open. Electric-blue and hot-pink floodlights were aimed upward into the ancient oaks, turning the canopy into a shimmery, artificial neon jungle. A massive set of speakers on the wrap-around deck was pumping out the heavy, driving bass of "Blue Monday" by New Order, a sound so physical it made the very air in Will's lungs vibrate.
The atmosphere was a dizzying cocktail of smells: expensive French perfume, the sharp tang of chlorine from the pool, woodsmoke from a massive shoreline bonfire, and the faint, underlying scent of lake water. The crowd was a sea of moving parts. It wasn't just the graduating class; it was everyone. Nerds in oversized blazers, townies who worked at the quarry, and girls in lace gloves.
dozens of people were splashing in neon swimsuits, some in high-cut one-pieces and others in bright trunks, while a literal line had formed at the second-story balcony for guys taking turns backflipping into the illuminated turquoise water filled with neon light sticks .
"Holy shit," Lucas breathed, his face flashing in shades of magenta as a strobe light swept past. "I think half of Indiana is in this driveway."
The "Henderson Fever" they had felt on the field had mutated into a full-blown cult of personality. The moment Dustin’s curly mane appeared in the light of the porch, a roar went up from a group of jocks near the kegs—guys who, forty-eight hours ago, wouldn't have known Dustin’s name if it was tattooed on his forehead.
"HENDERSON! THE GIANT SLAYER!"
The crowd literally parted like the Red Sea. Dustin was swept up in a flurry of high-fives and chest bumps. Because Lucas was a known entity from the basketball team, he was pulled into the fray with a roar of "Sinclair! My man!", and Max followed, her arm hooked firmly in his. She looked every bit the fierce, "don't-mess-with-me" girlfriend, her red hair flaming under the blue lights, which only seemed to earn her more respect from the older guys. Surprisingly, the wave didn't stop there. Mike and Will found themselves being swept along as if they were the entourage of a legend. People were pumping their fists at them, clapping Mike on the back and yelling, "Wheeler!" Will felt a strange, dizzying rush. For the first time in their lives, they weren’t trying hard to fit in, it all felt natural.
Stacey Albright herself, looking like an absolute queen in a shimmering silver dress, sashayed through the crowd toward Dustin. She didn't just thank him for coming, she leaned in and kissed his cheek, sending a "Whoa!" through the surrounding circle.
"Best speech in the history of this dump, Henderson. My dad's liquor cabinet is officially open for the legends."
As they drifted toward the massive outdoor patio, the real chaos—the kind of chaos that could only happen to the Party began.
Heather, one of Stacey’s close friends, spotted them. Heather wasn't like the others; she had dark, kohl-rimmed eyes and a cynical smirk.
She wasn't looking at Dustin. She wasn't looking at Lucas. Or Mike.
Her eyes locked onto Will.
"Hey," Heather said, pushing off a stone pillar and walking straight up to him. She didn't hesitate. She stepped right into Will’s personal space, smelling like vanilla and clove cigarettes. "You're the artist, right? Will Byers?"
Will blinked, his brain short-circuiting as he felt the Party’s collective gaze snap toward him. "Uh, yeah. I draw. A little."
"I like your style," she purred, leaning in and actually draping an arm over Will’s shoulder, her fingers playing idly with the collar of his shirt. Will’s eyes widened comically. It was an overt, undeniable flirtation. The party stood, mouth agape looking at each other brows furrowed in irony, as they mouthed ‘do something’ to each other.
She stepped even closer, her hip pressing against his. Will’s eyes felt like it would fall off from the helpless gazes he was sending his friends.
Mike looked like he had swallowed a live bee, his eyes were bulging, his mouth hanging open in sheer, panicked disbelief as he nudged max to go interrupt them. Heather went on completely oblivious to what was going on.
"You’ve got this... mysterious, quiet thing going on. It’s definitely working for you. Why haven't we talked before?"
Will’s face turned a shade of red so deep it rivaled the neon pink floodlights. He started to squirm. "I... uh... I’m usually just in the back of the class."
