Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Okay–Wait, wait, wait." Max holds up both hands, sitting forward on the beanbag. "So she saw you crying, walked over, asked if you were okay and then offered to…"

"Drive me somewhere. Yeah."

"Just like that."

"Just like that."

Max stares at him for a second, then she turns to Jane. Jane raises one eyebrow and the corner of her mouth turns upward, which apparently is information enough conveyed, because Max turns back to Will like a decision has been made.

"Okay," she says. "I like her."

"You haven't even met her."

"I've decided I like her from a distance." She gestures loosely in his direction. "Keep going."

Will keeps going.

He’s more invested in the story than he expected – he finds, to his own mild surprise, that he doesn't mind retelling it. Max has a way of externalizing things that Will tends to keep tucked inward, and it makes them feel lighter just by existing loudly.

"He said what?"

"That it was tight."

"Jason Carver said your art was tight."

"He asked if I was a conceptual artist,” Will adds with a snort, “And he seemed genuine about it."p

"Jason Carver," Max repeats, as if trying out the name in different settings to see if it makes sense. It apparently doesn't. She looks at Jane again. "Okay."

Jane, from her position on the bed, says nothing. She pulls her knees up to her chest and keeps watching Will with a soft smile of encouragement.

He tells them about girls’ night at Chrissy’s, and nail polish, and casually mediating an argument over rom com and slasher movies, and Max cuts in twice with her own strong opinions about rom coms. Then he talks about the current morning, the bold outfit choice, cheer practice and his note about the formation – he keeps the last part short because he can see Max is very much not interested in chevrons and visual composition, but the important part gets through.

"So, you noticed something that no one else did about the formation thing-y, despite them having practiced it for three weeks."

"That's sort of what they said, yeah."

Max tilts her head to one side. She gives him a look Will knows: it’s the same look she gives him when he’s convinced he’ll fail his art project or when he vents about yet another Mike Wheeler situation. Like she knows something he doesn’t – which has always been kind of unnerving to him. 

Anyhow, she just hums, once, and says, "Okay. And then?"

Then, he gets to Chance Lawson.

Max's self-containment, which had been pretty impressive up to this point, immediately dissolves when he’s done debriefing his latest conversation with the jock.

"Oh my God," she says.

"It wasn't–"

"Oh my God, Will–"

"He was just–"

"Will." She extends her arms and grabs Will’s hands in hers, fixing him with a look of the utmost seriousness that’s betrayed only by the giddiness in her eyes. "He was looking for a reason to talk to you, alone, even before everyone left."

"Maybe he–"

"He thought about it! He was so hoping to be alone with you so that he could ask you out. Oh my God, Chance Lawson is so into you–"

"You don't know that!" Will protests, his cheeks flushed and hot.

"I know that." She turns to Jane. "He’s into him, right?"

"Yes," Jane supplies.

"Thank you. The defense rests."

"I still don’t know what this means, though. I mean, what if he was being… Friendly? Like, flirty friendly."

Max stares at him like he’s gone insane. Even Jane looks slightly more unimpressed than normal.

"Will. He noticed your outfit," Max raises a hand, ticking off her fingers. "He said you looked really good. He wanted to be alone with you. He invited you to the pool party.” 

"Which, by the way, he assumed I was already invited to!" 

"Will." Max scrubs at her temple with barely contained exasperation. "Why would he take it upon himself to tell you about the party, if he assumed you were already invited?"

Will opens his mouth. Closes it. Then he plops down dramatically on his back on the mattress.

"I hate this.”

“No you don’t,” Max says, not unkindly. “You’re just not used to being flirted with. That’s normal. It can get scary.”

“Even if he is flirting with me,” Will sighs, slinging an arm over his face, “what now? I don’t know how to… do this.”

There’s a moment of silence in which Will can practically feel Jane and Max exchanging looks. Then, Max shifts from below them and the mattress sinks beside him as she joins them on the bed.

“Will, you’re like, the sweetest guy I know. You’ll be fine – besides, judging from what you’ve just told us, Chance is already pretty smitten by you. You won’t screw this up.”

“I wouldn’t say smitten,” Will grumbles, letting his hands drag on his face in an attempt to cover the flushed tone of pink that’s undoubtedly coloring his cheeks.

“What do you think about when you think of dating someone?” Jane asks, unexpectedly. She’s been more on the quiet side all night, only rarely making commentary when prompted by Max, but whenever she speaks Will can expect to be thrown in for a loop.

What would the answer be? He thinks he wants to be with someone who he can talk to easily, or even communicate without any words. Someone who makes him laugh, who makes him feel seen, safe and appreciated. Embarrassingly, this train of thought leads him straight to Mike – naturally, since he’s not only Will’s best friend of ten years but also the person he’s been hopelessly in love with for a good chunk of those ten years.

But Mike isn’t a realistic option, because Mike doesn’t like boys like Will does. So, he has to resort to a hopeful string of characteristics that just so happen to match the one person he can’t have. Maybe that’s why it’s so difficult even entertaining the thought of dating – who can even measure up to the idealistic vision he’s been enabling and feeding all along?

“I think,” he says, eventually, because they’re still waiting on an answer, “that I want someone who’s gentle to me, and who, um, I can talk to, I guess? Someone who makes me feel… good.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Max breaks it.

“Wow,” She says, “Mike really has you wishing for the bare minimum, huh?”

Will splutters and chokes on air. “Max!”

“What? I’m just saying, if you had fallen for literally anyone else, you’d be having more substantial traits to look for in a guy–”

“Those are normal things to want! And what does Mike have to do with anything?”

The girls exchange a look, yet again, before turning back to Will.

“Nothing.” Jane deadpans.

“Nothing at all,” Max agrees, resolutely nodding her head, before her eyes widen and she perks up, energized. “Actually, nothing at all. Will, this is perfect! You can totally go out with Chance so you can forget about Wheeler.”

Will’s at a loss of words for a second, then he remembers he’s supposed to be putting his plausible deniability mask on, so he adds, “I don’t have anything to forget about.”

“Sure,” Max says, with thinly veiled mirth, “Summer lovin’, then. You can go out with Chance to like, have a good time or whatever. You deserve someone nice.”

“Have a good time? What are you, a fifty year old man?” Will mocks, which earns him a gasp and a pillow to the face. 

Will retaliates, which starts a pillow war between him and Max. Then Jane gets involved, and because Jane has the nastiest swing out of all of them, both of them quickly surrender – not before making enough noise with their giggling and yelling that a harsh knock raps at the door, interrupting their frenzy. 

The door swings open to reveal a less than amused Hopper standing on the other side of the threshold, eyeing them with different levels of irritation and tiredness.

“Speaking of fifty year old men”, Max stage-whispers, making Jane and Will burst into giggles. Hopper clears his throat, arms crossing across his chest, and the teens all freeze, looking up at him in silence.

“Mayfield”, he begins. “It’s late.”

“I’m aware”, she replies, petulantly. Will squirms involuntarily, like he does anytime his friends talk back to authoritative figures.  

Hopper levels the redhead with an unimpressive stare. “I’m supposed to drive you home at 9 o’clock. You aware of that?”

“Yup.”

“Well then. Say your goodbyes. We leave in five.”

As he turns back to leave the room, Max grumbles something less than flattering under her breath. Will shuts his eyes, shaking in effort to not laugh. 

Hopper freezes in his tracks, turning back at once. “What was that?”

“Nothing, Dad. We’ll be down in a minute.” Jane cuts in before Max can answer, a surprisingly innocent tone to her voice considering she’s clearly smirking mischievously. 

Hopper squints one more time for good measure, before turning back around and leaving in heavy footsteps, muttering something about “these rebelling teens these days”.

The three of them burst into laughter as soon as he’s out the door, Will and Max hitting each other one final time with the pillows for good measure, before they all get up and scramble to help Max gather her stuff.

Six minutes later, they’re all thundering down the stairs, adamant that they can convince Joyce and Hopper to let Max stay for a sleepover (they can’t, and it is a short-lived attempt). Will leans against the front door, watching as Hopper walks toward the car and Max and Jane drag their feet slowly behind him, doing their usual dramatic goodbye routine like they’re being separated by war and like Jane isn’t going to tag along to drop her off like she always does. 

