Chapter Text
El knows something is wrong.
She isn’t always good with social rules or unspoken expectations, but she is observant. She learned how to read bodies long before she learned how to read people. It was a survival skill, something she had to develop when she was raised like a lab rat, when tone and posture mattered more than words.
She can tell Mike and Will are hiding something.
Will especially.
She has never been able to read Mike completely. He lies sometimes, even when he swears he won’t. El doesn’t think he does it on purpose. It feels more like habit, like something he slips into without realizing. A defense he forgets to turn off.
But Will is different.
Will has been acting strange in a way that doesn’t feel accidental. Quieter. Tighter. Like he’s carrying something heavy and trying not to let it show. His smiles come late, his laughter doesn’t linger, and when he thinks no one is watching, his face falls into something raw and unguarded.
El watches him carefully.
Whatever it is, she knows it isn’t small.
After their conversation, Will seems lighter. Not fixed, not suddenly okay, but less weighed down. He laughs a little easier. He talks more. The tension in his shoulders loosens just enough to notice.
And still, there’s a sadness that lingers.
El sees it in the way his smile fades too quickly, in how he goes quiet when he thinks no one is paying attention. It bothers her more than she expects. Relief would make sense. Happiness would make sense. This in-between feeling does not.
She wishes Max were here. Max would know what to say, or at least how to say it without making things worse. Max would call it what it is and not flinch.
El thinks about talking to Nancy. She thinks about Joyce too. But they’re both protective in a way that feels complicated. Of Mike. Of Will. El isn’t sure what would happen if she brought this to them. She isn’t sure whose side they’d take, or if sides are even the right way to think about it.
So she watches instead.
She listens.
And she keeps the worry to herself, hoping that whatever is weighing on Will will loosen in time—without anyone getting hurt.
In the end, El decides to talk to Hopper.
Hopper won’t lie to her. He might dodge. He might grumble. But he doesn’t lie when it counts.
She finds him at the table, sleeves rolled up, staring into a mug like it might tell him something useful. She stands there for a moment before speaking.
“Hopper,” she says. “Is there some love that is wrong?”
He looks up, caught completely off guard.
“What?” he says, then softer, “Kid—” He stops, rubs a hand over his mouth, thinking. He wasn’t ready for that question. Not from her.
He leans back in the chair, exhales slowly. “Okay. Uh. Let’s start here.” He clears his throat. “There are some assholes in this world who make their entire lives about deciding who gets to love who. What counts. What doesn’t.”
El watches his face carefully.
“They call it morals,” Hopper continues, irritation creeping in. “But mostly it’s fear. And control. People like that are called bigots.” He shakes his head. “And they’re wrong.”
She absorbs that, quiet.
Hopper’s voice softens. “Love itself? That’s not wrong.”
He studies her now, really looks at her. “This about someone in particular?”
El doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.
Hopper’s expression shifts. Not surprise. Recognition.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Thought so.”
They sit in silence for a moment, the question still hanging between them.
“There are different kinds of love,” El says after a while. “Right?”
Hopper nods. “Yeah. There are.”
“Romantic,” she says. “Family. Friends.”
“That’s right.”
El frowns, thinking. “Can love change?”
Hopper considers that. He doesn’t rush this one.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “It can change shape. Change how it shows up. Doesn’t always disappear, though.”
She looks at him. “What about when someone dies?”
That stops him.
He stares at the table, jaw tightening, eyes distant. For a moment, El thinks he won’t answer. Then he takes a breath.
“My daughter,” Hopper says quietly. “Sara.”
El stays still. Listening.
“I loved her when she was alive,” he continues. “Loved her more than anything. That didn’t stop when she died.” He swallows. “It just… changed. Became something heavier. Something I carried instead of something I got to hold.”
El tilts her head. “Did it go away?”
He shakes his head immediately. “No. Never did.” He gives a small, sad smile. “It still tells me who I am. What matters. What I’m willing to fight for.”
He looks back at her then, voice steady but gentle.
“Love doesn’t vanish just because circumstances change,” Hopper says. “It sticks around. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it teaches you. Sometimes it just… waits.”
El thinks about that.
“So love isn’t wrong,” she says slowly. “People are.”
Hopper lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah, kid. You got it.”
He reaches across the table, squeezes her hand.
“And anyone who tells you otherwise?” he adds. “They can answer to me.”
El nods, something in her chest easing.
She doesn’t say who she’s thinking about.
Hopper doesn’t ask again.
She can’t stop thinking about it.
About what Will told her.
About the way he’s been moving through the world lately.
About how Mike won’t quite meet her eyes anymore, how he stiffens or flinches when she leans in to kiss him.
