Chapter Text
The air in Hawkins High feels different after school hours.
The noise drains out slowly, fading away at an unhurried pace. What’s left behind is the kind of peaceful stillness that most students don’t stick around long enough to notice. The fluorescent lights hum louder when there aren’t voices competing with them, lockers sit half-open where people forgot to shut them properly, and the air smells faintly of dust, floor polish, and something stale that’s being wheeled away from the cafeteria.
The gym had been empty when Chance went back in by himself after team practice. The echoes of sneakers and whistles have long since vanished. Now, it’s just him, the wide open court, and the dull thud of the ball hitting hardwood as he shoots aimlessly, not really keeping score, not really trying to improve anything in particular.
Just to keep moving. Just to keep busy.
It’s easier like that. He doesn’t like staying with his own thoughts for very long.
He doesn’t notice how long he’s been at it until his arms start to feel heavy and the rhythm breaks, the ball bouncing away from him and rolling off toward the bleachers. He lets it go, watching the movement with a bored expression.
By the time he steps out into the hallway, it’s quieter than he expects.
He slings his bag over his shoulder, running a hand through his sweaty locks. He’s already thinking about what he wants to eat on the way home, when the vending machine near the stairwell snags his attention.
Or rather, the person standing in front of it does.
Will Byers.
Chance recognizes him immediately, even though they’ve never spoken. It’s hard not to notice him once he catches your eye the first time.
He’s not loud like Andy or Ross, and his presence never demands attention. In fact, the guy seems hell-bent on making himself appear as invisible as possible.
But Chance can’t help it. Once he started noticing how frail and scared Will looked in the hallways whenever the basketball team passed by, he couldn’t stop. Pale skin, brown hair falling messily into green eyes, clothes that always look a little faded and worn but clean, like they’ve been handled with care even if they’re not new.
Right now, he’s standing way too close to the vending machine, one hand pressed flat against the glass, the other jamming the selection buttons harder than necessary. He’s scowling and shooting death glares as if the machine has personally offended him. Chance’s lips, against his own volition, almost curl into an amused smirk at the sight.
Almost.
Will grumbles, stepping back and staring at the machine like he’s trying to will it into working.
Chance watches for a few more seconds, then walks over without thinking, stopping a few feet away.
“It’s been broken all week. My friends complained, but no one in the admin’s office gives a rat’s ass,” he says, his steady, mellow voice cutting through the quiet.
Will startles, jumping away from the machine.
It’s subtle, but it’s there; the way his shoulders tense, the way he turns around a little too quickly before catching himself. His eyes flick up to Chance’s face, and for a second he just… stares.
“Oh,” Will says, a little breathless. “I didn’t know that. I thought it was just stuck or something. This old machine has been around for ages and hitting it enough times usually did the trick.”
Chance shrugs, leaning one shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms. “Nah. It just eats up your money and doesn’t give anything back.”
Will huffs a small laugh at that, more out of resignation than anything else. He runs a hand through his bangs, pushing it back for a moment before it flops right back into place.
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he mutters under his breath.
There’s a beat of silence.
Up close, Chance notices things he didn’t before. There’s paint on Will’s fingers, faint streaks of green and yellow caught in the creases of his skin, a smudge near his wrist that looks like he tried to wipe it off and only made it worse. The sleeves of his flannel shirt are pushed up unevenly, and there’s a tiredness to him that doesn’t really match the end of a school day.
“You were in the art room?” Chance asks, nodding toward his hands.
Will glances down, like he forgot about the paint entirely.
“Oh. Yeah,” he says, rubbing his thumb against his palm absently. “I stay back quite often and I keep losing track of time.”
Chance nods slowly.
“That can happen,” he says, silently relating to him even though he doesn't particularly want to.
Will looks back at the vending machine, debating whether to try again, then seems to think better of it. His shoulders deflate and he sighs.
“I guess I’ll just get something on the way home,” he says, mostly to himself.
Chance shifts his weight, then reaches into his bag, pulling out a slightly crushed pack of Reese’s Pieces that’s been sitting there for a couple of days and walks closer.
“Here,” he says, holding it out.
Will blinks at it, then back at him.
“You don’t have to-”
“I don’t want it,” Chance interrupts casually. “I hate peanut butter and I’ve been meaning to get rid of it, anyway. Seriously, just take it.”
Will hesitates, like he’s weighing something that shouldn’t be that complicated.
“Thanks,” he murmurs with a small smile. “It's my favorite.”
“Questionable taste you got there,” Chance says with an exaggerated grimace.
