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Will Byers was going to die.
He was going to die, and his body was going to be mangled and dismembered and left to rot in the middle of Hawkins High–a grave fit for a freshly 18-year-old social pariah whose mom still cut his hair, sans bowl at least, and who spent most of his high school career hiding from new experiences within the white paper walls of his sketchbook.
Although, admittedly, his social life had also not been helped by the revolving door of supernatural murder plots that always had him pinned at the center of the vision board.
They should’ve known defeating Vecna and the Mind Flayer had been…too easy–like if rolling a one or two in a campaign meant the shot landed. The difficulty level hadn’t been equivalent to the stakes. Sure, Vecna himself seemed well and truly dead after the whole therapy-circle-guillotine situation, but there had been collective oversight when it came to the Mind Flayer.
Now, sixteen months later, with El and Kali halfway across the world at this point, Will found himself sprinting from some sort of roided out Demogorgon–totally alone and entirely powerless.
Less than two months from graduation–from freedom–and this was how his pitiful life story was going to end. He’d stayed late to use the art room for a personal project, unaware that the real artistic display would be his flesh-turned-confetti being tossed through the halls like a gory exhibition. The papers would make their thesis statement about the lethal dangers of young men having creative passions.
Great. Dead and used as a poster child for conservatism. What a legacy.
He turned a corner, sneakers screeching and sliding, hand grasping for the wall to keep him upright. The Demogorgon was so close at this point that he could practically feel the slash of claws on his back and the smack of his head on linoleum with every panicked step forward.
“Byers! Over here!”
Will glanced to his left as a flash of black hair was followed by an advancing blur of orange. A thwack more fit for a sitcom than a horrifying pursuit resounded somewhere behind him, and the Demogorgon let out a roar of outraged agony. Will hadn’t survived this long by making stupid game-time decisions, so he beelined in the direction of the voice and did not look back.
He approached a half-open door–to the gymnasium he realized–and warm hands grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him inside.
“Oh my god, now we’re both gonna die,” Will huffed through labored breath, hands braced on his knees, “What did you even do to it? Just piss it off more?”
“That’s one way to say thanks for saving your ass.”
Will looked up then. Chance.
He was going to die, and it was going to be with Chance Lawson by his side. The news headline updated in real time–Basketball Star Maimed and Killed by Zombie Boy.
Maybe this was how the film adaptation of his life was always supposed to end–an artsy nerd and a reformed bully mixed together in a pile of flesh as a poetic conclusion to John Hughes’s foray into the horror genre. The final shot would zoom out from the hulking back of the Demogorgon loomed over its symbolic meal of high school social hierarchy, and “Beautiful World” by DEVO would kick in. An instant classic.
Although, if Will were being honest, the chasm between Will’s friend group and the jocks had shrunk a little over the past year-and-a-half, antagonistic encounters replaced by nods in passing and the flicker of guilt in averted eyes. They still didn’t go out of their way to speak to each other, but the division was more so based on a lack of common interest between their social circles and less on the hunting-supposed-devil-worshippers-for-sport angle. The disruption of their small town–whether believed to be an unprecedented natural disaster, a test from God, or the culmination of a supernatural world domination scheme–had left them all less interested in picking petty fights. They had arrived at a collective understanding that everyone just wanted to survive senior year with a passable GPA and their heads attached–the latter possibility fading from Will’s reality with every groan of the Demogorgon outside the gymnasium doors.
“It doesn’t sound dead to me, so don’t pat yourself on the back yet,” Will retorted, straightening. He knew he was being an ungrateful brat and that he would’ve been dead by now if not for Chance’s intervention, but confusing nerves that he absolutely did not want to deal with were skittering down his arms and pressing at his skull.
“Jesus, Byers. Sorry I couldn’t find a machete on such short notice.”
Under the sarcasm in his delivery, Will thought he heard genuine…defensiveness? Chance had yet to look him in the eye, gaze flitting from the bleachers to the floorboards to his shoes.
The lockers just outside clanged one after the other like a xylophone of impending death. The Demogorgon wasn’t looking for them–it knew where they were. It was just angry.
“Whatever. It’s not like you would’ve known how to use it anyway,” Will snapped. He ignored the way Chance finally met his stare, eyebrows downturned as if Will had just popped his favorite basketball and handed it back flattened. “Where can we hide? Quickly.”
Without a word, Chance wrapped a hand around Will’s wrist and yanked him into a run.
