Chapter Text
𝚂𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟻
𝙷𝙰𝚆𝙺𝙸𝙽𝚂, 𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙰𝙽𝙰.
Two months after the Battle of Starcourt, everything had supposedly settled down. The mall was a scorched memory, the town patched itself together with fresh paint and forced optimism, and Hawkins Middle and High reopened their doors like nothing had ever happened.
School started again, schedules were passed out, lockers slammed shut, and life—at least on the surface—moved forward.
Everyone else seemed to be building something new.
The Party, however, quietly fell apart.
What had once been a tight-knit group of six fractured into smaller, disconnected pieces. Dustin, Mike, and El drifted together by default. Max gravitated toward Will. Lucas stood alone, orbiting them but never quite rejoining.
No one said it out loud, but everyone felt it.
Max and Will became unlikely constants in each other’s lives, bonded less by choice and more by necessity. They saw Mrs. Kelly every Tuesday and Wednesday after school—Will for the lingering PTSD that clung to him like a shadow, Max for everything she refused to name: Billy’s death, her home life, the guilt she carried around like dead weight.
Mrs. Kelly called it “processing.”
Will called it exhausting.
Max just stared at the carpet and shrugged when asked how she felt.
Lucas went a different route.
He joined the basketball team.
Sure, he barely got off the bench, but the jersey alone was enough. The jock status came with a kind of protection—teachers smiled at him more, hallways felt safer, and the whispers that followed the “mall kids” never quite reached him anymore. It wasn’t happiness, exactly, but it was easier.
Will joined the art club.
He buried himself in schoolwork, sketches, music—anything that kept his hands busy and his mind quiet. He stayed late after school, charcoal smudged on his fingers, headphones pressed tight against his ears. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking led back to Bob. To the tunnels. To Starcourt.
To the guilt.
Even though he hadn’t pulled the trigger, even though he hadn’t caused the fire or the deaths, Will still carried the weight of it all. He had been possessed once. He had been used as a spy. And somewhere deep inside him lived the unshakable belief that if he had been stronger, smarter, different, people wouldn’t have died.
Art numbed it.
Music softened it.
Silence helped the most.
Max, meanwhile, ignored Lucas entirely—and most of the Party along with him. She stuck close to Will, sometimes El, but never stayed long. She skipped lunch, ducked out of conversations, and pretended not to notice when Lucas watched her from across the gym with questions he never asked.
And then there were the rest.
Hellfire Club.
Dustin had been ecstatic. Mike had followed without hesitation. Eddie Munson—repeat senior, metalhead, school menace—had invited them once, and that was all it took.
Will hadn’t joined.
He hadn’t even considered it.
Not after the summer.
Not after Mike had laughed him off, rolled his eyes, made jokes every time Will asked to play D&D. Not after being told to “grow up” and “stop being a baby” just to watch Mike turn around and leap at the chance the second Eddie asked.
The hypocrisy burned.
“Come on, Will,” Dustin said one afternoon, jogging to catch up with him in the hallway. “It’s just one campaign. You don’t even have to stay the whole time.”
Will stopped walking.
He turned slowly, his expression flat, eyes sharp.
“No,” he said. Just one word. Clean. Final.
Mike opened his mouth. “Will, it’s not like that—”
Will cut him off with a look that said don’t. A look that made Mike falter mid-sentence.
“You made fun of me all summer,” Will said quietly. “You don’t get to ask now.”
Neither of them had an answer for that.
Will turned and walked away, leaving Mike and Dustin standing there, the bell ringing overhead, the distance between them suddenly wider than it had ever been.
The Party wasn’t gone.
But it wasn’t whole anymore.
And Hawkins, for all its efforts to move on, was beginning to feel that loss too.
For weeks after that, Mike and Dustin kept trying.
They caught Will in hallways, lingered by his locker, waited outside art club meetings like hopeful strays. Every attempt was met with the same answer.
“No.”
Sometimes Will didn’t even slow down when he said it.
“Just one session,” Dustin pleaded one afternoon, walking backward in front of him. “You don’t even have to roll a character. You can just watch.”
“No.”
Mike tried a different approach. “It’s not the same without you.”
Will stopped, just long enough to look at him.
“You should’ve thought about that before,” he said, then kept walking.
And that was that.
Ironically, they did manage to get Lucas to join Hellfire—and stay on the basketball team at the same time. A fragile compromise, held together by scheduling conflicts and a mutual agreement not to talk about either group while in the presence of the other.
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
Jason Carver already had opinions—loud ones—about Dungeons & Dragons. He called it Satanic, claimed it was a gateway for the Devil to pull people away from faith, morality, and “what God intended.” Eddie Munson, for his part, found basketball painfully dull.
“Grown men screaming over a ball and calling it teamwork,” Eddie scoffed once. “That’s not a sport—that’s conformity with a whistle.”
Jason called Eddie a freak.
Eddie called Jason a sheep.
Lucas learned very quickly not to bring either of them up in the wrong room.
Will heard all of it, distantly, like background noise. He learned to tune it out the way he tuned out everything else that wasn’t his problem.
Because it wasn’t.
He wasn’t neutral.
He wasn’t choosing sides.