Will rolls his eyes and sticks his hand out. Their fingers brush for half a second as the packet changes hands, and it’s nothing, it’s barely anything, but Will pulls his hand back a little faster than necessary.
Another silence settles between them. It’s not awkward exactly, but it’s not comfortable, either.
Chance isn’t sure what to say next.
He’s not used to conversations that don’t have a clear direction, where there isn’t something obvious to perform or respond to. With Andy, with the team, with most people, it’s simple; there’s always a rhythm, always something expected of him.
This interaction comes without a pre-determined script and it’s unnerving Chance more than he’d care to admit.
“So,” Will says after a moment, glancing at him again, a little unsure but trying anyway. “You’re on the basketball team, right?”
Chance nods, arms tightening against his chest reflexively as he leans against the wall again. “Yeah, yeah I am.”
“Player 22,” Will adds, like he’s confirming it, green eyes darting down quickly before looking up again.
Chance raises an eyebrow. “You keep track of shit like that?”
Will shrugs, blushing in embarrassment. “I’ve watched a couple of games. You know, for Lucas. And… I don’t know. I just notice things, I guess.”
There’s something about the way he says it that makes Chance pause for a second.
“Huh. I guess you do,” he says.
Will shoots him a small, almost self-conscious smile, then looks down again, fiddling with the edge of the packet in his hands.
“Look, it’s not really my place to ask,” he starts slowly, green eyes flicking up, downturned in a way that makes something foreign stir in Chance’s chest. “But Lucas is really happy that he gets to play. Please don’t… please don’t give him a hard time. I know you can’t control how your teammates act, but just, please, um…”
“No, I get it. Sinclair’s a good guy, trains really hard, too. I get what you mean,” Chance cuts in.
He's never seen Will speak up like this to anyone, and Chance may be kind of a jerk but he can also see how difficult this must be for him. Why he's hurrying to reassure the guy is beyond him, however.
Will is attempting to make life easier for his friend. Chance doesn’t know what to make of such a strong sense of loyalty to the “traitor” as Andy likes to sometimes call Lucas.
“Right. Anyways, I should, um, I should probably go,” Will says after a moment, looking a little nervous. “It’s getting late.”
“Yeah, me too,” Chance replies, pushing himself off the wall.
Will nods once, attempting another smile, then turns to leave. He makes it a few steps before stopping, turning back just slightly.
“Thank you, again,” he says, raising his hand and shaking the chocolate packet.
Chance nods, expression unchanging. “Don’t worry about it.”
“My name’s Will, by the way. Don’t think I’ve seen you around before high school."
“I know who you are. I’m Chance. My family and I moved here from Indianapolis before the start of freshman year. I don’t recall seeing you around back then.”
Will nods. “I lived in California for a couple of months with my family. We’re back in Hawkins for good now, though. And... I know who you are, too.”
“Right, yeah,” Chance mumbles stupidly, not knowing what else to say.
Will lingers for half a second longer, like he might actually continue the conversation, then decides against it and nods again before walking away, his footsteps soft against the linoleum flooring.
Chance watches him go. He doesn’t mean to, not really.
He watches the way Will moves, the way he keeps slightly to the side of the hallway even when it’s empty, like he’s used to making space for other people even when no one is there.
After a moment, Chance lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and looks away, adjusting the strap of his bag.
As he heads out of the building and towards the parking lot where his Camaro waits, he finds himself thinking about the paint on Will’s hands, the way his voice had softened around the edges, the earnestness in his eyes, the faint blush dusting his cheekbones.
He doesn’t look back, even as he’s acutely aware of Will mounting his bicycle somewhere in the distance behind him.
Chance squares his shoulders and pulls out his keys from his pocket, subconsciously gripping it tighter than he intends as he continues to walk away.
~~~
Chance has never liked classrooms much.
It’s not that he’s bad at school, he does well enough when he needs to and his grades are decent. But there’s something about sitting still, about being expected to think too much, that makes his skin itch in a way he doesn’t quite have the words for. He prefers movement, prefers noise, prefers spaces where he doesn’t have to look inward for too long.
Because when he does, it gets… well, it gets complicated.
So instead, he focuses on what’s easier; on how he looks, on how he’s perceived, on keeping things light and controlled. On staying just involved enough so that he belongs somewhere in the social jungle that is Hawkins High, but never so involved that anyone can actually pay too much attention to him.
It works. It always has.
He leans back in his chair, one leg stretched out, pen tapping idly against his notebook as Dustin Henderson stands at the front of the class, mid-presentation and already way too into it for a dreary Tuesday morning.
