Archive of Our Own ^beta

By the fall of 1989, Hawkins still smelled faintly of smoke.

It clung to the brick of the school, to the twisted cracks webbing through the parking lot, to the boarded up storefronts downtown that nobody had the money or courage to fix yet. Some mornings, when the wind slid just right along the ruined fields, Will could swear he smelled burnt chemicals and damp earth, like the Upside Down had just taken a deep breath beneath his feet.

Most days he could almost forget it. Most days there was the scrape of chalk in art class, the hiss of Walkmans, the squeak of sneakers in the gym down the hall. There was Dustin’s laugh, Lucas’s sarcastic commentary, Max’s eye rolls. There was Mike.

And now, there was this new thing too: the way his own voice had sounded in the Byers’ living room a month ago, when he said the words out loud.

“I, don't like girls- i mean i do, just not like you guys do....”

He’d practiced it in front of his bedroom mirror first, whisper quiet, then louder, like saying a spell. In the living room it came out shaky and thin, hands twisted together so tight his knuckles hurt. His mom had cried, but in that soft, relieved way, like she’d been holding the knowledge like a fragile glass for years and someone finally told her she could set it down.

Jonathan had hugged him, eyes wet, telling him he loved him exactly the same. And the Party… they’d been themselves.

Dustin had almost fallen off the couch in his rush to say, “Dude, we love you, obviously,” like the idea that anything would change was the craziest thing he’d ever heard. Lucas had nodded, solemn and gentle, and Max smirked like she’d won a bet with herself.

Mike had gone very still.

Will could still see the way Mike’s fingers tightened on his own knee, how his eyes had bounced from Will to the carpet and back, like he was trying to solve a math problem no one else could see. For one stretched second, Will thought he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.

Then Mike’s hand had landed on his shoulder, warm and solid.

“Cool,” he’d said, voice only a little hoarse. “That’s… that’s cool, Will.”

The tightness in Will’s chest had snapped, all at once. He’d spent the rest of the night floating; the words were out, and nobody hated him, and the ceiling didn’t fall in. For the first time since that night in the shed, the word *monster* slid off him like water.

Only later, lying awake and staring at the shadows on the ceiling, did he remember the look on Mike’s face. Not disgust. Not anger. Something else. Something tangled.

He’d tried not to think about it.

*

The bell shrieked the end of third period, and the hallway exploded into motion. Lockers slammed, paper fluttered, someone’s boombox bled tinny music from inside a backpack. Will hugged his sketchbook to his chest and let the current of bodies pull him along.

“Will!” Dustin’s curly head popped up ahead of him like a buoy. He waved wildly. “Emergency meeting. Super secret. Code red.”

“We have lunch in, like, three minutes,” Will said, though he picked up his pace. “Can’t it wait?”

“Nope. Gravely important. Lives hang in the balance.”

“With you, that could mean the cafeteria’s out of pudding.”

Dustin ignored him, practically bouncing as they cut through the intersection of two hallways, one leading toward the gym. “Okay, so, you know how—”

“Hey, Henderson.”

The voice cut through the noise like a knife. Dustin flinched. So did Will.

They turned.

Andy Torres leaned against the row of lockers, arms folded, dark hair pushed back from his face. He wore his letterman jacket open over a faded Metallica tee, the big green “H” on his chest half-hidden. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, showing bruised knuckles that might’ve been from practice, or might’ve been from something else.

Next to him, Chance stood a little back, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes flicking over the crowd. Chance was taller than Andy, but he slouched in a way that made him look like he was trying to fold himself smaller. He was still wearing the team jacket too, the same paw print patch on the sleeve, but his looked like it had been washed too many times, the white gone a little gray.

Andy hadn’t pretended. Will had seen him once, months after the gates opened, sitting on the curb outside the decimated gym, his green jacket crumpled beside him like something he couldn’t stand to touch. Chance had been next to him, legs out, staring at the cracked asphalt. They hadn’t noticed Will watching from across the street.

Now, though, Andy’s eyes were sharp, fixed on Dustin, and his hand was curled in the front of Dustin’s shirt, dragging him closer to the lockers.

“Gah!” Dustin’s voice squeaked up into a register only dogs could really appreciate. “Okay, look, if this is about the D&D club thing, I swear I didn’t mean—”

“This isn’t about your stupid game,” Andy said. “Shut up a sec.”

Will’s feet moved before his brain caught up. He was suddenly right there, nearly bumping into Andy’s shoulder.

“Hey, leave him alone,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he’d expected.

Andy glanced at him, one eyebrow ticking up. “Relax, Byers. I’m not gonna shove him in a locker.”

“That’s what people always say right before they shove someone in a locker,” Dustin muttered, tugging at his caught shirt.