"Actually!" Mike blurted out, his voice a frantic, high-pitched squeak, glaring at max for not helping. He stepped forward, hands gesturing wildly. "Will can't talk right now. He’s... he’s on a very strict vocal rest! For his... church choir! He has a big solo tomorrow morning. Very high notes. He can't risk the nodes."
Heather didn't even look at Mike. She just ran her hand down Will’s arm, her fingers interlacing with his, pulling him an inch closer. "That’s okay. I don't need him to talk," she whispered, her eyes never leaving Will’s.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Dustin jumped in, his eyes darting around. "He can't go anywhere! He has... chronic claustrophobia! If he enters a space smaller than a gymnasium, he gets the 'willies.' He starts vibrating. It’s a whole medical thing. We call it 'The Byers Buzz.' He’ll break your furniture!"
Heather let out a low, amused laugh, her fingers now tracing the line of Will's jaw. "I've got a very big room, Dustin. I'm sure he'll be fine." She leaned in, her body heat radiating against Will, and she didn't just whisper; she tilted her head and playfully nibbled on Will’s ear. While will just stood frozen, he was sure his soul left his body.
"DINT KNOW YOU HAD IT IN YOU, BYERS!" a group of older jocks yelled, letting out a loud, echoing wolf-whistle as they passed by. "Go get 'em, tiger!”
"Yeah!" Lucas added, sweating under the pressure. "And he’s also... uh... allergic to vanilla! Is that vanilla perfume? His throat will close up in exactly three minutes. We’d have to perform an emergency tracheotomy with a straw right there on the duvet. You don't want that on your conscience, right?Heather!"
Max was on the floor, clutching her stomach as she laughed uncontrollably at the exchange. The boys sending her glares
Heather finally looked at the three guys, her hand now resting firmly on Will’s chest, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs. "You guys are genuinely weird. Will, ignore them. They’re just jealous. Let’s go find one of the guest rooms upstairs. I want to see your 'sketches' for real. Maybe you can draw me."
Mike looked like he was going to physically combust on the spot. He looked at will with sheer panic and was met with a 'Please Kill Me' expression. Will was squirming so hard he was practically vibrating out of his shoes. Just as Heather started to lead him toward the sliding glass doors, Stacey Albright appeared, grabbing Heather by the elbow.
"Heather! Thank god," Stacey chirped. "The humidity is killing my bangs and the hairspray is in your bag. I need you in the powder room now."
"Stace, I'm kind of in the middle of—"
"Now, Heather! It’s a hair emergency!" Stacey pulled with all her might, and with a frustrated groan and a final, lingering wink at Will that made his knees buckle, Heather was dragged back into the sea of bodies.
Will stood frozen for a second, a wave of profound, dizzying relief washing over him so hard he almost felt lightheaded. He looked back at Mike, Dustin, and Lucas, his eyes wide with a mix of leftover terror and utter judgment.
"Vocal rest? Church solo?" Will hissed, his voice finally returning. "A tracheotomy with a straw? That was the most embarrassing two minutes of my entire life. You guys are horrible. Really, really horrible."
“Oh and Dustin, the Willies?! Jesus Christ. Max a little help would’ve been nice” will scoffed
Max was still giggling at the turn of events, her face was a red that matched her hair.
“I love how ‘you’ have the most game out of all these idiots.You could break a lot of hearts if you tried” She said grinning proudly at will
"Shut up Max. Will, we were saving you! We tried our best!" Mike called out, but Will was already moving, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder.
"I... I need a drink," Will managed, his voice shaky and hollow. "I need a drink after this and I need to be at least fifty feet away from all of you for the rest of the night."
He pushed through the sea of bodies and flashing lights, his head spinning. He turned a corner toward the glass-walled living area, and that’s when he saw him.