He just didn’t care.
Not about Hellfire versus basketball.
Not about Eddie versus Jason.
Not about who thought what was evil or boring or wrong.
He was too tired for that.
Art club, counseling, homework, music—his world had narrowed to manageable pieces, and he clung to them tightly. What wasn’t his business wasn’t his responsibility.
And lately, everything felt like it wanted to become his responsibility again.
The chills started first.
A shiver crawling up his spine for no reason. A sudden tightness in his chest that left him gasping in the middle of class. Panic spikes that came out of nowhere, sharp and unforgiving, like his body was reacting to a threat his mind couldn’t see.
Mrs. Kelly noticed.
“You seem more on edge lately,” she said gently one Tuesday, hands folded in her lap.
Will shrugged, eyes fixed on the clock. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
November 6th was coming.
The closer it got, the heavier the air felt, like something waiting just out of sight. Will didn’t tell anyone—not Mike, not Dustin, not even Max—but the date sat in the back of his mind like a loaded gun.
And oh, did Will wish someone would just pull the trigger and get it over with.
The thought startled him the moment it formed, sharp and unwelcome. Will shook his head, forcing it away. Being negative—spiraling, sinking too deep into his feelings—never did his inevitable breakdowns any favors. If anything, it only made them worse. Louder. Harder to crawl out of.
He pressed his nails into his palm and focused on the here and now.
By the time Mrs. Kelly dismissed him, Will barely remembered the last five minutes of the session. He stood from his chair automatically, movements practiced and careful, like he’d done this a hundred times before—which, at this point, he probably had.
“Same time next week?” Mrs. Kelly asked gently.
Will nodded. “Yeah. Same time.”
He didn’t wait for anything else.
The moment he stepped outside, he shrugged on his Walkman, settling the familiar weight over his shoulders. He popped in the cassette and hit play, letting Should I Stay or Should I Go flood his ears as he walked off campus to wait for Jonathan.
The Clash didn’t do much for him anymore. Not like it used to. The song didn’t ground him the way it once had, didn’t pull him back from the edge—but it was what he had. Until he saved up enough for a new cassette, it would have to do.
He lingered near the curb, sketchbook tucked under his arm, eyes tracing cracks in the pavement.
El was nowhere to be seen.
She was probably with Mike.
The thought slipped in easily—and stayed.
Will swallowed as the all-too-familiar feeling of jealousy crept up his throat, hot and sour, like vomit threatening to rise after a bad case of food poisoning. He turned his head sharply, as if that might shake it loose.
God, seriously?
And wasn’t that ironic?
Him being jealous of his sister.
Step-sister?
Pseudo-sister?
Something in between?
Will honestly didn’t know.
He hadn’t exactly kept up with Mom and Hopper’s relationship well enough to know what label applied anymore. All he knew was that things had changed—fast. They’d moved out of their old house, packed up years of memories, and ended up in a modest place across town with Hopper and El, courtesy of government hush money and a whole lot of secrets no one talked about.
El was family now. That much was clear.
So why did it still hurt?
Will exhaled slowly, staring at the street, willing Jonathan’s car to appear. He felt stupid for it—jealous of Mike, jealous of the way El fit so easily into his place in the world, jealous of how things seemed to come naturally to everyone else while he was still trying to keep himself stitched together.
He adjusted his headphones, turning the volume up just a little louder.
Should I stay or should I go now…
Will didn’t know the answer.
He wasn’t sure he ever had.
But as November 6th crept closer with every passing day, the feeling in his chest tightened, heavy and insistent, like the world was holding its breath—waiting for something to break.
And he had the sinking suspicion that, this time, it might be him.
It was another long, agonizing minute of waiting before Jonathan finally pulled over.
Will spotted the familiar car first—the dented bumper, the faded paint—and straightened automatically, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder as he stepped toward the curb. Hawkins High loomed behind him, students dispersing in loose clusters, laughter and locker slams fading into the background as the day bled into evening.
They went to the same school now, which was ironic in a way that felt almost cruel. You’d think that would mean they’d see each other more, but they never really crossed paths like that. Different schedules. Different worlds.
Jonathan was always holed up with Nancy at the journalism club, chasing leads and deadlines like they were already adults with real jobs. Will had art club—charcoal, canvas, quiet corners where no one asked questions. The only times they ever saw each other in the building were rare, fleeting moments: when Will helped design posters or backdrops for school events, collaborating briefly with the journalism kids before disappearing again.
Most days, Jonathan felt like someone Will only knew in theory.
The passenger door creaked open.
“Hey,” Jonathan said, flashing a tired smile. “Sorry I’m late.”
Will stopped short.
He saw the signs before he smelled it. The glassy eyes. The way Jonathan leaned a little too comfortably against the steering wheel. The faint, skunky tang that drifted out of the car a second later.
Great.
Jonathan was high.
Again.
Will clenched his jaw, nails biting into his palm as he climbed into the car and shut the door harder than necessary.
Jonathan winced. “Easy, dude.”
Will stared straight ahead, heart thudding. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell until his throat burned, until the words finally scraped their way out of his chest. Instead, he said nothing, because silence had become his default.