From somewhere down the hall, a whistle blew, the coach calling kids to the gym. The traffic around them thinned, trickling away. For a weird, suspended moment it was just the four of them: Dustin pinned to the lockers, Will vibrating beside him, Andy with that half-bored, half-mean expression, and Chance, watching.

Will’s skin prickled under Chance’s gaze. It wasn’t cruel, exactly. Just… intent.

“Okay, so,” Andy said, turning back to Dustin. “Here’s the thing. My friend here has a question, but he’s shy.” He jerked his chin toward Chance. “I’m being a good wingman.”

Chance rolled his eyes. “You’re being a pain in my ass,” he said, low. His voice was softer than Andy’s, edged with something dry. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shoelaces dragging against the linoleum. “Just forget it, Andy.”

“Nope,” Andy said cheerfully. He rapped his knuckles lightly against Dustin’s locker, just loud enough to make Dustin wince.

“my buddy here is into your buddy. Like, *into* him.” He smirked, turning the full wattage of it on Will now. “So you’re gonna help us out and give him your number. Nice and simple.”

The world did a lurching tilt. Will’s brain scrambled to keep up.

“W-what?” he stammered. “My… my number?”

Chance went pink, color blooming along his cheekbones. “Jesus, man,” he hissed at Andy. “Could you announce it over the PA while you’re at it?”

“What?” Andy shrugged, grip on Dustin loosening a fraction. “I’m being honest. Henderson here was running his mouth earlier, talking about how his friend came out, like it was the coolest thing ever.” He looked at Will again, eyes narrowing with something that wasn’t quite hostility. “That friend would be you, yeah?”

Dustin made a strangled noise. “Oh my God, I didn’t— I mean, I wasn’t—”

Will felt suddenly, fiercely light. Like if someone opened a window, he’d float right out.

He’d known coming out meant people would know. That was the whole point. He’d just… pictured it spreading slowly, filtered through whispered conversations at lunch, or an offhand comment in class, not blasted across the locker hall by a guy with a varsity jacket and a smirk.

“Yeah,” he heard himself say. “That’s me.”

Chance’s eyes met his fully then.

They were dark, almost black in the fluorescent light, lashes longer than should be allowed on a guy who probably didn’t appreciate them. There was a small, faded scar at the corner of his mouth, like a permanent half parenthesis. He didn’t look like Jason. He looked… tired. Young, under the slouch.

“Hey,” Chance said, and lifted one hand in a crooked, awkward half wave. “Sorry about this. Andy doesn’t have a volume control.”

“What are you even saying sorry for?” Andy demanded. He gave Dustin’s shirt a little shake. “Look, Henderson, here’s the deal. You fork over Byers’s number, or I’m telling everyone you’re a bigot.”

Dustin’s eyes bugged. “What? That’s not how— that’s not—”

“My buddy likes the zombie-painting guy,” Andy said, utterly unbothered. “You blocking him? Sounds pretty anti-gay to me.” He clicked his tongue. “And I thought you were an ally.”

Will choked on a laugh that shouldn’t have been funny at all.

“Dude,” Dustin said weakly, “that’s not how allies work.”

“Then prove it,” Andy shot back.

Somewhere to Will’s left, a voice cut in, sharp as breaking glass.

“Let him go.”

Will didn’t have to look to know who it was. His whole body recognized the cadence, the pitch, the way anger sharpened it.

Mike.

He stood a few feet away, clutching his history book so hard the edges dug into his palm, backpack strap cutting a diagonal across his chest. His hair had grown out a little longer over the past year, curling around his ears, and he’d shot up another inch, but the line of his mouth was exactly the same as it had been when he’d stood in front of bullies in their elementary school playground.

Andy snorted. “Relax, Wheeler. We’re having a conversation.”

“Looks like assault from here,” Mike said. His eyes flicked to Dustin’s white knuckled fists, then to Will, then almost reluctantly to Chance. “Whatever this is, it’s over.”

Chance shifted again, hands held up in surrender. “He’s kind of right, man,” he told Andy. “You’re freaking the kid out.”

Dustin squeaked, “Thank you,” like he’d just been rescued from a dragon.

Andy scowled, but after a beat he released Dustin’s shirt, smoothing the wrinkles absently. “Fine. No one can take a joke in this town anymore.” He jabbed a finger at Dustin, though his voice had lost its edge. “But you still owe me that number, Henderson.”

“I don’t owe you jack—”

“It’s fine,” Will cut in, pulse thrumming at his temples. He could fe Mike’s gaze burning into the side of his face. “You… uh. You could’ve just asked me.”

Three sets of eyes swung toward him: Dustin’s incredulous, Andy’s amused, Chance’s startled.

Will swallowed. His mouth felt dry. “If you want it,” he added, looking at Chance. “My number.”

Chance blinked. “I— yeah,” he said slowly. “I mean. if you’re okay with that.”

