Chapter Text
Dustin, who was sitting behind him, kicked the back of his chair as hard as he could, and only then did Will snap back into reality.
“...Byers,” came a persistent voice right by his ear. “Mr. Byers!”
Will turned his head and jerked back in surprise when he saw Mrs. Wood’s looming figure over him. He hadn’t noticed when the teacher had managed to come so close that her poison-red nails were resting on the edge of his desk, right on top of his notebook. He hadn’t even bothered to open it when the class had started.
His pulse jumped by two beats, and he immediately relaxed his shoulders, calming himself and pulling his scent back under control. It was nothing more than habit, really, but Mrs. Wood had been standing close enough to catch the first notes in the air before Will forced his body, through sheer will, to stop stinking up the entire room.
She cautiously stepped back into the aisle between the desks and gave him a worried, serious look. It took all the patience Will had not to roll his eyes.
He’d much rather people be angry at him for not paying attention in class than look at him like he was a ticking time bomb—ticking loudly enough that everyone could hear it, even if no one could see the countdown on the dial.
“Sorry,” he managed, and his voice spread softly through the silence of the classroom, as though muffled by a thick down blanket.
He didn’t know exactly what he was apologizing for. For losing control of his scent, or for staring out the window again instead of listening, or for the fact that he was still here at all.
Still existing.
Either way, the softness of his voice and his innocent eyes had gotten him—and, if he were being honest, his friends too—out of trouble more than once.
Maybe being the only omega boy in all of Hawkins had something to do with the way people treated him. And the whole coming-back-from-the-dead thing, too.
Maybe even more than he would have liked.
One way or another, it kept him from getting detention after class and spared his mother from angry notes from teachers. It often bought him extra time to turn in essays or projects when he didn’t manage to finish them on time.
Will almost regretted that he had only realized this particular advantage recently, back in October. When Mike—after failing the physics test they had all been allowed to retake because Will had asked—had slung an arm around his shoulders and jokingly told Lucas that no one in the world could resist the charms of Will Byers.
Back then, more than three months ago, the comment had made him blush and shift nervously on the bench under the heavy weight of Mike’s hand. He’d taken a deep breath, trying to convince his stupid heart to stop slamming so hard against his ribs.
Three months ago, when he’d still been living in Mike’s basement, and his biggest day-to-day problems were Jonathan forgetting to set the alarm clock and Holly taking his sketchbook without asking so she could copy his drawings into her own art pad.
Three months ago, when El was still alive and training to defeat Vecna the next time they faced him. When the crawls happened about once every two weeks, and everything going on around them still seemed to have some kind of meaning. When all of them were united by a shared purpose.
Three months ago, when his friends still didn’t know he didn’t like girls, even though every alpha girl at school had been watching him since he turned thirteen and presented.
Three months ago, when he still thought Mike’s hugs—and the soft, dark look he saved just for Will, and the way he was always leaning over him, his hand on Will’s shoulder, his constant care—meant something. Before the conversation at the radio tower, when Mike made it clear that it hadn’t meant a damn thing.
Three months ago, Will hadn’t had the chance to test Mike’s theory that no one could resist his charms.
Everything had gone to hell so fast and so completely—and then ended so suddenly—that the next time Will remembered Mike’s words, it was already the middle of December.
Jonathan grabbed Nancy right after Thanksgiving, once the charges for assaulting military personnel had finally been dropped and the fence around the town was gone. The two of them left together, crossing three state lines.
As far away from Hawkins as possible.
Karen and Ted had finally returned home from the hospital, and with them back, Joyce was no longer needed at the Wheelers’ house. Will had never really been needed there in the first place, anyway. So they packed up the few things they had managed to accumulate from scratch over those eighteen months and moved into Hopper’s cabin deep in the woods.
That was when Will finally had the chance to test Mike’s theory—and eventually make it part of his regular routine. A few smiles for Mom in those rare moments when they ran into each other in the kitchen in the evenings. Innocent eyes for a teacher, just to avoid staying after class for detention.
Nothing new. Will had done the same thing hundreds of times when he first came back from the Upside Down and everyone fussed over him like a flock of anxious hens.
Maybe he just hadn’t been as good an actor back then as he was now. Or maybe people had been more worried about him, and that was why it hadn’t worked quite so well.
Or maybe now everyone simply wanted to leave it all behind.
Finally move on.
The Upside Down had ceased to exist, taking El’s life with it forever—and the nightmares, the cold, the slime, the monsters, the prickling at the back of his neck. All of it had been destroyed by Mike’s bomb.
Will was grateful that no one was looking too closely. Honestly, out of all of them, he had gotten away with the least damage.
Mrs. Wood pressed her lips into a thin line, and the poison-red lipstick—matching her nails—turned into a bloody slash across her face, like someone had carefully cut it with a scalpel. Out of the corner of his eye, Will caught the alarmingly pale look on Max’s face from the desk across the aisle. He could hear Dustin breathing too loudly behind him. Lucas, sitting in front of Max, cleared his throat.
Apparently Mrs. Wood had said something.
Fuck.
“Sorry,” Will blurted again. “I wasn’t listening.”
“Stay after class, Mr. Byers,” she said firmly, clearly repeating herself.
Fuck.
Fuck.
She hadn’t even turned away when the bell rang, slicing through the tense silence in the classroom, and everyone around sprang into motion. Chair legs scraped against the linoleum. Textbooks snapped shut, pages rustling. Will stayed seated.
Max gave him a sympathetic look as she packed her notebooks back into her backpack. She was still moving between desks in her wheelchair, and after every period they were always the last to leave, because she still needed help getting the chair pushed to the back of the room. Maneuvering through the narrow rows was easier when someone helped push, since her hands on the wheels kept catching on corners or hooks for bags. And that frustrated her even more than needing the help in the first place.
