Chapter Text
If Eddie had to guess, he’d say Chrissy was about three seconds away from flipping the cafeteria table. Not that she would—Cunningham was far too composed for that—but the way her fingers were drumming against the sticky laminate surface, the way her smile had tightened into something that looked more like a grimace? Yeah. She was close.
“I just don’t know what we’re going to do,” Chrissy sighed, dropping her head into her hands. Her cheerleading bow, a violent shade of Hawkins Tiger orange, bounced with the motion. “The pep rally is in four days. Four! And Jessica picks now to get mono? It’s so inconsiderate.”
Across from her, Robin shoveled a spoonful of questionable mashed potatoes into her mouth and shrugged. “Maybe it’s not mono. Maybe she’s just discovered the existential dread of senior year and has chosen to retreat from society. I’d respect that.”
“She’s puking,” Chrissy said flatly.
“Oh.” Robin paused. “Yeah, that’s mono.”
Eddie spun his own spoon on the table, watching it wobble to a stop. “So you’re down a flyer. Can’t you just, I don’t know, rearrange the pyramid? Make it a slightly less ambitious geometric structure? A trapezoid of spirit, perhaps?”
Chrissy shot him a look that could have melted steel. “It’s not just the pyramid, Eddie. It’s the basket toss, the liberty, the routine. Everything is choreographed for eight people. Seven doesn’t work. The math is wrong.”
“Ah, the math,” Eddie nodded sagely. “The ancient enemy of cheer.”
Robin snorted into her chocolate milk. “Why don’t you just ask someone? There’s gotta be another girl in gym who can do a back handspring.”
“That’s the problem!” Chrissy groaned, leaning back. “Everyone who’s already any good is already on the squad or on the gymnastics team. And everyone else is either too scared of getting dropped on their head or can’t even do a cartwheel without face-planting. We need someone strong, light, and flexible.” She said the last word like it was a holy grail, some mythical quality possessed only by the chosen few.
A beat of silence passed, filled by the roar of the cafeteria around them. Then Robin’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” she said, like she’d just remembered something. “Wait. What about Will Byers?”
Eddie’s spinning spoon clattered to a halt. Chrissy blinked. “Will Byers?”
“Yeah! Will Byers,” Robin repeated, gaining steam. “He’s, like, weirdly strong? I saw him hauling like three massive portfolios to the art room last week like they were nothing. And he’s definitely light. And I’m pretty sure he’s flexible.”
Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. He leaned forward, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Hold on. Rewind. How do you know Byers is flexible, Buckley?”
Robin’s cheeks went instantly, brilliantly pink. She pointed her spoon at him. “That is not the point of this conversation—”
“It is now!” Eddie crowed.
“It’s really not,” Robin insisted, but she was fighting a smile. “The point is, he could probably do it. He’s got the build for it. And he’s a sophomore, so he doesn’t have that many hardcore electives yet, so his schedule might be flexible—stop it, Munson, not that kind of flexible—I mean he might have room for practices!”
Chrissy was no longer listening to their bickering. A transformation had come over her. The grimace was gone, replaced by a dazzling, hopeful light. She sat up straight, her eyes shining. “Will Byers,” she breathed, like she was tasting the idea. “Jonathan’s little brother? Quiet art kid?”
“That’s the one,” Robin said, finally escaping Eddie’s teasing gaze. “He’s in my art elective. He’s actually really good. And nice. He wouldn’t be a diva about it.”
“Oh my god,” Chrissy whispered, and then louder, “Oh my god! Robin, you’re a genius!” She was out of her seat in a flash, gathering her trash with frantic, graceful movements. “I have to go find him right now. If I catch him before fourth period—!”
“Chrissy, wait,” Robin tried, but it was too late. Chrissy was a woman on a mission, a whirlwind of orange ribbon and desperate optimism. She shot them a blinding smile.
“You two are lifesavers!” And then she was gone, weaving through the crowded tables like a hawk spotting its prey.