His voice had gone a little rough. There was a nervous twitch in his jaw, like he expected Will to change his mind and laugh in his face.

Will, absurdly, wanted to reassure him.

“I’m okay,” he said, the words surprising him with how true they were. “You, uh. You can call. If you want.”

Somewhere behind him, Mike shifted, the sound of his sneaker squeaking on the floor like a protest.

Andy grinned wide, clapping Chance on the back so hard he stumbled. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Love wins, et cetera. Henderson, spread the word: Andy Torres, matchmaker extraordinaire.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely what I’m gonna spread,” Dustin muttered.

Will recited the number, watching as Chance mouthed it under his breath, committing it to memory. Their eyes caught again, and Chance gave him a small, genuine smile this time.

“Thanks,” he said.

Then the gym whistle shrieked again, closer now, and someone yelled that Coach would kill them if they were late. Andy groaned, hauled Chance away by the sleeve, and the storm passed down the hall, leaving a weird, humming quiet behind.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Dustin rounded on Will so fast his cap nearly spun off. “I am so, *so* sorry,” he babbled. “I didn’t mean to say anything, he might've overheard me when- ”

“It’s okay,” Will said, because despite the adrenaline buzz buzzing in his limbs, it weirdly was. His number had been requested demanded, technically by a boy who wasn’t from his nightmares. It was… new.

Dustin blinked, surprised. “You’re not mad?”

“Terrified,” Will admitted. “But not mad.”

Dustin’s shoulders dropped in relief. “Oh thank God. I was already picturing your mom banishing me from movie nights forever.”

Will huffed out a weak laugh. “You’d probably still sneak in through the window.”

“You know me so well.” Dustin turned, finally, to Mike. “Dude, thanks for the backup. I thought my life was about to flash before my eyes, and it’s really not that interesting yet.”

Mike didn’t smile.

His eyes were on Will, a storm of something unreadable in them.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Will nodded. “Yeah. Really. I’m okay.”

Mike looked like he didn’t quite believe him. His fingers flexed on the spine of his history book. “You don’t have to talk to that guy if you don’t want to,” he said. “The one with the—” he gestured vaguely, as if “basketball aura” was a thing.

“Chance?” Will said, letting the name sit on his tongue. Chance. It tasted like curiosity. Like a door cracking open. “He seemed… nice.”

“He’s on the team,” Mike said, like that alone was an indictment. “He was there. With Jason.”

Mike looked away. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again, okay?” His voice had gone tight, words squeezed. “You don’t know him.”

“No,” Will said softly. “I don’t.”

He didn’t say: that’s kind of the point.

The bell rang for lunch. Dustin groaned about being late for the front of the line. They moved, the three of them swept into the flow of bodies.

Will could feel Mike beside him the whole way, silent and prickling, like a radio tuned almost but not quite to the right station.

*

The first time Chance called, Will almost didn’t pick up.

The Byers’ new house was on the edge of town, closer to the still scarred fields than Joyce liked, but it was what they could afford. The phone sat on a little table by the couch, its beige cord stretched and tangled from years of anxious pacing. Will was at the kitchen table, hunched over a sketch of a dragon for Dustin’s latest character, when it rang.

He heard Joyce’s footsteps in the hall, then her voice. “Will? It’s for you, honey!”

His stomach dipped. Mike usually called at night, after dinner,

He picked up the receiver with stiff fingers. “Hello?”

There was a pause. Then: “Uh. Hey. This Will?”

The voice was lower than he remembered from the hallway, and quieter, like whoever it belonged to had ducked into a closet.

“Yeah,” Will said, heart thudding. “This is Will.”

Another tiny pause. He could hear something in the background— probably a television.
“Cool,” the voice said. “Uh. It’s Chance.”

Will’s brain briefly forgot how to function.

“Oh,” he said. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Chance echoed, then made a strangled noise, like he’d tried to laugh and it had come out wrong. “This is stupid. I’m hanging up.”

“Wait!” Will yelped, louder than he meant to. “Don’t. I mean. You called, right? We can… talk.”

Another beat of hesitation. Then a breath that sounded like Chance had shoved his hand through his hair.

“Yeah. Okay. Cool.” A beat. “So. Uh. How’s it going?”

The conversation that followed was, by any objective standard, painfully awkward. They ping-ponged from classes (Will hated algebra; Chance was barely passing English but weirdly good at history), to music (they both liked The Cure; Chance claimed to like Bon Jovi “ironically” but Will wasn’t convinced), to movies (Chance had a secret weakness for cheesy horror, which made Will laugh until his sides hurt).

At some point, the sound of the television faded in the background, replaced by the hum of a generator. Chance’s voice dropped a notch, words slowing.

“So, uh,” he said. “You’re out. Like. Out out.”