Honestly, almost all of the time Will and Mike bear the brunt of their friends mocking them for being too clingy or too biased toward each other, but sometimes Max and Jane are way worse. Not that Will’s going to ever mention that to either of them.

Just before climbing into Hopper’s Chevy, Max turns around toward the house with a dangerous glint in her eye. Now, if Will knew better, he would’ve turned around and ran before she opened her mouth. Or, maybe, he wouldn’t have hit her in the face with that particularly well aimed pillow swing earlier.

But he doesn’t know better, so he just stands still, like a silly duckling, while Max all but shouts at him:

“Goodnight, Will! Have a nice date with your jock boyfriend this weekend!”

“WHAT?”

Will doesn’t wait to see or hear anymore of his stepdad’s reaction. He steps into the house, closes the door behind him, cursing Max Mayfield under his breath, and sprints up the stairs.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The rest of the week flies by in a blur. Will tags along to cheer practice again, sits with his legs and sketchbook tucked close to his chest, drawing his friends and their intricate formations in various angles.

They go to the lake twice more, one time after practice, only the five of them, carrying beach towels, magazines and sodas. They spend the afternoon gossiping and judging each other’s tastes in men (and women, in Lana’s case) and Will even manages to express how he thinks Damon Albarn is hot, which the other girls are explosively enthusiastic about. 

The next day, they are joined by the boys from the basketball team. Will stifles his laughter as Jason retells his Great Burrito Downfall, makes his own contribution to the conversation, and lets Sammy make him a woven bracelet. Twice he risks a glance towards Chance, sprawled out in the beach towel next to him, and finds that the other boy is already looking back with a relaxed, assessing expression on his face. 

Both times, Will offers a smile and does his best to not gape and swoon as it is returned twice as bright.

It’s become peaceful, in a way – being around the girls, slowly accommodated by them in their own circle. He’s aware that he’s been sort of neglecting the Party in favor of hanging out with his new friends, but he tells himself that’s what he needs right now. 

Mike’s words to him in the backyard days earlier are still somewhat hurtful. Not only what happened that day specifically, but his entire hot-and-cold demeanor: using their private channel to vent, spending the night talking, going to his house to drop off his things personally, only to pretty much ghost him immediately after. 

They haven’t talked since the day Mike came over, and despite not having the energy needed to think about it, Will can’t help but wonder what it was that made Mike so skittish and distant again. Was it the clothes, or maybe Chrissy showing up? Is he really weirded out that Will’s coming out of his shell, trying out new things, meeting new people? Mike has always hated change, and he’s always been a bit possessive of WIll especially. It used to drive Will crazy, all the mixed signals he got, until he accepted that Mike is only that way because he has a problem with things slipping out of his control.

It’s tiresome, this dance of theirs. Usually, the fact that Mike hasn’t said anything to him in the last couple of days would drive Will crazy. But right now, he doesn’t have it in himself to fall back into his same old rinse-and-wash routine of yearning and longing and settling for almost-somethings.

Max is right: maybe going out with Chance is the answer. Maybe he does need to forget Mike Wheeler and finally move on toward someone who wants him the way he needs to be wanted. 

And so, he drives around with Chrissy, showing her his sketches while singing along to the radio. He makes bracelets with Sammy, and pretends to not see Lana tear up during one of their movie nights and discusses art noir with Stacey. He speaks up more often, borrows another of Jane’s shorts, changes his black polish for a marigold yellow. He’s running in and out of the house more often than ever, under his stepdad’s gruff attempts at questioning and his mom’s quiet, proud looks. 

Will feels like someone else entirely compared to the beginning of summer – and yet he’s never felt so right. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Saturday comes, and with it, the impending doom of a teenage pool party. 

Chrissy and Sammy arrive at eleven – he enlisted their help for this particular outfit crisis, both because it’s a promising day, given the Chance-aspect of it, and because he’s been wanting to be bolder than usual. 

He hears the car from upstairs and is halfway down the stairs by the time the bell rings, but Jane, who’s already in the hallway, is the one to open the door.

The girls stand side by side. Sammy’s holding onto a tote bag slung over her shoulder, so full of clothes that she’s bending sideways with the weight of it. Chrissy rapidly snaps into friendly mode and shoots Jane a bright smile when she notices her presence.

“Hi, Jane! Um, I’m Chrissy – I know we’ve kind of met before, but not really - and this is Sammy."

"Hi, Jane!" Sammy waves with her whole free arm, unbothered and radiant. "We've heard so much about you."

“Um, hi there. Nice to meet you. Come in.”

Upstairs, Will's room has been recently cleaned and tidied (though it will never achieve anything close to Chrissy’s front porch, and he's made his peace with that). Sammy barges into the room without preamble, dropping the tote bag on the carpet with a surprising thud, then kneeling down next to it.

While Sammy begins her survey, pulling things out quickly and decisively while muttering to herself, Chrissy paces around with much more contained energy, eyes roaming around the room before retreating back to Will’s side.

“So, this is your messy artist's bedroom, huh? Doesn’t look too bad.” She nudges him with her elbow.

WIll smiles at the callback to their very first conversation. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t bring you over and have paint splattered all across the carpet.”

“I fear all that effort might have been for naught.” She tuts, looking down at where Sammy’s currently throwing clothes around haphazardly. “Let’s go help her before she starts rummaging through your wardrobe.”

"Maybe warm tones," Sammy mutters, mostly to herself, excavating. "Maybe orange will look nice. Do I have anything in–" She stops, pulling something out from the bottom of the bag and showcasing it to WIll and Chrissy just as they’re kneeling down next to her.

“How do we feel about this?”

“I’m not wearing that,” is Will’s immediate reaction to the fact that Sammy’s holding up a mini skirt.

Both girls stare at him with different sentiments conveyed – Sammy pouts, Chrissy frowns, but they say nothing.

“What?”

“Nothing! It’s just that–um.” Sammy starts, but stops, her head snapping toward Chrissy in a silent cry for help.

“Won’t you even consider? I mean, you’d look good in a skirt.” 

Sammy nods, enthusiastically, turning back to look at him. “Yes! You really would. And, I mean, I thought that was the direction we were going?”

“Oh.” Will says, his throat feeling dry all of a sudden. This is one of those moments where he feels strangely seen, but also sort of dissected: he has thought about wearing something more forward, and it did feel great wearing short shorts, tight at the waist, all week. But right now, in this context, a skirt feels like too much, as silly as it is. 

“I don’t know. It’s–Too tight, maybe. Let’s, um, stick to shorts for now?”

Chrissy and Sammy stare at each other again, and when they look back at him, they’re wearing matching weary looks. Maybe they pity me, or something, is what his mind defaults to. 

“Sure, let’s stick to shorts. But you know you can wear whatever you want around us, okay?” Chrissy says, to which Sammy nods resolutely. Oh. Maybe not pity, then.

“Okay”, Will says, a bit less guarded.

They end up settling on pink shorts, a bit shorter than the ones he wore before, high-waisted with a ruffled paperbag waist. It looks light and comfy, and the idea of showing off a bit of skin isn’t all that terrifying to Will anymore. Sammy throws a lot of accessories on top of it – beaded necklaces, woven bracelets and crystal pendants, all very colorful and earthy and cool. 

The only remaining problem is, they have no tops that feel right – Sammy’s things are either too tight or too low-cut for comfort. Maybe one day he’ll wear some stuff like that, but the thought of strutting into unfamiliar territory wearing an open back top is… not comforting.

Eventually, their heated argument about relenting and just picking out one of Will’s sweaters (“Absolutely not”, “Well, if he wants to”, “Absolutely not!”) gets interrupted by a light knock on Will’s door. Three heads snap up to look at Jane, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and an unbothered expression.

“Sorry, Janie. Are we being too loud?”

“No.”

“Oh. Then–”

“I was eavesdropping,” She says, simply, and Chrissy snorts in amusement next to him. “I have a solution.”

Will, Sammy and Chrissy exchange puzzled looks, before turning back to look at her in synchrony. For a second, she looks uneasy for some reason, but then snaps back into focus and gestures with her head for them to follow, disappearing into the hallway.

Jane’s solution, as it turns out, is a boxy, cream-colored cropped t-shirt with a delicate line-art sketch of butterflies. Will’s never seen her wear it, and it looks suspiciously new – which makes him think that maybe she bought it for him.