“…and if you actually look at the data, like, really look at it, you’ll see that the margin of error isn’t even relevant because the sample size-”
Andy guffaws loudly from beside Chance, not even attempting to hide it.
“Oh my god, do you ever hear yourself talk?” he cuts in dramatically, scratching the back of his head and adjusting his cap. “It’s science class, Henderson, not a global symposium."
A couple of the other guys laugh.
Chance doesn’t. He doesn’t speak, but his mouth twitches slightly, something mean and automatic settling into his expression because that’s what’s expected of him here, that’s the role he plays without thinking about it.
Dustin freezes, his face going tight.
“I’m presenting what the assignment asked for,” he says coldly, pushing his cap further up his head like he’s gearing up for a fight. “Maybe if you actually listened instead of acting like an idiot-”
“Oh, I’m the idiot?” Andy shoots back immediately, sitting up straighter. “You’ve been going at it for, what, ten minutes straight without taking a breath? No one cares this much about whatever the hell you’re rambling about.”
“It’s called being prepared, Harper,” Dustin says, his voice rising. “You should try it sometime.”
That gets a louder reaction, snickers and chortles filling the classroom.
Chance shifts slightly in his seat, eyes flicking toward the front row without really meaning to.
Will is sitting there, body turned to the side, fingers curled around the edge of his notebook. His hair falls into his green eyes as they dart between Andy and Dustin, like he’s trying to track the tension without getting caught in it.
There’s something tight in his expression, not quite anger or irritation. It’s much closer to anxiety.
Chance looks away before he can think too much about it.
The teacher tries to intervene, half-heartedly telling them to settle down, but it falls upon deaf ears. It never works once Andy gets going.
By the time the bell rings, the air in the room feels off, stretched thin in a way that promises something unfinished.
And sure enough, it spills over almost instantly.
~~~
The hallway is loud, crowded, filled with the usual end-of-class chaos.
The four boys don’t even make it ten steps before Andy calls out, swinging his bag over his shoulder in an exaggerated manner, “Hey, Einstein!”
Dustin briefly closes his eyes as if to steel himself, then turns around. “What?”
“What was that back there?” Andy asks, stepping closer, his tone already shifting from joking to something more pointed. “You think you can talk to me like that in front of everyone?”
“You embarrassed yourself,” Dustin shoots back. “I didn’t even have to do anything.”
A few people nearby slow down, giggling to each other as they watch the spectacle unfold.
Chance exhales quietly through his nose, already knowing where this is going.
Lucas slips into the space between Andy and Dustin like he’s done so countless times before.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, holding a hand out toward Andy. “Drop it.”
Andy scoffs. “Stay out of it, man.”
“I’m serious,” Lucas says, more firmly. “Just let it go.”
“Of course you’d say that,” Andy mutters. “You sure love taking the side of the nerds whenever it's convenient.”
Lucas’s jaw tightens. “Don’t start that shit again.”
Meanwhile, Mike Wheeler moves closer to Dustin with a familiar, immediate defensiveness.
“Maybe if you didn’t act like a complete asshole all the time, he wouldn't have to take a side,” he says, glaring at Andy.
“Oh, here we go,” Andy laughs, looking around and throwing his hands up, his bag falling to the floor with a loud thunk. “The whole gang’s out to get me. Thanks guys, I feel so special.”
Will hovers just behind Dustin and Mike. He’s close enough to be part of it, but not quite in it. His hands tremble awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wants to do something with them. Reach out, maybe, or pull someone back, but he doesn’t.
He opens his mouth, his voice too shaky and too soft. “Hey, maybe we should just-”
“Not now, Will,” Mike cuts in quickly, not even looking at him, his focus still locked on Andy.
Will’s mouth closes, his eyes trembling slightly. He swallows as the voices start overlapping, getting louder and sharper with every word.
“...you think you’re so smart-”
“...at least I don't think I’m hot shit prancing around with a ball-”
“...say that again, I fucking dare you-”
Will takes a small step forward, heart beating faster than it should for something like this.
He hates this feeling. The way the air shifts, the way voices rise just a little too much, the way it always feels like it could tip over into something worse if no one stops it.
He’s seen it before. Middle school hallways, too narrow, too loud. Hands shoving him into lockers, voices too close to his ear, words he didn’t fully understand at the time but felt anyway.
Too soft. Too weird. Too queer.
And to top it all off, his dad’s voice layered over all of it; harsher, heavier, telling him to toughen up, to stop being so sensitive and emotional.
Will blinks, grounding himself back in the present.
This isn’t that.
No one’s touching him. No one’s even looking at him. But his body has never cared about the difference.