It wasn’t a question, exactly. Still, Will swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “To my mom and my brother and my friends… it’s not like I’m hiding.”

“Cool,” Chance said, and Will could hear the word trying to do too many things at once. “That’s… cool.”

“What about you?” Will asked before he could overthink it.

There was a long silence. Will worried the cord between his fingers, tracing the spiral.

When Chance spoke again, his voice sounded like it had moved a little farther away, like he’d turned his head.

“I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I like girls. And guys. Sometimes neither. Sometimes both. Whatever that makes me.”

“Bi,” Will said quietly. “It makes you bi.”

Chance let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. That.”

“Does anyone know?”

“Andy,” Chance said. “He figured it out before I did, I think. He keeps trying to set me up with people. He, uh…” The words trailed off, replaced by a rustle, like he’d shifted to sit on the floor. “He was there, you know. At the lake. After. He’s… trying.”

Will’s fingers went numb. “I know,” he whispered.

He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Chance replied.

“You do?”

“I saw you,” Will said. “That day by the gym. With the jacket.”

“Oh.” Chance’s voice went soft. “Yeah. That thing… kind of feels like a costume now. Or, like. Evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“That I was there,” Chance said. “On the wrong team.”

Will’s throat felt tight. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Didn’t stop it either, did I?”

There was so much weight in his words that Will wanted to reach through the phone line and lift some of it off. He knew what it was to carry someone else’s sins like they were stamped onto your skin.

“You’re here now,” he said. “That counts for something.”

Chance was quiet for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice had that crooked-smile curve to it.

“You always talk like that?” he asked. “All, like, wise and spooky?”

Will laughed, startled. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s… kind of cool.”

Will felt his face heat, even though Chance couldn’t see it. “You say ‘cool’ a lot.”

“Oh yeah?” Chance asked. “You say ‘uh’ a lot. So we’re even.”

“Do not,” Will protested.

“Do too.” Chance’s laugh warmed in his ear. “See? That was an ‘uh’.”

By the time Joyce called him for dinner, the knot in Will’s chest had loosened. When he hung up, the house was full of the smell of spaghetti sauce and the sound of Jonathan and Argyle arguing about some band on the other phone. The outside world still hummed with broken things, but in the space between the click of the receiver and the clatter of plates, Will felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Possibility.

*

Mike heard about the phone calls from Dustin.

Not on purpose. Dustin wasn’t trying to rub it in; if anything, he looked guilty as hell when he said it.

They were in the Wheeler basement, the Thursday night after the hallway incident. There was a new crack in the cinderblock wall from where their dad had tried and failedto hang a shelf, and someone had taped a Hellfire flyer over it like a bandage. The D&D table was spread with maps, dice scattered, but the game had stalled. Lucas was late from practice, and Max was stuck at physical therapy.

Dustin was shuffling his character sheets, chewing on his pencil.

“So, uh,” he said too casually, “how’s, you know. The whole phone thing going?”

Mike, halfway through sketching a goblin, frowned. “What phone thing?”

Dustin froze. “Nothing. No thing. Just, you know, in general. Phones. Technology. The future.”

“Dustin.”

Dustin wilted. “Fine. Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Mike said automatically, even though something in his chest had already flared hot. “Just tell me.”

“It’s about Will.”

The flare got hotter.

“What about Will?”

“He, uh.” Dustin scratched at his cap brim. “Chance called him. From the gym. Today. They talked for like an hour.”

The goblin on Mike’s page smeared into a smudge as his pencil jerked.

“An hour?” he repeated.

“Yeah.” Dustin tried for a grin.

Mike stared at the dungeon map, the lines of corridors blurring.

“Did Will tell you that?” he asked.

“Well, yeah,” Dustin said. “He was kind of freaked out at first? But then they talked about music and movies and, like, trauma bonding, I guess. He sounded… happy.” Dustin’s voice softened. “It was nice.”

Happy.

The word dug under Mike’s ribs like a hook.

He thought of Will’s face the night at the cabin when he’d finally stopped crying, of the fragile way his mouth had tried to shape a smile. He thought of the way Will had stared at the floor when he’d admitted his feelings for someone who didn’t like him back Mike still didn’t know how much he’d guessed, how much he’d seen.

He thought of California. Of that awful, sun-bright living room, of words he’d said years too late. Of the way Will’s eyes had shone in the rearview mirror as they’d driven toward the storm.

He thought of El, the way her letters had arrived every few weeks in the past, adorable and earnest and full of underlined words. *I am learning algebra. I do not like it. The teacher smells like onions.* She ended every letter the same: *From El (Jane). Love, Jane. Love you.*

He did love her. He knew that. She’d saved his life; he’d saved hers. They were bound together by something bigger than either of them. and still, she was no longer here.