An awkward silence settled over their table. Well, awkward for Robin. Eddie found it delightful. He propped his chin on his hand and let his grin widen.
“So,” he drawled. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Robin busied herself with an intense interest in her empty milk carton. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“How. Do you know. Will Byers. Is flexible.”
“That,” Robin said, standing up and slinging her bag over her shoulder with an air of finality, “is none of your business.” Her ears were still pink.
Eddie’s laugh followed her as she speed-walked away, but his mind was already turning, spinning a new, delicious thread of gossip. Will Byers. A cheerleader.
He couldn’t wait to see how this played out.
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Mike was having a very normal, very platonic, totally-not-crisis-inducing lunch with his friends when the universe decided to tilt on its axis.
He was mid-argument with Lucas about the viability of a zone defense versus man-to-man—a classic, comfortable debate—when a flash of orange entered his peripheral vision. Then a sweet, determined voice cut through the cafeteria din.
“Will? Will Byers!”
Mike turned. Chrissy Cunningham was standing at the end of their table, hands clasped, beaming at a startled-looking Will.
“Hi! Sorry to interrupt,” she said, though she didn’t sound sorry at all. “I have a huge, massive, gigantic favor to ask you.”
Will wiped his hands on his jeans, looking up at her with wide, confused eyes. “Uh. Hey, Chrissy. What’s up?”
Mike’s brain short-circuited. Since when did Will know Chrissy Cunningham? Since when did Chrissy say Will’s name like that, like he was the answer to a problem?
“So, Jessica has mono,” Chrissy launched in, as if this explained everything. “And we’re down a flyer for the pep rally and the rest of the season, probably, and Robin mentioned you might be able to help? She said you’re strong and, you know, flexible?” Chrissy said the word with a hopeful lilt.
Across the table, Dustin choked on his sandwich.
Will looked like he’d been gently slapped. “I… what?”
“On the cheer squad,” Chrissy clarified, as if it wasn’t already the most insane sentence ever uttered in Hawkins High. “Just temporarily! You’d just need to learn the routines for the pep rally and the home games. It’s super fun, I promise! And the uniform is cute.”
The world zeroed in on a single, horrifying image: Will Byers. In a cheerleading uniform.
Mike’s fork slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto his tray. Lucas kicked him under the table, but Mike couldn’t even feel it. He was too busy watching a faint, bewildered blush creep up Will’s neck.
“I… I don’t know anything about cheerleading,” Will stammered.
“That’s okay! We’ll teach you! You’re an artist, right? You’ve got, like, spatial awareness. And Robin said you’re strong.” Chrissy leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that Mike still somehow heard perfectly. “Please, Will? We’re desperate. I’ll owe you forever. Free snacks for life.”
Will glanced around the table, seeking an escape route, his eyes finally landing on Mike. Mike stared back, his own brain offering exactly zero helpful words. Say no, he thought, desperately. Say you have… art. Or a sudden, debilitating fear of pom-poms.
Will’s shoulders slumped. He let out a soft, defeated sigh—a sound Mike knew well. It was the sound Will made when he was about to do something nice, even if it was insane.
“Okay,” Will said, the word barely audible. “I guess… I can try?”
Chrissy squealed, actually squealed, and clapped her hands together. “You are an angel! Oh my god, thank you! Meet me in the gym after school, okay? We’ll start basics!” She reached out and squeezed Will’s shoulder, then bounced away, leaving a vortex of stunned silence in her wake.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Dustin was the first to break.
“So,” he said, his voice full of awe. “You’re a cheerleader now.”
Will buried his face in his hands. “Oh, god.”
Lucas was grinning, the traitor. “I mean, it kind of makes sense. You do have good balance.”
“Shut up,” Will mumbled into his palms.
Mike finally managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You don’t have to do it,” he blurted out. “You can still back out. Tell her you have… chronic joint pain. Or a moral objection to coordinated chanting.”