“Mike,” he tries again, louder this time, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
Mike shrugs him off without thinking, stepping forward instead. “Are you gonna actually do something, or are you gonna keep talking out of your ass?” he says through gritted teeth as he looks at Andy.
That’s when it almost escalates.
Andy steps in closer, shoulders squaring, and for a second it really looks like it might turn into something physical.
Chance moves before he fully thinks it through.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he says, catching Andy by the arm firmly before he can get closer.
Andy looks at him, annoyed. “Dude!”
“It’s not worth it,” Chance says sternly.
There’s a brief pause.
Lucas exhales, looking relieved. Mike mutters something under his breath, but doesn’t push forward again. Dustin still looks pissed, but he’s not moving, either.
And the moment passes, just like that.
People start drifting away, the tension dissolving into hallway noise like it was never there to begin with.
Andy shakes his arm out of Chance’s grip. “Whatever,” he mutters, already over it. “Henderson’s still a freak.”
Chance doesn’t respond, already distracted because his gaze has shifted of its own accord.
Will is still standing there, shoulders slightly drawn in like he’s trying to make himself smaller, looking up with wide eyes when Mike turns around to face him. Will isn't shaking or anything obvious like that, but there’s something in the way he exhales, slow and careful, like he’s been holding his breath for too long.
Then Will looks away from Mike, and he makes direct eye contact with Chance.
Will blinks and looks away first, tucking his hair behind his ear, already turning back to his friends and walking away with them like nothing happened.
Like he wasn’t about to step in. Like he didn’t get cut off. Like he’s used to it.
Chance watches the group for a moment longer than he should. There’s something about Will that doesn’t fit neatly into anything Chance understands. Sure, he seems like the kind of guy to freeze up or run away at the mere mention of conflict, but he also doesn’t seem particularly weak, let alone as invisible as he makes himself appear.
Chance turns back to Andy, slipping easily into the version of himself that everyone expects.
But later, when he thinks about it, when he lets his mind wander in ways he usually avoids, he finds himself remembering the look on Will’s face more clearly than anything Andy or Dustin said.
~~~
Chance is sitting on the low concrete wall after school when Will walks in on him.
It’s not a place most people use unless they’re skipping class or killing time, tucked behind the gym where the sidewalk cracks into uneven lines and the grass has grown in patches through neglect. The sun is lower now, not quite evening, but late enough that the air has started to cool.
Chance has a hand draped loosely over the basketball that rests on his thigh, his other leg bent up by the knee, his other hand holding a lit cigarette to his lips. He’s not really doing much. Just sitting there, staring out at nothing in particular while he smokes.
He hears the door open behind him, but doesn't turn right away.
The footsteps are slow, careful.
He glances back.
Will pushes the door shut with his shoulder, his bag hanging from one side and a sketchbook tucked under his arm. He looks like he’s expecting the space to be empty, because the second he sees Chance, he pauses mid-step.
There’s that same split-second hesitation from the time they first crossed paths by the vending machine.
Chance watches it play out, watches as Will makes the mental decision to stay.
“Sorry,” Will says, adjusting the strap on his shoulder even though it’s not slipping. “I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything.”
Chance shakes his head. “You’re not.”
Will nods once but he doesn’t come closer immediately. He stands there, looking out at the open space like he’s giving Chance time to say something else. Maybe to tell him to fuck off, probably.
Chance doesn’t.
Will walks over slowly, stopping a few feet away from the wall.
“Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing lightly.
Chance shifts his leg, making space without making a big deal out of it. “Go ahead.”
Will climbs up carefully, sitting down with a small sigh, his legs dangling freely. He sets his sketchbook on his lap, one hand resting on top of it protectively.
Chance glances sideways at him.
"Don't mind if I smoke, do you?" he asks, taking a quick drag. The question is more out of formality than anything. Not like he was going to stop on account of someone else.
Will laughs. "No, not at all. I steal my mom's cigarettes every now and then, contrary to how I might be perceived."
Chance raises his eyebrows, slightly intrigued even though he tries not to be. "I see. I'd offer you one, but I'm all out."
"It's fine, Chance," Will smiles warmly, his eyes soft.
The look on Will's face and the way he says his name makes Chance cough abruptly and almost fumble his cigarette.
“Uh, you always stay this late?” he asks, quickly recovering and voice gravelly.
If Will noticed his odd behavior, he doesn't comment on it. “Yeah. Sometimes. Depends on how much I get done.”
“What were you working on?”
Will looks down at his hands, then at the sketchbook, debating whether to answer properly or brush it off.
“Just… something for art class,” he says at first.
He huffs out a quiet breath.