He dropped his pencil, rubbing at the knot forming between his brows.

“That guy’s trouble,” he said.

Dustin groaned. “You don’t know that.”

“He was with Jason, you said that” Mike snapped, sharper than he meant to. “He was one of the ones hunting Eddie. Did everyone just forget that?”

“No one forgot,” Dustin said quietly. “But the world didn’t end up split in half for fun, man. It messed people up. People are… trying to fix things. Some of them, anyway.”

Mike’s hands curled into fists in his lap. “I’m just saying Will deserves better than some jock who—”

“Better than *some jock* who what?” Will’s voice cut in from the stairs.

Mike’s head snapped around. Will stood there with the door half open, coat still on, cheeks flushed from the cold. Lucas was behind him, smelling faintly of sweat and the musty gym, holding a basketball under one arm.

“Than some jock who’s, what, exactly?” Will asked, stepping down into the basement. There was a tension in his shoulders Mike hadn’t seen since the early days after the Mind Flayer, when loud noises made him flinch.

Mike’s tongue felt thick.

He could lie. Say he hadn’t meant Chance, that he’d been talking about someone else entirely. But Will’s eyes were already narrowed, hurt lurking at the edges, and Mike had never been good at lying to him.

“He was with Jason,” Mike said, the words landing heavy. “At the lake. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know,” Will said, voice icy. "thanks.”

Lucas set the ball down gently, eyes darting between them. “Mike—”

“And now he’s calling you?” Mike barreled on, unable to stop. “Like he didn’t spend all last year trying to chase Eddie down for some messed up witch hunt? You don’t think that’s… weird?”

Will’s breath came in a quick, sharp inhale. “You don’t know him,” he said. “You don’t know anything about him.”

“I know enough,” Mike said.

“No, you don’t,” Lucas interjected, stepping forward. There was a fierce light in his eyes, the same one that had burned when he’d stood, bleeding, between Max and Jason on that floor. “Chance stayed. After. When everyone else bailed. He tried to stop Jason at the end, okay? He froze, yeah, but he… he tried.” Lucas swallowed, voice rough. “He’s been trying ever since.”

Mike stared at him. “And that makes it okay?”

“It doesn’t make it okay,” Lucas snapped back. “It makes him… human.”

The room felt suddenly too small, the air thick.

Will’s hands were shaking at his sides, ink smudged along one knuckle. “Why do you even care?” he asked, anger and something rawer tangled together. “I thought you’d be happy for me. Isn’t that what you said? That it was ‘cool’?”

Mike flinched at his own word being thrown back.

“I am happy for you,” he said. “I just— I don’t trust *him*.”

“You don’t have to,” Will said, chin lifting. “I do.”

And there it was, the crack Mike hadn’t seen until it was splitting wide open: Will stepping out from under his shadow, not just in terms of monsters and dimensions, but in the quiet, ordinary ways. Making his own choices. His own mistakes, maybe. His own life.

Part of Mike wanted to grab his arm and yank him back, to shout that he couldn’t do this, not after everything, not with someone who wore the same colors as the people who’d almost gotten them all killed.

Another part knew that was selfish. Knew that some of the tightness in his chest had nothing to do with Chance’s jacket and everything to do with the way Will’s eyes had lit when he said his name.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Mike said, the fight draining out of him, leaving only tired honesty. “Again.”

Will’s expression softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again, like he’d slammed a door.

“I’ve been hurt before,” he said quietly. “I survived.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and brushed past Mike to the table, dropping his backpack with a thump. Lucas followed, shooting Mike a look that said *think about what you’re really mad at*.

Dustin cleared his throat, too brightly. “Soooo, are we rolling initiative, or…?”

The game that night was a mess. The dice clattered and characters made choices, but the rhythm was off. Mike’s mind kept drifting, replaying Will’s words, the image of Chance leaning against the lockers, the idea of Will’s voice curling soft and laughing through a phone line that didn’t lead to him.

When he lay in bed later, staring at the glow in thed ark stars on his ceiling, El’s last letter sat on his chest, unread. His mind kept supplying images he didn’t want: Will at his kitchen table, twisting the phone cord, smiling at something Chance said. Chance leaning in too close, smelling like gym sweat and cheap cologne, making Will laugh that breathless laugh Mike had once thought only he could get out of him.

He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, and tried to will it all away.

It didn’t work.

*

Time, as it turned out, didn’t care about Mike’s internal crisis.

It rolled forward anyway.

The leaves went from tired green to bright, brittle orange, then to brown mush underfoot. Halloween decorations appeared in store windows, halfhearted this year, more ghosts than demons. The cracks in the ground frosted over on cold mornings, thin white veins.

Will kept talking to Chance.