Ever since Jonathan had started senior year, weed had become his coping mechanism of choice. A way to dull the edges. To forget the Upside Down. To forget the months of terror, the constant fear, the back problems that still flared up from being slammed into concrete by the Flayed—by Tom Holloway.
Will knew all of that.
He understood it, logically.
They all coped differently.
Will had art and music—things he could control, lines he could redraw, sounds he could drown himself in. Max coped by avoidance, by running headfirst away from anything that might hurt her if she slowed down long enough to feel it. And Jonathan… Jonathan had weed.
Still.
Understanding didn’t stop the anger.
Jonathan pulled back onto the road, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absently against the door. “How was Mrs. Kelly?” he asked, too casual.
Will swallowed. “Fine.”
The word tasted like a lie.
Jonathan nodded, like that was enough, like he hadn’t already checked out of the conversation before it even started. The radio hummed softly between them. Dead air.
It made Will furious.
Because it felt like Jonathan wasn’t just coping—he was disappearing. And Will had already lost enough people to monsters, to death, to distance. Losing his brother—his best friend—to a plant felt insultingly unfair.
Wasn’t that ironic?
Will stared out the window, watching Hawkins blur past. Houses. Trees. Familiar streets that had never felt smaller or more suffocating.
He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Almost.
Instead, he pressed his forehead lightly against the glass and stayed quiet, the weight in his chest settling heavier with every mile they drove—because even when Jonathan was right beside him, Will had never felt more alone.
Chrissy Cunningham was many things.
A stress panicker was not one of them.
It wasn’t something she’d grown up being allowed to be. Her mother—prim, immaculate, and perpetually disappointed by the idea of emotional excess—had drilled composure into Chrissy from a very young age. Chin up. Smile soft. Breathe through it. Panic was messy. Panic was unbecoming.
Which meant the pressure she was under right now felt almost obscene.
Cheer tryouts were nearly over. Nearly wrapped. Nearly perfect.
And then one of their veteran members quit.
Just—quit.
No warning. No conversation. No dramatic goodbye. Just didn’t show up.
Great. Just great.
Chrissy stood in the middle of the Hawkins High gym, hands planted on her hips, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The polished floor gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights, the echo of squeaking sneakers and nervous chatter bouncing off the walls. Who quits something they’ve been a part of for years without even giving an excuse? Who just disappears like that?
She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw a pom-pom. She wanted to demand answers from the universe itself.
But she didn’t.
Because her mother would be disappointed.
So instead, Chrissy paced.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Her sneakers scuffed softly against the gym floor as her thoughts spiraled. Where were they supposed to find someone who could memorize an entire routine in less than a month? Someone strong enough, coordinated enough, and willing to jump in right before the next game?
Think, Chrissy. Think.
Around her, the rest of the cheer team mirrored her anxiety. Whispers overlapped. Someone gnawed on a fingernail. Another girl bounced restlessly on her toes. So maybe Chrissy wasn’t panicking—but everyone else absolutely was.
The collective stress spiral was only interrupted when a voice cut through the noise.
“You could try Will Byers.”
Chrissy froze mid-step.
She turned slowly toward Robin Buckley, who stood a few feet away near the bleachers, a trumpet tucked awkwardly under one arm. The marching band kids had been sharing the gym that afternoon, scattered around with instruments and half-packed cases.
“I’m sorry?” Chrissy said, blinking.
Robin shrugged, already talking faster than she probably meant to. “Will Byers. Art kid. Quiet. Brown hair. You know—kind of tragic-looking? Bowl cut that never quite recovered?”
Chrissy stared at her.
She knew of Will Byers. Everyone did. Hawkins was too small not to. The missing kid. The boy who came back to life after being pronounced dead. The rumors. The way people lowered their voices when his name came up.
Still.
“Why Will?” Chrissy asked, genuinely curious rather than unkind.
Robin adjusted her grip on the trumpet. “Okay, hear me out. Art kids have, like—really good spatial awareness. Composition. Balance. All that stuff. Plus, he’s flexible.”
Chrissy opened her mouth.
Robin held up a hand. “I mean, probably. And he’s stronger than he looks. I saw him hauling this giant stack of files out of the art room the other day like it was nothing. Almost took me out.”
She laughed nervously, clearly aware she wasn’t selling this very well.
Chrissy ignored the flexible comment—for now—and focused on the one thing that mattered.
They were out of options.
She exhaled slowly, hands dropping to her sides. There was nothing left to lose. Worst-case scenario, Will said no. Best-case scenario…
“Well,” Chrissy said after a moment, nodding to herself, “I guess it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
Robin’s face lit up like she’d just suggested something brilliant instead of wildly unconventional. “Exactly! Low risk. High reward.”
Chrissy smiled despite herself.
“Thanks, Robin,” she said sincerely.
Robin gave a small salute with the trumpet. “Happy to help. Good luck.”
As practice wrapped up and the gym slowly emptied, Chrissy grabbed her bag and headed out with a plan already forming in her mind.
Tomorrow, she’d find Will Byers.
And she’d ask him if he wanted to join the cheer team.
The next morning, Will woke up a little later than usual.
Panic hit him immediately.