“And some other personal stuff,” he adds, a little more honestly. “I like finishing things when no one’s around. It’s easier.”
Chance nods slowly as he takes another drag. “Less people watching, less unnecessary noise.”
Will glances at him, a little surprised.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Exactly.”
Chance taps the ball on his thigh lightly with his palm.
“So, what else do you notice? You know, aside from random people's jersey numbers,” he asks teasingly but not quite smiling.
Will blinks, caught off guard by the question.
“I don’t know,” he says carefully. “Just… stuff.”
“Like what?”
Will hesitates, then glances at Chance again, more directly this time.
“You don’t really talk much when you’re with your friends,” he says.
Chance raises an eyebrow in amusement, tilting his head to the side to exhale a plume of smoke. “That’s what you picked up on?”
Will shrugs. “You let them do most of it.”
“They talk enough for everyone,” Chance says with a snort.
Will lets out a small laugh. “Yeah. I guess they do.”
There’s a shift after that, subtle but there, as the conversation settles into something more natural.
Will adjusts the edge of his sketchbook, fingers tracing the corner of the page.
“You don’t stay with them after practice?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” Chance replies. “Not always.”
“Why not?”
Chance breathes out slowly, looking out ahead again.
“They’re a lot,” he says. “They're fun to be around but they're easier to handle in small doses.”
Will nods, like he understands that immediately.
“Yeah,” he says. “I get that. I love my friends, but I like being by myself, too.”
Chance ashes his cigarette against the wall and flicks the stub away before glancing at him. “You still stick around.”
Will takes a second to answer, even though there was no question attached to it.
“They’re… different,” he starts evenly. “They can be loud, but it’s not…” he trails off, searching for the right word. “It’s not draining in the same way as it seems to be for you.”
“You don't get tired of it?” Chance asks.
“Of them?” Will asks, looking confused. “No. Why?”
“Not even when they’re bickering all the time?”
Will’s smile fades slightly.
“I get tired of the bickering,” he admits. “Not them.”
Chance watches him closely, hesitating for only a second before he speaks. “You were going to say something earlier. After class, near the lockers."
“Oh, you noticed,” Will says, looking surprised, shoulders tensing ever so slightly. “Yeah. I just-”
He stops, pressing his lips together.
Chance waits.
“I don’t like it when it gets like that,” Will says finally. “When people start yelling and it feels like it could turn into something else.”
Chance tilts his head. “Something else?”
Will shrugs, but it’s tight.
“Something worse,” he says. “I don’t know. I just… I just don’t like it.”
“You’ve seen it get worse before?” Chance asks, his voice turning soft without him meaning to.
Will doesn’t answer right away.
“Yeah,” he swallows. “Middle school was kind of rough for me, for my friends, too.”
Chance looks away automatically, giving him space without making it obvious. He wants to pry, wants to ask more questions, but something in him tells him to let it go.
“You were going to step in,” he says after a moment.
Will lets out a small, humorless laugh.
“I tried,” he says. “It doesn't exactly work when no one’s listening.”
“Then why bother trying?”
Will frowns slightly at that, like the question doesn’t sit right with him.
“Because someone should,” he says, looking serious. “Even if it doesn’t do anything.”
Chance doesn’t respond immediately.
He rolls the ball forward slightly on his thigh, then stops it.
“People don’t stop just because someone asks them to,” he says, glancing back at Will. “They stop when something makes them.”
Will holds his gaze. “Yeah, I know.”
“Why put yourself in the middle of it, then?”
Will looks down at his hands, at the faint tremors in them.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I just… feel like I should. It's better than not trying at all.”
Chance exhales, running a hand through his hair.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
Will looks up again, eyes steady. "No one has to do anything. You don't have to stop Andy before things escalate, yet you still do."
Chance studies him for a long moment as he lets Will's words sink in, something unreadable settling in his expression.
“You’re different,” he says bluntly, a small scoff escaping his lips.
Will blinks. “Different how?”
Chance's gaze doesn’t waver. “You actually mean the things you say."
Will looks at him like he doesn’t know what to do with that, tilting his head slightly.
“Is that… not normal?” he asks in confusion.
Chance lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.
“Not really,” he says softly. "Not in my world, at least."
Will considers that, then nods slowly.
Another stretch of silence settles between them as they continue to look at each other, slightly more charged than before.
Will shifts slightly, adjusting his position on the wall.
“I should probably go,” he says after a while, breaking eye contact.
Chance nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah.”
Will picks up his sketchbook, holding it a little closer to his chest.
“Thanks for letting me sit here,” he adds. "I was supposed to get some work done, but well..." he trails off, cheeks turning pink.