The living room was a sunken den of white leather and chrome, and in the middle of it was Chance. In all his glory, it felt like they were orbiting around and he was the centre of it all, radiant and unbothered. But when Will really looked, Chance didn't look like he was having fun. He looked like he was presiding over a court. He was nursing a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, looking utterly untouchable. One girl was draped over his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck, while another was on the side, aggressively necking him, her hand tangled in his dark hair. A third girl was whispering in his other ear, vying for even a second of his attention.
Will stared, frozen by the sheer, magnetic gravity of the scene. A second later, Will quickly looked away, his heart hammering against his ribs as he tried to disappear into the crowd. He didn't see it, but a moment after he turned his head, Chance’s gaze lazily drifted toward the glass—scanning the room until it landed exactly where Will had been standing just a breath before.
Stacy’s kitchen was a cathedral of dark, polished granite and warm mahogany—expensive enough to make the luxury feel oppressive. A man in a crisp tuxedo was stationed at the end of a massive soapstone island, his hands moving in a blur as he popped bottles of vintage champagne, the foam spilling over crystal flutes for a line of teenagers who were treating the luxury like tap water, giving expensive wine the respect of vinegar.
Silver platters were piled with oysters and prime rib sliders, but the elegance was already being stained by discarded red cups and the sticky, sweet smell of spilled punch.
Will stood by a tower of glasses, his fingers tracing the cold rim of his cup. He felt a jarring sense of displacement, his focus splintering every time he tried to settle into the room. He wasn't hungry, and the idea of drinking felt like trying to swallow glass. He just wanted to be invisible hanging behind his friends, but the sheer scale of the Albright house made him feel like a glitch in a high-definition movie.
His eyes drifted toward the fireplace almost instinctively, pulled by a raw, unrefined curiosity. He watched the way Chance stood, then immediately snapped his gaze back to his drink, his pulse quickening. A moment later, he looked again, his eyes lingering as he tried to reconcile the two versions of the boy he'd seen today. By the third time he caught his eyes drifting, a sharp jolt of irritation hit him. He bit the inside of his cheek, demanding his own mind to just quit it.
But the urge didn't stop. It wasn't just curiosity anymore; it was a desperate, need to make the pieces fit. The version of Chance he’d witnessed at the graves—the raw, shattered boy who looked like he was vibrating with grief—was a piece that simply didn't fit into the puzzle of the Chance who was standing there now. This Chance was all sharp edges and a polished armor of arrogance that felt impenetrable.
Will found himself scouring the boy’s face, hunting for even a shadow of that hollowed-out expression, trying to find the person who looked like he knew what it was like to be haunted. It was a gnawing, irrational obsession—trying to find a point of contact with someone who represented everything that usually made him want to disappear.
By the hearth, the tension finally snapped. Miller was aggressively shoving a bottle of bourbon toward Chance’s chest, the glass clinking against his cross gold chain.
"Come on, man! Chug it! For the school!" Miller roared, his face flushed and ugly with beer. The crowd around them started a low, rhythmic chant, clapping their hands in a way that felt more like a demand than an invitation.
Chance didn't move. He didn't even blink. He just stared at Miller with a look so cold it seemed to drop the temperature of the room five degrees. "I said I'm not in the mood, Miller," Chance said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
He grabbed the neck of the bottle, his knuckles turning white, and forced it back toward Miller’s chest with a slow, terrifying pressure. "Do not ask me again."
Miller’s drunken bravado evaporated instantly. "Sorry, man... I didn't mean anything by it!" he muttered, backing away into the crowd like a kicked dog. The circle broke, the energy curdling into an awkward silence. Chance didn't stay to enjoy the silence, he turned on his heel and stormed off, cutting through the party like a blade.
In the sunken lounge, the first frantic beats of "Bizarre Love Triangle" tore through the air, the bass rattling the windows. Lucas saw the flashing neon hitting Max’s face, but she surprised him by grabbing his arm first, her fingers digging into his sleeve.
"This is actually great," Max shouted, a genuine, wide smile breaking across her face. "The air, the noise... it reminds me of Cali! It reminds me of the boardwalk back there!"