Will peeked through his fingers at Mike. There was a strange, vulnerable look in his eyes—part embarrassment, part a flicker of something else. Challenge? Amusement? “I said I’d try,” he said quietly. “It’s just a few weeks.”
Just a few weeks. Mike’s stomach did a complicated, nauseating flip that had nothing to do with the cafeteria meatloaf.
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Will was, historically speaking, a gym-class avoider of the highest caliber. He knew the art wing like the back of his hand—the smell of turpentine and clay, the exact squeak of the third tile from the left in the photography darkroom. He could navigate the library blindfolded. But the athletic wing? That was uncharted, hostile territory.
He stood at the junction of two hallways, his backpack straps digging into his shoulders. The final bell had rung twenty minutes ago, and the corridors were haunted by the echoes of slamming lockers and the distant shrieks of tennis practice from the fields outside. Left, he thought, had the trophy cases. Right led past the locker rooms, which smelled perpetually of damp and regret. The gym had to be past one of them.
“Lost, Byers?”
Will jumped, nearly dropping his sketchbook. Chance Perez was leaning against a bank of lockers, a basketball tucked under one arm, a slow smile spreading across his face. He looked like he’d been there awhile, like he’d just finished shooting hoops alone and was in no rush to leave. The late-afternoon sun sliced through the high windows, catching the sweat at his temples and turning him into something out of a sports drink commercial—all golden light and easy confidence.
“Not lost,” Will said, too quickly. “Just… strategically delayed.”
Chance’s smile widened. He pushed off the lockers and took a few lazy steps forward. “Strategic delay, huh? That’s a new one. Looking for the gym?”
Will felt his cheeks warm. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s seen you actively take the seven-minute detour to avoid walking past the weight room.” Chance’s tone was teasing, but not unkind. “C’mon. I’m headed there anyway. Left my water bottle. I’ll walk you.”
Will fell into step beside him, acutely aware of the thump-thump-thump of the basketball dribbling idly against the linoleum between Chance’s strides. It was a steady, rhythmic sound that felt louder than it should have in the empty hall.
“So,” Chance said, glancing down at him. “Cheerleading, huh?”
“Temporarily,” Will stressed, gripping his sketchbook tighter. “Very, very temporarily. It’s just a favor. Chrissy has this… persuasive desperation.”
Chance laughed, a warm, rolling sound. “She does that. When she wants something, the whole universe bends to get it for her. Still. It’s cool of you to help out.”
“It’s insane,” Will corrected, but he couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t know the first thing about any of it. I’m probably going to face-plant off the pyramid and become a cautionary tale.”
“Nah,” Chance said, shaking his head. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got the build for it. Lean. Strong.” He said it plainly, a simple observation, but it made Will’s neck prickle. “And you’re an artist, right? That’s just physics and shapes. A basket toss is just… aggressive figure drawing.”
Will blinked. “That is the worst analogy I’ve ever heard.”
“But you’re thinking about it,” Chance countered, grinning. He stopped in front of a set of heavy double doors with small, wire-reinforced windows. “Here you go. The lion’s den.”
Through the windows, Will could see Chrissy and a few other girls in shorts and tank tops stretching on the gleaming floor. Robin was there too, talking animatedly with her hands. It looked both terrifying and bizarrely ordinary.
He swallowed. “Right. Thanks for the escort.”
“Anytime,” Chance said. He shifted the basketball to his other hip, his arm brushing against Will’s shoulder. “Seriously. If the girls get too intense, just hide in the boys’ locker room. They never check in there. I can be your lookout.”
The offer was so casually, stupidly chivalrous that Will let out a real laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
For a second, Chance just looked at him, that easy smile softening into something quieter. The hallway was silent save for the hum of the fluorescents. Will became hyper-aware of the distance between them—or the lack of it. The smell of clean sweat and Ivory soap on Chance’s skin. The way his varsity jacket was slung over his backpack strap.
“You know,” Chance said, his voice dropping just a half-step, “most of the team is pretty excited about the new addition. Might actually give us a reason to pay attention during the pre-game pomp.”