Chance shrugs casually. “You can stay for longer if you want, it's not like it's my spot.”
Will smiles faintly at that, then hops down from the wall. "No, it's fine. I can always do it at home. Um, I'll see you around, then?"
Chance nods once, eyes tracking Will's movements. “Yeah, sure.”
Will gives him one last look, green eyes sparkling in the light of the setting sun, then turns and heads back toward the door, pushing it open and disappearing inside.
Chance stays where he is. He stares out ahead for a while, longer than he usually would.
He makes a mental note to restock on those cigarettes as he slides off the wall.
~~~
The argument starts out so small that if either of them had just stopped talking for five seconds, it probably would have died on its own.
Will is sitting at the nerds' table in the cafeteria, lunch trays lying half-finished. Dustin is talking about a lab experiment gone wrong when Mike cuts him off to bring up a D&D session after school. It’s casual, tossed out like it always is, like it’s already decided.
“We’re continuing the campaign at my place today,” Mike says, not even looking up properly, already pushing his tray away. “5:00 PM.”
Will frowns slightly. “Today?”
“Yeah. Today. What's wrong?”
“I told you I have to stay back in the art room,” Will says evenly. “I’ve got that piece due tomorrow. Mrs. Sandler said I could use the space after school.”
Mike finally looks at him then, brows pulling together like this is somehow new information, like Will hasn’t mentioned it to the Party twice before.
“So, do it later,” Mike says, shrugging his shoulders. “You can finish it tonight.”
“I can't,” Will replies. “The paint needs sufficient time to dry, and I need to layer on-”
“It’s just a painting, Will.”
Will goes still, his grip tightening around his fork.
“It’s not just a painting,” he says, voice quiet, but there’s something underneath it, something strained.
Dustin immediately senses the shift. “Okay, uh, we can just move the campaign to tomorrow-”
“No, we can't,” Mike cuts in sharply. “We’ve already missed two sessions thanks to Lucas and his goddamn basketball practice.”
Lucas sighs, leaning back in his chair, not even looking offended, just tired. “Mike, it’s really not that serious.”
“It is that serious,” Mike snaps, rounding on him now. “We’re literally in the middle of a campaign.”
“And Will’s in the middle of something too,” Lucas shoots back.
Mike ignores him and turns back to Will, his voice dropping into something more controlled, more pointed.
“You’re seriously going to ditch?”
“I’m not ditching,” Will says, his chest starting to feel tight. “I just told you why I can’t make it.”
“You always have something,” Mike replies without missing a beat. “It’s either your art stuff or you’re ‘too tired’ or you’ve got something else going on.”
“That’s not true,” Will says in disbelief.
“It is,” Mike insists. “And it’s getting old.”
There’s a pause, heavy and uncomfortable.
Will looks down at his tray, then back up at Mike, something flickering across his face that he can’t quite hold down.
“I didn’t make you feel bad when you ditched us the entire summer to go make out with El,” he says in a rush.
Mike’s expression hardens immediately. “That’s different.”
“How?” Will asks, and now there’s something fragile in it, something that sounds like he doesn’t actually want to know the answer.
“Because she’s important, Will. You wouldn't get it."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Dustin winces. “Wow, that definitely came out wrong.”
“No, it didn’t,” Will says softly, his voice dropping in a way that makes all three of them go still. “It came out exactly the way he meant it to.”
Mike opens his mouth, like he’s about to backtrack, but instead he doubles down.
“I just, I mean- it’s not like you can’t finish the painting later. This is a group thing, Will. People are counting on you.”
Will nods slowly, even though it doesn’t feel like agreement at all.
“Right,” he says coldly.
Lucas leans forward, trying again. “Dude, just move it. It’s one session.”
“I said we’re doing it today,” Mike snaps.
“And I said I can’t come,” Will snaps back, his voice finally cracking just a little at the edges.
Mike throws his hands up. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”
“I am doing what I want,” Will says, and he hates how small his voice sounds.
“Ha, clearly.”
“Mike-” Dustin starts, but it’s useless now.
“Don’t bother showing up next time if it’s such a chore,” Mike says, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
Will flinches at that. “I never said it was a chore.”
“You don’t have to say it,” Mike shoots back. “You act like it is.”
“That’s not fair-”
“Whatever, Will. I’m done arguing about this.”
And then he’s walking away, just like that.
Dustin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Lucas shakes his head. “He’s being a dick.”
Will doesn’t say anything. He stares at the table like if he focuses hard enough, maybe the conversation will rewind itself and play out differently.
“Hey,” Dustin says gently, reaching out. “Don’t let him get to you.”