"Really?" Lucas yelled back, his heart swelling. He’d been so worried she’d crumble under the noise, but here she was, coming alive.
"Yeah! Come on, Sinclair!" She pulled him into the thick of it. They didn't slow dance; they collided with the music. They jumped and spun, Max’s red hair whipping around her face like a flame. They moved with a reckless abandon, dancing like they hadn't a care in the world, like the Upside Down was just a bad dream and they were finally, truly safe.
In their excitement, they accidentally knocked into a couple of literary club kids holding beers. "Watch it!" one yelled, but Max and Lucas didn't even stop. They just looked at each other and burst into a fit of breathless, hysterical laughter, leaning into one another for support. As the song hit a melodic swell, they slowed for just a second, drifting into a private orbit. Lucas reached up, his hands cupping her face, and they rested their foreheads together. The world around them—the screaming teenagers, the pounding bass, the expensive house—all of it blurred into a soft, neon smudge.
"You okay?" Lucas whispered, his breath warm against her skin.
"I'm perfect," Max breathed, her eyes closed, a small, peaceful smile on her lips. For those few minutes, they weren't survivors; they were just two kids claiming a piece of joy they had fought through hell to earn. They stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, hearts beating in sync, until the song crashed back into its final chorus and they were swept back into the light.
Just then, the speakers transitioned into the funky, upbeat groove of "Upside Down" by Diana Ross.
Max was the first to move. A genuine, wide smile broke across her face—the first real light Lucas had seen in her eyes in months. She started to sway, her hips catching the rhythm, and she didn't wait for permission. She marched across the expanse of the dark kitchen, weaving past the marble island until she reached Will. She didn't ask, she grabbed his hand.
"Stop thinking, Will!" she shouted over the bass, pulling him toward the center of the lounge. "Just for once, let go! Let yourself sway with it!"
Will stumbled after her, his face heating up, but Max’s energy was infectious. Lucas saw them coming and let out a whistle, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Dustin! Mike! Get in here!"
Dustin didn't need a second invitation. He dove into the circle, his limbs flailing with zero rhythm but absolute conviction. Lucas joined in next, his feet moving in a smooth shuffle as he grabbed Max’s waist. Will, prompted by Max’s persistence, finally let his shoulders loosen. He started to move, a small, shy laugh escaping him as he realized he wasn't being watched—he was just being.
Mike stood at the edge, looking stiff and awkward, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. But the sight of the four of them laughing was too much to resist. Lucas reached out and yanked him in. Mike tripped over his own feet, nearly taking Dustin down, and the group erupted into a fit of breathless, hysterical laughter.
"Upside down, boy you turn me!" Max sang out, spinning into Lucas’s arms. They looked at each other, the irony of the lyrics, and their memories of that horrid horrid place hitting them all at once. Their whole world had been turned upside down, inside out, and round and round, but for these three minutes, they were just teenagers. They spun each other around, knocking into a few nearby guests and not even bothering to apologize, too busy being alive. They rested their foreheads together in a messy huddle, five survivors finally claiming a piece of the world that didn't belong to the monsters.
As the track faded out, a legendary rock anthem roared to life. The energy in the room shifted from funky to electric. A group of varsity jocks, caught up in the high of the night, suddenly surged toward them.
"Henderson! You're the man!" one of them yelled. Before Dustin could protest, they hoisted him up onto their shoulders. Dustin let out a startled yelp that turned into a triumphant "Whoo!" as he began to crowd-surf over the sea of teenagers, his curly hair disappearing into the neon light.
Max and Lucas didn't miss a beat, falling back into a close, wholesome dance, lost in the rhythm. Will, however, felt the adrenaline begin to dip. He looked toward the stairs,
"I... I have to use the loo," Will said, leaning into Mike’s ear. Mike nodded vaguely, looking exhausted as the brief burst of joy drained out of him.
