Chapter Text
Will Byers is painting.
It’s a slow autumn afternoon on a Friday, his classes long-forgotten and the chaos of a master’s degree replaced with the rhythmic sound of brush against canvas and the smell of oil paints. The city hums outside, punctuated by car horns and sirens, but it feels far away. It always does when he’s here, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his apartment with just the canvas in front of him to keep him company.
Ordinarily he might put on a cassette— there’s an expansive collection in the shelf along the wall. He’s got everything from Bowie, to The Cure… even Madonna, sprinkled in there because he can.
That’s been Will’s mantra since he moved to New York five years ago. He does things because he can.
It started with the small things.
He majored in art, because he can.
He started making himself coffee with milk every morning, because he can.
He pierced his ears with two gold hoops, because he can.
Then, with a newfound confidence he never could have imagined blossoming in Hawkins, the whole world opened before him.
He kissed boys, because he can.
He went to bars, because he can.
He made new friends, because he can.
He went absolutely broke junior year, because he can.
He picked up odd jobs at a cafe, because he can.
That wasn’t enough, so he ripped at job flyers on lampposts, walked dogs on the Upper East Side, commissioned paintings for his neighbors, even washed the windows of a bank building. But nothing stuck.
It wasn’t that the money was bad—he was scraping by as best he could with jobs that would rival the positions Robin and Steve always had back home. But he was bored. And, alright… financially, he wanted a comfortable life. Not just a survivable one.
God knows Will Byers has spent far too long just surviving.
The answer came to him in the form of an old, forgotten friend who, through some really wonderful act of kismet, had found herself at NYU in the undergraduate film program at Tisch. They’d shared a writing group for a particularly awful film theory seminar. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken it— it was something much more suited to Jonathan. But his distaste for the subject was offset by the honey-sweet girl who slid into a seat next to him on the first day.
Her name was Nia. She was one of his classmates from Lenora— from a history that seemed so long ago it didn’t exist anymore. She’d confessed early on to having a terminal crush on Will in the six months he’d lived in California.
He told her he was gay in one sentence, because he can.
It was the first time it felt that easy.
Will learned very quickly that Nia was comfortable. She lived in a studio overlooking Washington Square Park with no roommates. Her clothes were soft and expensive, and she never went out at night. She was always glowing, always toned and flouncing into class with effortless grace. Will found himself falling in love with her—not romantically, no, but with the idea of her life and her aura. She was so… her. Secure. Safe. Happy.
Will liked to think that he was happy. That he was so far removed from the trauma of the past it couldn’t find him anymore. But he felt the familiar prickle of dread on the back of his neck when he couldn’t afford to pay the heating bill, plunging his apartment into the kind of cold that took him back to wet, slime-slick walls and the cloying smell of something wrong and rotten. When he couldn’t afford new paints and defaulted to chalky pastels for a project, the waxy smell took him back to hours spent drawing at the Wheeler house. And to think of that brought tears to his eyes and an ache to his throat— a reminder that the past wasn’t too far away. It still lived right under his skin, lying in wait and roaring loud enough to drown out his new reality when activated by memory.
“How do you do it?” Will asked one day. They were three drafts deep into their final papers, huddled over two mugs of coffee at a nearby cafe.
“Do what?” Nia asked.
“Live. Like… afford all of it. I see your wardrobe, Nia. Ralph Lauren? Dior? Manolos?” He asked, voice hushed with reverence.
Her eyes flicked down to the coffee mugs, shoulders tensing. She sighed through her nose and then looked back up at Will, her dark eyes serious and wide.
“You can’t tell anyone. I mean anyone.” She hissed, lowering her voice and leaning in. She smelled like coconut—not that cheap body spray, but something deeper. Warmer.
Will nodded, sticking out his pinky. She wrapped hers around his, curling tightly and prodding him with her red-lacquered nail.
“I dance.”
Will blinked. “You—“
“At a club, Will. In Chelsea.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You’re a stripper?”
She nodded, a slow smile spreading across her face. Thoughts slotted together like Tetris squares in Will’s mind. Her lavish lifestyle, the quiet wealth that spoke of something more than just her part-time job at the video store. The bags under her eyes inexplicable after “a weekend at home”.
The reason she could never hang out past nine and wouldn’t dare take a morning class.
“I’m not, like, a whore or anything. It’s… it’s a good club. They take care of us there.” She explained. “I dance, and I make a lot of money. Mostly Wall Street douchebags and the occasional deadbeat.”
Will shook his head. “I’d never think of you as a whore, Nia,” he whispered. “But—holy shit, Wall Street? You must make a ton.”
She nodded, biting down on her glossed lip with a teasing smile. “Enough to pay for the apartment. Listen… you should come out one night. Watch the show. See what you think.”