He scrambled out of bed, pulling on whatever clothes were closest, brushing his teeth in record time as he mentally ran through everything he was already late for. By the time he slung his backpack over his shoulder and bolted down the stairs, his heart was racing like he’d just escaped something instead of overslept.
He skidded to a stop at the front door.
Max was on the porch.
She leaned casually against the railing, skateboard tucked under her arm, red jacket zipped halfway up despite the lingering warmth of early fall. One sneaker tapped idly against the wood as she waited.
Will blinked. Then exhaled, some of the tension bleeding out of him.
“Morning,” Max said, raising an eyebrow. “You know school starts at the same time every day, right?”
Will grimaced as he yanked the door open. “I know. My alarm didn’t go off.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, unconvinced. “Sure it didn’t.”
Despite himself, Will huffed out a quiet laugh as he locked the door behind him.
It had become their routine—unspoken, but solid. After every session with Mrs. Kelly, Max stopped by the house the next morning. Sometimes they talked the whole way to school. Sometimes they barely spoke at all. Either way, they went together.
Consistency mattered. Especially now.
El—Jane—was already gone. Hopper dropped her off early before his shift at the station, like clockwork. Jonathan, too, had left before Will even woke up, probably rushing to journalism club or another meeting with Nancy that blurred into adulthood faster than Will could keep up with.
Will was usually the last one out of the house.
His mom was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t surprising. She was probably at Melvald’s, picking something up. She didn’t work there anymore—not officially—but old habits died hard. These days she sold encyclopedias, which mostly meant she was always on the phone, her voice drifting through the house at odd hours as she tried to sound cheerful and convincing to strangers.
Will adjusted the strap of his bag. “Ready?”
Max nodded. “Yeah.”
They set off down the street—Will on his bike, Max pushing off on her skateboard beside him. The neighborhood rolled past in familiar blurs: cracked sidewalks, mailboxes with chipped paint, lawns that hadn’t quite recovered from the summer.
After a few blocks, they slowed, Max hopping off her board so they could walk instead. Their Walkmans stayed close to their ears, but not loud enough to drown each other out completely.
“Mrs. Kelly say anything useful yesterday?” Max asked.
Will shrugged. “Depends what you count as useful.”
She snorted softly. “Fair.”
They walked in companionable quiet after that, occasionally trading small, insignificant comments—about homework, about a weird substitute teacher, about nothing at all. Max had a bike too, but she rarely used it. Will never asked why. Some things didn’t need explaining.
By the time Hawkins High came into view, both of them had retreated into their music, headphones pressed snug against their ears like armor.
Inside the building, the noise hit immediately—lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against tile. The halls felt too bright, too crowded.
They split up at the lockers.
Max leaned her board against the wall, twisting the dial on her lock. “See you later,” she said, already half-turned away.
“Yeah,” Will replied. “Later.”
He shut his locker and headed for his first class without looking around, eyes fixed straight ahead.
It was deliberate.
Mike and Dustin were down the hall—he could feel them before he saw them. He heard Dustin’s voice rise above the din, animated as ever, and Mike’s laughter underneath it. He didn’t slow down.
“Will!” Dustin called anyway, jogging a few steps after him. “Hey—wait up!”
Will kept walking.
Mike caught up first, falling into step beside him. “We weren’t trying to bug you yesterday,” he said quickly. “We just thought—”
“No,” Will said, not even turning his head.
Dustin skidded to a stop beside Mike, frowning. “We’re not even talking about Hellfire right now.”
Will stopped then.
He turned just enough to look at them, his expression tired and flat.
“You always are,” he said quietly.
Neither of them knew what to say to that.
The bell rang, sharp and unforgiving.
Will turned away and walked into his classroom, the door swinging shut behind him and cutting off whatever apology Mike might have tried to form.
He took his seat, pressed his headphones back on, and stared down at his desk as the music filled his ears again—loud enough to drown out everything else.
Routine restored.
For now.
The entire first period of the day passed with Will doing everything in his power to be invisible.
He kept his head down, eyes fixed on his notebook, music low enough that teachers wouldn’t comment but loud enough to keep the world at arm’s length. In the classes he shared with Mike, Dustin, and Lucas—everything except the ones he had with Max and Jane—he ignored them completely. No glances. No acknowledgment. Not even a tightening of his jaw when he felt Mike looking at him from two rows over.
If they noticed, they didn’t push.
By second period, the silence felt like armor.
By lunch, it cracked.
Will had just finished stuffing his sketchbook back into his bag when Lucas appeared beside his table, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He didn’t sit. Didn’t smile. Just hovered—awkward, unsure—like he was bracing for impact.
“Hey,” Lucas said.
Will sighed quietly, already tired. “Hey.”
There was a pause. Too long to be comfortable.
“So,” Lucas started, rocking back on his heels, “uh… there are tryouts tonight.”
Will didn’t look up. “Basketball.”
Lucas blinked. “Yeah.”
“I know,” Will said flatly. “You’ve mentioned it. Like. A lot.”
Lucas huffed out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I just—Max said she might go. And El too. I thought maybe you’d… I don’t know. Come?”
Will hesitated.
