Chapter Text
For exactly four minutes after the car pulled away as he watched it from his window, Will Byers felt nothing. Then the silence hit.
It wasn't the quiet itself. The dorm hallway outside was full of distant voices, loud and obnoxious, doors opening and closing, the heavy thud of a dragging suitcase.
It was the kind of silence that came from absence.
From the now empty space his mom's hectic voice had been filling all morning. From his now empty side where Jonathan had been. From the now empty doorway Hopper had stood in for too long before finally saying, gruff and awkward, “We'll visit soon, kid,” like he didn't quite know how to say goodbye.
Will stood in the middle of the dorm and turned slowly in a circle, taking it in.
Two beds. Two desks. Two closets.
One of them wasn't his.
One half of the room was covered in instruments.
There was an electric guitar leaning against the wall, an acoustic one on the bed, a keyboard on the desk, drum pads stacked in the corner, cables coiled everywhere, tangled up on the floor.
Whoever his roommate was, they weren't casually into music. This was the kind of setup someone cherished, built their life around.
Will went still, head cocking sideways.
Okay. Music major. That was fine. That was normal.
He took a few careful steps toward the desk on the other side– and then stopped.
There was a glass tank sitting on it.
Inside it, something moved.
Will stared at it for a long, frozen second.
“Oh no.”
The thing in the tank shifted again, legs flexing against the glass with a sound like fingernails dragging across a chalkboard. Will's breath hitched.
He hadn't seen spiders this big outside of his very real nightmares in Hawkins.
Thick-bodied, hairy, wrong in their stillness, ready to pounce and devour–
He took a stumbling step back, knocking his hip against the edge of his own desk.
The pain barely registered. His pulse skidded against his ribs, the way it always did when his body decided danger was present before his brain caught up.
It's just a spider, he told himself, pressing his palms flat against the desk behind him. A normal, alive, not from the Upside Down spider. But his throat stayed tight. He couldn't look away. The creature's abdomen pulsed under the terrarium light, and Will felt his own skin prickle with the phantom memory of a dark shadow wrapping around his arms, entering his mouth, filling him up everywhere, everywhere–
The door handle turned.
Will jerked around so fast his shoulder slammed into the wall. The lock clicked. The knob turned fully.
And there he was, his roommate.
Will's lungs emptied.
For a second, time bent.
Dark hair, pale skin, that familiar slope of shoulders. Mike, standing in the doorway–
The mug slipped from his numb fingers.
The hot chocolate he had made in place of coffee exploded across the floor. The ceramic cracked sharply against the tile, the sound barely covering his sharp intake of air. Liquid splattered up the stranger's shoes-because it wasn't Mike, it wasn't, it couldn't be-but the resemblance was close enough to knock the breath out of him.
Will stared, frozen, as the boy in the doorway blinked down at the mess, then up at him with eyes that were sharper than Mike's had ever been. More guarded. Watchful.
“Uh,” Will managed, throat tight. “Sorry.”
“Don't apologize,” the boy said mildly, already stepping around the spill. He tossed his backpack onto the bed and grabbed a roll of paper towels from his desk. His movements were efficient, practiced. “You must be my roommate.”
Will nodded mutely. His pulse hadn't slowed. Up close, the differences were clearer; The curl of his hair was looser, his lips plumpier, his shoulders narrower–but the shape of his face, the angle of his jaw, the shadows those overly familiar cheekbones cast, it was all close enough to make Will's chest ache.
The boy crouched, mopping up the hot chocolate with quick swipes. Will knelt to help, fingers brushing the damp towels. A spark of static jumped between them. Will jerked back.
“Miles,” the boy said, glancing up. His voice was lower than Mike's, rougher at the edges. “Miles Fairchild.”
“Will Byers.” His own voice sounded wrong to his ear, too high, too tight. “Sorry about…” he trailed off, “About the mess.”
Miles shook his head, tossing the ruined towels into the trash. His hands were longer than Mike's, knuckles sharper. A thin silver ring glinted on his thumb. Will stared at it. It was something Mike would never wear, but then Miles turned, and the light caught his profile just so, and suddenly it was Hawkins again, Mike leaning in too close, and Friends, Best Friends–
Will stood abruptly, heart racing. “Bathroom,” he muttered, not waiting for a reply, already backing away.
The lock clicked behind him louder than necessary. Will pressed his palms flat against the sink, breathing hard.
