Chapter Text
The bass in the basement of club vibrated right through the soles of Will’s worn-out sneakers, thumping against his ribs like a second heartbeat.
New York City’s air always smelled like sweet, expensive cologne. But this club smelled like cheap gin, thick and heavy but somehow entirely electric. Will stood frozen just past the velvet curtain of the entrance, his shoulders hitched up to his ears, looking like a deer caught in a neon-pink headlight.
It feels weird, like walking into a whole new planet. It had not even been a month since Will Byers had started his freshman year at NYU Tisch's Art School.
It would be the understatement of the century to say that he was nervous.
Marisol grabbed one of his wrists, her nails painted a glittery emerald green, while Josh slung a heavy, comforting arm over his shoulders.
He had met Marisol and Josh during the second week of the semester, in Dr. Vance’s printmaking course.
Will had been struggling with a stubborn lithograph press, his hands stained with black ink and his jaw tight with frustration, when Marisol walked over, casually took the roller from his hand, and showed him how to balance his weight.
She was a freshman too, but she carried herself with a fierce, native New York confidence that completely captivated him. Impressed by the raw, emotional sketches tucked into Will’s portfolio, she immediately pulled him into her orbit, dragging him down to the campus diner the following night to meet Josh. Josh, a dancer and photography major who shared an apartment with an eclectic computer science student named Carlton, and instantly clicked with Will over a mutual love for classic cinema and late-night sketching.
Another thing about Marisol and Josh was…well. They were like Will.
"Welcome to The Monster, kiddo," Josh shouted over the thumping house music, a massive grin splitting his face. "Told you we wouldn’t steer you wrong."
"It’s... it’s a lot," Will managed to get out, his voice instantly swallowed by the crowd.
"It’s lot of life, Will!" Marisol laughed, spinning around to face him backward as she guided them toward the bar. "Look around. No one is watching you judgey-eyed. No one is looking at you like you're a puzzle they can't solve."
Will did look.
In Hawkins, looking too long at another guy got you a black eye, or worse, a reputation that felt like a slow death sentence. You learned to keep your eyes glued to the pavement.
But here?
Under the spinning disco ball and the wash of violet light, the world was cast in a completely different color palette.
He saw two men laughing, one with his hand slid casually into the back pocket of the other’s jeans. He saw a group of men who were…dressed up like women? holding court in a booth, their laughter ringing out like music, crowns of glitter catching the strobe lights.
He saw people breathing easy. Expressing themselves loudly, proudly, without a single glance toward the exit to see who might be coming to stop them.
A tight knot Will hadn't even realized he’d been carrying in his chest for years suddenly began to unravel. A dizzying, breathless awe washed over him. A lump forming in his throat.
"Hey," Marisol said softly, her tone shifting from ecstatic to deeply tender. She squeezed his hand. "You okay?"
Will swallowed hard, a shy smile breaking across his face as a deep blush crept up his neck. "Yeah. Yeah, just…y'know."
"Okayy. Josh and I are going to battle the crowd for a pitcher of something sweet. Don't move," she ordered, pointing a finger at him before disappearing into the sea of bodies with Josh close behind.
-
Will leaned his back against a mirrored pillar, trying to make himself small, though his eyes remained wide, soaking in every drop of the atmosphere. He was so caught up in watching a couple, who were two women!, dancing near the stage.
"You look like you're seeing a ghost."
Will jumped slightly, his head snapping around. He didn't notice the space beside him being occupied until a low, smooth voice cut through the music.
Standing right there, leaning back against the pillar with an effortless grace that Will could only dream of possessing, was a man.
He wore a sheer black button-up, a silver chain catching the blue light, and possessed a jawline that looked like it had been chiseled by a classical sculptor.
"Oh! Uh," Will stammered, his fingers gripping the hem of his oversized flannel shirt. "Just... People watching."
The man chuckled, shifting his weight. "You're new to the city, aren't you?"
"Is it that obvious?" Will asked, his blush deepening to a furious crimson.