Will slipped away, disappearing into the crowded hallway toward the second floor. Mike, suddenly feeling the weight of the room again, collapsed onto a nearby velvet couch with a heavy huff. He watched Max and Lucas dancing, saw Dustin being carried like a king, and will having fun. He hadn’t even noticed how hard he was smiling, but the small pearls of sadness never seemed to leave the corner of his eye.
He took a long breath as he felt his smile fade. He watched a girl across the room toss her hair, and for one heart-stopping second, he saw a ghost.
A sudden, violent sense of isolation washed over him, like he was back in the void. The void where he left her.
The air felt too thick, the music too loud. He felt like he was rotting from the inside, while everyone else was blooming.
"I... I'll be right back," Mike muttered, shooting a look at Lucas and max excusing himself as he stood up. Dustin was far gone , taking shots of some weird green liquid as they cheered him on.
Mike rapidly weaved through the swaying crowd and slipped away toward the heavy glass sliders.
On the balcony, the cold lake air hit him like a physical slap, and he inhaled it greedily, trying to clear the fog in his brain. Mike leaned over the railing, his knuckles white as he gripped the cedar wood, staring at the black, oily surface of the water.
Why couldnt I just say it. He thought, chest tight with a pain that felt like a heart attack. I would have died for her. I would have stepped into that darkness and stayed there forever if it meant she got to see this. I would have traded everything.
The reality was a shadow he couldn't see yet. He had loved Eleven with a depth that transcended everything, but it was the fierce, protective love of —a soulmate in arms. He’d spent years trying to force that feeling into the shape of a "boyfriend" because that’s what the world, his parents, and even his own expectations told him he was supposed to be. He felt like a failure because he couldn't love her the way he owed her. Now, the guilt of his inability to say those three words was eating him alive.
He spotted a bottle of vodka in the shadows of a patio chair, likely left by someone. He grabbed it, unscrewed the cap with trembling hands, and took a massive, burning swallow. He didn't stop until his throat screamed and his eyes watered. He slumped down against the cedar siding, sitting on the cold deck, the bottle clutched in his lap like a lifeline. He stared through the glass at the neon blur of his friends, the alcohol starting to numb the edges of a grief he didn't even fully understand yet.
The noise of the party was a dull, throbbing ache, fading into the background. It died the moment Will crossed the threshold of the second floor. Downstairs, the house was a neon fever dream, but up here, the air was heavy with the scent of the old cedar wood. He moved through the shadows of the hallway, his heart for some unknown reason thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He didn't even hear the footsteps.
A hand, cold and hard clamped onto the back of Will’s jacket and yanked. Will let out a sharp gasp as he was hauled backward, his feet skidding on the carpet. Before he could cry out, he was being dragged. Not toward the party, but away—through a service door and out into a part of the estate that felt ancient.
They emerged onto a narrow, weathered wooden catwalk. It was a winding path that cut through a dense, overgrown grove of weeping willows, the branches hanging like tangled hair. The catwalk led straight out over a dark, stagnant finger of the lake—a marshy area where the water was thick with lily pads and hidden roots.
Chance finally let go, shoving Will back against a rotted railing. The wood groaned, a low, warning sound that went ignored. Chance was vibrating, his chest heaving with a rhythm that was jagged and dangerous. The light from the distant house caught the sweat on his brow, making him look like a cornered animal.
"What the hell is your problem?" Chance’s voice was a low, jagged rasp. "I see you. Every time I turn around, there you are, staring. Those big, pathetic eyes trying to peel me back like I’m some kind of project."
"I wasn't—"
"Shut up!" Chance stepped into Will’s space, his chest heaving. The tension between them was a physical weight, a wire pulled so tight it was screaming. "You think you’re smart? You think because you saw me at the cemetery, you’ve got me figured out? That you found some 'broken piece' you can relate to?"
He let out a harsh, mocking laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "That was nothing. You saw nothing. You don't know shit about me, and you never will. People like you—quiet, soft, little nobodies—you don't even get to look at people like me. You don't get to stand in my light."