“You don’t have to go, just focus on your art piece,” Lucas adds.
Will hums in acknowledgement, eyebrows quivering. He’s afraid that if he speaks, he’s going to end up breaking down right here in the middle of the cafeteria.
There’s a moment of silence, and then he stands up abruptly.
“I’m just- I’m gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll see you guys at History,” he says, not waiting for a response, already walking away.
Dustin calls after him, but Will doesn’t turn around.
~~~
The boys’ bathroom is empty when Will pushes the door open, the sound echoing a little too loudly against the tiled walls. He walks straight to the sink, turning the tap on and letting the cold water run over his hands.
It was such a small argument. It shouldn’t have gotten to him like this.
But it always does. Mike always makes him feel like this whenever they squabble; cornered, helpless, powerless.
He exhales shakily, leaning forward and splashing water onto his face, letting it drip down, pushing his hair back with damp fingers. When he looks up at himself in the mirror, his eyes are already red around the edges, and he hates how obvious it looks that he’s been crying.
The faucet keeps running, the sound filling the silence in a way that almost feels too loud for such a small space.
Will keeps his head down, hands braced against the edge of the sink as he tries to steady his breathing without drawing attention to it, even though there’s no one else in here.
At least, that’s what he thought.
There’s a soft shuffle behind him, followed by the unmistakable creak of a stall door unlocking.
Will freezes for half a second, his shoulders tightening instinctively as he glances up at the mirror, catching movement in his peripheral vision.
The stall door swings open and Kathy Jones stumbles out, her hair slightly disheveled, her blouse wrinkled and stretched taut over her chest, the hem of her skirt uneven. The shift in her expression is instant when she catches Will’s eye in the mirror, going from blissfully dazed to utterly horrified in a flash. Will gapes like a fish, unsure of what to say, or if he should say anything at all, for that matter.
Kathy turns beet red and splutters, covering her hands with her mouth, then rushes past him toward the door, pushing it open harder than necessary and disappearing into the hallway without looking back.
Will stares at the door, swallowing thickly before turning back to the sink. Much to his dismay, however, he can sense another presence from behind him. He shoves his hands under the water and scrubs his face harshly as if to drown out the pounding of his own heart.
A second later, Chance steps out of the same stall, slower than Kathy. Will’s stomach does a violent somersault at the sight of him.
He grips the edge of the sink again when their eyes meet in the mirror. Chance doesn’t move, just stares back at Will as if waiting for him to react.
Will tears his eyes away to grab a paper towel, dragging it across his face, his movements deliberate and controlled, trying to pull himself back together before he has to actually face whatever the hell this situation is.
He can still feel Chance’s eyes on him; focused, aware, a bit too alert. Or maybe Will has gone a little crazy and is hallucinating things because his nerves are starting to get to him.
Will takes a deep breath before he finally turns around, keeping his expression as neutral as he can manage, even though his chest still feels tight and his eyes probably still look a little too red.
Chance is leaning back against the stall door now, arms loosely crossed, his hair slightly messed up, his shirt not tucked in properly, something red blooming near his collar. There’s nothing overtly dramatic about the way he looks, but it's enough to make it obvious what he and Kathy were doing.
Will’s mind runs a mile a minute, conjuring up all sorts of inappropriate images, none of them involving Kathy and all of them involving Chance and-
Will clears his throat loudly, struggling to get a hold of himself.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he says, a little too quickly as he breaks the silence, gesturing vaguely toward the stall behind Chance. “About… um, about you and your girlfriend. It’s- it’s none of my business.”
Chance’s brows pull together slightly at that, his expression shifting in a way that makes it clear he’s not focused on the same thing Will is.
“Kathy's not my girlfriend,” he says gruffly.
Will blinks, caught off guard for half a second, like he doesn’t quite believe Chance's words. He shrugs, not like it matters either way.
“Right,” he says, not meeting his gaze. “Okay. I still won’t tell anyone.”
Chance doesn’t respond immediately, and the silence stretches just long enough to make it uncomfortable again.
Will clears his throat, reaching for another paper towel just to give himself something to do with his hands.
“You two were making good use of lunch break, though,” he adds, attempting something, anything to lighten the mood and quell the oppressive atmosphere of the bathroom. He lets out a small breath that could almost pass for a laugh.
Chance doesn’t return the laugh, doesn’t even smile.
Will’s face instantly drops, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid.
Chance straightens slightly, pushing himself off the stall door, his arms dropping to his sides as his gaze settles more directly on Will’s face, dark eyes narrowed.
“You’ve been crying,” Chance says without hesitation.
