Chapter Text
Stunning.
That was the only word Chance could find as his gaze settled on the figure by the window. The world slowed to a crawl. Bathed in the afternoon light, the stranger’s chestnut hair and tanned skin seemed infused with gold. Chance traced the silhouette, through the thin fabric of his shirt, Chance could see the subtle play of muscle, the way his shoulder blades shifted like wings beneath the surface and the taut line of his back that spoke of a quiet, coiled energy. He stood with a casual elegance, one leg slightly bent, creating a divine and ethereal image.
Against the glare of the glass, the dark edges of his form were crisp and intentional, as if he had been sketched into existence by the very charcoal he held. The movement of those hands were so fluid and precise that almost appeared as it was dancing through the paper.
His profile was a masterpiece of contradictions, a sharp, regal jawline softened by full lips pouted in deep concentration. But it was the eyes that held Chance captive. They were the color of a lake at dusk, a swirling depth of green and gold. Chance realized then that if he didn't look away in that moment, he would surely drown in them.
When the boy’s gaze landed on him, Chance’s immediate reaction was to look away. In his self-conscious haste to avoid eye contact, he missed the stool sitting directly in his path. Within three seconds, Chance was sprawled on the floor, his cheeks burning a deep, humiliated crimson.
“Are you okay?” a voice asked, a concerned, soothing tone that belonged to the beautiful stranger now leaning over him. Chance stayed there for a moment, lips parted, staring up at the boy’s face in a daze.
“Sir? Are you okay?” the boy repeated.
Snapping out of his trance, Chance nodded quickly.
“I’ve told El a thousand times not to leave this stool here,” the stranger sighed, reaching down to help him. “But every time she needs something from the top shelf, she forgets it. I’m so sorry.”
As Chance was pulled to his feet, he caught sight of the name tag pinned to the boy's shirt: William. Chase began brushing off his clothes, a futile attempt to regain the dignity he'd lost during the fall.
“It’s fine. It was my fault for being distracted,” Chase said, finally looking up into William’s eyes.
William offered a small, knowing smirk.
“Well, welcome to Sketchy Business. How can I be of service today?”
Chance managed a dry chuckle. “My father ordered some materials. I’m just here to pick them up.” He handed over a slip of paper with the order number scrawled on it. William glanced at the note and asked him to wait a moment while he checked the back of the store.
Left alone and unable to stand still, his nerves still buzzing with a fluttery sensation in his abdomen, Chance began to wander the aisles. His eyes caught on a sketchbook lying forgotten on the floor. He picked it up, intending to set it on a counter, but the pages fell open to a series of mesmerizing drawings.
He didn't want to snoop, but the art was impossible to ignore. There were dragons and knights set against dreamy, magical landscapes, followed by portraits of people who looked strikingly familiar.
One was a perfect replica of Lucas Sinclair, one of his teammates on the basketball team. The artist had captured Lucas’s small, athletic build with incredible precision, but the expressions were different from the ones Chance saw at practice. In these sketches, Lucas looked suave and confident, his eyes filled with a peaceful, genuine grin. There were several pages dedicated to Lucas and his girlfriend, Max; the artist had rendered her fiery spirit and contagious smile with obvious affection.
Seeing Lucas like this, relaxed and happy, made Chase feel a twinge of guilt. Lucas was a good guy, surprisingly forgiving even after the investigation fiasco involving Jason, Chrissy, and the Hellfire Club.
Chance had to admit, it wasn't his finest hour. He had been new to Hawkins, and Jason had seemed like an amazing guy, active in church and involved in charity. Even Chance’s father had encouraged the friendship. How was he supposed to know they were so catastrophically wrong? How was he to know Eddie Munson wasn't a serial killer when Jason was so convinced of it?
The news of Eddie’s innocence and his death as a hero had caught the whole town off guard. The technical details of what happened between Chrissy’s death and the Great Quake remained hazy, buried under layers of official babble, but the culprits were supposedly found and the problems solved so Hawkins was finally able to breathe.