Will’s heart did a funny little stutter that had nothing to do with pep rallies. “Oh,” he managed. “Well. Don’t expect too much. I might just stand there and look confused.”
“Confused works,” Chance said, and winked.
It was so blatant. So ridiculously, stereotypically jock that it should have been cheesy. But the delivery—the genuine warmth in his eyes, the unshakable confidence—made it feel… different. It felt real.
The gym door swung open with a burst of noise and girlish laughter. Robin popped her head out. “Will! There you—oh. Hey, Chance.”
“Buckley,” Chance nodded, his public-facing smile back in place. “Don’t work him too hard. He’s a national treasure.” He gave Will a final, light pat on the back. “See you around, Byers. Good luck.”
Then he was gone, sauntering back down the hall with that infuriating, bouncing basketball, leaving Will standing there feeling oddly untethered.
“So,” Robin said, her voice dripping with implication. “Getting a personal escort. Fancy.”
“He was just being nice,” Will mumbled, pushing past her into the bright, echoing vastness of the gym.
“Mhm,” Robin hummed, following him. “Very nice. Very, very nice. Did you know his eyes are actually hazel, not brown? I noticed because he was standing very close.”
“Shut up,” Will hissed, but the blush was back, full-force.
Chrissy bounded over, her ponytail swinging. “Will! You made it! Okay, first things first—” She thrust a bundle of fabric into his arms. It was soft, folded, and a vibrant, undeniable green. “—we need to see how the uniform fits! The boys’ locker room is right over there. We’ll start with stretches when you’re done!”
Will looked down at the fabric in his hands. The reality of it all crashed over him—the crisp smell of new polyester, the sheer audacity of what he was about to do. For a fleeting, wild second, he thought of Mike’s face at lunch—the dropped fork, the wide, stunned eyes, the strangled “You don’t have to do it.”
He thought of Chance’s easy grin in the empty hallway. “You’ll be fine.”
He was holding a cheerleading uniform. Mike had looked at him like he’d just announced he was moving to Mars. And Chance winked.
What, he thought with a sort of dizzying clarity, is my life?
“Go on!” Chrissy chirped, giving him a gentle shove toward the locker room door.
Will went, his sketchbook forgotten on the bleachers, the touch still warm on his back, and the looming, terrifying image of Mike’s confused, conflicted eyes waiting for him somewhere in the future.
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The gym floor was blindingly bright. The second he pushed through the locker room door, the chatter died.
Will froze, one hand still on the doorframe. Five pairs of eyes locked onto him. Chrissy, Robin, and three other cheerleaders—Amber, Taylor, and Sofia—were all sitting in a stretching circle. They went perfectly, utterly still.
He felt like a specimen. A very green, very awkward specimen.
His face was on fire. He could feel the blush spreading from his cheeks down his neck. He resisted the violent urge to yank the skirt down. It wouldn’t help.
For a long, painful second, no one spoke. The only sound was the buzz of the overhead lights and the distant thump of a basketball from some far-off court.
He saw their eyes travel. From his face, down the line of the crop top, over the skirt, to his legs, and back up. Their expressions weren’t mean. They weren’t laughing. They were… assessing. And what he saw in that assessment—the raised eyebrows, the slight tilts of the head—wasn’t mockery. It was something closer to surprise. Intrigue, even.
He looks good, Amber mouthed to Taylor, who nodded slowly, a small smile playing on her lips.
Will was going to spontaneously combust.
It was Robin who broke the silence. She let out a low, appreciative whistle that echoed in the vast space. “Well, damn, Byers,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife through warm butter. “The school colors really work on you. Who knew?”
The spell broke. Chrissy bounced to her feet, her eyes sparkling. “Oh my gosh, Will! It fits perfectly! You look amazing! See? I told you the uniform was cute!”
Will managed a strangled noise that was supposed to be “thanks” but came out as more of a cough.