Not constantly. Not every day. But enough that the pattern emerged: a call from the gym after practice; a shared lunch at the edge of the cafeteria where the jocks and the band kids overlapped; occasional appearances at the arcade, where Chance played Dig Dug with embarrassing intensity and tried, badly, to pretend he wasn’t watching Will’s reflection in the screen.

Mike pretended he didn’t notice. He pretended so hard it made his teeth hurt.

Mike wrote about the dreams.

In the dreams, things blurred. They (Will and him) were back in the Byers’ old living room, or in the empty gym, or in some impossible hybrid of the two, Christmas lights and basketball hoops, demogorgons in letterman jackets. Will would be there, paint on his hands, eyes wide and earnest. Mike would reach for him, and then a third hand would brush his wrist, warm and calloused. Chance’s voice would say something stupid and charming, and Mike would turn, heart racing, and—

He’d wake up, gasping, sheets twisted.

The first few times, he tried to blame it on leftover trauma. On nightmares. On the Upside Down seeping into his subconscious.

But the dreams weren’t scary. They were… confusing. Soft. Sometimes there was laughter. Sometimes there was the ghost of a touch along his cheek, warm and grounding, and when he woke up his skin would still tingle there.

It wasn’t just Will anymore.

That realization landed like a rock in his gut one gray afternoon in November, when he caught himself watching Chance run drills in the gym during study hall.

He’d only gone in there to drop off a library book for Lucas; that was what he told himself, anyway. The bleachers were mostly empty, the air smelling like sweat and floor polish. The team ran up and down the court, sneakers squeaking, Coach barking.

Chance moved differently than Jason had. Less showboat, more control. He wasn’t the star that was some new kid from the sophomore class but he was solid, a good defender, quick on his feet. When he laughed at something Andy said, it rang across the gym, effortless.

Mike noticed the way his jacket rode up when he jumped, exposing a strip of skin at his waist. He noticed the muscles in his forearms, the spray of freckles across his nose, the way he glanced up into the bleachers automatically—as if checking for someone.

For Will.

Mike’s stomach flipped.

He left the library book on the bench and fled.

*

The confrontation, when it finally came, wasn’t about the phone calls or the hallway or even Chance.

It was about a painting.

Will had been working on it for weeks, tucked away in the art room after school, staying later than he needed to. He brushed off Dustin’s teasing and Lucas’s offers to walk him home, saying he liked the quiet, the way the light slanted through the high windows. It was mostly true.

It was also because Chance sometimes wandered in after practice, smelling like gym and winter air, dropping onto a stool to watch him work.

He didn’t talk much at first. Just sat there, occasionally asking questions about brushes or colors, about how Will made a flat canvas look like it had depth. Over time, though, he opened up in little bursts. About his older brother who’d joined the army. About his mom, who worked nights at the diner and always smelled like fried food and coffee. About how he’d wanted to quit the team last year, but his mom needed the scholarship so bad he’d stayed, even when the whole Jason thing made him uncomfortable.

He didn’t talk about what he liked in guys, or girls, or anything in between. Will didn’t push. It was enough to watch his face soften when he looked at Will’s work, to see the way his fingers traced shapes in the air unconsciously, like he wanted to touch but didn’t quite dare.

The painting started as an assignment—“contrast in motion,” according to Mr. Clarke, who’d taken over art club after Ms. O’Donnell moved away. Will had sketched a figure standing on the edge of a crack in the earth, one foot in shadow, one in light. As he worked, the figure took on curls. A familiar tilt of the head. A jacket with a paw-print patch.

It wasn’t exactly Chance. The face was blurred, features more suggestion than portrait. But the feeling was there: someone caught between worlds, balancing on a fault line.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Chance said one afternoon, leaning forward to squint at it. “People see that and they’re gonna think I’m all deep and mysterious.”

“You are deep and mysterious,” Will said without thinking.

Chance made a show of flipping his hair. “True. I contain multitudes.”

Will laughed, the sound echoing in the empty room. Chance smiled at him, and for a second, the air felt thick, charged. Will’s hand, still holding the brush, hovered over the canvas. His heart pounded loud enough he was sure Chance could hear it.

The moment passed. Chance hopped off the stool, grabbing his duffel. “I gotta bounce,” he said lightly. “Coach’ll have my head if I’m late. Again.” He jerked his chin at the painting. “Don’t let him fall in.”

“I won’t,” Will said.

He didn’t realize someone else had seen the painting until the next day, when Mike showed up in the doorway of the art room, shoulders hunched against the November wind.

Will was alone; Chance had been called into a team meeting. The room smelled like turpentine and paper. Will was adding a wash of pale blue to the sky when he sensed someone behind him.

“You’re gonna get paint on your jacket,” Mike said.

Will startled, almost dropping the brush. “Jesus. Don’t sneak up on people.”

