Chapter Text
the club is louder than will expected. not scary-loud, not like hawkins parties where the bass rattled your bones, but alive-loud, layered with music and laughter and the scrape of chairs and a hundred conversations overlapping. it smells like beer and sweat and cheap cologne and something sweet underneath it all, like citrus cleaner trying to keep up with the grime.
carlton is practically vibrating beside him.
“come on,” he says, already halfway inside, hand warm and confident around will’s wrist. “this place is perfect. you’re gonna love it.”
“i’m only here because you said it was an art crowd,” will says, but he lets himself be pulled along. he’s wearing his good jacket, the one that makes him feel a little less like a kid from indiana and a little more like someone who belongs in new york.
“it is,” carlton says. “painters, photographers, trust me. plus, people with money.”
will snorts. “you mean people like you.”
carlton grins, unbothered. nantucket rich, born knowing how to take up space. it’s part of what drew will to him at first, the way carlton moves through the world like it’s already agreed to accommodate him. will tells himself—honestly, not entirely lying—that networking is the point. connections. commissions. maybe someone who could help fund supplies, a studio, something bigger than a dorm room with bad lighting.
but also: carlton’s hand on the small of his back, guiding him through the crowd. the way he leans in close to talk, leaning down so his mouth is near mouth is close to will’s ear, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
they get to the bar. it’s sticky. will can feel it even through his sleeves when he leans his elbows against it.
“two beers,” carlton says without asking.
will hesitates. the smell hits him immediately—sharp, sour, unmistakable. his stomach tightens. lonnie’s breath, stale and bitter. bottles lined up on the counter at home. voices getting louder. hands getting rougher.
“hey,” carlton says softly, noticing. “you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
will shakes his head. “it’s fine. really.”
it feels important, suddenly, not to be difficult. not to be the kid who can’t handle things. he watches the bartender slide the drinks over. the foam settles.
he takes a sip. it’s worse than he remembered. he forces himself to swallow.
carlton cheers like he’s won something. “see? new york rite of passage.”
they find a small table near the back, half-hidden by a pillar. people drift in and out, some stopping to talk to carlton, some giving will curious glances. someone compliments will’s jacket. someone asks what he studies. art, he says, and his chest warms a little when they nod like that matters.
the beer goes down faster than it should. then there’s another one. and another. will forgets to pace himself. forgets to switch to water. forgets, in general, to be careful.
by the time he stands up to go dance with carlton, the floor feels pleasantly unstable, like it’s breathing with him.
he laughs louder than usual. his cheeks hurt from smiling. the music moves through him, not threatening, not overwhelming—just loud enough to drown out the part of his brain that’s always watching for exits.
they dance badly. will bumps into someone and apologizes too much. carlton kisses him to shut him up, quick and easy, like it’s nothing at all. will’s head spins.
at some point they’re sharing drinks without thinking about it, carlton taking a sip from will’s glass, will stealing his back, mouths brushing, laughing when they miss and spill beer on themselves. it feels intimate and careless and warm.
will presses his forehead to carlton’s shoulder, breathless. “i’m having a really good time,” he says, like it’s a confession.
carlton’s arm tightens around him. “me too.”
he doesn’t say anything else. he doesn’t say the words sitting heavy in his chest, the ones he’s been carrying around like a secret bruise. he watches will glow under the club lights, tipsy and open and happy, and he tells himself he’ll say it later. tomorrow. when it won’t ruin this.
they leave when will starts swaying more than dancing. outside, the night air is cold and sharp, sobering just enough to make him giggly instead of dizzy.
back in the dorm, everything is too bright. will kicks off his shoes and nearly falls over laughing. carlton catches him, hands steady, practiced.
“okay,” carlton says, amused. “bedtime, william.”
they help each other like it’s a ritual. carlton loosens will’s jacket, hangs it carefully on the chair. will fumbles with buttons that refuse to cooperate.
“mike,” he says, out of nowhere, grinning.
carlton pauses. “what?”
will blinks at him, unfocused. “you’re being really bossy, mike.”
“i am not mike,” carlton says, laughing. “who’s mike?”
“it’s nothing,” will says immediately, waving a hand. “just— nothing. he’s nothing.”
he keeps saying it, though. mike, muttered under his breath. mike, when carlton helps him sit on the bed. mike, soft and familiar, like a name worn smooth from use.
carlton frowns, just a little. “you sure you’re okay?”
will looks up at him, eyes bright and glassy, full of trust. “yeah. i’m good. i’m really good.”
carlton swallows. he nods. he doesn’t push.
they settle into bed, fully clothed, limbs awkward and tangled. will falls asleep almost instantly, breathing even, face relaxed in a way carlton doesn’t see often.
carlton lies awake beside him, staring at the ceiling, the club music still echoing faintly in his head. the night replays itself over and over, every shared drink, every kiss.
he tells himself he’ll tell will soon.
just not tonight.
the call from student health comes in the middle of a tuesday, which already feels wrong. will has a class in forty minutes and a half-finished sketch in his portfolio and a coffee going cold on the windowsill of his dorm room, and the message on his answering machine is calm in that way that makes his stomach dip.