He frowned at his reflection: wide eyed, pale, a drop of chocolate staining the yellow of his sweater. He looked ridiculous. He felt ridiculous.
It was just a face. Just a face. But his chest ached, like something inside him had been yanked backward.
Outside, Miles moved quietly. The bed creaked, a soft thud of shoes being kicked off accompanying it.
Will exhaled shakily and turned on the tap. He flinched at the feeling of the cold water that splashed over his skin. He counted the tiles on the floor. Twelve. Twelve tiles between here and the door. Twelve tiles between him and–
Not Mike.
He gripped the sink harder. His knuckles whitened. The resemblance wasn't that close. The hair was curlier, the nose sharper, the shoulders narrower.
But the way he had tilted his head when he spoke, the way his fingers had curled around the paper towels–
He squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn't fair. He'd left Hawkins to get away from this, from the ache of wanting something he couldn't have, from the ghost of Mike Wheeler's oblivious laughter echoing in every quiet moment.
The universe had a cruel sense of humor. He laughed once. It sounded wrong.
A knock at the door. Will startled.
"You okay in there?" Miles' voice, muffled through the wood. Lower than Mike's. Rougher.
Will felt his heart stutter. He swallowed. "Yeah. Fine."
A pause. Then footsteps retreating. Will exhaled shakily and turned the tap off. He needed to get out of this bathroom. He needed to stop acting like a freak in front of the person he was going to be living with for the next nine months. He straightened his shirt, wiped his palms on his jeans, and forced himself to turn the knob.
The room smelled like hot chocolate and cleaner. Miles had wiped up the spill entirely, even the splatter on the carpet, somehow.
He was sitting cross-legged on his bed now, flipping through sheet music with one hand, eating a granola bar with the other. Will hovered near the bathroom door.
"You didn't have to," His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Clean up. I could have done it—”
"It's fine." Miles interrupted, glancing up. His expression was neither warm nor cold, just watching. Like he was cataloging Will's every breath.
Will pressed his thumbnail into his palm, avoiding the other's gaze. The air felt tight. Miles' eyes dropped back to his sheet music. He took another bite of the granola bar. The wrapper crinkled loudly in the quiet.
Will turned abruptly toward his suitcase. He yanked it open too hard, the zipper screeching. His hands shook as he pulled out folded clothes. Jeans, shirts, socks, anything to keep his trembling hands busy, stacking them haphazardly on the bed. Anything to avoid looking at Mike's– his profile.
A soft thrum filled the room, Miles tapping his fingers against the sheet music. Will froze. The sound was rhythmic, musical.
Tap tap tap.
Will exhaled shakily. It wasn't Mike's restless pencil bouncing against his notebook as he figured out their next campaign, he reminded himself.
It wasn't Hawkins.
It. Wasn't. Mike.
Across the room, the spider shifted in its tank. Will flinched.
"You're afraid of spiders." Miles' voice was free of mockery, just observant. Clinical.
Will pressed his lips shut. "Yeah." His throat felt raw.
Miles nodded once, then stood abruptly, walking to his desk. He grabbed the terrarium, bare handed, Will noted with muted horror. He carried it to the closet, and Will blinked in confusion as the door clicked shut.
"Better?" Miles asked, turning around to look at him.
Will blinked. "You're just,” he trailed off, “gonna keep it in there?"
"Tarantulas don't need light." Miles shrugged as he wiped his palms on his jeans.
Will didn't respond, trying to process.
Miles cleared his throat, sighing.
"Her name's Flower." He offered.
Will exhaled shakily. The relief was irrational. The spider still existed, still lurked three feet away, but the distance helped. He forced himself to look at Miles properly for the first time since the spill. The resemblance was still there. In the slope of his shoulders, in the way his hair curled at the nape. But his movements were sharper than Mike's ever were. More controlled, less flailing.
Will inhaled slowly, shaking himself out of his thoughts. "Thanks." His voice sounded too thin.
Miles nodded once and turned back to his desk. The moment stretched, thick with tension. Will noted the way Miles didn't ask why Will had reacted so badly, the way Will didn't feel the need to explain for once.
Mike would have already been fretting by now, he thought, asking if he's okay– no, no, don't go there, Will berated himself.
Will forced himself to move, unpacking clothes with trembling hands. The fabric was unexplainably loud, he found, as he folded shirts too carefully, aligning seams, hoping the precision could ground him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Miles flipping through sheet music. His movements were methodical, unhurried, and the contrast between their rhythms felt suddenly unbearable. Will's pulse still hadn't slowed.