She promised herself she wouldn’t spy on Mike again.
She meant it. Really. He had asked her not to, and she understood why. But it’s hard not to notice when someone you care about starts moving differently—talking less, guarding things he never used to guard.
So she tells herself she’s just checking in.
She pulls the blindfold over her eyes, settles onto the couch, and lets the television static bloom in her head. The familiar hum steadies her as she reaches out, careful and light.
She finds Mike easily.
He’s with Will.
They’re talking—no, arguing. About something stupid, she can tell even without hearing the words. The energy is familiar. Irritated but safe. The kind of argument that’s really just noise, the kind that slips easily into laughter. Their conversation flows the way it always has, effortless and practiced.
El smiles to herself.
Good, she thinks. He’s okay. Mike is smiling. He’s laughing. He has Will.
She’s about to pull back, about to let it go, when something shifts.
The argument fades. The space between them changes. Mike looks at Will—and El’s smile disappears.
She knows that look.
It’s the way he used to look at her. Soft. Focused. Like the rest of the room has fallen away.
Before she can fully register it, Mike leans in, says something low and teasing—something playful in a way he never was with her. Will rolls his eyes, fond, and leans in too, like this is familiar. Like it’s happened before.
They kiss.
Not awkward. Not hesitant. It’s immediate and hungry, laughter caught between them as they fumble onto the couch. Mike jokes about locking the door this time—last time was a close call—and Will shoves him, grinning, before kissing him again.
El’s breath catches.
This isn’t like anything she and Mike ever had. There’s no uncertainty here. No testing. It’s instinctive. Mutual. Charged in a way she can feel even from this distance. Last time. The words echo.
Her grip on the static slips.
She pulls back abruptly, heart racing, the room snapping back into focus around her. The blindfold slides into her lap.
El sits there, stunned.
She isn’t angry.
Not exactly.
She isn’t even hurt in the way she expected.
She’s trying to understand.
Because suddenly, so many things make sense at once—and she doesn’t yet know what that means for her, for Mike, or for Will.
She takes a slow breath and presses her feet into the floor, grounding herself.
The television screen is dark now. El stares at her reflection in it, quietly rewriting the shape of the world in her head. There’s a small, aching sense of betrayal she can’t quite explain—a hurt without a clear name—but it’s there, steady and real, waiting for her to figure out what to do with it.
She had imagined Mike with other girls before. Had felt jealousy flare sharp and possessive the one time Max got too close. Back then, it had been simple. Mike was hers. That was the shape of the world, and she hadn’t known how to imagine anything outside of it.
This is different.
She feels betrayed that he kept this from her, that he let her believe in something that was already changing behind her back. That part hurts, quiet and dull, lodged somewhere under her ribs.
But she isn’t devastated the way she expects to be.
Before, love had burned hot. It had been fierce and territorial, full of anger and certainty. A thing that demanded to be defended.
Now there’s no fury. No instinct to lash out.
Just confusion.
She doesn’t know if what she’s feeling is loss, or relief, or the growing understanding that what she thought love was might not be the only way it exists. She doesn’t know where that leaves her, or Mike, or the version of herself that once believed he could only belong to her.
She only knows that the world feels different now—and she’s standing in the middle of it, trying to decide what comes next.
And
She never even considered it.
Two boys kissing. The idea had never crossed her mind, not because it felt wrong, but because it simply hadn’t existed in her world. She’d never seen it on television. No one had ever talked about it. It wasn’t something the scientists in the lab taught her. It wasn’t something Hopper warned her about.
She didn’t know it was an option.
And now that she did, she had questions.
Naturally, she goes to Hopper.
He’s at the counter when she finds him, halfway through his morning coffee, still grumpy and half-awake. She doesn’t ease into it. El never does.
“Can two boys kiss each other?” she asks.
Hopper immediately chokes on his coffee.
He coughs hard, slaps a hand on the counter, eyes watering. “Jesus—kid,” he wheezes. “You can’t just—”
El watches him calmly, waiting.
He clears his throat, straightens, and shoots her a look. “Where is this coming from?”
She shrugs. “I saw something.”
That’s all she says.
Hopper studies her for a long moment, like he’s weighing how much to ask and how much not to. Then he sighs, rubs a hand over his face.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, they can. And girls can kiss girls."
El nods, absorbing that. “Okay.”
“That’s… normal,” Hopper adds, a little defensive, like he’s making sure he says it right. “Not everybody talks about it. Especially not around here. But it happens.”
She tilts her head. “Is it bad?”
“No,” Hopper says immediately. “It’s not bad.”