His suspicions are quickly solved, as she extends it toward him and says, “I got it for you yesterday. Max helped me pick it.”

It has motivational text written on it ("Grow, Evolve, Transform"), which normally Will would find cheesy, but it is such a Jane-esque mantra that a wave of fondness takes over him instead. He takes the shirt. It’s a soft cotton material, stretchy and comfortable. 

“Thanks, Janie.” He looks up at her in wonder and smiles, then puts it against his torso and turns to the other two girls. “I think that’s the one, then.”

“Awww, it’s so cute! It will go great with the shorts, too.” Sammy coos, hands pressed against her own cheeks like she’s witnessing something magical. “Jane, you nailed it on the choice. You’ll totally have to go with us when we go shopping!”

“I’d like that.” Jane smiles, coyly, eyeing the shirt with quiet approval.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jason Carver's house is, objectively speaking, a lot.

Will’s been bracing himself all week for something excessive and he's still not entirely prepared when they walk through the side gate. The pool shines in the afternoon sun, the speakers are blasting unholy music, and the air smells of chlorine and an ill-advised attempt at grilling. The backyard is littered with what could possibly be half of Hawkins High’s juniors and seniors, sprawled across every available surface. 

Will surveys all of it for a second before the five of them come to a stop just inside the gate, and WIll notices it’s because Chrissy stopped. 

She does this thing where she takes in the room fully before entering it, and the girls follow her lead without thinking twice, and somehow, Will has been absorbed into that routine. They stand there in a loose formation, when the nearest cluster of people glances over.

Then the glance spreads: it moves outward, one person nudging another, until there's a general orientation of attention toward the gate. Toward the girls. Toward Will, standing among them in pink paperbag shorts and a cropped butterfly tee that ends somewhere above his hip showing off a good expanse of his skin, yellow nails catching the light, beads and jewels layered at his collarbone.

He's never been looked at quite like this before.

"CUNNINGHAM!" Jason's voice precedes his presence by about four feet. He appears near the grill, arms spread, taking up all the space around him. "Glad you came."

"Glad you cleaned up," Chrissy replies, casting a pointed look at the yard.

"I had assistance."

"I can tell. The playlist's better."

"Why thank you–"

"That’s still not a compliment."

He smirks wildly, then he notices Will, and something in his face does a thing Will has never seen it do before in the total of three times they’ve hung out together. His eyes widen and his mouth hangs open, before he blinks, shakes his head and extends a hand.

"Byers." Will accepts his handshake. "You look–" He stops. "Good. Very, uh. Yeah."

"Thanks, Jason."

"Cool shorts."

"Thanks, Jason," Will says again, and behind him he hears Lana make a sound between a laugh and a choke.

Jason opens his mouth, closes it, then turns back to Chrissy and says something about the grill in an artificially casual tone. Then he leaves with hushed final greetings, rambling on about drinks and off-limits floors, and Chrissy goes with him, catching Will's eye over her shoulder. She looks amused and maybe a little bit proud.

Since the girls have all attended enough of these to know how they work, they all disperse in a practiced manner. Lana and Stacey saunter off toward a group near the far end of the pool. Sammy spots someone she knows and veers toward them.

He's standing alone for approximately eight seconds, considering who he should go with, when a solid presence arrives right next to him.

"Hey."

Chance is at his elbow, looking like he just got out of the pool. He's in dark green swim shorts and a plain short-sleeved white shirt, clinging to his shoulders. His hair is damp at the ends, droplets of water occasionally dripping down his temple. He looks unhurried, collected and unfairly handsome.

He looks at Will the same way he did at the diner, except this time his gaze takes a slightly longer path, and it’s warmer and darker when it meets Will’s again. He doesn't say anything about the outfit immediately, just looks at Will the way Will looks at his paintings. 

"Hi," Will manages to say, hoping he doesn’t sound as worked up as he feels.

"You made it," Chance says.

"I said I would."

"I know." The corner of his mouth moves. "You look great."

"Thanks," Will manages. "You too."

Chance's mouth curves the rest of the way, and Will decides to look at the pool for a moment.

They drift a few steps to the side, naturally avoiding the busier spots, falling into conversation with ease that still surprises Will. Chance asks him about his week, and Will tells him about all the practices, and the lake, and Lana’s secret appreciation of the last rom com they watched. Chance listens fully, no part of his attention anywhere else.

"I feel like you got the better part of this summer," Chance says, when Will finishes.

"What did you get?"

“Summer practice and Jason going through his self-inflicted challenges phase.” He says, with a shudder and a look of such genuine disdain that Will can’t help but laugh out loud at it. 

Chance smiles softly at the sound of Will’s laugh, like he's been waiting for it. Which is not something that Will’s going to examine at the moment. 

"That’s a cool bracelet," Chance says.

Will glances down. The woven bracelet, the one Sammy made him at the lake, sits bright against his wrist. "Sammy made it.”

"It suits you." His eyes linger on Will's wrist, then move around a bit and back up. "So does the rest of it."

Will's pulse does something embarrassing, and he hopes it doesn’t spread to his face, that the heat creeping up his neck and across his cheeks comes from the afternoon sun finding the side of his face.

He picks at the bracelet on his wrist. Chance hasn’t stopped looking at him.

"Will?"

He turns. Lucas is cutting toward them through the crowd, red solo cup in hand and a bewildered expression on his face.

"Lucas!" Will rushes forward, slotting into his friend’s open arms. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Are you serious? It's Jason's party." Lucas wraps Will in a bear hug, balancing out his cup. He holds him at arm's length afterward, assessing him. "Dude."

"What?"

"You look–" He tilts his head slightly. "Different."

"Good different?" WIll asks, equal parts nervous and playful.

Lucas looks at him, earnestly, then to Chance, still standing behind them. Lucas’ smile widens and he nods resolutely, looking back at Will.

"Yeah. Good different." He sounds like he means it fully, and Will feels something mend inside his chest that he didn’t quite know needed mending, because this is Lucas, his second oldest friend, seeing this side of him and saying it’s okay. "I feel like I haven't seen you in a while."

"It's been, like, a week," Will says.

"A week where you've apparently gone from fleeing my backyard to being–" He gestures loosely at the party, and trails off. "Max texted me, y’know. A few days ago, after she left your place."

Will closes his eyes briefly at the reminder of how that night ended. "Yeah, I don't wanna know what she said."

"Then I won't tell you." Lucas winks. He reaches out and tugs one of the beaded necklaces lightly. "She wasn't wrong, though."

"Lucas."

"I'm just saying." His voice drops into something more straightforward, less mirth in it. "I'm really glad, Will. That you're out there. That you're here, and–" He looks around, thumb fiddling with the border of his cup. "You seemed a bit stuck this summer, you know? Before all… this."

Will doesn't answer immediately. He picks at the edge of one of the bracelets and thinks about being in Lucas's backyard, a million years ago, at the beginning of all this, trying to make himself smaller without realizing that was what he was doing.

"Yeah," he says. "I think I was."

"Well." Lucas bumps his shoulder. "For what it's worth, you know I've always got you, right?" He tilts his head toward the rest of the party, toward the basketball players and the cheerleaders and everything that exists outside the comfortable box they grew up in. "The team's mostly good guys. And if anyone's ever not, you tell me immediately."

The thing about Lucas is that he says things like that without making them a big deal, which only makes them hit harder. It’s the familiar comfort of someone who grew up alongside you and doesn’t need any additional reasoning to take your side.

"Thanks, Lucas," Will says. "I appreciate that. Really."

"Well, don't get sappy about it." Lucas takes a sip of his drink, extremely casual. "Oh, do you want me to go get you something to dr–"

"I was going to do that," Chance says, from where he has been patiently existing for the past several minutes.

Lucas looks at him. Looks at Will. Looks back at Chance. Something travels visibly across his face, like dots connecting in real time.

“Oh. Yeah, no. Yeah. You should – he should." He points at Chance. "I'll go find Patrick or something." He's already moving. "Catch you later, Will. See ya, Chance!"

And then he's gone, threading back into the crowd. But, over his shoulder, he throws one look back at Will. Quick and unmistakably mischievous, the grin that goes with it is pure Max Mayfield.

When Will looks back, Chance is already looking at him.