Now, Will was perfectly capable of appreciating the female form. Even more capable of supporting his friend. But the idea of walking into a strip club, pressed against sweaty middle-aged stock brokers who likely had a wife at home, was not a savory one.
“There are guys there, too,” she said in a sing-songy voice. “Hot ones.”
Well.
He couldn’t say no to that. So he went to the club that night because he can.
───⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───
Will hadn’t planned to go more than once. It was out of his usual routine, ate into painting time, and was far from his apartment nestled near campus. But the two-story warehouse had beckoned to him, a thumping bassline bleeding out into the street as Nia had led him to a non-descript back door. It was marked with a single word.
Enzo’s.
The night had gone so differently than he’d expected. After paying the entry fee, Nia had introduced him to the other female dancers. They were giggly and flirtatious, showering him in compliments and draping themselves across his body like nymphs. Waitresses in towering heels brought him drinks, fawning over his hair and his pierced ears.
He’d seen Nia perform, mesmerizing and gravity-defying as she spun on the pole, shimmering and bronzed in the neon lights. He’d even paid for a lap dance, just for the two of them to sit in a velvet chair and talk shit about the regulars for twenty minutes. Jokingly, he’d tucked a few bills into her bikini. She’d gasped, scandalized, then fluttered away to work the floor.
There was something alluring about the club. It was as if all pretense was stripped away the moment he walked in. It wasn’t a sleazy joint—no, the owners clearly had standards. Bouncers, muscled and clad in all-black, patrolled the perimeter. Touching was strictly prohibited. Fighting even moreso. There was drinking, of course, and every type of drug under the sun. But the dancers were the gods here, and the men were here to worship.
Gay men in New York City, especially in a place like this, had their way of sniffing each other out. Will decided to wander the building while Nia was preoccupied with a private session— whatever that meant. The first floor of the warehouse was for female dancers only, and a wrought-iron staircase spiraled up to the second floor, which was where Will found himself in his own fantasy-land.
He’d been to gay strip clubs before, but those nights blurred together in a liquor-induced haze from a few years ago. Some errant decision made by Max, giddy and single during one of her temporary break-ups with Lucas (they were steady now, thank God). Will had never found it that enchanting, but now…
Now it looked less like a performance to enjoy, and more of something he wanted to be part of.
Everyone seemed so at home in their bodies, glistening and muscled and graceful as they danced. Will stood by the wall, shadowed by the overhang of thick velvet curtains.
They were unapologetic in their movements, baring almost every inch of themselves and leaving it all on display. Their eyes, always tracking the audience, landing on some unsuspecting viewer, saying watch me. It was a siren song, perfumed with sweat and adrenaline and skill.
God, they were good.
Feeling weak in the knees, Will emerged from the shadows and sunk down into one of the cushy velvet chairs. There was a man performing in nothing but black briefs and a criss-crossed black harness across his chest, silver hardware glittering under the lights. His tanned skin was practically glowing, slick with sweat and flushed from exertion.
He was good-looking. He didn’t fit the criteria that Will was always looking for in every crowd, but he was undeniably handsome. Chiseled jaw, jet-black hair. Brown eyes that finally landed on Will, a twinkle flashing as they made eye contact.
So Will looked back. Come here, he said with his eyes. Hoping that communicated enough.
And it did. The man sunk down from where he was dancing, slipping off the side of the stage and strutting towards Will. His heart started to pound. Did everyone get this nervous, or was this a Will Byers-ism ingrained in him from years of running?
The man leaned over him, bracing himself on the arms of the chair. He sighed, hot breath close to Will’s ear.
“Hi,” he breathed, and Will shivered. “Got enough room, or will I have to sit on your lap, baby?”
Short-circuiting, Will made a choked sound and shifted to allow the man room to sit next to him. He hummed, sitting down next to Will and throwing an arm around his shoulder.
“You’re shy,” he observed. “First time?”
Will nodded, turning towards the man. He was beautiful— like some kind of Greek god. Will’s thin and only-slightly-toned body was not doing him any favors. Nor was the fact that he was wearing an old Clash t-shirt and baggy jeans. But Will vaguely remembered that this man was being paid to pay him any attention, so he relaxed, letting his neck rest on the man’s arm.
“Yeah. My friend… she, uh… she’s a dancer.” He said, gesturing vaguely.
The man threw his head back, chuckling. There were gems on his canines that sparkled, almost cartoonishly.
“Of course she’s your friend. Everyone says that, baby.”
Will laughed in return, shaking his head. “No, no. She really is. We’re in school together. Nia?” He asked.
The man grinned, brilliant and perfect and giddy and amazing and— wow, Will was falling for this hook, line, and sinker.
“Yeah! She’s one of my favorites. God, she knows how to reel them in.” He said. “Usually I’m not on a first name basis with clients, but… for a friend…”
He leaned in smoothly, placing a palm against Will’s chest, his lips going back to his ear. “I’m Chance,” he whispered. “What’s your name?”