"You were hurting," Will sparked, his voice trembling but defiant. "I saw it. You can't just pretend—"
"I said stop!" Chance roared, slamming his hand onto the railing next to Will’s head. The old wood vibrated. "There is no 'other version' of me. This is it. This is all there is. So stop looking for something else. Stop trying to find a point of contact, because if you look at me like that one more time, I will break you. Do you understand me?"
Will’s eyes finally overflowed, the tears hot against his cold cheeks. “you’re being a coward, Chance. You’re hurting and you’re taking it out on the only person who actually saw you..."
"Shut up! Shut up!" Chance shoved Will back again, his movements frantic. "I'm not afraid of you," Will’s tear glazed eyes bore into chances with such intensity as he whispered, his voice thick with tears.
"You should be!" Chance lunged forward to grab Will’s collar, but as Will stepped back to avoid him,
His heel caught on a warped plank. There was a sickening, splintering crack—a sound like a bone snapping. The railing gave way, and for a heartbeat, Will’s eyes met Chance’s. In that second, the anger in Chance's eyes vanished, replaced by a pure, paralyzing horror.
Then, Will was gone.
The moment Will hit the water, the world ended. The freezing, stagnant liquid rushed into his ears, and the smell of the silt—iron-rich and decaying—slammed into his brain like a physical blow. It wasn't the Albright’s lake anymore. It was familiar. The dark, cold muck of the Upside Down. It sickeningly felt like he was back.
Panic, sharp and jagged, pierced through his chest. He tried to scream, but the water swallowed it. The vines, his mind shrieked. They’re coming for me. He felt something wrap around his leg, and he was certain it was him, a piece of the Mind Flayer dragging him back to the wasteland. His heart rate spiked until it was a blur, his vision flickering as his mind fractured under the weight of the Past. He wasn't a teenager at a party anymore; he was a boy dying in a dimension that hated him.
"Byers!" Chance screamed. He scrambled to the edge of the broken wood, staring into the dark. "Byers, get up! It's not deep! Get up!"
The bubbles stopped. The water just sat there, dark and indifferent.
"Byers!"
Chance didn't hesitate. He dived off the ledge, his clothes dragging him down as he hit the freezing water. He surfaced, gasping, his hands thrashing. "Byers! Where are you?" His voice was guttural, the bravado completely gone.
He felt the rough denim of a jacket and hauled upward. He dragged Will’s head above the surface, but the boy was limp, his jaw locked in a silent, horrific mask of agony. Will's eyes were rolled back, his face twisted as he navigated a hell no one else could see.
"No, no, no," Chance choked out, splashing wildly. "Byers! Byers! Wi….Will, breathe!" He patted wills cheek a futile attempt to make him regain consciousness. He tried to move, but Will’s leg was wedged deep between a cluster of woody vines and a sunken log.
To Will, in his half-conscious state, the pressure was the monster's grip. He began to wail—a low, sound of pure grief.
Chance dived under, his eyes stinging. He grabbed the vines with his bare hands, pulling until his knuckles bled. He let out a muffled scream underwater, putting every ounce of his desperation into one final heave. The wood snapped.
He broke the surface and hauled Will toward the muddy shore. He dragged him onto the grass, both of them coated in black silt, shivering. Will was still lost. His lungs hitched, drawing in ragged, sobbing breaths, but his mind stayed in the dark. He reached out blindly, his muddy fingers clutching at Chance’s shirt with a death grip, clinging onto him like a second skin, his body racking with tremors.
Chance didn't pull away. He collapsed into the mud, pulling Will’s shivering body into him. He gathered him up, cradling Will’s head against his chest.
"I've got you, I’ve got you" Chance whimpered, his voice a broken wreck. “You’re here…you’re safe…you’re with me.” He cupped Will's face, his fingers trembling as he wiped mud away from Will's eyes. "Will. Will, look at me. Please. Please look at me. Don’t do this..don’t do this to me. I watched…I watched all of them.." Chance inhaled choking on the tears that were threatening to fall.