"He's a good guy," Chance says.

"Yeah," Will agrees. "He really is."

They find a new spot, sitting down at two lawn chairs by the side of the house, near comically large hedges that cut off the afternoon sun. Here the party’s quieter, Chance explains.

He hands Will a drink, fruit-flavored and fresh. Will takes a reluctant sip mostly to be polite and then has to work to keep his expression neutral because it is genuinely good but he doesn't want to give Chance the satisfaction yet.

Chance talks about his summer. The parts that involve basketball, which Will had assumed would take up most of it, are actually glossed over: instead he talks about the garden plot his mom has been trying to maintain in their backyard and largely failing at, which Chance has been quietly taking over for the last month.

"You’re into gardening?"

"Is that surprising?"

"I mean. Kind of."

Chance smiles. "I get it. You thought I was all about basketball, huh?"

Guilty. "Not really."

Chance stares at him, disbelieving. 

Will concedes this with a tilt of his head. "Okay, maybe. So what do you grow?"

"Mostly herbs right now. Basil, rosemary, mint. My sister wanted tomatoes so we have tomatoes, even though she has literally never once gone out to check on them." He chuckles lightly. "But at least she’s not a menace like my little brother. He pulled three plants up by the roots last week because he was curious to see what they looked like underneath."

"How many of you are there?"

"Four. Me, the two younger ones, and my older sister Gabby. She had a baby daughter last year, actually, so we’re technically five now."

"You babysit?"

"More than I’d admit," Chance says, which makes Will picture Chance, broad-shouldered and calm, taking care of babies, and finds the image works completely. "She's a good baby, but very judgmental. Just stares at you like she's trying to figure out if you're worth her time."

"She sounds like Lana," Will says.

Chance grins. "Don't let Lana hear that."

They're quiet for a moment. The party moves around them at a distance, noise and laughter in waves. Will picks at the woven bracelet, basking in the summer heat and the warmth of the boy beside him. 

“What about you?” Chance asks. “You mentioned a brother.”

“Jonathan.” Will nods. “He’s at college. The house is quieter now. Not in a bad way, usually, but...” He trails off. “It took some getting used to.”

“Just the two of you before?”

“At first, me, him, and my mom. But now there’s my stepdad and my stepsister, so it’s expanded a bit.” He smiles at that, the mere idea of his family always providing comfort. “But it was smaller for a long time.”

“You miss him?”

“Yeah.” He does not have to think about it. “I love my brother. But I also have my friends. They’re kind of my family, too. We grew up together.”

Without warning, his mind drifts to the Wheelers’ kitchen, to the smell of Mrs. Wheeler’s pancakes and scrambled eggs, to basement stairs under his feet in the dark, familiar enough to cross without a light. Mike’s voice comes back to him too, echoing off the walls, rambling about one of his new campaign ideas.

Something must cross his face, because Chance is watching him now with careful attention, quiet and steady.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Chance leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You alright?”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

Will opens his mouth, but the sound from across the pool swallows whatever he might have said.

“Oh, you’re so full of it, Lana–”

“I’m full of it? You’re the one who–”

They both turn. On the far side of the pool, Lana and Sammy are facing off, too close, too loud. Sammy gestures wildly, Lana has her arms crossed. Will can’t make out most of it over the party noise, though he does not need to. He could sketch this kind of argument from memory. 

Chance and Will get up, gravitating towards the scene. Will notices there are tears streaming down Sammy’s cheeks, and Lana looks more furious than he’s ever seen. A few curious heads are turning toward the noise, until Stacey arrives quickly, calmly touches Lana’s arm and speaks quietly. Chrissy joins Sammy a moment later, an equally calm expression, and does the same. The four of them break apart, Stacey guiding Lana toward the far end of the garden, Chrissy steering Sammy the other way.

The crowd loses interest almost immediately, and the party goes back to normal.

Will is still looking at the empty space where they were when someone stumbles out of the house, moving backwards, and hits Chance’s drink right out of his hand. The liquid spills across his shirt, staining it pink.

“Oh, shit, sorry–”

“No, it’s alright,” Chance says, already tugging the shirt away from his skin. He pulls the shirt off in one easy motion. Will looks down into his cup.

“Let’s go inside,” Chance says. “I can grab a t-shirt from Jason and we can restock on drinks.”

Will nods quietly, still quite interested in the contents of his cup.

Inside, Chance directs them to a small room next to the kitchen. It’s filled with boxes of tools and general clutter, and various items of outerwear organized in racks and baskets.

Chance disappears behind a shelf for less than a minute before reemerging, a black tank top bunched in one hand and his ruined white tee in the other.

“Found one,” he says, then extends the stained shirt to him. “Hold this for me, please?”

Will, still recovering internally from the shirtless situation, accepts it and stares really intently at it as Chance hooks a hand into the collar of the tank top and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.

The first thing he notices is how well the shirt fits. The second thing he notices is the slogan stretched across Chance’s chest in massive white lettering:

I FLEXED AND THE SLEEVES BLEW OFF

Will blinks.

“Oh my God,” he says before he can stop himself.

Chance looks down at the shirt for the first time. “What?”

“That is definitely Jason’s shirt, alright.”

Chance snorts, glancing down again. “That bad?”

“Yes,” Will says immediately. “No normal person would voluntarily own this.”

Chance laughs, low and warm, and the sound unfortunately does not help Will’s situation at all.

“It was the first clean thing I found,” Chance says. “I wasn’t exactly shopping critically.”

Will tries to look at the words, but his eyes travel elsewhere. Chance is definitely the type of person who should be wearing tank tops daily, he thinks. His arms look nice, tanned and toned, bulky in an elegant way. He adjusts the collar slightly, making the fabric hug his shoulders a bit tighter with the motion. Will swallows very audibly.

Unfortunately, Will’s not slick. Chance’s eyes flick down toward where his gaze keeps snagging, then back up again, amusement spreading gradually across his face like sunlight.

Will immediately looks away.

“Is the shirt that awful?” Chance asks, sounding entertained.

“Yup. It’s a terrible shirt,” Will says, still not looking. “Let’s get drinks.”

“Right.” Chance laughs behind him as he turns away and hurries out of the room.

Will accepts a glass of something cold poured from a pitcher in the kitchen – actual lemonade, as it turns out, which is what he wanted anyway but felt too square to ask for.

The kitchen is, thankfully, empty. Through the window, the party rages on, no sight of his friends anywhere.

"Are they always like that?" Will asks. "Lana and Sammy."

"Not always." Chance leans against the counter. "But often enough."

"What was it about this time?"

"No idea. Something small, probably." He rolls his jaw slightly. "That's usually how it goes with them. The small things are really about the bigger thing they're both sitting on."

Will turns his cup in his hands. "Which is?"

Chance looks at him steadily. "That they like each other, and neither of them knows how to do that."

"I think," Chance says, careful but honest, "it would probably be better for both of them if they spent some time apart. Let things settle. Stop prodding the same sore spot until it heals."

Part of him disagrees with that. Sometimes, all distance does is create further resentment; sometimes words need to be said instead of sat on, and avoiding it makes it hurt even more. Suddenly, the image of Sammy and Lana facing each other hits uncomfortably close to home. 

He doesn't voice any of his thoughts.

"Maybe," he says, instead.

Chance studies him for a moment. "You disagree."

"You probably know them better than I do," Will shrugs.

"That's beside the point."

Will looks up. Chance’s still leaning against the counter, close enough to make the kitchen feel small.

"I think," Will says slowly, "that time apart only helps if it's actually what you want."

Chance considers this. His eyes stay on Will's face. "And if it isn't?"

Will's not sure, entirely, of what they're talking about anymore.

"Then it just feels like losing something," he says, quietly.

Has the space between them gotten smaller without either of them moving? Will isn’t sure. The world’s turned into a narrow frame of him, Chance and his stupid tank top, and their sweating drinks.

Chance reaches out and tucks a strand of Will's hair back very lightly, a small, unhurried gesture that makes Will's heart race. His hand is soft and careful, hot where it brushes his temple.

"You've got good instincts," Chance murmurs. "About people."

"I mostly just watch," Will says. The lemonade in his hand is forgotten.

"I've noticed." Chance's voice is low, and close. "You've been watching me all afternoon."