“Will,” he answered. And then, absurdly, without thinking: “Can you dance? For me? On me?”
Chance pulled back, lips parted, surprise coloring his features. “Not so shy after all!” He exclaimed. “Where do you want me, Will?”
Will pursed his lips, face flushed with embarrassment. There was really no going back from this now. Maybe he was just curious, the cocktails he’d downed earlier in the evening taking the edge off of his hesitation.
Or maybe he was doing it because he can.
Will bit his lip. His eyes flicked down to his lap, and that was enough for Chance to smirk, withdraw himself, and stand in front of Will. The music, something synth-heavy and sultry, was meant for a moment like this. He smiled down at Will, who was practically vibrating with nervous energy. He couldn’t decide if this was sexy or if he wasn’t drunk enough yet for it to be anything other than painfully embarrassing.
Chance dropped down onto his knees, his hands sliding up Will’s thighs. “Am I gonna have to make you sit on your hands, Will?” He asked, dragging his fingers to his inner thighs and carefully prying his legs apart, creating space.
Will gave into it, spreading his legs wider. “I’ll behave,” he answered, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
“Good,” Chance breathed, and then they were off to the races.
He could move. With fluid grace and practiced motion, Chance danced. He ran his hands up the lengths of Will’s thighs, leaving him breathless and slack-jawed. He’d dip low, low enough to brush his lips across Will’s face, and then draw back, undulating to the hypnotizing beat of the music. Will drank in the sight of him, the leather of his harness digging into that tanned, shimmering skin.
It was a haze of movement and touch. Will gripped the edge of the velvet seat with white knuckles, trembling from the effort it took not to reach out and pull Chance against him. Not because he wanted this man— not really—but because it was nearly unbearable to just… take it all in. To be teased like this.
He understood why Wall Street men spent their millions here.
Minutes passed, and Chance swung his legs over Will’s, straddling him. The music reached some thumping, climactic bass, and Will threw his head back, sweat beading on his forehead. It felt good— to have someone’s warm body draped over his. To feel the rock of their hips, the little panting sighs against his neck. But it felt even better to know that there were people out there in the city so comfortable, so at home with themselves, that they’d give their bodies over to the music. To the indulgence.
Will was intoxicated by the thought.
So intoxicated that his hands reached up to touch Chance’s waist, absentmindedly, as the man straddled him. He took Will by the wrists, gently lowering his hands.
“Ah-ah,” Chance tutted. “You said you’d be good.”
Will moaned. Shameless, unbound, and loud. Mind so scrambled he couldn’t tell if he wanted Chance or wanted to be Chance. He thought about planning a wedding. About having a family. Shit, this is why so many men thought the stripper loved them.
Because they were good at playing love.
Performing it.
That’s all it was, wasn’t it? A performance. A mere imitation of love. A trick of the light. The flash of a pocketbook or a crisp fifty-dollar-bill could get you the man of your dreams, for just one night. Just one song.
As the song faded into something less salacious, Chance settled himself back between Will’s legs, sitting on his knees and staring up at Will.
“What’d you think, Will?”
“Awesome,” Will breathed, and then scowled. “I mean—that’s a stupid way to describe it.”
Chance grinned and he caught another glimpse of the tooth gems. How fun that must be. “Not stupid at all,” he reassured him. “I think it is objectively awesome.”
Will nodded. “To be honest, Chance, it gives me an idea,” he says, the words rushing out in an unplanned torrent— just like everything else he’s said today.
“I think I want to work here.”
───⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───
And so that’s how it started.
Nia had been pleasantly surprised, confessing she’d underestimated Will’s confidence. He wasn’t like Chance, with his brash sex appeal, but he had a quiet, steady confidence that the lead male dancer, Jason, was impressed with the night that Nia had introduced the two of them.
And Enzo, the owner, a quiet and handsome Russian ex-pat who looked like he’d be more at home standing guard at some military base, was charmed by Will’s looks— “a perfect addition,” he’d called him.
It wasn’t easy. School did, admittedly, fall by the wayside. The late nights and early mornings of training and shadowing the other dancers took the place of studying and painting, but there was something particularly addicting about the steady thump of the bass and the feel of a well-landed trick on the pole. The other men preferred just dance, but Will found himself twined around the pole more often than not.
It was painful at times, requiring more focus than he was used to, but he found that the pain— searing and grounding—shocked him out of old memories, out of flashes of the past, replacing it with a thrumming need to be free. To perform.
Because he can.
───⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───
So, three years later, he sits on the floor of his apartment, enjoying the silence. Because he can.
Fridays are the good days when Will rakes in most of his cash. They’re long, relentless shifts— eight hours of blinding smiles and a loose, willing body. Lately, there’s been an increase in lap dances. Lonely men seeking connection.