As Chance flipped another page, he recognized two other members of the Hellfire Club and a girl he had never seen before. She was beautiful, with curious eyes and a timid smile; the artist had treated her hair and clothes with such delicate detail she seemed almost precious.
Then there was the boy with the boyish features and the curly hair tucked under a hat. He looked inquisitive, as if he were always ten steps ahead of everyone else, yet he looked so laid-back and happy, Dustin. That was his name, Chance remembered him vividly, but only from that dreadful day that had ended in nothing but blood and bruises. Chance really regretted his actions during that time. He had spent months telling himself he’d had no choice but to join that ridiculous hunt, but in the quiet of his own mind, the truth was harder to ignore. He hadn't been forced. He had simply been a coward, unable to find the strength to go against the flock.
Finally, his eyes landed on the most frequent subject in the book. There were dozens of drawings of the other Hellfire member, the one with the sharp, angular features, gangly limbs, and wavy black hair. Chase struggled to remember the name. Was it Manuel or Mike?
Whoever he was, the artist had captured him from every possible angle, as if trying to memorize his face through the stroke of a pencil. Chance couldn’t understand what was so fascinating about the guy; he was always looking as though he were perpetually looking down his nose at a world that failed to entertain him.
He was so lost in the lines of the drawings that he didn't notice William approaching until a box of supplies hit the table beside him with a heavy thud.
“Found anything you like in there?” William asked, a genuine grin tugging at his lips.
Startled, Chance’s brain short-circuited. He couldn't form a coherent sentence, stumbling over a string of frantic apologies. “I’m sorry—I didn't—I wasn't trying to snoop. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” He could feel a heatwave of embarrassment rising into his cheeks.
“It’s fine,” William said, though he fought to keep his voice stern. “But you do know it’s a serious offense to snoop through an artist’s private work? We’ll have to come up with a sentence that fits the crime.”
Chance caught the flicker of amusement in the other boy’s eyes. He took a breath, leaning into the playfulness as he swept into a low, mock-regal bow. “I apologize, oh noble artist. I was unworthy to behold such genius. How must I compensate for my inappropriate behavior?”
William appeared to consider this, his expression dancing with mischief. “Well, you look like a strong fella,” he said, arching a single eyebrow. “Maybe I could use some help moving the shipment that just arrived.”
They shared a laugh, and Chance felt a strange, fluttering knot tie itself in his stomach. It was warm and gentle, yet it kept him on edge, making it impossible to truly relax.
“I really am sorry, though,” Chance said, his voice dropping to a softer, more sincere note. “It was on the floor, and when I picked it up... I couldn't stop looking. Your drawings are amazing.”
This time, it was William’s turn to flush. He looked away, busying himself with the box as he moved it toward the counter. He has no right to be this cute, Chance thought and immediately tried to block it, was he truly thinking that a guy was cute?
The realization hit him like a physical blow. He immediately tried to slam a door on the thought, his breath catching in his throat. Cute? Was he really thinking that about a guy? The word felt wrong in his head, like a foreign language he wasn’t supposed to speak. His heart began to hammer against his ribs in a frantic, uneven rhythm, and he felt a cold prickle of sweat break out at the base of his neck.
He knew what the guys on the team said. He knew the names they threw around like weapons, and he certainly knew what the priest at his church had to say—God, the things he’d heard from the pulpit about people who felt like this. Chance wasn’t one of them. He couldn't be. He was "normal"—just a regular guy, an ordinary one.
This was just… appreciation. That was the word for it. It was a purely objective admiration for a fellow guy. There was nothing wrong with noticing that someone was really pretty, or that they had amazing eyes, or a smile so—
He was spiraling again.
“Thanks. They’re nothing special, really,” Will muttered, his voice cutting through the static in Chance’s head.He started to move towards the counter, completely oblivious to the identity crisis unfolding inches away. “Just something I do when it's slow.”