Will's cheeks go warm. "I–"

"I was watching you too," Chance says, which effectively dismantles Will.

He's close enough now that Will can see that his eyes are lighter in the sunlight that filters through the window, the faintest hint of caramel tinting his irises. His scent is pleasantly woodsy underneath the faded hints of sunscreen. Will should say something, but his brain is offering him nothing.

"Hi," Will says, which is possibly the worst possible contribution, and yet Chance's mouth curves like Will said something charming.

"Hi," he says back, voice dropped low enough that Will feels it more than hears it.

Will is no longer holding his lemonade. Everything is very quiet and also very loud, which is a paradox that Will's brain accepts without argument. 

Chance’s hand stops hovering over Will’s temple and it lands, slowly, on his jaw, fingertips barely grazing the skin there. Chance tilts his head slightly and his eyes drop to Will's mouth, and Will tips his chin up just a fraction, his own hand finding purchase on the other boy’s elbow.

They lean toward each other, closing the gap, and their lips brush.

It's barely a second: warm and soft and startling in the best way, and it feels electric and impossible and like it's heading somewhere–

Then the door bangs open, and they spring apart.

Two people stumble into the kitchen from the backyard, laughing and holding their cups aloft to avoid spilling them, completely absorbed in their own world. They notice Will and Chance, grumble vague apologies, and barrel past toward the far counter.

Will has to press his knuckles against his mouth to physically contain the laugh that's trying to come out of him, shoulders shaking. Chance drops his head forward, and his own laugh comes out low and helpless against his chest.

The couple finds what they came for and tumbles back out the door without a second glance.

The kitchen is quiet again. Will straightens up, still laughing, face incandescently warm.

"Incredible timing," Chance says.

"Phenomenal."

They look at each other, grinning, the energy from earlier disrupted. Will opens his mouth to say something – he's not sure what, his brain is still buffering – when his eye catches something. The couple left the kitchen door open, giving them a view of the glass door that leads outside. From there he can see Sammy, sitting with her arms around her own middle, head bent. Chrissy is crouched next to her, a hand on her back. 

Will’s chest constricts a bit. He looks back at Chance.

"I'll be right back," Will says, and finds, to his own mild surprise, that he means it. that he wants to come back to whatever this is, and that wanting it doesn't terrify him.

"I'll be here," Chance replies, easily, and Will goes out the door.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sammy is not having a small cry.

Will realizes that before he even reaches the back step. Her shoulders are curled inward almost defensively, breath catching unevenly between words. Chrissy has her tucked firmly against her side, one arm across Sammy’s back while she murmurs something soft into her hair, too low for Will to make out from where he stands.

He approaches them, slowing just enough for Chrissy to notice him first. She glances up briefly, and the look she gives him says, “Come here, but keep it gentle”.

Will lowers himself onto Sammy’s other side without announcing his presence.

Up close, her words arrive in fragments, blurred together by tears.

“...it’s not even what she said, it’s the way she said it, I just wanted her to... I would never... why can’t she just...”

“I know,” Chrissy says quietly, clearly not for the first time. “I know, Sam.”

“She doesn’t have to like... I’m not asking her to...”

“I know.”

“It’s so unfair.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Chrissy murmurs something else under her breath and presses a kiss into Sammy’s hair before finally leaning back enough to glance toward Will again. Her eyes flick over him automatically, checking. He gives the smallest nod. I’m okay.

She understands, then she looks in the direction of the house, the corner of her mouth lifts.

“You abandoned him,” she says under her breath.

“He’ll survive.”

Her expression says, “good” and also “we are absolutely discussing this later”.

Sammy goes still at the exchange. Slowly, she lifts her head.

Her mascara has migrated somewhere disastrous beneath her eyes. She blinks at Will as if she’s surfacing from underwater and then immediately looks horrified.

“Will,” she says while weakly sobbing. “Oh my God, Will...”

“Hey.”

“No, no, I’m completely ruining the party for you, I am so sorry, you s-should go back, seriously, I didn’t mean for this to happen right when things were actually happening with C-Chance, because they were, right? They were, I c-could tell from across the garden earlier and now you’re stuck out here with me instead of–”

“Sammy.”

“–which is awful timing on my part and honestly kind of humiliating–”

“Sammy, please.”

That finally stops her. She peeks at him through her fingers.

“I can’t really enjoy myself out there,” Will says gently, “while you’re sitting here crying.”

She stares at him.

“That is such a painfully Will thing to say.”

“Yeah, well.”

A watery laugh slips out of her. Chrissy immediately produces tissues from somewhere on her.

The three of them stay there huddled together for a while. Music drifts across the yard alongside bursts of laughter and the occasional splash from the pool. Beyond the hedge, the sky has started fading into a rich orange color.

Sammy blows her nose and stares down at the grass.

“It’s so stupid,” she mutters.

“It isn’t.”

“I just...” Her voice catches again. “Being around her feels impossible sometimes. She says something, or I say something, and suddenly it’s like she doesn’t even...”

Will looks down at his hands. His necklaces slip forward slightly as he leans onto his knees.

“Can I tell you something?”

Both girls turn toward him.

“At the beginning of summer,” he says slowly, “I had a fight with someone I care about a lot.” He glances at Chrissy. “It’s actually the reason we met.”

Sammy wipes at her face. “What happened?”

“He said something that hurt me. I don’t even think he meant it the way it came out. I think he just... didn’t know how to say what was actually bothering him.” Will rubs his thumb against the woven bracelet Sammy made him. “And I kept trying to brush it off because I’m good at doing that. I’ve had years of practice.”

He pauses briefly.

“But eventually you realize that constantly letting things go can cost you more than confronting them.”

Sammy grows very quiet.

“I think the hard part,” Will continues, “is figuring out that moving on and letting go are not always the same thing.” He exhales softly. “Sometimes moving forward means staying. It just means learning how to exist honestly inside the situation before you start asking things from the other person.”

He isn’t entirely sure whether he is talking about Sammy or himself. Maybe both.

Sammy leans sideways until her head lands against his shoulder. Will wraps an arm around her automatically.

“I hate feelings,” she mumbles.

“I know.”

“They’re terrible.”

“Objectively.”

Chrissy snorts softly beside them.

They stay there until Sammy’s breathing evens out and the tissues become unsalvageable. Eventually, Sammy sits upright again and inspects herself on her phone screen with tired resignation.

“I look insane.”

“You look like yourself,” Will says. “Just slightly waterlogged.”

That gets a real laugh out of her. She bumps his shoulder and he bumps her back.

Chrissy stretches overhead. “I think we call it a day,” she says. “Stacey can take Lana. I’ll drive us.”

Sammy nods immediately, visibly relieved someone else made the decision for her. She rests her head briefly against Chrissy’s shoulder, and Chrissy drops her chin onto her hair for a few seconds before looking at Will.

“You coming?”

Will glances toward the house.

Through the kitchen window, he can still see Chance leaning against the counter beside the pitcher of lemonade, waiting with the same calm patience he seems to bring to everything.

“Give me five minutes.”

Chrissy follows his line of sight toward the kitchen and then back again, expression carefully neutral. (Will sees right through it).

“Five minutes,” she confirms.

“I’ll grab my bag,” Sammy says, already pushing herself upright.

Will brushes the grass from the back of his shorts and heads inside.

Chance is resting against the counter, slowly turning his cup between his hands.He glances up when Will walks in.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Will says. “She’ll be okay.”

Chance nods once and leaves it there, which Will appreciates more than he can explain. He stops close enough that the earlier tension settles back between them immediately, quieter now but still alive.

“I have to go,” he says. “Chrissy’s taking us home.”

A flicker crosses Chance’s expression before smoothing away again.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry about...” Will gestures vaguely.

“Don’t be.”

Chance reaches out and loosely hooks two fingers around Will’s wrist. Not enough to stop him. Just enough to feel there.

“We’ve got time.”

Will looks down at the contact. Chance’s thumb is resting near his pulse.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Chance smiles slightly. “Pool party disasters aside, I’d still like to take you out sometime.”

Will has to hold his breath so it doesn’t come out stifled and ragged.

“Okay,” he says. “I’d like that.”

Chance, regrettably, lets go of his wrist.

“And oh, tell Sammy she has incredible timing.”

Will laughs. “Absolutely not.”