Will’s eyes flickered, glazed and distant, searching Chance’s face for a tether. The tears wouldn't stop, streaming down into the mud on his cheeks. He looked at Chance, really looked at him, and for a second, the terror of the Upside Down faded into the reality of the boy holding him.
"Please," Chance whispered again, pressing his forehead against Will's.
Will let out one final, shaky breath, the fight finally leaving him. His eyes closed, and he passed out against Chance’s chest, his small frame going heavy. Chance held him there, rocking him in the dark, his own tears falling onto Will's muddy hair.
Slowly, Chance shifted. He tucked his arms under Will’s knees and back, hoisting him up into a tight, protective carry. He stood unsteadily on the muddy bank, his eyes fixed on the house, and began the long walk back, refusing to let go.
Chance moved with a jagged, frantic energy that made every step through the shadows feel like a sprint against his own heart. He avoided the main enterance where the light was too honest and the people were too sober. Instead, he stayed low, skirting the massive, manicured hedges that acted like walls, hauling Will through the darkness. The boy was a dead weight, his head lolling against Chance’s shoulder, his breathing coming in shallow and barely there.
The noise from the party finally died out as Chance reached the edge of the parking lot. Will was a heavy, cold weight in his arms, his head resting against Chance’s shoulder. Every few seconds, Will’s chest would hitch, a sharp, broken sound that made Chance grip him even tighter.
Most of the people lingering by the cars were too far gone to care. They were slumped over steering wheels or pressed against cold fenders in various stages of a drunken blackout. But just as Chance rounded the edge of a silver Trans Am, a voice pierced through the hum of the night.
"Will? Is that you, Will Byers?"
Chance stopped dead. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his ribs. Standing there was Felix. Felix was from the art club, and he was the kind of person that even the outcasts didn't want to be around. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look huge, and he always smelled like paint and cheap booze. He was the type to stand too close and talk about the texture of cheese.
Felix squinted through the gloom, his head tilting like a confused bird. "Will? Why is he... brown? And who the fuck are you? You look like you crawled out of a sewer."
Chance’s heart hammered against his ribs. His usual razor-sharp wit was gone, replaced by a desperate, fumbling panic. He couldn't be Chance Perez, looking like a swamp creature.
"I'm... I'm his brother," Chance blurted out, his voice cracking. He scrambled through his mind for the name he’d heard in passing, the older Byers kid the one with the camera. "I’m... Jonny. Jonny Byers. He fell. I’m taking him home."
Felix blinked slowly, the alcohol in his system delaying the mental math. "Jonny? I thought his name was—" He trailed off, waving a dismissive, spindly hand but he went on
"He looks terrible. Like a drowned rat. Are you going to paint that? The contrast of the dark silt against his pale skin is quite striking. It’s very 'Death of Marat,' don’t you think?"
"I'm not painting anything, you freak. Move," Chance snapped, his voice cracking with a desperation he couldn't hide. He shoved past Felix, his shoulder clipping the taller boy.
"You're very aggressive for a Byers!" Felix shouted after him, swaying on his feet. "Tell him he missed the lecture on charcoal shading! It was transformative!"
Chance didn't look back. He reached his car—a pristine, black 1986 BMW 7-Series. In any other universe, this car was his temple. Hw wouldn’t let anyone who looked even slightly dirtied to get into the car. He spent hours every Sunday waxing the paint until it looked like a mirror. It was a masterpiece of German engineering, all sharp lines and expensive tan leather.
He didn't give a shit.
He fumbled the keys with muddy, shaking fingers and yanked the passenger door open. He didn't lay down a towel. He didn't stop to think about the ruined upholstery. He slid Will into the seat, the black lake mud instantly staining the pristine leather like an ink blot. Will let out a soft, broken moan as his head hit the headrest, his eyes still rolled back, his body shivering so violently the seatbelt buckles rattled against the plastic trim.
Chance ran to the driver’s side and hopped in. His own wet clothes soaked the floor mats. He started the engine and turned the heater all the way up. The vents started blowing hot air, filling the car with a loud hum.