Okay, he probably deserved that.
Will stumbled behind him, free arm helicoptering to find balance again as they tore across the gym. A slideshow of PE classes where he’d allowed himself to get hit by dodgeballs just so he could sit on the bleachers and draw flashed through his mind. This was probably the fastest he’d ever moved within the confines of a room built for sports and recreation.
Chance looked back just once, eyebrows wiggling as if to say how about that?, before he directed them down a hallway with several doors.
The first door they passed, the boy’s locker room, sent a chill down Will’s spine that had nothing to do with flower petal maws or wild, gangly limbs. He tried–and failed– to push down the images that bubbled to the surface. Tan skin under cheap fluorescents. A heather gray, school-issued Hawkins Phys Ed shirt sliding over a back toned by dedication to athletic excellence that rivaled Will’s own dedication to putting his imagination onto paper. Glancing from the door to the hand enclosed around his wrist, he felt the same guilt he had back then. While his friends had been coming to school every day bracing to defend themselves, their club…Eddie…Will had been cataloguing the flick of dark hair, wet from a shower, and the dart of brown eyes in his direction that left him restless at night wondering if he’d been caught. Or if the reluctant pull was mutual.
He shook his head to send the shame back into its vault and focused on putting one foot in front of the other. They passed some less traumatizing doors–Coach Reid’s office, a small weight room–before Chance swerved them left into what Will abruptly realized was a…closet.
“In here,” Chance commanded, tone hushed, as if Will wasn’t being pulled along anyway.
The tight hold on Will’s wrist vanished as Chance gave him a light shove toward the back of the closet and closed the door. Their puffs of exhaustion filled the silence, giving Will a moment to survey the tiny box they were most likely going to die in.
Sporting equipment lined every square inch of the four walls as if all the activities Will had tried to avoid in sophomore year PE decided to stage an intervention. Jump ropes wriggled by the entrance, activated by the gust of the door closing, the hard plastic vines seeming giddy with the memory of whipping Will’s ankles every time his hop was too late, which was every time. Highlighter orange and green mesh vests sat in an unwashed pile in the corner. They’d had to wear them to differentiate teams in whatever sadistic game Coach Reid had come up with–he was kind of the Dungeon Master of the gym in that way, and Will had never rolled high enough to bypass humiliation. And of course, lining the racks above his head, there were basketballs. How could he forget being forced to attempt a free throw and somehow ending up on his back hallucinating little D20s spinning around? Chance had offered him a hand up, and Will had taken it–the gesture one of many that had felt at odds with how he moved when the other jocks were in his ear.
He glanced back over at Chance, catching him staring, “You know, I did always hope I’d perish surrounded by balls.”
Chance barked a laugh, “I guess I don’t have a good read on you–I kind of figured your dream death would be, like, going mad from paint fumes and jumping out a castle window.” He gestured up high, “Something epic to go with your posthumous rise to fame.”
Will tried to conceal the shock of being perceived at all, “I think I’m immune to paint fumes at this point, but maybe we can run with the castle idea.”
Chance rocked on his feet, making quick eye contact with his frayed sneakers. He still wore a small smile that it seemed like he was trying to get a handle on–probably embarrassed he’d let someone like Will amuse him.
Will decided not to let him off so easy, “You look pretty happy considering–”
The crash of double doors busting wide open echoed across the gym and slithered through the crack in their hiding spot. With the way the metal screamed, he was sure both doors were dangling from their hinges in limp defeat.
On instinct, Will reached out and pulled Chance by his forearm away from the closet entrance. Years of accumulated fear and loss uncorked in his mind and body, and his fingernails dug in on their own volition. He could’ve come to terms with his own death–he already had once–but now that the reality of their predicament was hitting him fully, he felt sick to his stomach at the idea of another person, of Chance, becoming collateral because the Upside Down wouldn’t let him go. Whatever powers he’d possessed died with Vecna, but he could only guess the Mind Flayer wanted to collect what belonged to it. To collect him. Maybe Mike really should’ve built a bomb. And Will should’ve stayed behind with it.
“Byers, hey,” Chance’s hot breath ghosted over Will’s face. Somewhere beyond his panic, he felt a gentle hand rest atop the one that still clung to Chance’s arm, the brush of a thumb coaxing him to relax his grip, “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
Will shook his head, eyes distant, “No, we’re not. You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“How are you even so calm right now? You’re not surprised at all that a hellbeast is just casually in our school?” Will jabbed his chest with an index finger, his other hand still holding Chance’s forearm. There wasn’t much force to it with how close they were standing, his range of motion limited.