Chance is still smiling when Will heads back out into the cooling evening air.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Sammy's mood, by the time Chrissy pulls into her driveway, has done a complete reversal, which Will finds remarkable.

She's been talking since they left Jason's – about the party, about Patrick's attempt at a cannonball that cleared a truly impressive radius, about what she's going to wear to the next one, about whether Gareth Emerson has always had that haircut or if it's new. Twice, she circles back to tell Will his outfit was the best thing at the party and once, entirely out of nowhere, she announces that Chance Lawson is very good-looking and asks if Will agrees.

Will tells her “yes, Sammy, obviously.” That seems to satisfy her.

The only thing she never brings up is Lana, and Will leaves it alone too. Some conversations can wait until tomorrow.

She unclips her seatbelt in the driveway and pushes the door open, then pauses and turns back around.

"Thank you," she says. It's directed at both of them, but her eyes settle on Will. "For earlier."

"Anytime," Will says.

She smiles, squeezes his hand once, then climbs out of the car. They wait until she gets inside before Chrissy pulls away from the curb.

The drive to his house passes quietly. Chrissy steers with one hand, the other elbow hooked against the window ledge, a sight that’s become familiar.

"She's going to talk about you nonstop for the next week," Chrissy says eventually. "In a good way. You made an impression."

"I was just kind of there."

Chrissy snorts softly. "Yeah. Sometimes that's all that matters."

Will watches the neighborhood slide past the window. A kid on a bike wobbles through a stop sign without even pretending to slow down.

When they pull up outside his house, Chrissy shifts the car into park and looks over at him. "You're a good friend, Will Byers."

He smiles, easy and immediate, then heads inside.

When he crosses the doorway to the living room, all three of them are in there. Joyce and Hopper sit on the couch while Jane occupies the armchair with a book folded open across her knees. Her eyes lift the second Will walks in, fast enough that he suspects she hasn't actually read a word in the last five minutes.

"Hey, honey." Joyce turns toward him. "How was it?"

"Good," Will says, and the word feels both insufficient and entirely accurate. "Really good."

"We were about to watch something. Want to join us?"

Will takes in the sight of them for a moment: Hopper pretending he’s not wanting to ask a million questions, Jane watching him with her usual soft curiosity, his mom curled into the corner of the couch in her oversized cardigan.

"Yeah," he says. "Give me twenty minutes. I need a shower."

"We'll wait.”

Will takes the stairs two at a time.

The shower is hot and long enough to reset him a little. He stands under it with his forehead against the tile and lets the day blur at the edges instead of replaying it piece by piece.

By the time he gets out, the mirror is fogged over and the room smells like shampoo and steam. He changes into a soft t-shirt and the gray sweatpants that have survived so many washes they're barely holding onto their original shape. He's drying his hair while walking back into his room when his phone lights up on the nightstand.

HH’s Tigers and Vixens 🐯🦊

Jason Carver: OKAY

Jason Carver: HE’S HERE

Jason Carver: everybody SHUT UP

Jason Carver: ahem

Jason Carver: Welcome, Will Byers, state champion, to the official group chat of the best social unit to ever exist 🫡🫡

Patrick McKinney: dude what is your problem

chrissy 🌸: Jason.

Jason Carver: im being WELCOMING

Patrick McKinney: you’re being embarrassing

stacey 🌼: Seconded.

chrissy 🌸: Thirded 

Jason Carver: haters. haters everywhere

chrissy 🌸: Anyway hi Will!! Welcome to the gc 🌸 

Sammy 🌻: WILLLLLL 💖💖💖💖

Sammy 🌻: HI HI HI HI HI HI

Sammy 🌻: WE HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR UUUU 🥹🌻🦋✨ 

stacey 🌼: Hi Will.

Patrick McKinney: welcome to the chaos dude

Chance Lawson: hi will :) 

Jason Carver: lmao get a load of this guy ☝️ am i right 😂

stacey 🌼: Shut up, Jason.

sammy 🌻: okay Will you HAVE to say something this is a historic moment

Will sits on the edge of his bed, hair still damp, staring at the chat, then types back. The replies hit almost immediately.

will: hi everyone 

will: thanks for adding me to the group!

sammy 🌻: 😭😭😭HE SAID HI

Jason Carver: Welcome to the pride, Byers. Try not to let the savagery overwhelm you.

lana 🌷: omg NEVER say pride again 

Patrick McKinney: Or savagery

will: I appreciate it Jason 

will: I think

Jason Carver: SEE? He appreciates it. Thank you Will.

chrissy 🌸: No. He’s being polite 💗

sammy 🌻: Chance you've been very quiet for someone who had a lot to say earlier 😇

Chance Lawson: I'm right here Sammy

Patrick McKinney: yea what is up with that

Patrick McKinney: because earlier you were like "we should definitely add Will" and now you're all

Patrick McKinney: 😶

Jason Carver: 😶

sammy 🌻: 😶

Chance Lawson: I will leave this group chat

Jason Carver: okay okay okay moving on

chrissy 🌸: Will, ignore them!

stacey 🌼: They're always like this.

Will smiles at that, small and helpless, then taps back out of the group before Sammy can start celebrating again. He checks his other messages. A few photo attachments in the flower council group: a bunch of pics he took with Chrissy and Sammy before they left, and a couple at the party, including some of him he didn’t notice were taken. He saves them, smiling to himself at how at home he looks in them.

Then, a couple of messages in his family’s group and, apparently, an ongoing argument between Mike, Max and Dustin on the Party’s group chat. Before he can click on it, though, another notification arrives, drawing his attention. He opens it.

Chance Lawson: hey - just so you know, the group chat was my idea 

Chance Lawson:  I hope that's okay 

Chance Lawson:  I just figured you should be in it 

Chance Lawson: also, I'm looking forward to seeing you soon. if that's still on the table 

A wave of heat moves through Will so fast it almost makes him dizzy. He leans against the wall by the bed, phone in both hands now.

will: it's okay 

will: I'm glad you did 

will: and yeah. it's still on the table 

Chance Lawson: good

Chance Lawson: see you soon ;)

Will stares at the glowing screen a second longer. 

Then, because apparently he is still capable of making himself miserable for absolutely no reason, he scrolls once more through his private messages, half hoping, against all evidence, to see something from Mike.

Nothing.

Will locks the phone and tips his head back against the wall, looking up at the faded glow stars on the ceiling. Downstairs, his family's waiting with popcorn and whatever movie Hopper will fall asleep halfway through. He has new photos saved in his camera roll where he looks happy and at peace with himself. Tomorrow is Sunday and the week ahead of it is just a week, ordinary and full of things he can't yet see.

He sets the phone face-down on the nightstand, but then, picks it back up, opens contacts. He clicks the chat, goes to contact info, save contact, and considers the name field for a moment, before typing it in.

chance 🌿

He locks it again, properly this time, and goes downstairs.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Will wakes before his alarm, which stopped being unusual somewhere around the second week of July. He lies still for a minute, the morning air drifting through the half-open window, cooler than it was a few weeks ago. 

After a while, he gets up and gives the room a quick once-over. He puts music on low, slips in his earphones, and settles cross-legged on the bed with his sketchbook. No immediate obligations, no one asking anything of him yet. It feels almost luxurious.

He draws without deciding a subject. A hand, an eye, a window. Sammy mid-twirl, something abstract. He notices, not for the first time, that lately his sketchbook has been filling up with people. Earlier in the summer it was mostly landscapes and objects.

Suddenly, his bedroom door opens without a knock, which narrows the list of suspects down to exactly one.

His mom leans in, holding a glass of water. She’s wearing her exercising outfit: a brightly-colored cardigan over leggings, hair pulled back with a scrunchie that has clearly seen better years. 

“Morning, sweetie. I’m doing my yoga,” she announces.

Will looks up from his sketchbook and smiles. “You’re early.”

She extends the glass toward him, expectant.

Will accepts it immediately. “Are we doing the whole thing?”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

He laughs softly and sets his pencil down. “You know I’m in.”

Her face brightens at once. “Wonderful.”

He folds the sketchbook shut and sets it aside, already feeling that pleasant little shift that comes with one of their mornings. He and his Mom share some rituals that don’t belong to anyone else. This one is one of them. 