A knock at the door startled them both. Miles barely flinched as it flung open, but Will dropped the sweater he was holding.
Jonathan stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder. His gaze flickered from Will's tense shoulders to Miles sitting cross legged on the bed, expression dropping in shock before doing a double take.
Will saw the exact moment recognition hit his brother's face. Jonathan's fingers twitched against his backpack strap, eyes narrowing slightly in that way they always did when he assessed weird, unusual, and possibly supernatural situations.
Of course. Silence again.
"Uh," Jonathan said eloquently, breaking it, glancing back at Will. He fumbled for a few seconds, not having thought of what to say.
"Hungry?" He managed.
Will nearly cried from relief. "Starving."
They escaped into the hallway, Will almost sprinting out of the door. The hallway smelled like industrial cleaner and microwave popcorn. It didn't help with the wave of nausea crashing through him.
Will kept his shoulders rigid until they turned the corner, then sagged against the wall. Jonathan leaned beside him, studying Will's face with quiet intensity.
"You okay?"
Will exhaled sharply. "Do you see it?" He asked, ignoring his brother's question.
Jonathan hesitated too long, eyes pitying, before saying carefully, "A little."
A shudder ran through Will. It wasn't just him. The resemblance existed objectively. That somehow made it worse.
Jonathan's fingers tightened around his backpack strap. "He seems... different though." He noted, voice quiet.
Will pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The differences were there. The sharper jawline, the way Miles moved with restrained precision rather than Mike's restless energy. But did those matter when the sight of Miles' hands flipping through sheet music made Will's stomach drop?
Jonathan sighed, leading them as they walked, neither of them speaking.
When they arrived, the dining hall was packed with people, mostly first years with their families. The buzz in Will's head worsened, but the noise served well to drown out his racing thoughts.
Jonathan slid a plate across the table, and Will kept his eyes fixed on the fries in it as he avoided his brother's gaze.
"You gonna tell me what's really going on?" Jonathan asked quietly. He didn't look up from unwrapping his burger.
Will stabbed a fry into ketchup. "Nothing's going on. It's just... weird."
Jonathan's lack of words broke when Will finally glanced up. Jonathan's eyebrows were raised, expectant.
Will exhaled sharply. "Fine. He looks–"
"–like Mike." Jonathan nodded. "Yeah. I saw."
Will pressed his palms flat against the table. The cafeteria noise, all the laughter, the trays clattering, the conversations, faded into a dull roar in his ears. He stared at the table, the faded blue paint painting his mind full of images, of soft laughter, of Mike, making his skin itch.
"It's not fair." He whispered, almost under his breath.
Jonathan heard but didn't ask what he meant.
"You okay?"
Will laughed a brittle, humorless sound. "Oh, totally. I moved three states away to get away from this." He picked at a thread hanging off his sweater.
"And now…" He trailed off, voice breaking.
Jonathan's fingers tapped restlessly against his cup, sighing. "He's not Mike."
"I know that." Will's voice cracked, annoyance bleeding into his voice. Who was it directed at, he wondered.
"But when he walked in…” He trailed off, biting his bottom lip so hard he tasted copper. Jonathan's mouth twitched in sympathy.
Across the dining hall, someone dropped a tray with a clatter. Will flinched. Jonathan's eyes flicked with sadness, but he said nothing. Will exhaled sharply through his nose.
"I should go back," he muttered, shy under his brother's eyes. "Before he thinks I'm avoiding him."
Jonathan tapped his hands against the table. "You are avoiding him." He noted.
Will glared. The other just shrugged and stole one of his fries.
The last of the light faded when Will finally pushed open the door to his dorm, hands shaking.
Miles was sitting at his desk, headphones on, fingers moving in quick, precise patterns over his laptop keyboard. He didn't look up when Will entered. Just shifted slightly, angling his body away in a gesture that wasn't quite dismissal but wasn't an invitation either.
Will exhaled silently through his nose and moved to his own bed. The sheets were still crisply folded where Joyce had made them that morning. He sat stiffly on the edge, watching the other boy's reflection in the dark window. The city lights blurred behind him, turning his profile into something distant and untouchable, almost inhumane. Strangely, Will felt the need to draw it.
The now all too familiar quiet continued. Will counted the taps of Miles' fingers against the keys. Nine before he stopped.