Chance snaked an arm between them and snatched Will’s other hand before he could get jab-happy again. He bent down so they were eye-to-eye, “Absolutely nothing surprises me about this place anymore. Not after Chrissy. And Jason.”
“Oh…right.” Will mumbled, feeling a flare of embarrassment at forgetting that others experienced losses–and witnessed unfathomable horrors–from all this too. Even though Chance hadn’t been clued in to the truth behind what happened, the haunting aftermath remained the same.
Chance eased Will’s hand from hovering between them to resting against Will’s own chest, releasing it with a little pat, “Yeah.”
Will thought about Eddie then–about the witch hunt Jason had led against him, the way the town had been poisoned by one scared teenager against another whose only crime was being too loud and spirited about a game of make-believe…and some minor drug-dealing. He thought about Dustin too–the way he’d tried to carry Eddie’s flame by burning himself down in the process. Chance had been a part of that. He may not have led the charge, but he participated anyway.
“Why did you treat my friends the way you did?” he found himself asking. It was a question that blared in his mind whenever he felt the guilt of his traitorous curiosity.
Chance took a step back, eyes down, and removed Will’s other hand from his arm like he felt undeserving of it, “I don’t think I have an answer that’s going to feel fair to you. And I’m not going to pretend that it was fair. The way I acted. I was afraid, and when you’re afraid…I guess sometimes the wrong ideas start making sense.” He ruffled the hair at the back of his neck and looked up, “I apologized to Henderson, you know. Not that it makes it better. I know you all probably hate me, and I can’t blame you.”
“I don’t hate you.” The words left Will’s mouth before he could process that he really did mean them. He didn’t think he ever had. Hated him. Somewhere between snapshot-quick glances and good faith gestures, Will had realized that people were deeper than their worst moments. And, maybe, he’d been afraid too. Afraid of acknowledging that people could change and that he was allowed to want things.
Chance’s face contorted, unreadable, “How can you not?”
A roar ripped a hole in their delicate moment of attempted reconciliation. Chance was the one to grab Will this time, ushering them both as far back in the closet as they could go without knocking anything over. They sunk down to the cold concrete floor, shoulders glued together. Thick letterman jacket against a thin cotton t-shirt.
“We’re going to die. We’re actually going to die, and I haven’t even lived.” Will slapped a striped shoe against the ground, head in his hands, “I haven’t even kissed anyone. How lame is that?”
He hadn’t meant to say it, but the barrier between his mind and his mouth had crumbled given the state of things.
The silence that followed felt worse than death. Will imagined even the Demogorgon must’ve whipped its head around at the admission, petals closed in secondhand embarrassment. He didn’t dare look over at Chance, so he stayed hidden behind the hair that had fallen forward and held his breath.
With the utter lack of sound or movement in the small space, he couldn’t be sure Chance hadn’t stopped breathing too, lungs seized from the realization that his final moments would be spent trapped in a closet with a gay nerd who’d only ever kissed a poster of Han Solo.
After a full minute that felt like every last one of Will’s eighteen years relived, Chance finally spoke, “...Are you messing with me?”
Will’s head shot up, incredulous, “What? I tell you I haven’t kissed anyone, and you somehow think that’s a prank on…you? It’s humiliating. For me. Clearly.”
“But I–” Chance shut his mouth, fingers dancing on his knee and eyes forward, “Nevermind.”
Thunderous footsteps sounded further away than they had before, like the Demogorgon was scoping out the wrong end of the court. Will didn’t feel any less nervous.
“Just forget I said anything. Let me die with my dignity at least.” Will brushed back the hair from his eyes, “Anyway, I figure it’ll take about five more minutes before Stompy realizes where we are, so any last wo–”
“Wait–” Chance’s voice was so low it could’ve been mistaken for just a breath. He still didn’t face Will, speaking at the closet door, “I mean–I could…”
Will’s eyes snapped to the side of his head.
“I could…kiss you. If you want.”
There was a nervousness beneath the offer that Will would’ve never associated with the Chance that everyone saw in the halls. That Chance was magnetic and laughed too loud and carried a basketball on his hip like a signifier of his rank. This Chance, the one who’d just offered Will a first–and probably last–kiss, was nibbling his bottom lip and scrunching his brows as though, even on the verge of a gruesome death, he was more worried about what he’d said and how Will would receive it than the monster outside.