He gets to his feet. “I call being better at balance today.”

His mom gasps and swats playfully at him.

It started during their difficult years, when everything felt fragile and uncertain. Joyce was taking so many extra shifts she was only ever at home on Sundays. Will was small and anxious and permanently full of nervous energy he didn’t know where to put. One Sunday morning, he’d wandered into the living room to find his mom following along to a yoga tape rented from Family Video because she’d read somewhere stress sat in the body and wanted to see if she could shake some of it loose.

Ten-year-old Will had joined immediately and, to everyone’s surprise, turned out to be bizarrely good at it.

Not only flexible, though he was that too, but naturally balanced, aware of where his body was in a way that made the poses come easily to him. By the third week he was correcting the instructor’s posture from the carpet with all the solemn confidence a tiny person can muster. 

Joyce still talked about that time he held a crow pose for nearly a minute out of pure stubbornness.

Now, years later, Antonio, the public access yoga instructor, is midway through welcoming everyone to their “journey of alignment” while Will folds forward beside his mom and presses both palms flat to the mat without effort.

Joyce notices immediately. “Oh, you show-off.”

“I’m literally just stretching.”

“You say that every time while folded like a lawn chair.”

Will laughs quietly and rolls back up.

The sequence starts slow. Breathing. Shoulder rolls. Long reaches toward the ceiling while Antonio speaks in a tone suggesting enlightenment may occur at any moment if everyone remains hydrated enough. Will moves through the poses beside his mother with easy familiarity, their motions slightly out of sync but comfortably so.

Halfway through the session, Antonio transitions into balance work.

“Great,” Joyce mutters. “My enemy.”

Will snorts and shifts into tree pose effortlessly, one foot braced against his inner thigh, hands together in prayer. His mom wobbles beside him almost immediately.

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not!”

Will shakes his head fondly and moves into the next pose beside her, sunlight pooling gold across the carpet as the morning stretches comfortably onward around them. 

While he has always been positively sure he wouldn’t enjoy any sport or other forms of physical activity, there’s something about yoga that quiets Will from the inside out. It feels private somehow, even in the open living room. He likes the concentration of it, the way his thoughts narrow into movement and breath until the rest of the world loosens its grip for a little while. 

They're twenty minutes in when Jane appears, freshly woken up, slumping heavily across the sofa with a mumbled “morning”. Will and Joyce return her greet, with mutual looks of amusement. She always makes a point to join them in the living room for yoga, even though she never actually participates in it. Something about Antonio’s soothing voice, she said once.

Will’s extending into a standing split, weight on his left leg, right leg lifted and vertical, one hand on the floor for balance, when he hears the doorbell ring.

“Jane, sweetie, can you get that?” His mom voices, deep in concentration in an attempt to straighten her leg in the right angle.

He hears his sister move toward the front door, hears it open, hears a familiar voice speaking low. Then there’s footsteps resonating down the hall, getting closer. He feels more than sees as Jane returns to the living room, and she’s not alone.

“Hi, Will.”

He glances up properly (Well. As properly as someone can glance up while folded nearly in half), and Chrissy’s standing in the doorway.

"Hi. Give me one second,” he says, finally lowering his leg back to the floor and snapping out of yoga focus mode. 

Even from her warrior pose, Joyce is already in full hospitality mode. “Hi, honey! Do you want some tea, or juice? We have orange juice. Did you eat breakfast? I can fix you kids something, Antonio’s almost done.”

“I’m okay, Mrs. Byers,” Chrissy says, smiling faintly as she settles onto the edge of the sofa, bag resting across her knees.

Will reaches for the glass of water sitting beside the mat and takes a sip while catching his breath. Chrissy is watching him closely, her expression calm but unusually focused, like something has just clicked into place for her. 

“Sorry for showing up out of nowhere,” she says.

“It’s fine.” He pushes damp hair back from his forehead, then gestures vaguely toward his current state: yoga clothes, bare feet, slightly sweaty, dignity compromised by public access television. “Just give me five minutes?”

Chrissy’s eyes flick briefly toward the yoga mat again before returning to him, something unreadable still hovering at the corners of her expression.

“Sure,” she says. “Take your time.”

A while later, they’re in his room, Chrissy sitting in the desk chair and Will on the bed. He looks at her and waits, because despite her not having stated her purpose yet, she came here specifically to say something.

She's quiet for a moment. Her eyes move around the room, before they settle back on him. "I want to ask you something," she says.

"Okay."

“But I need you to let me finish before you answer.”

Something in his stomach does a slow, premonitory turn.

"Okay," he says again, weakly.

Chrissy straightens slightly in the chair. She puts her bag on the floor. And then she begins.

“The girls love you,” she says. “And I don’t mean in a casual way. I mean they trust you.” She ticks points off lightly against her knee. “Sammy got attached to you almost immediately, which honestly never happens this fast. Stacey started referring to you as part of the routine, like, of course Will’s going to be there, why wouldn’t he be?” Her mouth twitches faintly. “And Lana keeps bringing you up when you’re not around, which is probably the strongest endorsement she’s capable of giving another human being.”

Will opens his mouth.

“Nope, I’m not done,” Chrissy says.

He closes it again.

“The rest of the squad’s noticed you too. Coach Hill asked me who you were after the second practice.” She laughs softly, still sounding faintly surprised by it. “She genuinely thought you were some kind of scout sitting up there taking notes.”

Will snorts before he can stop himself.

“I told her you were a friend. And she said you watch like someone who understands what they’re seeing.”

“You do understand it,” she continues, “not just the technical parts. You understand how the formations work together. The rhythm, the visuals, the art of it.” She leans back slightly, eyes still on him. “The chevron thing wasn’t luck, Will. You notice gaps before other people do. You notice the timing. Spacing. You see the whole picture.” 

“Chrissy–”

“And the music,” she presses on. “You know our routines better than half the team at this point. I’ve noticed you humming counts under your breath during practice.”

Heat creeps into his face. “That’s humiliating information, actually.”

“I’m being serious.” Softer now: “You like it.”

Will stares at her.

A strange, creeping suspicion starts forming at the edges of the conversation, blurry and impossible to pin down. He has absolutely no idea where she’s going with this, only that she’s clearly been building toward something for several minutes now and he is nowhere near catching up.

“You’re kind of scaring me right now,” he admits weakly.

Chrissy’s expression barely shifts. If anything, she looks more certain.

“I think I realized it a while ago, and I’ve been turning the idea over in my mind, but this morning kind of confirmed it.”

“This mor–You mean yoga? What does yoga have to do with anything?” he asks, puzzled.

Chrissy stares at him.

“You were doing a standing split in your living room before nine in the morning.”

He huffs out a laugh despite himself, but it fades quickly when he hears her next words.

“I want you to join the squad,” Chrissy says.

The words settle heavily between them. Will blinks at her once. Twice. Three times. 

Because whatever it is that Chrissy is proposing, it can’t be that Will joins the cheerleading team. He has many, many reasons why that would be a bad, bad idea.

So he starts with the first one: “I’m not an athlete”.

Chrissy raises an eyebrow. “You just balanced upside down on one leg for like a minute.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is!”

She waits.

Will drags a hand through his damp hair. “I don’t know anything. I’d be starting completely from scratch and everyone else already knows what they’re doing and I’d just slow everything down.”

“That’s what pre-season is for.” Her voice stays even, practical. “And honestly? I’ve seen girls come in with less coordination than you already have.” She gestures vaguely toward him. “You have body awareness. You pick things up fast. And you already understand the structure of routines better than some people who’ve been doing this for years.”

“I’d look ridiculous.”

Chrissy goes still, because they’ve finally arrived at the real thing underneath all the others.

“You’d be the only boy on the squad,” she says plainly.

Will says nothing.

“And yeah,” she continues, gentler now, “that part’s scary. I know it is.” She tips her head slightly. “But it wouldn’t be a problem. Not with the girls. Not with Coach Hill.” A small shrug. “Honestly, Coach Hill would probably frame it as a revolutionary moment for Hawkins High athletics.”

That earns the faintest smile out of him.

“And definitely not with me,” Chrissy finishes.

Will stares at his hands. At the yellow polish on his nails. He can still picture Sammy’s bracelet and Jane’s thin gold chain wrapped around his wrist. Little pieces of himself that would have felt impossible a year ago that feel almost ordinary now in a way that still startles him sometimes.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he says quietly.