Miles pulled off his headphones with a soft sigh and stretched his arms overhead. Will watched the hem of his shirt ride up, revealing a strip of pale skin above his waistband. He looked away too fast.
"You good?" Miles asked suddenly, voice low.
Will's throat clicked when he swallowed. "Yeah. Just tired." He lied through his teeth.
Miles hummed, noncommittal. He reached for a water bottle and took a slow sip. Will tracked the movement of his throat, the way his Adam's apple bobbed. Different from Mike's, sharper, more pronounced. The realization sent an odd pang through his chest and a weird heat to his cheeks.
The fridge buzzed. Will curled his fingers into his sheets. He could feel Miles' presence like a physical weight, the memory of his childhood best friend hovering over him. Hundreds of feet away and somehow still in his head.
"I'm gonna turn in," Miles said eventually, his low voice cutting off Will's train of thought.
The mattress creaked as he shifted. "You good with lights out?" He mumbled.
Will nodded before remembering Miles couldn't see him in the dark. "Yeah," he managed to rasp out. "Fine."
The click of the lamp switch was obscenely loud. Darkness settled between their beds. Will squeezed his eyes shut as it pressed too close, panic climbing his spine until Miles exhaled softly, the sound barely louder than the hum of the mini fridge. It broke the anxiety pooling low in Will's gut.
Will turned onto his side. The streetlight outside cast long shadows through the blinds. Miles' silhouette lay motionless. Maybe a bit too motionless. Like he was holding his breath too, like the darkness was choking him quietly in the same way.
Will counted seconds. Thirty seven passed before Miles shifted, sheets rustling, mattress creaking faintly. The sound sent an inexplicable jolt through Will's stomach. He curled tighter into himself, pressing his knees together. A tangle in his throat cut off his airways.
The spider's enclosure hidden away behind the closet suddenly appeared in the back of Will's mind. Will imagined the thing's– Flower's hairy, long legs twitching against the glass. He shuddered. Miles' breathing remained steady. The way Will's did too back in Hawkins as he pretended to be asleep.
Will exhaled through his nose. The fridge continued buzzing. A car alarm echoed somewhere distant. He pressed his cheek into the pillow. Too warm now, he sighed, reaching to turn it the other way. The stillness of the room was too loud.
Miles turned again. The sound of fabric rustling made Will freeze as he listened to the quiet hitch of breath that followed. Neither of them spoke. The fluorescent numbers on Will's alarm clock blinked, casting faint blue light across Miles' forearm where it lay outstretched on top of the covers. 1:23 AM. His fingers twitched once, curling inward, like he was holding something back.
Will squeezed his eyes shut. He shouldn't look. He shouldn't care. But the darkness made everything sharper. He noted the scent of Miles' shampoo (something subtle, minty, slightly woody, unfamiliar), the soft sound of his fingers tapping against the sheet (a nervous habit? Mike used to–), the way his exhales came just slightly uneven.
Will rolled onto his back, eyes almost teary from overwhelm. The ceiling was painted with shadows. He counted them until his vision blurred even more. Outside, a stranger yelled at a driver, profanities much too loud in the night, and Miles flinched. Will watched his silhouette tense, then forcibly relax. Interesting. Curiosity tickled Will's mind.
"Can't sleep?" Will whispered before he could stop himself.
A quiet tension followed, one that informed Will of the mistake of opening his mouth.
Why did you speak? Why do you always ruin things, why do you always ruin everything–
"No." Miles' reply was rough with sleeplessness.
Will flinched. He gulped, taking a shaky breath. "Me neither."
A car's tires screeched outside. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. Will run his tongue against his teeth, tasting toothpaste and something metallic. He was suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between their beds. Six feet. He could cross it in four steps.
Miles exhaled sharply through his nose. "Flower's nocturnal," he said abruptly. "She's probably awake too." He stated, almost to himself, like the thought of the spider being awake made his inability to fall asleep more bearable.
Will tensed. The closet loomed at the edge of his vision. "Oh. Great." he muttered, blinking slowly.
Both boys went quiet.
“Why'd you name her that? Flower.” Will's voice broke the dark, a little too sharp, a little too loud.
Miles shifted, the sheets murmuring as he moved. His breath stayed even.
“Used to be scared of them,” he said after a moment. “Killed one once. Didn't sit right.”
His tone was detached, guarded.
A quiet pause.
“So I got her. Named her after my sister.” His tone was simple, almost matter of fact.
“Flora.” He added, and his voice sounded soft around the edges of the word.