“But some people think it is,” she says.
Hopper’s jaw tightens. “Some people think a lot of stupid things.”
El considers this. “So it’s like love.”
He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. It is love.”
She frowns slightly. “Then why don’t people say it? Are they afraid?"
Hopper exhales slowly. “Because some folks are scared of things they don’t understand. And sometimes being scared turns into being mean.”
She thinks about Mike. About Will. About the way it looked.
“Do people get hurt?” she asks.
Hopper’s voice softens. “Sometimes. But that’s not because of the love. That’s because of the world. People are cruel when things don't fit in their little boxes."
El nods again, satisfied for now.
Hopper watches her carefully. “You okay, kid?”
She thinks about it. Really thinks.
“I don’t know yet,” she says honestly.
He gives a small, tired smile. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Hopper watches her longer than necessary.
“So,” he says eventually, casual in a way that isn’t fooling either of them. “This thing you saw.”
El doesn’t look up. “Yes.”
He nods once. “And you and Mike… you were still—” He stops, clears his throat. “You hadn’t ended things.”
“I don’t think so,” El says. “We didn’t say anything.”
“That usually means something,” Hopper mutters.
There’s a pause.
“You feel mad?” he asks, carefully.
El thinks about it. “A little.”
“That’s fair,” he says quickly. “I mean—if someone crosses a line without saying so first, that’s… not great.”
She nods. “I don’t like that he didn’t tell me.”
Hopper waits.
“But,” El adds, quieter, “I don’t feel how I thought I would.”
He glances at her. “How’s that?”
“I thought it would hurt more,” she admits. “Or that I’d be angry. Before, when I felt jealous, it was loud. Hot.” She presses her fingers together. “This is not like that.”
“So what is it like?”
She struggles for the word. “Confusing.”
Hopper exhales slowly. “Yeah. I get that."
Another beat.
“Sometimes,” he says, not looking at her, “people change before they realize they have. Feelings don’t always end with a big announcement. Sometimes they just… move. And change."
El absorbs that. “So it’s possible to care about someone and not want them the same way.”
“Very possible,” Hopper says.
She nods. “Then maybe I didn’t lose something.” She hesitates. “Maybe it was already different.”
Hopper studies her face. “Doesn’t mean you can’t still feel hurt.”
“I do,” she says. “Just not… broken.”
He gives a small, approving grunt. “That sounds like you know yourself better than you think.”
She leans back in her chair. “What about them?”
Hopper stiffens slightly. Just for a second.
“When people have been through hell,” he says carefully. “Sometimes they find comfort where they’re safest.”
El considers that. “That doesn’t make it right.”
“No,” Hopper agrees. “But it doesn’t make it black or white."
She nods, slow and thoughtful.
“I don’t want to fight,” she says.
Hopper softens. “You don’t have to. You get to decide what this means for you. Not tonight. Not all at once. You can sort things out by yourself."
El sits with that.
After a moment, she says, “I think my love changed.”
Hopper doesn’t argue.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That happens. People grow and change."
And for the first time since she pulled the blindfold away, El feels like the ground under her feet is still there—even if the world above it looks different now.
She takes a few days.
She talks to Nancy, asks questions she doesn’t fully know how to phrase. She asks Robin, indirectly, about love that doesn’t fit into neat shapes. She listens more than she talks. She pays attention to how people describe who they miss, who they imagine growing old with, who they picture when they think about the future.
And she notices something important.
When she and Will talked about the future, about RVs and Rome and wide-open roads, she never mentioned Mike. Not once.
She hadn’t even noticed until now.
The realization settles quietly, heavy but clarifying. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place.
So she decides to bring it up.
Not over the phone. Not through someone else. This is something that needs to be said in person.
She waits until night, until the house is quiet, then sneaks into Mike’s basement the way she’s done a hundred times before. She knows it’s risky. She knows she’s supposed to stay hidden. But this feels bigger than that.
She sits on the old couch, hands folded in her lap, heart steady but fast.
She waits.
She hears the door upstairs. Voices. Footsteps. Laughter that cuts off abruptly when they come down the stairs and see her sitting there.
“El?” Mike says immediately, panic flaring. “What—are you okay? You’re not supposed to be out. Did something happen? Did they—”
Will steps closer, eyes scanning her like he’s checking for injuries. “Are you hurt?”
“Did Hopper know you were coming?” Mike adds. “Is everything—”
“I’m fine,” El says calmly. She closes the door with a nod of her chin and it locks.
They both stop talking at once.
She stands slowly. Looks between them.
"I saw you,” she says.
The words land heavy and final.