Connection that Will can provide.
There have also been a few instances of wild, unhinged bachelorette parties. Max had called two days ago, informing Will that he was to be the prize dancer of her new friend Jennifer’s bachelorette night. She brought in a surprising amount of clients for Will, enthusiastically supporting his new work over the years.
Lucas even visited him a few times, shyly refusing a very unserious lap dance or two.
So he’s conserving his energy, working quietly on a painting for his first-year fall exhibition. It’s a swirling work of blue and purple, an abstract galaxy of emotion. For all the hours he spends in the club, he spends few of them actually thinking about dancing. There’s always a through-line in the back of his mind, powering the entire job: art. Ideas, emotions, experiences flowing through him. Sometimes it comes out on the pole, other times it comes out like this.
He already knows what he’s going to title this one. Remembrance.
It’s more impressionist than his usual work, wrought in swirls and daubs of oil paint that form the suggestions of lilacs under an evening sky. He paints purple flowers a lot— has a whole series of small paintings from his undergraduate exhibition. It’s a constant cycle of remembering and honoring.
The club can distract him from the pain, but it’s never helped him fully understand it.
And the sky… that characteristic deep blue, flashes of it in his dreams and across hundreds of canvases. Will tries not to personify it, but it bleeds from the corners of his mind and his heart every time he paints.
“So he lives in New York, but you haven’t seen him since you graduated high school?” Nia asked. It had been one of their nights off, and the two of them were curled up on a new, squashy leather couch that Will had bought with one of his first payouts.
Will shook his head, nursing a glass of wine. “No. He’s at Columbia, as far as I know, and he published a book a few years ago. Went on a tour or something.”
“You have seriously never run into him?” She asked, surprised.
“No. I hope I never do.”
Will had spent the past five years painstakingly avoiding Mike Wheeler. The pain of the Upside Down could be unraveled— could be shared alongside Max and Lucas and Jonathan. Steve and Robin and Dustin, too. God, even Mr. Clarke and Murray understood that.
But the particular pain of being hopelessly in love with Mike could never be untangled. It was an unsolvable knot in his chest that reared its head like a rabid animal every time Will tried to approach it. So he pushed it down, avoiding bookstores and coffee shops near Columbia. Avoiding Hawkins and choosing Montauk every time he left the city, even though he still had friends in Hawkins. Even though he still had the other Wheelers in Hawkins.
“He really did a number on you, huh?” Nia asked quietly, her eyes filled with something that looked like pity— a kind of pity that could never reflect the truth: a deep, resonant sadness.
Now it spills over into everything Will creates. He avoids the emotions as best he can, letting it breathe in layers of acrylics and oil, but never speaking it out loud.
The physical need of it, though, can’t be silenced.
Will wonders if something is deeply wrong with him. After five years of kissing dark-haired boys and opening himself up to them in the dark, he’s never stopped imagining that they’re someone else. Even that first night in the club, he’d searched for someone to fit the bill. Tall and lanky, pale and freckled.
He can never find it.
But he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t helped. The image of Mike beneath him instead of some soulless investment banker spurred him to throw himself into the best performances of his life. The thought of Mike tucking folded cash into his G-string (yeah, he wore those now) fueled his day-off drills. He fantasized about what he would do if it was Mike watching him. Mike sitting on his hands, powerless to touch him.
The thoughts followed him through the club, on the subway, and into his apartment. Into the shower and into his bed, rushing through him in loud, broken moans.
He belonged to the club, but mostly, he belonged still to Mike Wheeler.
And he wasn’t proud of it. But the wads of cash and the comfortable, warm apartment with its perfect lighting and room for a painting studio spoke louder than the shame that pounded in his chest each night he performed to a fantasy.
Will keeps painting, and is startled out of his flow by the shrill tone of the phone.
He stands up, padding over to the kitchen and picking up.
“Hello?”
“What are you wearing tonight?” It’s Chance. They’ve developed an easy friendship over the years, calling each other and meeting for lunch every week in the light of the day. He’s different, then— an easy-going sports therapy student who has a boyfriend and a brownstone in Brooklyn.
“I don’t know, to be honest,” Will hums, walking across the apartment to his bedroom. He’s got a sizeable closet now, everything organized by color and fabric. “Max’s friend’s bachelorette party is tonight. So it’s gotta be something that appeals to the female gaze.”
Chance chuckles. “Briefs, probably. They don’t like seeing too much.”
“Jason called a group of girls ‘cock-shocked’ the other night. We should trademark that,” he laughs.
“Oh my God. They probably already have in Vegas. Anyways— I just wanted to make sure we aren’t too matchy-matchy.” He says.
“What’s wrong with being matchy? Thing One and Thing Two is very sexy, Chance,” Will says, now rifling through his underwear drawer.