"It's your eyes," the man said, tilting his head. "They're beautiful. But they're looking at everything like it's made of gold." He stepped a little closer, his shoulder almost brushing Will's.
"I'm Julian, by the way." He introduced himself.
"Will," he whispered.
"Well, Will," Julian smiled, his eyes locking onto Will's with an intensity that made Will's stomach do a complicated flip. "What brings you to the club tonight? Your friends seemed determined to leave you stranded."
"They're getting drinks," Will explained quickly, suddenly terrified he was boring this incredibly cool stranger. "They... they wanted to show me what it's like. I've never been to a place like this before."
Julian’s eyebrows raised slightly. "A place like this? You mean a gay club?"
Will nodded, looking down at his shoes for a second before forcing himself to look back up. "I'm from a really small town in Indiana. There isn't... we don't have this. At all. I've never really been around other people who are... like me."
The admission felt heavy, a confession he usually kept locked in a vault, but the atmosphere of the room made it slip out like it was nothing.
Julian’s expression softened, the casual flirtatiousness giving way to something genuinely warm. "Never had a little romance out there in the cornfields?"
"No," Will breathed, a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. "Never. Never even been kissed, honestly."
“Well, that’s unbelievable,” the beautiful man says, leaning a little too close to Will, who is suddenly very aware of the heat rushing to his cheeks.
“Uh—what is?” Will asks shyly. Jesus, he needs to stop staring into those deep blue eyes, before he gets in trouble for it.
“That no one’s ever kissed you silly.” The man’s gaze drops, lingering on Will’s mouth, a slow smirk forming. “You’re far too gorgeous for that.”
And Oh. Oh.
That’s— huh.
Will’s brain short-circuited.
For years, he had been the boy in the background. The odd one out. The one who watched Mike, watched Lucas, watched Dustin, watched everyone else fall in love, hold hands, and move forward while he stayed frozen in the dark. He had convinced himself that romance was a luxury meant for other people. That he was fundamentally unlovable, or at least, unseekable.
But Julian was looking at him right now like he was the only person in a room of hundreds. And Julian thought he was gorgeous and kissable?
Maybe he likes this City afterall.
"Hey! We got the—oh!" Marisol’s voice popped the bubble, appearing suddenly with a pitcher of sangria, Josh right behind her with three glasses. She took one look at Julian, then at Will’s bright red face, and raised an eyebrow with a wicked grin. "Am I interrupting?"
Julian stepped back smoothly, giving Will one last, lingering look that promised everything Will had ever missed out on. "Not at all. I was just welcoming Will to the neighborhood."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small pen, and grabbed a napkin from the bar rail, jotting something down. He pressed it into Will's hand, his fingers brushing Will's palm.
"Call me, Will. Let me take you out for real." With a wink, Julian melted back into the crowd.
Will stood there, staring down at the napkin in his hand, a dazed expression on his face.
What—
He looks down at the napkin: “Julian <3, 212-XXXX”
Did that really just happen?
Did he just get hit on by a man?
Marisol let out a low, impressed whistle, leaning over to peep at the napkin. "Julian, huh? And a phone number with a 212 area code. Look at you, Will Byers! Not even a month in the city and you're pulling Manhattan elite."
"I didn't pull anyone," Will protested, though the flush on his face had traveled all the way to the tips of his ears. He carefully folded the napkin into a tiny, neat square and slid it deep into the front pocket of his jeans, treating it like it was made of spun glass. "He was just being nice."
"Oh, sweetie, guys like that do not look at guys like you just to be nice," Marisol laughed, handing him a plastic cup filled to the brim with dark red sangria and a chunk of orange
"Alright, give the kid a break, Mari, he's still processing," Josh said, clinking his own cup against Will's. "To first nights, new beginnings, and realizing that High School is officially in the rearview mirror."
"To new beginnings," Will repeated.
He took a sip. It was sweet, fruity, and burned just a little bit on the way down, making him cough. Josh laughed and clapped him on the back, the heavy, grounding weight of his hand helping Will anchor himself back to reality.