“Sorry.” Mike stepped inside, hands buried in the pockets of his army surplus coat. His hair was damp from the rain, little droplets clinging to the ends. “Mr. Clarke said you were in here.”

“Yeah.” Will turned back to the canvas. “Just finishing up.”

He could feel Mike’s gaze on his back, a familiar weight. It used to be comforting. Lately, it made his skin buzz, like static before a storm.

“This new?” Mike asked.

Will hesitated, then stepped aside so he could see.

The figure on the edge of the crack stared out from the canvas, half-lit, half-shadowed. The sky above him churned with stylized storm clouds. In the distance, tiny silhouettes indistinct but recognizable if you knew what to look for, stood clustered together, watching.

Mike was quiet for a long time.

“It’s good,” he said finally.

“Thanks.”

“It’s… him, right?”

Will swallowed. “It’s… inspired by him,” he said carefully. “But it’s not, like, a portrait.”

“Right,” Mike said. “Because that would be weird.”

Something in his tone made Will turn.

Mike’s jaw was tight, a muscle jumping. His eyes, when they met Will’s, were a mess of things: jealousy, fear, something that looked a lot like hurt.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Will asked.

“It means,” Mike said, voice climbing, “that you barely know this guy and you’re painting him like he’s some kind of tragic hero.”

Will’s hackles went up. “I’m painting a feeling,” he said. “It’s art, Mike. That’s what you do.”

“The feeling being what, exactly?” Mike demanded. “Crushing on the guy who used to hang out with people who wanted us dead?”

“Not everything is about that guy,” Will snapped.

“He was *there*, Will!”

“So were a lot of people!” Will’s voice broke, frustration and old fear spilling over. “Half this town was ready to burn you guys at the stake, remember? Are we supposed to hate all of them forever?”

“Maybe!” Mike shot back. “Maybe that’d be safer!”

“And what about me?” Will asked, stepping closer, paint-stained fingers trembling. “Should everyone hate me forever too? Because I was possessed? Because I *hurt* you?”

“That’s not the same and you know it.”

“Why?” Will demanded. “Because you’ve decided so? Because you’ve decided who’s worth forgiving and who isn’t? You don’t get to do that, Mike.”

Mike’s breath came fast, chest heaving.

“This isn’t about forgiveness,” he said.

“Then what is it about?” Will asked, voice dropping, suddenly tired. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you’re mad that someone might actually… like me. That someone might want to know me.”

“I *know* you,” Mike said, almost a plea.

“Do you?” Will asked softly.

The question hung between them, heavy.

Mike opened his mouth. Closed it. For a heartbeat, something raw and unguarded flashed across his face fear, yes, but also something softer. Something that made Will’s heart stutter, even now.

His eyes flicked to the painting, then back to Will.

“I just…” He exhaled, the sound shaky. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to,” Will said, and meant it. “You’re my best friend.”

Mike flinched at *friend* like it was a slap.

Will saw it, and his own stomach twisted.

He could feel the shape of what hung unsaid between them, the same shape it had been since the bench in Lenora, since before that, really. He’d bled his feelings into that painting he’d given Mike, into every long look, every almost-confession. Mike had seen some of it, enough that his letters had changed, that his voice on the phone sometimes hesitated on Will’s name.

But Mike had loved El. Mike had said so, again and again, and he couldn't find a way to move on.

Will was tired of building his entire heart around something that might never move.

“I’m allowed to— to talk to other people,” Will said, the words clumsy but determined. “To… like people.”

“I know that,” Mike said quickly. “I do. I just…” He trailed off, staring at the floor.

“What?” Will pressed.

“I don’t know what that means for us,” Mike admitted.

The honesty in it knocked some of the wind out of Will’s anger.

“For us?” he echoed. “We’re still us.”

“Are we?” Mike asked, looking up. “Because it feels like everything’s… shifting. Like the ground keeps changing, and I’m trying to keep up and I’m messing it all up.”

He sounded scared. Not of Chance, Will realized, but of change itself. Of growing up. Of the way childhood friendships twisted when real life and real feelings tangled in, messy and overlapping.

Will thought about how he’d felt, watching Mike and El kiss in the skating rink. About how he’d decided, in that moment, that his job was to be Mike’s friend, no matter what.

Maybe Mike was having his own version of that now.

“We’re figuring it out,” Will said.. “That’s… what people do.”

Mike huffed out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Since when did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise,” Will said, trying for lightness. “You just never listened.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Mike’s mouth. For a second, they were them again: two boys in a basement, playing games and making each other laugh, the world outside simple and small.

Then the door to the art room creaked open.

“Yo, Byers, you still—” Chance’s voice cut off as he stepped inside, taking in the scene. He stood frozen in the doorway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair damp from a shower. His eyes flicked from Will to Mike to the painting and back, reading the emotional temperature like a weatherman.