Chrissy’s expression softens. “Do what?”

“Be looked at like that.” He swallows. “Take up space on purpose.”

Chrissy watches him for a moment before she says, “You’ve been doing it already.”

Will looks up.

“I watched you walk into a party where you barely knew anyone,” she says. “I watched you wear exactly what you wanted without apologizing for it. You sat in a circle full of people you thought you should be afraid of, and you shared things about yourself that you’ve shared with only a few.” A small smile touches the corner of her mouth. “You’re not as invisible as you think you are, Will.”

The words settle somewhere deep in him. All those small moments, framed side by side, give him a broader picture of just how many things he’s allowed himself. He thought of those things as separate choices, disconnected little acts of courage that barely counted once they were over. Chrissy talked about them like they form a pattern. Like they’ve been leading him somewhere all along.

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally.

Chrissy nods once, satisfied enough with that for now, and reaches down for her bag.

“Okay,” she says simply.

No pressure attached to it. No attempt to push him further while he’s cracked open enough to be moved. Just okay.

She stands and adjusts the strap over her shoulder, and moves to leave the room, pausing in the doorway, one hand resting briefly against the frame. For a second he thinks she’s going to add something else, one final persuasive speech to tip him over the edge.

Instead she just looks at him with quiet confidence and a smile.

“See you soon, Will.”

Then she’s gone, footsteps light down the stairs, Joyce immediately launching into some warm goodbye downstairs that makes Chrissy laugh. A moment later the front door opens, closes, and the house settles around the absence she leaves behind.

Will sits there for a long while afterward, staring at nothing.

Then he reaches for the sketchbook beside him, flips to a clean page, and starts to draw.

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

It’s late at night. Everyone has drifted to their own corners and the television downstairs has long gone quiet. Will hasn’t done much all day since Chrissy’s visit, except eat and fill his sketchbook’s pages. He tried reading, tried cleaning, tried Golden Girls with Mom, but nothing stuck.

All he can think of, even now, hours later, is of Chrissy’s speech.

You know our routines better than half the team.

The girls trust you.

I want you to join the squad.

For the tenth time in the past five hours, Will has defaulted to his sketchbook, the lamp throwing a pale circle over the page. He has drawn the formation once already and is drawing it again, because that’s what his hands seem determined to do. Angled lines, sharp movements, clean composition. Just drawing and redrawing what he remembers.

Then, somewhere in the middle of the page, his pencil hesitates.

The space between two figures is… wrong. No. It’s open. A larger gap than usual in the chevron, right next to the center flyer. His hand goes there before his brain catches up and he adds another body into the gap.

A figure with a narrow waist, a bent knee, one arm lifted to match the others. A figure with his hair, his posture, a figure who is trying not to take up too much room and failing by accident. He stares at it for a second, then at the rest of the formation, and something in him settles.

It looks right.

The desk is still, the room warm, the lamp humming faintly. Will reaches for the walkie on impulse more than anything else and turns it over in his hand, moving to sit in his bed.

There’s a thousand counterarguments for what he’s thinking of doing.

It’s late. They haven’t spoken in almost a week. He’s still puzzled as to where they stand after their last encounter. He isn’t even sure what he wants to talk about, just needs to talk, to put this restless energy out there. It doesn’t have to be him.

But also, no one else would understand.

So, he presses the button and calls out, voice barely above a whisper: “Mike?”

There’s only static for a minute. Then another. And one more. 

Five minutes pass, or maybe an hour, and Will’s close to giving up, shutting it off and pretending nothing happened, when a voice comes through the crackle, low and slightly rough around the edges.

“Will? You there?” 

Relief hits so quickly it catches Will off guard.

“Yeah.”

A pause. Then Mike says, more awake now, “Okay, good, because I thought I hallucinated that.”

Will huffs a laugh before he can stop it, eyes dropping back to the sketchbook. “That’s usually how you start conversations now?”

“I was asleep,” Mike mutters defensively. “You can’t just appear out of nowhere at…” He hears rustling on Mike’s side. “What time is it?”

“Eleven thirty.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You’re eighty years old.”

“Says the person calling me on a walkie-talkie in the middle of the night like we’re exchanging military intel.”

“The walkies were literally your idea.”

“Yeah, when I was ten. Still cool though.”

Warmth unfurls quietly through Will’s ribs. He lies down, sinking into the mattress, walkie close to his chest. “Sorry for waking you.”

“No, it’s fine.” Mike yawns hard enough that it crackles through the speaker. “I wasn’t sleeping that deeply anyway.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Okay, yeah, I was unconscious.” Another pause, shorter this time. “Are you okay?”

The question lands gently, like it always does when it is Mike asking it. “Yeah,” he says. “Just restless, I think.”

“Alright.” Mike pauses, then adds, “You sound weird.”

Will laughs quietly. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

Static hums between them softly.

Then Mike says, “You wanna know something embarrassing?”

“That depends entirely on how embarrassing.”

“I fell asleep reading one of Eddie’s old campaign notes.”

Will smiles automatically. “That’s not embarrassing.”

“It is when I drooled on them.”

“Okay, yeah. That’s a little embarrassing.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The conversation slips into place after that, the same strange ease it always has. Like finding a familiar current in the dark. They don’t mention anything about the past few days, and strangely, Will doesn’t feel the need to, letting Mike’s voice take his mind off of things even if for a while.

“And then Lucas says it does not matter because nobody is thinking about pacing when there is a giant monster in the middle of the screen, which is an insane thing to say, because of course people are thinking about pacing, Will. That is literally part of the experience.”

“Sure,” Will says, only half listening.

“Thank you,” Mike says, as if Will has just vindicated him on a battlefield. “Finally, somebody with taste.”

Will smiles into the dim room and looks over at his desk. His eyes keep drifting back to it, to the sketchbook. Back to the figure standing among the others.

There’s a moment, somewhere between Mike complaining about Nancy spoiling endings on purpose and a long stretch of comfortable static, where Will almost says it.

Chrissy asked me to join the squad.

He can already picture how it would go. Mike going silent for exactly two seconds too long because he’s trying to process it at the speed of light. Then immediate enthusiasm, loud and earnest and probably slightly insane. Mike has always believed in him with a kind of frightening completeness.

But there’s also the side of him that fears the other possible scenario. The one that’s more similar to the Mike at Lucas’s backyard. That Mike told him, you always read too much into stuff. That Mike was clearly bothered by Will hanging out with all these new people.

Maybe that’s part of why the words stop at the back of his throat.

Because this feels too fragile still. Too new. And because, he realizes quietly, this decision can’t belong to anyone else’s belief in him.

Not even Mike’s.

Especially not Mike’s.

“So then Dustin says hot dogs count as sandwiches,” Mike is saying now, scandalized anew by the memory. “Which is already psychotic behavior–”

“They absolutely do not count as sandwiches.”

“THANK you.”

“But they also aren’t meals.”

Mike gasps theatrically. “Traitor.”

“They’re a snack at most.”

“You sound exactly like Lucas.”

“I’m right and Lucas is right.”

“You’re gullible and Lucas is a fool.”

Will grins helplessly into the darkness.

Absurdly, the restlessness from earlier doesn’t feel as present anymore. Mike is still talking, voice warm and familiar through the static, and Will looks back at the drawing one more time.

The realization settles slowly. His thumb brushes the edge of the walkie.

“Hey, Mike?”

“Yeah?”

Will smiles faintly. “Um, never mind.”

Mike makes a choking noise. “You cannot say that to me and then just stop.”

“Go back to sleep, Wheeler.”

Mike groans dramatically. “You woke me up!”

“You’ll survive.”

“You are actually the worst.”

“Mm-hm.”

They say goodnight three separate times before the conversation actually ends, like usual. Mike keeps remembering one last thing to say. One last complaint. One last joke. When the channel finally clicks silent, the room’s quieter than before, but less cold.

Will sets the walkie beside the pillow and reaches for his phone. He opens Chrissy’s chat before he can overthink it, rereads his messages after sending them, the small bright proof of it sitting on the screen, then locks his phone and rolls over in bed, ready for sleep to take over him.

will: i thought about it
will: i’m in

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆⋅☆⋅⋆