“You’re insufferable. I’m wearing red.”
“I’ll do black, then. Ladies like it. It’s… classy,” he decides, pulling a pair of black Calvins from the drawer. “Oh, and the arm harness. Girls love bondage these days.”
Chance scoffs. “I can’t imagine actually liking being tied up. Maybe doing the tying. I’ll ask Andy if he’s into that.”
Will grins, biting his lip. He can imagine being tied up. It’s part of the reason he has so many of these harnesses and belts and chains. He buys them aspirationally, imagining someone tightening the buckles and clasps, the leather tight against his skin—
“Will? Are you with me?”
He coughs. “Yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”
“Right. I was asking if Lucas is coming.”
“No, Chance. Max isn’t bringing her boyfriend to the bachelorette. Hands off,” he chides. Chance’s crush on Lucas is nothing more than puppy love, but Will feels fiercely protective over his longest friendship.
“A shame,” Chance sighs. “Okay, I’ll see you tonight. Nia’s off, right?”
“Yeah. She’s back in California, actually. Family stuff I guess. Usually she’s my subway buddy, but I guess I’m alone tonight.” He says ruefully. The dead, early mornings are lonely, especially after coming down from a long night of adrenaline.
“If I had a longer shift, I’d do it, but I’ve gotta study. Exam on Monday,” Chance explains.
It’s a strange dichotomy: first they’re talking stripper outfits, then they’re complaining about school. Will knows the job isn’t actually sustainable, but he dreams about the day when his exhibit brochures say Will Byers, MFA. Sure, it’s not really necessary for an artist to have the degree, but it looks damn good. It looks like success after years of fighting tool and nail just to live.
So he’ll strip to pay for the damn master’s degree.
“Okay, so… briefs, harness… what else?” Will muses, sucking on his lower lip.
“Black jeans. Those studded boots that you stole from me a few weeks ago,” Chance says. “Pretty… manly tonight, Byers. I’m shocked. Nothing pink or sparkly.”
“Yeah,” Will sighs. “It’s for the girls’ sake, I guess.” He looks back to his closet, where a tempting mesh bodysuit adorned with rhinestones taunts him. Next weekend, he promises.
“Okay. So we’re not matching. I’ll see you tonight, Thing Two.” Chance says.
“Hey, I’m Thing One!” Will protests. “Bye, Chance.”
“See ya,” he chirps, and the line goes dead.
Will sighs and shakes his head, setting the phone on his dresser. He finishes putting together the outfit, shoving it into a worn duffel bag. He folds the harness delicately and lays it on top. Tasteful, he thinks. Edgy, too.
He knows he looks good in practically anything, but this is less salacious than usual. Maybe it’s the self-consciousness that dancing in front of friends inspires. He knows Max never judges— quite the opposite, in fact, but part of him still thinks that she sees him as the fragile kid from Hawkins instead of the confident, steady man he’s becoming.
He swallows the nerves and turns back to his painting.
───⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───
It’s a good night to be at Enzo’s. The lights are dazzling, the house is packed, and the music is good. It’s always good when Will is making the tapes, mining recommendations from Jonathan. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever tell his brother about his weekend job, but he’ll keep taking music suggestions for as long as he can.
The dressing room is packed, men fluttering back and forth as they get ready, trading makeup and sipping water out of chilled bottles. The tip-out has gotten significantly more expensive, but Will can’t complain. There’s always enough water, painkillers, and even a meal or two on busy nights.
He chews a piece of gum, methodically applying eyeliner to his waterline. He’s keeping it low-key tonight, the biggest clients being Max’s group, but he can’t resist the way the makeup highlights his green eyes.
Will likes looking at himself. He never thought he would. It’s easy to imagine himself hunched over a sink in a dim bathroom, staring at the remnants of the Upside Down sliding down the drain.
It all feels so far away now.
“You’re on in five, Byers,” Jason grunts, parading through the dressing room with an air of authority. He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a hot-pink thong. Will rolls his eyes. He doesn’t mind Jason, but he sometimes thinks he’d fit in better as a passionate youth group leader instead of the lead dancer at a strip club. He’s just got an air about him.
“Got it, boss,” Will mutters, finishing up his eyeliner.
The outfit isn’t bad. The boots make him taller, the jeans are tight on his waist, the band of his briefs peeking out from beneath a studded belt.
And the harness… well, it speaks for itself.
“Looking hot,” Chance says, sliding up behind Will and grabbing his waist. “Sluttier than I thought!”
Will swats him away, flushing pink. “Stop it, you dog,” he hisses. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Knock ‘em dead,” Chance calls, taking Will’s spot at the vanity.
Will walks out onto the main floor, shouldering past waitresses and patrons. Thankfully, he’s never stopped here on the first floor— these men are only interested in boobs and bombshell hair. But as soon as he ascends the spiral staircase, it’s like a frenzy of sharks in bloody water.