Basketball wasn’t his thing. The noise, the crowds, the shouting—it all crawled under his skin. And the culture around it didn’t help. The same people who sneered at D&D and called it Satanic packed the bleachers and screamed themselves hoarse over a ball and a hoop like it was holy.
It was exhausting just thinking about it.
But Lucas stood there anyway.
Lucas, who bent over backward trying to keep one foot in both worlds. Lucas, who showed up for Hellfire and still dragged himself to open gyms and conditioning drills. Lucas, who never once mocked Will for caring too much.
The resentment bubbled up—hot and sharp.
Mike and Dustin couldn’t even pretend to care about Lucas’s thing.
That, more than anything, pissed Will off.
Eddie’s campaigns weren’t even that good anyway. At least, not in Will’s very humble opinion.
Will exhaled slowly.
“…Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll go.”
Lucas’s face lit up, relief written all over it. “Yeah? Really?”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Will muttered. “I’m not suddenly a sports person.”
Lucas grinned anyway. “I won’t. Promise.”
As Lucas walked off, Will leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling tiles.
He wasn’t going for basketball.
He was going because Max and Jane would be there.
That mattered more.
During his free period, Will avoided the art room entirely. It was unusually busy that day—paint fumes hanging thick in the air, overlapping conversations, too many people asking questions he didn’t have the energy to answer. He’d already finished his part of the posters for the upcoming pep rally, and there was nothing left for him to do.
Instead, he retreated to one of the school’s forgotten corners: a quiet stretch of hallway near the old storage rooms, where dented lockers sat unused and the lights flickered just enough to keep most people away.
He slid down the wall and sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, headphones on but not playing anything.
He didn’t draw.
He didn’t read.
He just existed.
Let his thoughts drift without latching onto anything sharp or dangerous.
By the time basketball tryouts started that afternoon, Will was already overwhelmed.
The gym was a wall of sound—whistles shrilling, sneakers screeching against polished wood, voices echoing off the high ceiling. The air felt thick, electric, pressing in on him from every direction. Panic flared in his chest, sudden and familiar.
He scanned the bleachers quickly, pulse racing.
Then he saw them.
Max sat leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, chewing absently on a straw she’d stolen from a soda cup. Jane sat beside her, posture stiff but attentive, eyes tracking the players with intense focus, like she was trying to learn the rules through sheer concentration alone.
Will made his way over and dropped into the seat beside them, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
Max glanced at him sideways. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Will lied—but quieter this time.
She nudged him with her elbow. “Good. Because this is… a lot.”
Jane leaned over slightly. “Lucas said this is called ‘tryouts,’” she said thoughtfully. “I think it means everyone is very stressed on purpose.”
Max snorted. “That sounds about right.”
Will huffed out a small, surprised laugh.
He stayed close to them the entire time—feet tucked under the bench, hands clenched inside his sleeves. The noise surged and crashed around them, but with Max and Jane anchoring him in place, it felt… manageable.
Lucas barely left the court.
Will noticed. Of course he did.
Lucas ran drills, missed shots, made a few, listened carefully to the coach’s barked instructions. He looked tense—but focused. Determined.
Protected.
At least here, no one whispered about Satan or dice or imaginary monsters.
At least here, being different didn’t automatically make you dangerous.
Will watched Lucas laugh breathlessly with another guy between drills and felt something loosen in his chest.
Maybe that was enough.
For tonight, at least.
It felt like hours before tryouts finally ended.
Max and Jane left together, already talking over each other about something unrelated—music, maybe, or a movie—heading out into the evening with an ease Will envied but didn’t resent.
Will adjusted his bag on his shoulder, slipped his Walkman on, and pressed play. He was halfway to the exit when a voice spoke beside him.
“Uh—hi.”
Will flinched slightly and turned.
A guy stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a Hawkins Tigers practice jersey and an uncertain smile.
“Uh. Hello?” Will replied awkwardly.
The guy opened his mouth again, but before he could speak, Lucas jogged over, towel slung over his shoulder.
“Hey, Will! Thanks for coming tonight,” Lucas said, grinning. “Oh—looks like you’ve met Chance already.”
“Uh, not really,” Will said. “He was just about to introduce himself.”
Chance flushed. “Yeah—sorry. I’m Chance.”
“I’m Will,” he said, offering a small nod.
“I know,” Chance replied quickly—too quickly—eyes wide in a way that felt almost… awestruck.
Lucas clapped Chance on the shoulder. “Come on, man. Coach wants us lined up.”
They headed off together, and Will shook his head, slightly bewildered.
He was turning to leave when another voice called out.
“Will? Will Byers?”
He froze.
Chrissy Cunningham stood a few feet away, cheer bag slung over her shoulder, expression bright but hesitant.
“Uh—yeah,” Will said. “That’s me.”
She smiled. “Great. I was hoping I’d catch you. So—this might sound kind of random, but Robin Buckley mentioned you earlier.”
Will blinked. “She did?”
Chrissy nodded. “She said you might be interested in joining the cheer squad.”
Will stared at her.
Cheerleading.
Him.
“I—uh,” he said, brain stalling completely.
Chrissy rushed on, clearly sensing his panic. “You don’t have to answer right now! Just—think about it. We’re short a person, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”
Will nodded too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll—uh—consider it.”