The mundane sound of William's voice acted like an anchor, dragging Chance back to the present. He forced a heavy, shaky breath into his lungs, desperate to shove the panic into a dark corner where it couldn't be seen. He took a jagged moment to compose himself, wiping his damp palms on his jeans, trying to convince himself that he was still the person he thought he was before he dared to speak again. He followed William toward the counter, trying to find his footing.
“If those are nothing special,” he started, but his voice decided to betray him, jumping an entire octave on the word nothing. He cleared his throat violently, sounding like he’d swallowed gum. “I mean—I can only imagine what you create when you’re actually, uh, trying. To do art. With your hands. And the pens.”
William turned to glance back at him, a half-amused, half-confused look on his face. He looked like he was trying to understand Chance’s nonsense. Chance wished him luck; he couldn't even make sense of himself right now.
“Well,” William said, a small smile appearing as he rested his hands in the edge of the box. “Everything seems to be here. Do you need anything else, or are you all set?”
“Um,” Chance paused. He wasn't ready to leave yet. He wanted more time, more words, more of whatever this was. “I think my father wanted some specific paint? I can’t remember the exact name.”
William shot him a look that was both skeptical and playful, as if he could see the lie written clearly across Chance's forehead. “Specific paint, okay... follow me to the third aisle. We have a few varieties.”
Chance tried to focus on the technical details William was explaining, but his attention kept drifting. He found himself cataloging the tiny details of the boy’s face, the way he became animated when talking about pigments, and the adorable mole just above his lip. He couldn't even be blamed for the distraction of the boy’s scent, a mix of cool cedarwood and the metallic tang of pencil shavings.
It was a purely rugged, outdoorsy observation, he told himself. He was just being masculine, like a scout identifying trees in the woods. It was essentially a survival skill.
“Would any of these work?” William asked, glancing back at him.
“Yeah! Yeah, definitely,” Chance said, grabbing random tubes from the shelf. “He mentioned needing oil paints for the kids at church. I’ll take these.”
William froze, looking at the tubes in Chance’s hand and then back at Chance with a look of pure disbelief. “Oil paint? For children?”
“Yeah,” Chance stammered, already walking back toward the register to avoid further scrutiny. “They’re... very talented children.”
William followed, a low chuckle escaping
him. “Oil paint for kids. That is definitely a choice, I pity the person who’ll have to clean the church’s carpet.
“Yeah… they probably should’ve thought that through,” Chance said, his voice trailing off as he mentally kicked himself for the stupid lie. He desperately needed a graceful exit from the subject of church children and their doomed carpets. “But, hey, are you new here? I don’t recall seeing you around before.”
William set the last of the paint tubes on the counter, leaning back slightly. “It’s a bit of a long story. I lived here most of my life, but we moved away to Lenora during my freshman year. We just moved back recently,” he explained, his tone practiced, as if he’d given this summary a dozen times since returning. “I’m starting my junior year on Monday.”
A jolt of pure adrenaline shot through Chance’s chest. “Junior year at Hawkins High? No way. Me too!”
His mind immediately began to race, calculating schedules and hallway routes. What were the odds? They could have English together, or history, maybe they’d even share a lunch period.
“Oh, really?” William’s eyebrows shot up, a look of genuine surprise softening his face. He let out a low chuckle. “What a coincidence. I’m sorry—I realized I never even got your name.”
He reached across the counter, offering his hand.
“Chance Perez, nice to meet you” he said, his voice surer than it had been all afternoon.
As he spoke, Chance reached out and took the offered hand. William’s grip was steady, his skin warm. Chance felt the contact all the way up his arm, a buzzing energy that made him want to hold on just a second longer than was socially acceptable.
The boy offered a small, lopsided smile that made the mole above his lip move just slightly. “I’m Will. Will Byers. Nice to meet you too, Chance.”