Will looks away immediately, turning back around to the sink, turning the tap on with shaky fingers even though it was already running.
“I’m fine,” he responds, too fast and too stilted.
Chance doesn’t move. “Will.”
“I said I’m fine,” Will repeats, louder this time, his voice wavering at the edges in a way he can’t quite control.
Chance takes a step closer from behind him. Not too close, not enough to crowd him, but enough that Will can feel the shift in the space between them, the way the air feels a little heavier now, a little more focused.
“You don’t look fine,” Chance says, his tone quiet and measured.
Will huffs out a small breath.
“It was nothing,” he says. “Just some stupid argument. It doesn’t matter.”
“With who?” Chance asks.
Will hesitates. He shouldn’t answer that. He doesn’t need to answer that. Whatever this thing is, be it yet another chance encounter or a budding acquaintance, it’s not something where he owes Chance explanations like that.
But the name slips out before he can get a hold of his treacherous tongue. “Mike.”
Chance’s jaw tightens slightly, something dark passing across his face. It goes unnoticed by Will, whose attention is focused back on his own reflection.
“What happened?” Chance asks, voice carefully controlled.
Will lets out a slow breath, staring at the way his eyes still look a little too glassy, a little too obvious, a little too red.
“It was dumb,” Will says without looking away from himself. “Just... scheduling stuff. He wanted to play D&D today. I told him I had to stay back for art, and he knew this, but then it turned into this whole thing.”
Chance watches him in the mirror.
“What kind of thing?” he prompts.
Will shrugs, but it’s not convincing.
“He said some things,” he admits, voice dropping slightly. “I said some things back. It got out of hand.”
Chance doesn’t interrupt.
Will swallows, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the sink. He doesn’t know if he should be grateful for Chance’s silence or not.
“He thinks I don’t care about it anymore,” he adds quietly. “Like I’m… ditching them or something.”
“Are you?” Chance asks.
Will frowns, glancing at him briefly in the mirror before looking away again.
“No,” he says vehemently. “I have other things going on, too. I’m not just available whenever he wants me to be.”
Chance nods once. “Sounds pretty reasonable to me,” he says.
Will lets out a small, humorless laugh, his eyes hard.
“Yeah,” he murmurs bitterly. “Try telling him that. ‘Mike’ and ‘reasonable’ never go well together in a sentence.”
There’s another pause. The tension in Will’s shoulders hasn’t gone away, hasn’t lessened, and Chance can see it, the way he’s holding himself together a little too tightly, like he’s scared that if he relaxes, something might slip through.
“You don’t have to pretend around me, you know. I’m not gonna judge,” Chance says after a moment.
Will’s chest tightens at that.
“I’m not pretending,” he says, though it comes out weaker than he intends.
“You tried to make a joke about me making good use of my lunch break like, less than five minutes ago,” Chance says, walking up to the sink next to Will’s and turning on the faucet. “That looks like pretending to me.”
Will presses his lips together and shifts to the side to make room for Chance, his gaze dropping to the sink as he blushes faintly.
“I wasn’t-” he starts, then stops, breathing out slowly instead. “I just didn’t want to make it weird.”
“The situation was weird to begin with, if we're being honest,” Chance replies sardonically as he washes his face.
Will bites the inside of his cheek and hums, not really knowing how to respond to that. He reaches forward and turns his tap off.
He dries his hands slowly, buying himself time for something he doesn't quite know yet. Chance mimics him, shutting his own tap off and wiping his face with a paper towel that he tears off from the dispenser on the opposite side.
“I really won’t tell anyone,” Will says again without looking at him. “About you and your girlfriend.”
Chance exhales through his nose in irritation.
“I told you,” he says, voice tinged with something rougher. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
Will looks over at him, a faint, uncertain look crossing his face.
“Alright,” he gives in, though it’s clear he doesn’t fully believe him.
Chance notices it right away, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just watches Will as if he’s trying to decide something, like there’s more he wants to say but doesn’t quite know how to say it yet.
And Will, standing there with damp hands and red eyes and a carefully neutral expression, doesn’t realize that the conversation has given way to something neither of them planned for.
Something that hovers in the air even after Will throws the paper towels in the trash and moves toward the door, his steps a little slower than they need to be.
Something that neither of them is going to be able to ignore for much longer.
“Lunch break is going to end soon, you should hurry before the food’s over,” Will mutters without looking back, then disappears through the door before Chance can respond.
Chance stands there, unmoving, breathing heavily as he stares at the swinging door. His hand balls into an unconscious fist, fingers trembling hard enough to tear the crumpled paper towel he's holding.