“Great!” Chrissy said, clearly relieved. “Just let me know.”
Will didn’t trust himself to say anything else.
He fled the gym, hopped on his bike, and rode home with his Walkman turned up too loud—heart pounding, thoughts spiraling, the idea of cheerleading echoing in his head like a bad joke the universe was playing on him.
Basketball tryouts.
Hellfire.
Cheerleading.
Hawkins felt like it was rearranging itself around him.
And Will wasn’t sure yet where—or if—he was supposed to fit.
NOVEMBER 5, 1985.
The next day, Will woke up relatively early.
Which, of course, meant something was about to go wrong.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The house was already quiet—too quiet—which usually meant Jonathan had left early, Mom was gone, and El was already at school with Hopper.
So far, so good.
Will got dressed, grabbed his bag, and wheeled his bike outside, taking a small, cautious breath like he didn’t trust the universe not to notice his optimism.
Two blocks later, the chain snapped.
The pedals spun uselessly beneath his feet, metal clanking as the bike lurched to a stop. Will stared down at it in disbelief, then let his head fall forward.
“…Well,” he muttered. “Shit.”
There was no fixing it. No time, either.
By the time Jonathan’s car pulled up—late, predictably—Will was already resigned to his fate.
“You good?” Jonathan asked, leaning across the passenger seat to shove a pile of tapes aside.
“No,” Will said flatly, climbing in. “My bike died.”
Jonathan winced. “Again?”
“It betrayed me,” Will replied, buckling his seatbelt. “I thought we had something special.”
Jonathan snorted despite himself and pulled away from the curb. “I’ve got journalism club after school, but I can swing back. You gonna be around?”
“Yeah,” Will said. “Basketball tryouts. I’m just… watching.”
Jonathan nodded, distracted, eyes already drifting back to the road. “Cool. I’ll pick you up after.”
That was that.
All things considered, the day wasn’t terrible. Not great—but manageable. The kind of day Will had learned not to argue with.
At school, he headed straight for his locker, twisting the dial open with practiced ease.
Something fluttered out and landed at his feet.
Will frowned and bent down, picking up a small, folded slip of paper.
You look pretty as always.
He stared at it.
“…Huh?”
His stomach tightened—not fear exactly, but confusion sharp enough to make his pulse jump. No signature. No explanation. Just the words, written neatly, like whoever had left it had taken their time.
Will glanced down the hall instinctively, half-expecting someone to be watching him. No one was. Lockers slammed. Voices overlapped. The world carried on like nothing strange had just happened.
Slowly, deliberately, he folded the note and slid it into his pocket instead of crumpling it up. He didn’t know why. He told himself it didn’t matter.
Then he shut his locker and headed to first period, jaw set, expression neutral—already filing the moment away to be examined later, when it was quieter.
When he could breathe.
For now, routine came first.
And whatever that note meant… could wait.
After school, Will walked toward the gym, bag slung over one shoulder, already bracing himself for the noise.
He expected to see Lucas.
Instead, he was greeted by pom-poms.
“Shit,” Will muttered under his breath, slowing to a stop just inside the doors.
The basketball court was empty—no whistles, no drills, no clusters of nervous guys waiting their turn. Instead, the cheerleading team was spread across the polished floor, stretching, chatting, and half-running through counts of a routine. Music pulsed faintly from a portable speaker near the bleachers.
The only two people not wearing cheer uniforms were Chance—and Jason Carver.
Great. Just great.
Jason stood near the bleachers, letterman jacket draped over his shoulders like a badge of honor, arms crossed as he watched the practice with an air of possessive boredom. Chance lingered closer to the court, towel around his neck, clearly waiting for something—or someone.
Before Will could turn around and pretend he’d never set foot in the gym, Chrissy Cunningham spotted him.
“Will! Hi!” she called, jogging over with an easy smile.
Will lifted a hand in a stiff, awkward wave. “Uh—hi.”
“I’m glad you came,” Chrissy said warmly, then hesitated, her expression shifting just slightly. “You’re… here for Lucas, right?”
“Yeah,” Will said, shuffling his foot against the floor. “I mean—I thought there were tryouts today?”
Chrissy winced. “Oh. Yeah, no. That’s tomorrow. Today’s just cheer practice.”
Will closed his eyes briefly.
Of course it was.
“But,” Chrissy added quickly, clearly sensing his discomfort, “you can still sit and watch, if you want. Totally up to you.”
Will considered leaving. Strongly.
But the idea of going home early—to an empty house, to his own thoughts—felt worse.
“…Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll just—sit.”
Chrissy smiled, relieved. “Cool. Make yourself comfortable.”
So Will did.
He took a seat on the lowest bleacher row, backpack at his feet, hands tucked into his sleeves like he could disappear into them. Jason glanced at him once—sharp, dismissive—and then looked away like Will had already ceased to exist.
At least that was familiar.
A few minutes later, Jason pushed off the bleachers and headed toward Chrissy. Will didn’t catch all of it, but he heard enough.
“I’ll be back,” Jason said, already halfway turned. “Don’t wait up.”
Chrissy nodded. “Okay. Drive safe.”