Will opened his mouth–to say what, he wasn’t sure yet–but Chance continued, “I’m sorry–I didn’t mean to assume you’d want to kiss me just because I’m…here. That was dumb. And probably offensive somehow.”
He studied Chance’s profile, his high cheekbones and angular, clenched jaw, the way his dark hair fell in loose waves around his ear. He was pretty in the way popular athletes tended to be. It was the kind of pretty that had girls applying lipstick and fluffing their hair in locker mirrors at the prospect of catching his eye. It was also the kind of pretty that made someone like Will feel the ache of knowing he was different–of not being able to deny that he’d wanted to catch his eye too. He felt a little better admitting that now than he had before.
Will swallowed, and he imagined the sound bouncing off the closet walls, swerving through one of the propped up hula hoops, and landing right in Chance’s ear, loud and thick, “What if I…did…want to kiss you?”
Finally, Chance turned from his staring contest with the door to look at Will. His deep brown eyes were wide, brows almost to his hairline. They stared at each other, unspeaking, for a beat too long.
“Um, good–I mean, yeah–uh–great.”
Will covered his mouth to hide a snicker. If Chance wasn’t…well, Chance…the way he was acting–all twitchy and nervous and incomprehensible–would lead Will to believe they might’ve been in the same boat. But that was impossible. Chance could kiss anyone at any time. He could probably get Coach Reid to kiss him if he really wanted to…which, ew. Moving on. In all likelihood, Chance was just working himself up to kiss a guy. This was his Hail Mary–a final act of heterosexual charity to get him through the gates of heaven.
“Okay, well…your move. It’s not like I know what to do,” Will tried to sound less anxious than he really felt. He prayed that the Demogorgon had found a paper wad to swat around for a bit, just long enough to let Will have this one thing.
“....Right.”
Chance turned to face Will fully, knees tucked under him and hands braced on the scuffed concrete. His feet managed to send a line of baseball bats tumbling to the ground, the clatter startling Will even closer.
Will’s voice came out a little shaky when he remarked, “If you don’t actually want to kiss me, just say so instead of alerting the Demogorgon and the entire state of Indiana to our location.”
Chance laughed, but it sounded more like he might need to receive the Heimlich, “You have an actual name for that thing?”
“I have names for a lot of things you don’t want to know about.”
Chance’s grin faltered, and a little bit of a fear, but mostly wonder, took hold of his features, “I was always…curious…about you, but the mystery goes even deeper than I ever could’ve imagined, huh, Byers? Artist by day, monster hunter by night–I never would’ve guessed.”
Will’s face heated.
“And by the way, I’d much rather kiss you than die. To be clear. I’d rather kiss you than do a lot of things.”
Chance seemed to realize what he’d admitted, cheeks starting to look how Will’s felt, hot and red under the dim light.
With the muffled growls of the Demogorgon slinking under the door, Will allowed himself a moment of bravery. He turned his own body around so they were face-to-face, knees almost close enough to touch. His hand inched forward until he felt the reactionary twitch of Chance’s fingertips, their shocked exhales swirling in the short distance between them.
“I’m…going to kiss you now,” Chance announced, an unmistakable tremble in his voice that the threat of death had yet to bring out. He raised a hand up, letting it hover for a moment before his warm fingers curled around Will’s jaw, thumb resting on the soft midpoint of his cheek. It wasn’t like when his mom or El had held his face in the past–familial and comforting. This touch was breaking new ground, and Will felt it, exploratory and tender, from the point of contact all the way down to the tips of his toes.
The thumb on his cheek swiped back and forth, once, like Chance was grounding himself. Like he was making sure Will hadn’t elected to run into the arms of the Demogorgon instead. Will realized belatedly he’d been staring with militant focus at Chance’s mouth, worried about missing the...approach, but he flicked his eyes up when Chance spoke again, voice close, “Is this okay?”
Will nodded, suddenly unsure if he was also supposed to do more with his hands. He needed a point of reference. What would Molly Ringwald do? He thought back to Sixteen Candles. Had she reached out for Jake Ryan? No. She had kept her arms firmly at her sides…but there had been the whole open flame thing with the birthday cake, which…wasn’t relevant here. What about Pretty in Pink? He thought he remembered some shoulder action, and she might’ve put her hands in Blane’s hair at some point. Maybe he could do that.