“Uh,” he said. “Am I interrupting something?”

Will’s heart did a weird flip-flop. Mike’s shoulders tensed so hard they might’ve snapped.

“No,” Will said quickly. “We were just… talking.”

“Yelling,” Mike muttered.

“Talking loudly,” Will corrected.

Chance’s gaze lingered on Mike, assessing, then slid back to Will. “You okay?”

Will nodded. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

Chance’s mouth quirked. “Cool.”

The word shouldn’t have warmed Will. It did anyway.

Mike cleared his throat. “I should go,” he said. “My mom’ll freak if I’m late for dinner.”

He moved toward the door, brushing past Chance. For a second, their shoulders bumped. Mike stiffened; Chance shifted back, hands up in automatic apology.

“Later, Wheeler,” Chance said.

Mike hesitated. His eyes flicked to Will, then back to Chance.

“Take care of him,” he said quietly.

Chance blinked. “That the part where I say ‘or else’?” he asked, trying for a joke.

Mike’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. “Just… don’t be a jerk, okay?”

Chance’s expression sobered. “I’ll try not to.”

Something passed between them then an uneasy truce, maybe, or the first fragile thread of understanding. Then Mike was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, footsteps fading down the hall.

Will let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Drama in the art room,” Chance said lightly, dropping his duffel with a thunk. “Very on brand.”

Will huffed a laugh. “You have no idea.”

Chance stepped closer to the painting, tilting his head. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“Maybe,” Will said, suddenly shy.

Chance studied it for a long moment, eyes tracing the lines of the figure, the crack, the shadows.

“I look cooler on canvas,” he said eventually.

“You look pretty cool in real life,” Will blurted, then immediately wanted to crawl under the table.

Chance’s brows shot up. “Oh yeah?”

“I mean, not, like— I just—” Will flailed. “Artistically speaking.”

“Artistically speaking,” Chance repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Got it.”

He stepped closer, so close Will could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, the tiny nick on his ear where an earring must’ve been once. His voice dropped.

“For the record,” he said, “you look pretty cool in real life too.”

Will’s brain did a hard reboot.

“Uh,” he said brilliantly.

Chance smiled, soft and a little nervous.

“Can I…” He gestured vaguely between them. “Try something?”

Will’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Depends what it is.”

“This,” Chance said, and leaned in.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss. There were no fireworks, no swelling soundtrack. Just the warm press of his mouth against Will’s, tentative and sweet, smelling faintly of spearmint and gym floor. Will’s eyes fluttered shut on instinct, the world narrowing to the point where their lips met, to the way Chance’s hand hovered at his jaw, not quite touching, like he was giving Will room to pull away.

Will didn’t.

Something unfurled in his chest, gentle and bright. Not the sharp, aching longing he’d carried for Mike, but something newer, simpler. A crush, blooming in slow motion.

They broke apart after a second that felt like an hour, foreheads almost touching.

“Okay?” Chance asked, breath ghosting across Will’s cheek.

Will nodded, dazed. “Yeah. Okay.”

Chance exhaled, relief loosening his shoulders. “Cool.”

Will laughed, a little breathless. “You really do say that a lot.”

“Shut up,” Chance said without heat.

In the hallway outside, footsteps echoed faintly. Somewhere, a whistle blew. Life went on.

Inside the art room, Will touched his fingers to his lips, still tingling.

Outside, in the dim corridor, Mike stood with his back against the lockers, eyes screwed shut, listening to the muffled sound of their voices. He hadn’t meant to linger; his feet just… hadn’t moved.

He heard Will’s laugh, warm and unguarded. He heard Chance say something too low to catch. He heard silence, punctuated by the soft scrape of shoes, a quiet exhale.

He didn’t hear the kiss, not really, but his mind supplied it anyway.

His chest hurt.

He thought of El, of her letters, of the way she’d looked at him with such trust when she’d said, *Goodbye, Mike.* He thought of how he hadn’t answered, how the words *I love you* never tumbled out.

He thought of Will, of paintings and phone calls and the way his eyes had searched Mike’s face after coming out, wanting so desperately to see something there.

He thought of Chance, of damp curls and crooked smiles and the weight of his jacket when he’d brushed past.

He thought of himself, standing in this hallway, torn between three points on a map and realizing, with a kind of terrified clarity, that none of them were simple.

For the first time, the word he’d never really let himself consider floated up, unbidden.

*Bi.*

It sat there in his mind, small and stubborn.

He could shove it down. Pretend it was just confusion, just leftover trauma, just… something else.

Or he could look at it. Really look.

He pushed off the locker, heart pounding, and walked out into the cooling November air.

The story wasn’t over. Not for him, not for Will, not for Chance.

It was just by chance, and by choice, starting to change.