“Okay, team!” Chrissy clapped her hands, all business again. “Let’s not stare, it’s rude. Will, come join the circle. We’re just starting with some dynamic stretches. Robin’s our choreographer for the new routines, so she’s in charge of making you less… well, less like a baby deer on ice.”
Robin stood up, stretching her arms overhead with a grin. “Don’t worry, Byers. We’ll start easy. Today is all about seeing what you can do. And by ‘what you can do,’ I mostly mean ‘how far you can bend without crying.’”
The other girls giggled, but it was warm, inviting. Sofia patted the empty space on the mat next to her. “C’mon, rookie. The floor’s not gonna bite.”
Will shuffled over, hyper-aware of the swish-swish of the skirt with every step. He sat down, tucking his legs under him, feeling the cool vinyl of the mat through the thin fabric. This was it. No turning back.
“Alright,” Robin said, standing in front of them like a camp counselor. “First rule of cheer: everything comes from your core. If your core is spaghetti, you’re gonna be spaghetti in the air. And nobody wants spaghetti. It’s sad and liable to get sauce on people.” She dropped into a deep lunge, demonstrating. “So we’re gonna wake that up. Follow me.”
The next twenty minutes were a blur of controlled, unfamiliar movement. Will’s world narrowed to the burn in his muscles, Robin’s clear instructions, and the feeling of the skirt riding up when he tried to do a leg swing. He was painfully conscious of his body in a way he never was in art class—every stretch, every balance check felt exposed.
But a strange thing happened. As he moved, focusing on the point of his toe during a hamstring stretch, on keeping his back straight during a V-sit, the initial panic began to recede. This was just… physics. And shapes. Aggressive figure drawing, a warm, teasing voice echoed in his head.
“Whoa, okay,” Robin said, stopping as Will effortlessly folded himself forward, chest to knees, fingers reaching past his feet. “You were not kidding about the flexible thing.”
Chrissy beamed. “See? I told you he was a natural!”
“I didn’t say natural,” Robin corrected, circling him. “I said flexible. There’s a difference. But okay, Byers. Let’s see the goods. Can you do a backbend?”
Will pushed himself up, his palms sweaty. He hadn’t done one since he was maybe twelve, messing around in the Byers’ living room. He took a breath, raised his arms, and went for it.
The world inverted. The ceiling lights swam above him, the gym stretching out in a weird, upside-down panorama. He held it, his body forming a shaky but passable arch. The crop top rode up, exposing a strip of his stomach to the cool air.
“Solid!” Chrissy cheered. “Now, can you walk your hands in?”
He tried, shuffling his hands a few inches closer to his feet. The arch deepened. The girls made impressed noises.
“Okay, seriously,” Amber said, her voice amused. “Where did you come from, Byers? Most guys on the football team can’t touch their toes.”
Will came out of the backbend, dizzy and flushed for a new reason. A flicker of something—pride?—warmed his chest. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… bend?”
The rest of the practice was a blur of basic jumps—tucks, spreads, attempts at a herkie that ended with Will landing in a slightly graceless heap. The girls were encouraging, shouting pointers, laughing with him when he messed up. It was terrifying and exhausting and, in a weird way, kind of fun. He was sweating, the white fabric sticking to his skin, his hair plastered to his forehead.
During a water break, as he gulped from a paper cup, he looked at his reflection in the dark gym window. A flushed, disheveled boy in a cheer skirt stared back. He thought of Mike’s horrified, frozen face at lunch. Then he thought of Chance’s easy smile in the hallway, the wink, the “See you around, Byers.”
Two poles of a magnet. One repelling, one attracting.
And him, right in the middle, dressed in orange, learning how to fly.
“Hey, daydreamer!” Robin called, tossing a pom-pom at his head. It bounced off his shoulder. “Break’s over! Time to learn what a ‘liberty’ is and why it’s a terrible name for a stunt!”
Will put the cup down. He squared his shoulders, felt the skirt swish.
Okay, he thought. Let’s do this.