“william byers, this is the nyu student health center. we’d like you to come in this afternoon to discuss your recent bloodwork.”
discuss is a strange word. it feels like something people say when they don’t want to say the real one.
he tells himself it’s nothing. follow-up bloodwork means follow-up. it means they lost a vial, or want to double-check, or need him to sign something. he has always been good at making the worst things smaller by naming them carefully. he goes to class anyway. he doesn’t hear a word the professor says.
the health center smells like antiseptic and old carpet. the waiting room is too bright, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, chairs bolted to the floor. there’s a poster on the wall about safe sex that looks like it hasn’t been updated since 1970. will sits with his hands folded in his lap, staring at a crack in the tile and counting his breaths to stay calm the way joyce taught him when he was a kid.
they call his name. william byers. the nurse doesn’t smile.
the doctor is younger than he expected, maybe mid-thirties, hair neatly parted, white coat too stiff. he doesn’t look at will when he speaks at first. he flips through a chart, clears his throat.
“thank you for coming in so quickly,” he says, and his voice is professional, careful. “we ran the panel you requested last week, and one of the results came back positive.”
positive. the word hangs there, unfinished, like it’s waiting for something to attach to.
will blinks. “positive… for what?”
the doctor finally looks at him then, just for a second, before his eyes slide away again. “the hiv antibody test.”
there’s a pause. will is aware, suddenly, of the hum of the lights, the faint sound of someone coughing down the hall, the way his own pulse feels loud in his ears. he waits for the doctor to keep talking, to explain, to soften it, to say but or however or we caught it early.
none of that comes.
“okay,” will says, because okay is a word you can say when you don’t understand something but you don’t want people to know that yet. “so… what does that mean?”
the doctor folds his hands. “it means you’ve been exposed to the virus at some point. we’ll want to run a confirmatory test, of course, but—”
“does it mean i’m sick?” will asks. his voice sounds far away to him.
“it means you’re hiv-positive,” the doctor repeats, like that explains everything.
ending. the word doesn’t get said, but will feels it anyway. like a door closing somewhere behind his eyes.
he thinks, absurdly, of carlton. of the night they went to that club in the village, how loud the music was, how carlton laughed right in his ear, how will had felt terrified and electric at the same time. he thinks of how careful they’d tried to be. how young they are. how this isn’t supposed to happen if you do things right.
the doctor is still talking. numbers. t-cells. monitoring. things they can do, but not much. the doctor’s tone stays even, distant, like he’s discussing weather patterns or cholesterol.
will nods. he signs something. he takes a pamphlet he doesn’t read. he walks out of the health center feeling like he’s underwater.
outside, the city is the same. taxis honk. people laugh. someone is playing music somewhere on the corner. will stands on the sidewalk for a long moment, dizzy with it. he presses his thumb into the edge of his sketchbook until it hurts, just to feel something solid.
he goes back to his dorm room instead of class. he sits on his bed and stares at the wall. the light shifts slowly from afternoon to evening, shadows stretching, and he doesn’t move.
the phone rings sometime later. he almost doesn’t answer it.
“will?” joyce’s voice crackles through the line, tinny with distance. “honey, are you there?”
“yeah,” he says. “i’m here.”
there’s a pause. he knows that pause. it’s the one she takes when she’s deciding how much truth she can carry without breaking.
“i just got back from the doctor with hop,” she says. “they… they think he’s sick. really sick.”
will closes his eyes.
“what kind of sick?”
“they’re saying it might be from vietnam. agent orange. they don’t know for sure yet, but they said they’re starting to see cases pop up—” joyce’s voice wobbles, just a little. she steadies it. “he’s trying to act like it’s nothing. you know him.”
will swallows. his throat feels tight, like it’s closing in on itself. “is he okay?”
“right now,” joyce says. “but they want to run more tests. keep an eye on him. i just thought you should know.”
he presses his forehead into the wall. the paint is cool. grounding.
“okay,” he says, again. okay is doing a lot of work today.
after they hang up, he sits there and lets it settle, heavy and impossible.
his body is failing.
his father figure’s body is failing.
and there is no monster to blame this time. no upside down. no shadow thing. no vecna. just cells and chemicals and choices and a government that poisoned people and a virus that doesn’t care how careful you were.
he doesn’t cry. he doesn’t scream. he just sits until the room goes dark.
eventually, when the silence gets too loud, he reaches for the phone.
carlton answers on the third ring. “hey,” he says, breathless, like he’s been running or crying or both. “i was just about to call you.”
“why didn’t you tell me,” will says. he doesn’t bother with hello.
there’s a long pause on the other end of the line.
“i didn’t know how,” carlton says finally. his voice is thin, wrecked. “i didn’t want to scare you. i thought maybe if you didn’t know—”
“i found out today,” will says. his hand is shaking. “they said i’m positive.”
another pause. will can hear carlton breathing.
“i’m so sorry,” carlton whispers. “i got tested after that night and when it came back i— i called in anonymously. i just wanted to make sure they checked you. i didn’t know how to say it to your face.”
will closes his eyes. “where are you?”
“what do you mean?”
“you’re usually back by now,” will says. “you said you’d come over.”
silence stretches. too long.
“i dropped out,” carlton says. “i left. i couldn’t— i didn’t know how to stay. i’m at my parents. you should call someone to be with you william-“
the words hit harder than the diagnosis did.
“you just left,” will says.
“i’m sorry,” carlton says again, and it sounds like a refrain, like something he’s been saying to himself all day. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”
will doesn’t know what to do with that. he hangs up eventually, not angrily, just empty.
he sits in the dark with the city humming outside his window, nineteen years old, and already learning what it feels like when the future quietly rearranges itself without asking permission.