“Keeps me careful.” He sounded almost surprised, like the sentence slipped past his lips on its own.
Will's brain stuttered, mind storing that away unconsciously.
Miles exhaled, fingers twisting in the sheets. The confession settled strangely between them. It felt too intimate for strangers, too raw for small talk. A siren wailed in the distance, shifting away gradually past their window.
Miles shifted again. The bedsprings creaked obnoxiously. “You still afraid?” He asked, almost under his breath.
Will's jaw locked. His pulse throbbed in his temples. “Kind of.” He hesitated, heart twisting in guilt, then added, “Sorry.”
“Don't be.” Miles' voice was quiet but firm. “Fear's information. Tells you something. That's all.”
Will blinked, staring at the ceiling. The shadows shifted as clouds passed over the moon. Information. Not weakness. Not something to apologize for. His chest ached suddenly, not with panic, but with something sharper. A sense of recognition.
A pause, heavier this time. Will flexed his fingers against the sheets. Across the room, Miles sighed a soft, exhausted sound. He rolled onto his side. The bedsprings groaned softly.
Will said nothing for a second. “You said Flora.” The name tasted unfamiliar on his tongue. “Your sister.”
Miles stilled. The absence of words was long enough that Will almost took it back, but before he could, the other answered, tone low and darker than the lack of light in the room.
“Boarding school. London.” A beat. “Safer.”
Will frowned. Safer from what? The question hovered between them, unasked. Outside, a car alarm chirped twice before cutting off abruptly. The contrast of how loud the outside of the dorm was compared to the inside of the room was almost hilarious, Will thought.
Miles exhaled sharply through his nose. Some kind of a laugh, but not quite.
“You ever been?” Miles asked suddenly. His fingers twitched against the sheet.
“Safe?” Will blurted, dumbly. He almost facepalmed at his own words, wanting nothing more than to sew his mouth shut.
The slight pause before Miles answered made something curious twitch in his stomach.
“London.” Miles clarified.
Will blinked at the ceiling. “No.” His voice cracked.
“I've never been outside of my hometown. Hawkins.” He answered. “Well, other than the one year I lived in California.” He added as an afterthought.
A quiet beat. Miles shifted again. The bedsprings creaked softly. Will imagined him lying there, staring at the same ceiling shadows, counting the same cracks.
“Hawkins,” Miles repeated, testing the word. His tone gave nothing away.
The radiator clicked once, twice, before sputtering to life with a weird metallic groan. Warm air whispered through the vents, stirring the cold dorm air. Somewhere outside, a student laughed too loudly, drunk off happiness or alcohol or both. Will wondered if he had ever laughed like that in recent years.
Miles hummed. “Never been to Indiana.”
Will traced the scratch on the wall, pressing his nail into the groove. “Not missing much.”
A quiet chuckle. It stirred something in Will's stomach, something that made his eyebrows furrow in confusion at it.
Miles shifted, the bedsprings creaking softly beneath his weight. Will imagined him lying there, shoulders tense beneath his shirt, fingers restless against the sheets. It was easier like this, he noted. Without the face.
Will sighed, exasperated, and curled onto his side, pressing his knees together. He counted Miles' breaths. The way they were even was too controlled, like he was consciously regulating them, Will observed.
"We should sleep," Miles cut his inner thoughts, murmuring, his voice filled with exhaustion. His elbow creaked as he rolled onto his back.
"Early class." He explained.
Will blinked at the ceiling. A shadow darkened the tiles diagonally, interrupted by a water stain shaped like a paintbrush. Hm. Art. When was his own first class again?
"Yeah," he lied. His pulse still hadn't slowed, and his mind was still at a blank about his class.
The digital clock glowed on Will's nightstand. 2:42 AM.
Miles exhaled sharply, not quite a sigh, more like a form of punctuation. A thick quietness pooled between their beds again.
"Goodnight, Will."
Will froze. First names.
This was stupid.
Somehow, that made his stomach drop more than the spider had. It was ridiculous how his own name, spoken in that voice, made his insides churn.
"Goodnight," he managed to croak out, too softly.
Will's exhaustion finally dragged him under without asking, his body and mind heavy. The last thing he registered was the faint, rhythmic tap of Miles' fingers against the mattress. Was he counting beats, or just fidgeting? Will couldn't tell.
The sound blurred into his dreams, becoming the familiar ticking of a clock in Hawkins. It was the sound that always started the less than pleasant ones.