There’s Tom— easy-going and simple. Gay as all hell. Pays Will well and never tries to touch. Just likes to watch him move on the pole or grind on his lap. Then there’s Richard, and as far as regulars go, he’s one of the worst. Smells like liquor and weed, never washes his hair, and has a tendency to get handsy. But his tips are far bigger than what’s in his pants, so Will powers through every Friday and gives him special attention. Settled between two dancers is Isaac, the closest Will’s ever come to crushing on a client. Sometimes he lets him grab his ass or kiss his neck. As a treat.
It’s kind of like a fucked up family reunion every week. A long series of oh, hey, you’re back to pay my bills and is that new cologne? The men range from openly and proudly gay to the most repressed, lonely guys Will has ever seen. Some are hot, some are not.
Tom gives him a nod as he passes, and Will flashes a smile, wiggling his fingers in a wave. Later, he mouths, and Tom sits back in his chair, getting comfortable.
His regulars, despite their quirks, are all one thing: loyal.
It’s what means the most in a place like this.
Will walks to the dimly-lit hallway lined with velvet curtains, heading past the DJ booth and snagging Zach, one of the best mixers here.
“You got my tape?” He asks over the music.
Zach nods curtly, following Will to the smaller DJ booth nestled in between two private rooms. “Yup. Just give me a thumbs up and I’ll let it roll.”
Will claps him on the back in thanks and takes a steadying breath. He’s buzzing— not with nerves, but with the thrill of a night full of possibility. And this is a familiar routine, one that he’s perfected over the years. It’s second only to breathing now.
He gives a quick thumbs-up to Zach, and the music begins to filter through the deep red velvet curtains at the end of the hall.
Will adjusts the harness one last time, rolls a kink out of his neck, and saunters towards the curtains. He can hear hushed, high voices from within the room. He swings his hips back and forth, walking in rhythm with the song, and then pushes the curtains wide.
“Evening, ladies,” he greets, voice dripping with charm.
There’s a gaggle of girls, gasping with delight as he enters the suite. Max waves, her eyes bright and a flush high on her cheeks. She’s more than a glass of champagne deep tonight.
Jennifer, the bride-to-be, is dressed modestly— far too modest for a strip club. She wears a pink sash and a glittering tiara. Will stoops before her, taking her hand delicately and pressing just the whisper of a kiss to her knuckles.
“To whom do I have the pleasure of entertaining tonight?” He asks, gazing up at the woman through his eyelashes.
“J-Jennifer,” she breathes, already flustered. Off to a great start, he thinks.
He introduces himself by his stage name and falls into an easy routine: something sexy, a little sultry. Nothing too salacious. Max had planned the whole thing, giving Will a detailed breakdown of everything Jennifer was looking for. Personally, he thinks it’s weird to go to a strip club nights before committing the rest of your life to someone, but it’s none of his business.
The ladies are collectively scandalized when Will lets Jennifer unbuckle his belt and unbutton his jeans. They coo and giggle when he drops his pants, revealing powerful thighs and a really, really nice ass.
It’s what he’s known for, after all.
The minutes pass in a blur, easy and rehearsed. Will gives a chair dance. A lap dance. Lets Jennifer smack his ass lightly, much to the amusement of Max, who Will grinds up on just to get on her nerves.
“Ew, Byers,” she says through a laugh.
“I’m sure Lucas would like it,” he purrs into her ear. She slaps his bicep and pushes him playfully.
All in all, it’s uneventful. No one’s clambering to touch him or mouth him through his briefs, which has happened before. If he’s honest, he sighs a breath of relief every time one of these private sessions goes off without a hitch. It’s a good club, but it’s not perfect.
There are still some men that remind him of Lonnie, and some that remind him of Henry. Of vines and choking and gagging. The bad nights are few and far between, but they’re there. He pushes those thoughts down when they bubble up uninvited.
He makes it out after an hour, bills tucked into the waistband of his underwear. He’s pretty sure Jennifer worked up the confidence to peer down his briefs when she tucked the cash there, and he laughs to himself. Max comes up to him afterwards, pulling him into a crushing hug.
“Thanks for doing this,” she says. “I will not be doing this for my wedding.”
“That’s okay,” he quips. “Lucas can do it instead.”
She groans, good-naturedly, and then waves, turning towards the club entrance. “Dinner on Wednesday?”
“Yup. Same time, my place?”
“Always. See you then, Will.”
“Love you, Max.”
“Love you!”
It’s a good start to the night.
He works the floor for another hour, visiting his regular rotation of men. Even Richard is well-behaved tonight, and Will thanks the strip club gods that he smells less like weed than usual and doesn’t have a raging boner.
What a strange world he lives in on Friday nights.