For the next hour, Will mostly leaned against the pillar and watched. He didn't have the courage to jump into the center of the dance floor yet—where the bodies were packed tightly together, moving in a synchronized, sweating mass to a heavy remix of a Madonna track—but he didn't mind. For Will, the joy was in the observation.
Back in Hawkins, observation meant survival. You watched people's micro-expressions to see if they were angry, you scanned a room for exits, you noted who was looking at you with suspicion. Here, observing was like walking through the finest museum in the world.
He watched two guys near the jukebox, totally oblivious to the world, laughing as one of them tried and failed to teach the other a specific dance step. He watched a woman with a sharp, beautiful undercut lean down to kiss her girlfriend right on the lips, completely unbothered by the crowd surging around them.
Every single interaction was a revelation. It was a physical manifestation of a truth Will had spent his entire life denying himself: You are so different.
"Hey," Josh said, leaning in close so Will could hear him over the bass. ". Come dance."
"Oh, no, no," Will said quickly, shaking his head and holding up his hands. "I don't know how to dance."
"Excuses!" Marisol grabbed his empty cup and set it down on a nearby ledge, then took hold of both of his hands. "No one cares if you have rhythm, Will. That's the beauty of this place. Look at that guy over there," she pointed to a man blindly flailing his arms in absolute, ecstatic joy. "Is he a good dancer? Absolutely not. Is he having the time of his life? 100%. Come on."
Before Will could protest further, Marisol and Josh dragged him gently but firmly into the crowd.
At first, Will felt entirely stiff. He kept his elbows tucked close to his ribs, shifting his weight awkwardly from foot to foot, convinced that everyone was staring at the weird kid from the Midwest. But as the minutes ticked by, the anonymity of the crowd began to wash over him. The lights shifted from violet to a deep, oceanic blue, and a new song started—something with a driving, hypnotic beat that seemed to demand your feet move.
Marisol danced with an effortless, theatrical energy, tossing her hair back and laughing, while Josh kept a steady, goofy rhythm beside her. They didn't leave Will's side, keeping him enclosed in their safe little circle, but they didn't pressure him either. They just let him be.
Slowly, the tension left Will's shoulders. He let his arms loosen. He closed his eyes for a brief second, just feeling the music vibrate in his chest, and when he opened them, he was moving. It wasn't anything flashy, just a rhythmic sway, a little bounce in his step, but a genuine, unforced laugh bubbled up from his throat.
Marisol cheered, spinning around him and throwing her arms in the air.
Under the flashing blue lights, surrounded by a sea of strangers who were entirely like him, Will felt a strange, beautiful sensation blooming in his chest. For the first time since he could remember, he didn't feel the phantom ache of the Upside Down. He didn't feel the heavy, suffocating guilt of keeping a secret. He didn't feel the sharp, familiar sting of watching Mike look at Eleven and knowing he would never, ever have that for himself.
He looked at the crowd. He thought about the napkin in his pocket.
He realized, with a sudden and fierce clarity, that his life hadn't ended when he left Hawkins. It was finally, truly, just beginning.
-
By the time they tumbled back out onto the sidewalk, it was past two in the morning.
The New York air felt incredibly crisp and cool against Will’s sweaty forehead, and he was slightly tipsy.
The street was alive with the sound of yellow cabs honking, people laughing as they spilled out of diners, and the distant rumble of the subway beneath the grates.
"Pizzas on me," Josh announced, pointing down the block toward a tiny, brightly lit storefront with a neon sign that read 24HR SLICES. "I need carbs or I'm not making it up my fourth-floor walkup."
"God, yes," Marisol groaned, linking her arm through Will's as they started walking. "So, Will. First official night out in Greenwich Village. Scale of one to ten?"
Will giggled and looked back over his shoulder, at the unassuming awning of the club, then looked down at his sneakers, a soft, incredibly happy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the folded napkin, confirming it was still there.
"A ten," Will said softly, his voice full of wonder.