“Will.”
Vision returning from a blurry state, Will discovered that Chance was…very close. Close enough Will could report for certain that he had freckles, faint ones that peppered the bridge of his nose and the peaks of his cheekbones. Five here, four there. Will also noted that his eyelashes were as dark and full as his hair–oh, Chance was, in fact, looking at him in a way that suggested he might’ve said something in the past two minutes.
“Hi,” Chance greeted with a smirk, “What were you thinking about? I feel like I lost you there for a second.”
“Pretty in Pink?” Will tried his best not to keep counting Chance’s facial features like sheep.
“Mm,” Chance’s eyes flitted from Will’s own to further down, “Am I boring you so much you had to put something else on?”
Jolted by the fear that his shot at a first kiss was torpedoing into oblivion, Will decided he had to do something. He brought one hand up and placed it on the dip of Chance’s left shoulder, fingers digging into thick wool. With his other hand, unsteady as it was, he looped around Chance’s neck under his jacket collar. This seemed vaguely right–at least somewhat close to his cinematic reference. It definitely felt right.
Chance shivered under his palm. But, how could he be cold? Between sprinting across the gym, being locked in this tiny, enclosed space, and sitting so close their mingled breath was creating its own atmosphere, Will couldn’t possibly feel anything but burning hot.
He remembered he’d been asked a question, eyes once again trained on Chance’s lips, “Nope. Not bored yet.” The words left his mouth in a breathless sigh. He didn’t recognize his own voice.
Chance started to lean forward again, and Will knew they’d reached the part where he was meant to close his eyes.
Vision gone dark, Will’s pulse started to thump impossibly faster. Was the anticipation of getting kissed supposed to feel akin to seeing a creeping shadow in a grocery store parking lot at night? Well, that comparison wasn’t totally right. It was more like if the creeping shadow ended up belonging to a pretty basketball player with nice hair and a hidden sweet side, so the prior fear of getting mugged would shift into…wanting to be mugged…? With his lips? Speaking of lips, was he ever going to–
Will felt something soft and warm against his mouth. The pressure firm, the aim true.
Chance was kissing him.
The deluge of thoughts that never seemed to stop clanging around in Will’s mind dematerialized. He forgot all about muggers and Molly Ringwald and even, inadvisably, Demogorgons. His fingers tightened at the back of Chance’s neck, catching hair in between them.
Chance brought his other hand up to Will’s face in response, and Will felt properly…held. They weren’t making out–at least Will didn’t think so. They were just pressing their mouths together. Lingering. It was cautious but enthusiastic. Will decided in that moment that maybe both of them were doing something for the first time.
Chance broke the contact, but just barely, face still close enough that their noses brushed the way leaves did when pushed together by the whisper of a breeze. He sounded out of breath as he whispered, “Was that…good?”
Smiling, Will offered a small nod that he knew Chance could feel from their proximity, “Was it…for you?”
Chance’s puff of laughter hit Will’s face, “I kind of thought that was obvious.”
Will wanted to kiss him again.
Disregarding what sounded like the shriek of a whistle somewhere out in the gymnasium, Will asked, “Can I…?”
“Yes, definitely.”
Will closed the already imperceptible distance between them, pushing harder than Chance had and parting his lips so that Chance’s bottom one kind of ended up…in his mouth. Which was nice. Chance also seemed to think it was nice if the way he opened his own mouth and latched onto Will’s top lip was any indication.
They entered into a push-and-pull, messy and a bit frenzied. The hand that had been on Chance’s shoulder found its way to his chest, and Will could’ve sworn he hadn’t put any force behind it, but Chance ended up falling backwards anyway, feet out from under him, elbows braced on the concrete. Will’s own body followed, and he realized, to his mortification, that he had tackled Chance. His legs were splayed out to the side, mercifully, but his chest hovered inches from Chance’s, the hand that had been at his neck now deeply rooted in his hair.
“Jesus, Will,” Chance breathed, “I think you are gonna kill me before anything else does.”
“Oh god, is this too much? Let me just–” Will started to shift away, but he didn’t get very far.
Chance transferred all his weight to one elbow and gripped Will’s waist with his free hand, tugging, “No, I meant that in a good way. I’d happily die just like this.” His eyes flicked pointedly from Will’s face to where Chance held him.