Then he wanders back to the dressing room for a short break, switching out with Jason and a few other dancers.
Chance pushes a salad towards him, something that looks like a sad combination of limp lettuce and overcooked chicken. Will nods in thanks and busies himself organizing his cash. It’s looking like a good night so far.
“Some guy wanted to snort coke out of my belly button,” Chance says with the air of someone commenting on the weather.
“Yeah?” Will snorts. “Did you let him?”
“Yeah. He paid me a hundred bucks and then just… walked away. I think there’s still some in there,” he mutters, peering down at his belly button.
Will laughs, turning back to his salad, and then the door swings open and one of the new female dancers— some distant friend of Jason—comes stomping into the room.
“Stacy!” Chance yelps. “What are you doing?”
Will looks up. She’s beautiful, with coiled golden curls and long, bronzed legs. She puts her hands on her hips, the pink beads on her bikini clinking softly as she moves.
“Oh my God, this guy was acting like he’d never seen a pair of tits before in his life,” Stacy says with a peal of laughter.
“Send him upstairs for Will’s dance,” Chance suggests. Will laughs, sipping water and picking at his salad.
“He was with a bunch of grungy-looking guys. Definitely not Wall Street. Kinda pissed me off,” Stacy grumbles, reapplying her lipstick.
“Are they causing you trouble, Stace?” Will asks. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.
“No. Not really. Most of them were into it, but this guy… he looked like he wanted to murder someone.” She sighs. “Maybe he is gay, and doesn’t know there are guys upstairs.”
“Sometimes they come as a group,” Will says, “and there’s always one repressed gay guy. Happens at least once a week.”
“You’ll undo his repression in twenty minutes flat,” Chance chuckles. “Stacy, go back downstairs. You’ll be okay. You look gorgeous. Don’t let the grunky guy get to you.”
“Grungy,” Will corrects with a snicker. Chance ruffles Will’s hair, scowling.
He sighs, standing and stretching and abandoning the remnants of his salad, and fixes Chance with a glare. “Don’t leave until I come back from my secret mission. I have to report my findings to someone.”
The secret missions were something that Will, Chance, and Nia had established early on. Enzo wasn’t a fan, claiming that any sight of the dancers before a set would “break the illusion,” but Will thought it was an excellent business decision.
Before his last dances, Will would peek out from the curtains and survey his audience. Get a feel for the regulars and the crowd. Then he’d tailor his performance to them— customized, designed with care, and meant to rake in as much cash as possible.
Tonight, he slips out of the dressing room and down the hall— not toward the private rooms, but through a door to the back of the stage.
Will creeps up to the slit in the curtain and his eyes flick from side to side. Tom’s still there, waiting on his favorite part of the night— the pole routines. Will smiles to himself. And then there’s a gaggle of very drunk women surrounding Jason.
His eyes catch on a man slouched in one of the velvet chairs. Will tilts his head, something tugging at the back of his mind. The hunch of his shoulders is familiar. A classmate? Former roommate? He’s seen people he knows before here. Usually a group of guys from NYU or someone from an art studio or gallery. It wouldn’t be unusual.
Will’s eyes look away for a moment, surveying the rest of the floor. Lots of eyes on him tonight.
But his gaze is drawn back to the figure in the chair, and he narrows his eyes, that flicker of familiarity growing stronger.
And then the man raises his head.
It has the force of a gut punch and the pain of a fresh bone-break. Every ounce of air leaves Will in a single, short gasp. The world narrows to the man in the velvet chair and the pounding in Will’s ears.
Stacy’s description of the group of guys— one who looked murderous and uninterested in boobs— returns to his mind. Will almost laughs. It’s funny, in a sick and twisted way. What the fuck would he be doing here?
It cannot be. It will not be. Will’s mind supplies a million explanations: a doppleganger. A trick of the light. A ghost. Vecna, somehow resurrected and generating visions in a New York strip club.
But as the man settles back into a more comfortable position, Will’s disbelief crystallizes into sharp panic.
He’s wearing a blazer and a faded band tee. His hair is unkempt. He’s still lanky and folding in on himself, just slightly broader in the shoulders and sharper in the face.
He’s still achingly, unfortunately perfect.
Will careens backwards, stumbling over himself and hitting the wall with a dull thud. He hasn’t spiraled like this in years. Can’t afford to spiral like this. He sinks down to the floor, raking his hands through his hair. Sweat gathers on his brow.
Suddenly he feels foolish. The harness is no longer sexy— it’s gimmicky and cheap. He’s a clown, not a performer. He’s a disgrace. He’s nothing, and he doesn’t belong here.
He’s back at the MAC-Z.
Some minds just don’t belong in this world.