Will goes pale immediately. It’s like all the blood drains out of him at once. His breath catches, shoulders curling inward, hands twisting together like he’s bracing for impact.
“El—I—I’m sorry,” he blurts, words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t mean—I swear I didn’t want to hurt you, I just—” His voice breaks. “I never meant for it to be like this.”
Mike reacts on instinct, sharp and defensive.
“You spied on us?” he snaps. “El, that’s not—You can’t just—”
She turns to him slowly, eyes steady but shining.
“You cheated on me?” she asks.
The room goes dead silent.
Mike opens his mouth. Closes it. Runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically grab hold of a thought.
“I—” He exhales hard. “I don’t know. We weren’t— I mean, we didn’t say anything. After California things were just… different.”
“So you just didn’t tell me?” El says, her voice tight now. “I was still your girlfriend, Mike. How was I supposed to know we were broken up if you just avoided me?”
Mike flinches. “I didn’t avoid you.”
“You wouldn’t look at me,” she says. “You pulled away when I kissed you.”
He swallows. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”
Will looks like he might be sick. He scrubs his hands against his jeans, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m really sorry. I am. I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t want it to happen this way. It just… happened. And I didn’t know how to stop it.”
El turns to him, her expression softening despite herself.
“I know,” she says quietly.
Both of them freeze.
Mike blinks. “You… know?”
She nods. “I know you didn’t do it to hurt me.”
Will’s eyes fill instantly. “I would never,” he says, voice cracking. “I swear to you. Never.”
El takes a shaky breath. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”
Mike’s shoulders sag. “I should’ve told you.”
“Yes,” she says simply. “You should have.”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be.
They sit there, heavy and unresolved, the truth finally out in the open and no one quite sure what to do with it yet.
“And,” she adds, quieter, “I thought I would feel worse.”
Mike blinks. “What?”
“I thought I’d be angry,” El says. “Or devastated. Or… furious.” She searches for the words. “That’s how love used to feel. Loud. Possessive.”
She looks down for a moment, then back up at him.
“But when I think about the future,” she says, “you’re not there. And I didn’t even notice until now.”
Mike goes very still.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” she continues. “I do. A lot.” Her voice softens. “But I think my love changed before yours did.”
Will looks between them, terrified. “El, you don’t have to say that just to make this easier.”
“I’m not,” she says gently. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
Mike’s voice is small now. “So what does that mean?”
El exhales. “It means we should stop pretending.” She meets his eyes. “And it means I don’t want to fight.”
She turns to Will. “And it means I don’t hate you.”
Will breaks at that, tears spilling over. He covers his face, shaking.
“I was so scared,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to take something that was yours.”
El steps closer. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
The words settle into the room.
Mike looks between them, stunned, guilt and relief twisted together in his chest. “So… what are we supposed to do?”
El thinks for a moment.
“I don’t know yet,” she says honestly. “But I think this is the first time we’re actually telling the truth.”
She takes a breath, steadying herself.
“I’m mad at both of you,” she adds. “For lying to me. For not talking to me. For making me feel like I was imagining things.” She looks at Mike pointedly, then back at Will. “That part really hurt.”
Both of them nod, silent.
“But,” El continues, quieter now, “I’m not mad that you’re together.” She hesitates, then says it anyway. “I’m happy that you’re happy, Will. And Mike… you make him happy.” She tilts her head, considering. “You’re not a great boyfriend,” she adds plainly, “but I hope that changes.”
Mike lets out a weak, incredulous laugh. Will wipes at his eyes, half-laughing, half-crying.
El watches them, something easing in her chest.
She hesitates, then clears her throat.
“But I do have some questions,” El says.
Mike and Will both tense instinctively.
"So… how does it work?” she asks. “With reproduction, the woman has the egg and the man has the sperm, but how does that work with two men?”
Both of them freeze.
“And if it doesn’t,” she continues, brow furrowed as she tries to reason it through, “then what happens?” She pauses, thinking it over. “I know people have sex for fun sometimes—Hop says only if you’re married—but how does it actually work if you can’t?” She gestures vaguely, searching for the words. “Because the parts—”
“El,” Mike says quickly, mortified.
Will lets out a shaky laugh despite himself. “Oh my god.”
She looks between them, confused smiling. “What?”
Mike rubs his face. “Okay. Okay. Maybe—maybe some of these questions are not a right now thing.”
“Oh,” El says. Then, after a beat, “Later?”
Will nods, still smiling through the leftover adrenaline.
She accepts that easily. “Okay.” Then she adds, helpfully, “I will make a list.”
Mike groans. Will laughs again, softer this time.
And for the first time all night, the room feels almost normal.