Will sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, debating what to do next, and Chance tracked the movement. His eyes were dark beneath the dull glow of the single lightbulb. Will wondered if Chance really meant that. If he should test it.
The commotion that rang out far across the gym, something like more whistling and the responding growls of the Demogorgon, made the decision for him. If Will was going to die, he was going to make it count.
Letting Chance’s grip be his guide, Will swung a leg over his hips, settling, and gave Chance a nudge in the chest that he rightfully interpreted as a command to lie the rest of the way down. His letterman jacket fell open as he landed, and Will’s hands slid on their own accord, tracing a path from his waist to his chest to his neck. Chance shuddered beneath him, and Will took that to mean he was doing something he liked this time. Nothing to do with the temperature.
“Will…” Chance threw an arm over his eyes, hiding.
Will leaned down close. Chance’s lips were right there, left exposed and highlighted by the shrouding of the rest of his face. It would be easy to kiss him like this.
Abruptly, Will realized he had no idea what he was doing. His body was moving before his brain could catch up, chasing touch and heat.
He thought about the romance novels his mom had left lying all over the house, then. She assumed she’d been covert, flipping them facedown on side tables and countertops, but Will had been curious. He’d seen the rabid embraces, the fabric yanked down shoulders, the hunger and passion. Now, with his legs bracketing Chance’s hips and his hair probably a mess, he knew the picture they were painting had to look a lot like those covers. And he definitely felt rabid.
He dove for Chance’s mouth.
This kiss was deeper and more reckless, and Chance made a sound that rumbled down Will’s throat. Like his sense of touch was heightened by the way his arm draped over his eyes and nose, and he didn’t know what else to do other than be loud about it. The hand on Will’s waist crept under his shirt, just a little at first, until Chance’s rough fingertips seemed to gain some confidence and started meandering up. And up. Will gasped into his mouth, and–for only half a second–he felt insecure about the contrast between his softness and the sturdy, unyielding shape he’d traced with his own hands just before. It didn’t seem like Chance minded though. And Will really didn’t either, he decided, not when Chance unshielded his eyes, knocked into Will to roll them over, and grabbed the back of his head to catch the fall.
Their bodies were even closer now, somehow, with Chance laid out on top of him. Will’s stomach felt fizzy and hot at all the ways they were touching. Chance’s lips started to explore new places.
“I couldn’t stop looking at you.”
Will went still, “...what?”
“In the halls,” Chance’s mouth moved against the side of his neck, and Will endeavored to remain silent, “In the locker room.” He migrated up to Will’s ear, so close Will could feel every word, “You’re so distracting. With your eyes. And your smile. And the fascinating way you could have no hand-eye coordination during gym class, but then I’d see you in the art room making something that nobody in this town could even dream of replicating.”
Will’s heart stuttered, but he also felt totally vindicated, “I knew it! Oh my god, you made me feel crazy.”
Chance laughed, the sound a little jittery, and resurfaced. He looked at Will full-on, one arm keeping him propped up to avoid crushing Will entirely–not that he would’ve been opposed–and the other brushing slightly slick hair off Will’s forehead in a way that felt more reverent and unsure than the prior mess of limbs.
“Do you feel crazy now?” Will knew the question was meant for him, but it came out like Chance was the one who felt crazy, voice laced with disbelief.
Will closed his eyes at the touch, “A little–okay, no–a lot. But not like before. This is good crazy.” He thought for a moment, unhelpfully reminded of what had brought them together in this closet to begin with, and amended, “Except for the part where we’re going to die. And probably soon.”
“What if we don’t, though?” Chance asked, pressing a barely there kiss to the corner of Will’s mouth, “Would you want to…hangout? You know, somewhere besides a closet? Not that I’m ungrateful for what it’s given us. Praise be to the sports utility closet of Hawkins High.”
Will opened his eyes at that, blinking stupidly as if the rapid flutter of lashes might make the words land in a way he could process. Chance stared back at him, brows a little raised, not dissimilar to a dog trying to look like it wasn’t begging when it totally was. Will couldn’t reconcile that this was his reality right now, “What about the basketball team? What about everyone else?”
Chance held up one finger to Will’s lips, “First of all, I stopped caring about what those guys think a long time ago.” Another finger joined the first. “And second of all, we graduate in less than two months. Who cares if people whisper at their lockers? They already do that anyway.”