And just like that, Jason Carver left the gym.
Which meant Will was no longer invisible—just alone.
Chance wandered over a few minutes later, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh. Hey.”
“Hey,” Will replied.
They sat in silence for a moment, watching the cheerleaders reset their formation.
“So,” Chance said, clearly grasping for conversation, “you, uh… you come to a lot of games?”
Will shook his head. “Not really.”
“Oh,” Chance said. Then, after a beat, “You’re Lucas’s friend, right?”
“Yeah,” Will said. “One of them.”
Chance nodded, glancing toward the court. “He’s good. Real focused.”
Will smiled faintly. “Yeah. He is.”
That opened the door.
They talked—awkwardly at first, then a little easier. About classes. About how brutal conditioning drills were. About music (Chance liked whatever was on the radio; Will politely did not elaborate on his own tastes). It wasn’t deep, but it was… fine.
Normal.
Eventually, Chance checked the clock on the wall and groaned. “I gotta go. My dad would kill me if I’m late again.”
“No worries,” Will said.
Chance hesitated, then added, “Uh. See you around?”
Will nodded. “Yeah. See you.”
And then he was alone again.
Just him.
And the cheerleaders.
Great. Just great.
Will slouched lower on the bleachers, staring at his hands.
Did Will ever tell you that he wanted to crawl into a ditch and die? Because he did. Right now. Actively.
The music paused. Laughter rippled across the court. Chrissy glanced over, spotted Will still sitting there, and hesitated—then walked toward him again.
“Hey,” she said gently. “So… I was wondering.”
Will tensed immediately. “Yeah?”
“We’re running a simplified version of one of the routines,” Chrissy continued. “Nothing intense. And you absolutely don’t have to—but if you wanted to try it? Just to see how it feels?”
She held up her hands. “No pressure. At all.”
Will opened his mouth to say no.
He really did.
But something stopped him.
Maybe it was the way everyone else in the gym seemed so certain of their place. Maybe it was the note still folded in his pocket, heavy and confusing. Maybe it was just exhaustion—bone-deep and relentless—making him reckless.
“…Okay,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it.
Chrissy’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Just—don’t make it a big thing,” Will added quickly. “Please.”
“I promise,” she said. “Scout’s honor.”
They showed him the basics. Counts. Footwork. Where to stand.
At first, Will was clumsy—hesitant steps, late turns, hands not quite doing what his brain told them to. His face burned, every mistake feeling louder than it probably was.
But then something shifted.
The counts clicked.
The spacing made sense.
His body remembered things his mind didn’t—balance, rhythm, momentum. Years of art translated into motion without him realizing it: symmetry, flow, knowing where he was in relation to everyone else.
When the music ended, the gym went quiet.
Someone whispered, “Holy shit.”
Will froze, heart pounding. “I—I messed up the turn on count six,” he said quickly.
Chrissy blinked. “What? No—you were great.”
A few of the other cheerleaders nodded, murmuring agreement.
“Yeah, you’re actually really good.”
“Like… really good.”
Will stared at them, stunned.
Chrissy smiled, wide and genuine. “Robin was right.”
Will exhaled shakily, something warm and unfamiliar spreading through his chest.
For the first time in a long while, the world hadn’t rejected him outright.
And maybe—just maybe—there was room for him here after all.
Chrissy grinned at him, bright and hopeful, like she already knew the answer she wanted.
“So,” she said lightly, rocking back on her heels, “are you interested in joining or what?”
Will opened his mouth—fully prepared to say no. Reflexively. Automatically. It was the safest answer, the one that didn’t require him to want anything, not because he hated what he just did.
No. never that.
He just hates to be perceived as a fairy more than he already is on the daily.
But before the word could leave his throat, the gym doors creaked open.
“Will?”
Jonathan’s voice echoed faintly through the space. He stood half-inside the doorway, camera bag slung over one shoulder, keys already in his hand. His eyes flicked from Will, to the cheerleaders, to Chrissy, brows knitting together in visible confusion.
Will felt his soul briefly leave his body.
“Oh—uh,” Will said quickly, scrambling to grab his backpack. He looked back at Chrissy, cheeks burning. “Can I—can I answer tomorrow?”
Chrissy blinked, then smiled again, softer this time. “Yeah. Of course. No rush.”
“Okay. Thanks,” Will said, already backing away. He lifted a small, awkward wave. “I’ll—yeah. See you.”
Chrissy waved back as he hurried toward the doors, every step screaming abort mission.
Jonathan waited until Will reached him before pulling the door open the rest of the way. “You ready?”
“Yep,” Will said too fast.
They left the gym together, the door swinging shut behind them. As Will followed Jonathan across the parking lot, he couldn’t stop the thought from surfacing—
My god. That was an awkward conversation.
The car ride was quiet for all of five seconds.
“So,” Jonathan said as he pulled out of the lot, glancing sideways at him. “What was all that about?”
Will stared out the window, watching the school recede into the distance. “Nothing.”
Jonathan hummed skeptically. “Didn’t look like nothing.”
“I just got my days mixed up,” Will said, shrugging like it was inconsequential. “I thought basketball tryouts were today.”