Will tilts his head back, swallowing back a torrent of panic that’s rising in his throat. He never meant to make Mike the totem of his trauma— and maybe he never did. Maybe it was Vecna who did that, showing him a version of Mike who hated him. Who was disgusted by things like tight shorts and earrings. They’re visions that haunt him late at night, after long shifts and lonely rides on the subway.
Henry was dead and gone. But maybe— in some fucked up way—he kind of won.
Everyone fought to save Will Byers all those years ago, and what did he do in thanks?
Become a gay stripper.
He bursts out the door, stumbling in a haze back to the dressing room. Chance is talking to other dancers, smoking a cigarette. He looks up, stricken, as Will grabs him by the arm.
“Sheep,” Will gasps.
Chance blanches, nodding, and hands Will the cigarette. He pushes the other dancers aside and pulls Will through the dressing room and out through the door that leads down a staircase to the back alley.
The city is loud and chaotic around them, the rush of the last taxis and distant sirens and men hollering grounding Will back in reality.
“You cried sheep,” Chance says, leaning against the brick wall and lighting another cigarette.
Will takes a drag, steadying himself.
“I can’t go out there.”
“Will, what?”
“There—listen, it’s a long story. Decades long. But I can’t go out there and dance. There’s someone there, and I—“
Chance raises a hand. “Wait. Is it someone dangerous? Someone who hurt you? An ex?”
Will feels tears prick the backs of his eyes and shakes his head, then nods. Then shakes his head again. There’s no way to explain that somehow Mike Wheeler is all of these things and none of them.
“It’s just a guy I knew. From home. But I don’t— alright, fuck, it’s my childhood best friend.”
Chance’s eyes widen. “Oh my God. Miles? Mark?”
“Mike.”
The name is a death knell.
Chance exhales slowly and nods, narrowing his eyes. Will can practically see the gears turning.
“You can’t choke,” he says slowly. Will nods. It’s the truth. It’s his rent on the line. His job. “And we can’t exactly kick him out. He didn’t do anything.”
He didn’t do anything. Yeah. He never did. That was the problem.
“I’m going to die,” Will says, a whine edging into his voice. He’s shaking, but not from the chilled air.
Chance grips him by the shoulders. “You’re going to be fine. You’ve got shock value on your side. Show… Miller, or whatever his name is, who you are now.”
“I don’t think I want him to know,” Will whispers. “He— no one besides Max and Lucas know about this. I can’t, Chance.”
“You can. You have to, Will. Plus… Enzo will kill you. Or replace your spot with Jason, which is arguably worse.”
Will does cringe at the thought. So he swallows and nods. “Got any liquor on you?”
A slow smile spreads across Chance’s face as he steers Will back towards the door. Back into the club. Back to where an old nightmare is waiting. An old dream. The manifestation of everything ancient and painful and burning and lusting—
“Liquid courage,” Chance says, startling Will out of his haze. “Here.”
He hands him a shot glass. Will doesn’t even think about what it is as he slams it back, bitter and burning against his dry throat.
“You have a song?” Chance asks.
“Yeah. A good one. I’ll keep the original routine. It’s nothing exciting, but—“
“Will. Chill out. Just… do your thing. Who knows? Maybe he left already.” He says with a hopeful smile.
Will shrugs.
“Don’t make eye contact. Focus on that one regular. Tom. He loves you. Okay? You’re not Will, you’re— Will, are you with me?”
Will nods, fighting the prickle on the back of his neck. He swallows, taking a deep breath. Fumbles with the button of his jeans. Chance helps. Now he’s just in the briefs and the boots, the harness a painful reminder of how performative this all feels.
“You got this, Byers,” Chance whispers, squeezing his shoulder.
He nods and turns to the door, slipping backstage. Zach already has the mix—he turns it on automatically when the clock strikes twelve. Will’s Midnight Tape, each one is labeled, with the date and the number of the track.
The digital clock above the stage says 11:58. Will wishes he could stop time, just this once.
He could run.
God knows he has before. In other dimensions. From friends. From family. From Hawkins. From anything that pricked the fragile veil he’d thrown over the past. It all feels sick and familiar: the pounding of his heart, the buzz beneath his skin. Being chased by something no one else can see.
But this is his life. Even though his heart still belongs to the man sitting beyond the curtains, the rest of him is just Will. The night, the club, the dance… all of it belongs to him now.
He’s used fantasies of Mike to power his work before. He’ll do it again tonight. Nothing has to change. Will swallows down the notion that this time, it’s real. Hell, maybe Chance is right and he has nothing to worry about— maybe Mike got bored and left already.
He exhales, standing before the curtains, his heart hammering in his ears. The opening notes of his song ring out over the PA. He rolls his shoulders back. He hears Zach announce his stage name. He runs his tongue over his teeth. Bites his lip. Gives himself a countdown, fighting the urge to sprint out of the club and run as far as he can.
Five, four, three, two, one.
Will steps out onto the stage.
✦✧✦✧