Will considered that, pursing his lips against Chance’s hand, “Hmm, you’re making compelling points.” Chance nodded, encouraging. “I suppose if we live, I wouldn’t mind being seen with you. But, if you’re going to hang around with me…” Will brought a palm up in front of Chance’s face, wiggling it to draw attention to the dried green paint at the bottom, “you’re probably going to walk around with paint on you, and people might assume things about us…hanging out. Things they already think about me. Things they’d be right about.”
Removing his fingers from Will’s mouth, Chance brought Will’s splattered palm to his face.
“Then let them.”
If one of the basketballs on the racks above suddenly grew a face and called down to report the temperature in the room just shot up a hundred degrees and could they knock it off please because it was melting, Will would believe it–science be damned–and also say no, they would not. Because Chance was kissing him again. And Will was not going to take commands from sporting equipment.
The way Chance kissed him this time was slower, his whole body in it. Will pushed at his jacket, petulant and trying to remove it–he didn’t want the nuisance of layers anymore–but Chance was too absorbed in his task to get the hint, and Will gave up quickly, reaching for his hips instead, pulling experimentally. They both made a sound at that.
“Oh, there better not be one of them dogs in here too,” a gruff voice drifted under the door, right outside.
They froze.
“Shit, that’s Coach Reid.”
“Yes, now, move.”
There was shuffling at the door and then, “That ain’t no dog…who’s in there? I’m comin’ in.”
Will made his best effort to look less…debauched, but Chance was a lost cause. His dark hair was pushed and pulled in all the wrong directions, lips bitten, and his jacket looked like all the ironing in the world wouldn’t be able to make it sit right again. He seemed to know this and reached over to help fix Will’s hair so at least one of them could save face, if that was even possible.
The door inched open like Coach Reid was afraid of what he might find. He spotted Chance first, “Lawson? What the hell are you–” Will came into view then, “And Byers? Oh good lord.”
“Hey Coach!” Chance greeted with a tiny wave, grin lopsided.
Coach Reid took in the whole scene. His beady eyes glanced between them over the top of tinted glasses, pausing on all the more incriminating details. Will forced a smile even though he’d never felt so embarrassed in his life.
“Ya know what–I don’t wanna know. Not my business,” he declared, “But what is my business is this closet, so get the hell out of here. And stop letting ugly ass stray dogs into my gymnasium.”
They scrambled up, and Chance reached for Will’s hand, lacing their fingers together like it was natural. Normal. Will stared down at the contact and then up at Coach Reid who didn’t say a word.
“Um, let us know if you ever need help with more…dogs. See ya,” Will mumbled.
Moving out of the doorway to let them through, Coach Reid pushed his glasses all the way back up and twitched his mustache–his version of a salute. Chance waved one last time, that charming, effortless persona weaponized in full, and pulled Will with him down the hall.
They didn’t speak again until they’d made it all the way out the front doors of Hawkins High and into the lukewarm spring air. The setting sun turned Chance’s brown eyes amber when he finally looked at Will, dimples locked and loaded along with the huge grin that took over his warmly lit face, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Will fought with very little vigor not to smile, “Which part? Almost dying? Or looking into Coach Reid’s eyes and knowing that he knows we besmirched his PE equipment?”
“Okay, well, technically, we besmirched the floor on which the PE equipment sits, not the equipment itself. Which is better. I think,” Chance argued, using the advantage of their joined hands to tug Will closer.
Will giggled, bright and unrestrained, and placed his free hand on Chance’s waist. Whether the attack had been a fluke–some random one-off thing because the Demogorgon wandered out of a forgotten rift looking for a fight–or it meant something bigger, he really couldn’t find it in himself to care right then. If the Mind Flayer was back and hellbent on reclaiming him in the Upside Down, he suspected there would be someone new and rather strong standing in its way. That assurance was enough for now.
Lifting up on his toes, Will paused half an inch from Chance’s lips, calculated and teasing.
Chance sucked in a breath, and Will could tell he was making a valiant effort to be patient.
When Will finally spoke, it was just above a whisper, “I really liked not dying with you.”
Chance cupped Will’s face with the hand that wasn’t preoccupied, brushing loose hair behind his ear, “You have no idea how much I liked not dying with you.”
“I think I might.”
With the encouragement of the fading golden hour, they smiled into an unhurried kiss, and Will had the distant thought:
This is exactly what Molly Ringwald would do.