Jonathan didn’t push. He just nodded once and turned his attention back to the road, one hand tapping absently against the steering wheel.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Will watched Jonathan’s reflection in the window—the familiar profile, the tired eyes, the version of his brother that felt increasingly distant. He swallowed hard, something tight and aching settling in his chest.
God, he missed Jonathan.
Not this quiet, checked-out version. Not the one who smelled faintly like weed and drifted through conversations like he was already halfway gone. He missed the Jonathan who used to notice everything. Who used to be there.
Will leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes, the weight of the day finally catching up with him.
Tomorrow, he’d think about cheerleading.
Tomorrow, he’d decide.
For now, all he could do was sit in the passenger seat and miss someone who was right beside him.
Dinner was loud.
Not loud in the shouting sense—no raised voices, no arguments—but loud in the way Will had learned to dread. Forks scraping against plates. Chairs shifting. The hum of conversation overlapping just enough to make it impossible to tune out completely.
Will sat at the table and tried to be interested in whatever was happening.
Keyword: tried.
Joyce was talking about work—something about a client who wouldn’t stop asking if encyclopedias were “still relevant.” Hopper snorted into his drink at that, muttering something about people not knowing how to read anymore. Jonathan poked at his food, half-listening, half-somewhere else entirely.
And then there was Jane.
And Mike.
They sat across from him, knees bumping under the table, shoulders angled just slightly toward each other. Mike leaned in when he spoke to her, voice softer than it ever was with anyone else. Jane listened with complete focus, like every word he said mattered more than anything else in the room.
Will kept his eyes on his plate.
It shouldn’t have bothered him this much. He knew that. He knew it was irrational, immature, unfair—Jane was his sister now, in every way that counted. Mike was his friend. Had been for years. Nothing about this was new.
And yet.
His stomach twisted unpleasantly, heat crawling up his throat, that sharp, familiar sensation like he might actually vomit if he let himself think about it too hard. He wanted to scream. Or cry. Or bury his face in a pillow and not come out until this feeling burned itself out of his chest.
Moving on from an unrequited crush, as it turned out, was a lot harder when you had to spend your daily life in the vicinity of the crush.
Especially when the crush looked at someone else the way Mike looked at Jane.
“So,” Hopper said suddenly, breaking Will out of his spiral. “Basketball tryouts going okay with Sinclair?”
Jane perked up immediately. “Lucas ran very fast yesterday,” she added seriously. “I think that is good.”
Mike smiled at her like she’d just said something profound. “Yeah. He did great.”
Will stabbed at a piece of chicken a little too aggressively. he wants to call out Mike with his bullshit because he never went to any of Lucas' tryouts nor does he show any interest with it, but he didn’t.
“Will?” Joyce asked gently. “You barely touched your food, honey.”
He forced himself to look up. “I’m just not that hungry.”
It wasn’t a lie. The knot in his stomach had made sure of that.
Joyce studied him for a moment, worry flickering briefly across her face, but she didn’t push. Hopper noticed too—Will could tell by the way his gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, like he was filing the observation away for later.
Neither of them said anything.
The silence pressed in.
Will needed out. Not physically—he couldn’t exactly excuse himself without making it obvious—but mentally. He needed something else to think about. Anything else.
So he did.
He thought about Chance.
The way Chance had smiled at him in the gym, awkward and genuine. The way he’d talked to Will like he was just… a guy. Not a tragedy. Not a rumor. Not something fragile.
He thought about the cheerleading proposition—Chrissy’s hopeful smile, the way the routine had clicked in his body in a way he hadn’t expected. The brief, dizzy feeling of being good at something people didn’t expect him to be good at.
He clung to those thoughts like a life raft.
It helped.
Not completely—but enough.
“Will.”
Jane’s voice cut through his thoughts, soft but insistent.
He blinked. “Yeah?”
She tilted her head, studying him with that unsettlingly perceptive gaze of hers. “You are thinking very loudly.”
Mike snorted. “El, that’s not—”
“It’s okay,” Will said quickly, managing a small smile. “I’m just tired.”
Jane accepted that answer, though she didn’t look entirely convinced.
Conversation picked back up. Joyce talked again. Hopper responded. Jonathan chimed in once or twice, distant but present enough to pass. Mike and Jane leaned closer together, whispering about something Will didn’t want to hear.
Will focused on breathing.
In and out.
He ate a few more bites, just enough that his mom wouldn’t worry. He nodded when spoken to. He smiled when appropriate. He performed normal the way he’d learned to do so well.
Still, Joyce noticed. Hopper noticed.
They always did.
But they said nothing—not with everyone gathered around the table, not when the fragile peace of the evening could so easily fracture. Whatever questions they had, whatever concerns flickered behind their eyes, they kept them to themselves.
For now.
When dinner finally ended, Will helped clear the table without being asked. He retreated upstairs as soon as he could, the weight in his chest only easing once his bedroom door clicked shut behind him.
He sat on the edge of his bed and exhaled, long and shaky.
Tomorrow, he’d decide about cheerleading.
Tomorrow, he’d figure out what to do with all of this.
For tonight, it was enough that he’d survived dinner without breaking.
Even if it had taken everything he had.