He grabbed a jacket from the back seat and threw it over Will, tucking it in around his arms to keep the heat in.
"Just stay awake, Will," Chance said. His voice was shaky. He looked at Will’s pale, muddy face.
Chance looked at the big house. He couldn't go back in there. If he called for help, he’d have to explain why they were at the lake. He’d have to explain why he dragged Will to the catwalk. He couldn't let anyone see him like this. He was selfish. He knew he was horrible.
He slammed the car into reverse and tore out of the parking lot, gravel flying everywhere. He didn't even know where the Byers lived—just some shack in the woods, he’d heard—but he couldn't take Will there. Not like this. So he headed for the main road, driving toward his own house.
They were at sixty when Will started to move. His fingers began to scratch at the leather seat, a fast, nervous sound.
"Will? Can you hear me?" Chance reached over, his hand trembling. He didn't touch him—he felt like he might break something if he did.
Will’s eyes remained shut, but his head thrashed against the headrest.
A sound came out of him that wasn't quite a word. It was a sharp, jagged hiss. "Cold," he gasped. "It’s so cold... let me out... don't let it take me back there..."
"I've got you," Chance said, his voice cracking. He pushed the pedal down, the engine’s roar filling the cabin. "I'm not letting anything take you. Just keep breathing, Will. Focus on the air."
Will’s breathing hit a frantic pace. He was lost in a memory of the water, trapped in a place Chance couldn't see. Chance watched him, his own pulse thumping in his throat. He’d lived his whole life believing that if you were fast enough, rich enough, or tough enough, you could handle anything. He had just dived into a freezing marsh and dragged a boy out of the mud; he had done the "hero" part. He thought that would be the end of it.
But seeing Will like this—shaking, terrified, and totally unreachable—made Chance feel small and useless. All his life he has never felt so out of control. He hated it.
Then, Will’s lips moved again. It was a soft, broken whimper that barely carried over the noise of the vents.
"Mike?" Will mumbled. It was a small, desperate plea. "Mike... please..."
Chance slowed the car slightly. He didn't feel a sting of pride or a flash of anger. He just felt a deep, heavy sense of confusion. He knew Mike Wheeler. He was just a kid in a basement. He wasn't particularly strong, or rich, or impressive. He was a nobody.
Yet, as Will was drowning in a nightmare, he wasn't calling for a doctor. He wasn't calling for his mother or brother. He was calling for a boy who wasn't even there.
Chance had just dived into a freezing marsh, torn his hands open on vines, and was currently ruining the interior of his most prized possession to get Will to safety. He was right there. He was the one holding the wheel. But in the dark of Will’s mind, Chance didn't even exist.
Well.
Fuck.
They dint even exist in each other’s lives until 24 hours ago.
It was a total disconnect. Chance lived in a world where you paid for what you wanted and you fought for the top spot. It was all about who was the strongest or the richest. But Mike Wheeler wasn't strong or rich. Yet, in the middle of a nightmare that looked like it was tearing Will's soul apart, Mike was the only name that mattered.
Chance looked over at Will, guilt washing all over him. The reality that he had pushed the boy into his worst nightmare was clawing at his conscience.
He watched the way his eyes thrashed under his lids. He felt a strange, hollow sense of being a stranger. He realized for the first time that there were parts of people—heavy, dark, secret parts—that money and status couldn't touch.
He was helping Will, but he wasn't saving him. He couldn't. He didn't know how to reach wherever Will had gone.
But maybe Mike Wheeler did.
He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the black leather. He didn't say the name back, and he didn't feel a need to compete with it.
Will Byers was carrying a world inside him that Chance couldn't even begin to understand.
Realisation flickered over his features as a deep feeling settled into his gut. The boy next to him was going to Rock and shatter his world all at once and deep down he knew he would just let him.
He stared at the dark road, the silence in the car feeling heavier than the mud on his skin, as he drove them both toward his house.