Dustin tapped him on the shoulder, squeezing his fingers briefly, and only then did Will start gathering his things. In a few minutes, the room was empty, except for his friends lingering by the door.
“See you in the cafeteria,” Will tried to smile. “You don’t have to wait for me.”
His friends, hesitating for a moment, left the room without argument. Thank God, Mike was the only one from the Party who didn’t have Mrs. Wood’s class this period, having taken advanced English this year instead. So no matter what happened, he’d probably have time to gather his thoughts, and no one would be waiting for him right outside the door with a never-ending stream of questions.
Not that Mike had been talking to him much lately. Or really talking to anyone, for that matter.
But old habits—Don’t Make Mike Worry About Me Over Nothing—didn’t fade, not even now.
Mrs. Wood calmly stacked her handouts, lining up the edges, tapping them lightly on her desk as Will finally dragged himself to the front of the room and leaned over her, waiting for a scolding.
The woman gave him another concerned look, smacked her red lips, and finally left the handouts alone, swiveling in her chair toward him and leaning back in a relaxed posture.
Everything in her body language—and in the subtle, calming scent she carried—she was an omega—screamed that the tone of the conversation would be informal, and he had nothing to worry about. But over the years, Will had seen enough adults try to cloak manipulation in kindness, only to drop an emotional bomb on him later or pull out something he didn’t want to say.
Dr. Owens had been a master of that. And those weekly visits still lingered in Will’s mind.
“Mr. Byers. Will,” she began immediately, softening from the formal address to his first name, and a sharp cold spread along his ribs like a premonition, “You know, I’ve been teaching at this school for thirty-two years.”
Will just nodded, letting his eyes drift over the streaks in her strawberry-blonde hair.
He knew.
He’d seen her photo in his mom’s school album, and in old newspaper articles about how Mrs. Wheeler had won an essay contest in high school and gone to the state capital to meet the governor.
He knew her from the way Mr. Wheeler had grimaced once at breakfast when Will mentioned the Macbeth test in her class.
From the way Hopper had snorted when, during one of the crawls while they were getting ready, Lucas complained to Mike that he couldn’t answer in her class because of the intensity of her gaze.
Mike had been thrilled by her, as were all the students taking the advanced course. The rest, meanwhile, had to suffer through the homework load, the strict grading, and the disappointed tsking whenever they mispronounced words in Old English in the plays.
Will had never had any problems with her before. Maybe because most of his homework, before he moved out of the Wheelers’, had been done by Mike, and he always aced the tests with ease. Or maybe…
“You do know the last male omega to attend Hawkins High graduated in the late 1960s, right?” she continued in an even tone.
Yes. Maybe that was why he’d never had problems with her.
“Yes, I know.”
Another thing everyone had apparently felt the need to tell him when he presented.
Oh, Will, did you know the last male omega in Hawkins was nearly twenty years ago? Incredible. How about drawing even more attention to yourself after the whole town spent days looking for you, and then at least half of it saw you get buried—only for you to come back alive and mostly unharmed by the end of the week?
Being the zombie boy clearly wasn’t enough.
Whoever that poor guy had been, all Will really knew about him was that he left Hawkins immediately after graduation and never returned.
Will was insanely jealous. He was jealous. Of the mysterious omega who had left town forever. Of Jonathan and Nancy, who were far, far away. Even of the damn military, who had dismantled their base piece by piece, loaded it onto trucks, and abandoned this godforsaken place overnight as if it had never existed.
He couldn’t wait to do the same.
“He was very… loud. Always getting into fights. Skipping school. I honestly didn’t think he’d graduate,” Mrs. Wood said, removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose where the frames had left marks. Her scent intensified, filling the space around her. Will wrinkled his nose involuntarily. He didn’t understand why he needed all this information.
She noticed his expression, and the intensity of her scent dropped sharply.
“You’re nothing like him.”
Will shifted his gaze from her face up to the window behind her head, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Isn’t it amazing that he and some unknown guy who went to this school twenty years ago are completely different—because, of course, everyone knows all male omegas are exactly the same?
A light flurry of snow drifted down from the pale winter sky.
If the snow picked up and turned into a full-blown blizzard, getting home after class was going to be a real pain in the ass.
“How’s things at home?”
“Huh?” Will’s gaze dropped from the window back to the teacher. “At home?”
“Yes, at home,” she repeated with emphasis. “We were all very glad to hear the sheriff is alive and well, and able to get back to his duties, and yet, you know…”
Will frowned. He didn’t know.
“I don’t really understand.”
Mrs. Wood sighed again, a heavy, heavy sigh, as if she were talking to a five-year-old who could barely grasp adult speech. Will hated being treated like a five-year-old.
“Living with another alpha in the same space can be hard even for female omegas, and male omegas, as has been proven, are more… territorial. Again—” Her voice jumped an octave, as it always does when adults realize they’ve spoken too bluntly and need to smooth it over. “We’re all glad Sheriff Hopper is back with us. And we all know that you and your mom are now living with him.”
Will blinked slowly, trying to process the information and catch the double meaning. His brain immediately flashed a picture of Jonathan laughing somewhere far, far away from Hawkins, where all this mess, gossip, and small-town dirt didn’t touch him anymore.
Who else but the Byers brothers knew what Hawkins gossipmongers were capable of?
Mrs. Wood was watching him intently, waiting for a response, which Will didn’t have—and couldn’t have—because he still didn’t understand how him and his mom moving into the cabin, him being a male omega, and Hopper coming back all connected. He blinked again, hoping that somehow would express his overall confusion about where this conversation had just gone.
After another heavy sigh, Mrs. Wood continued:
“I can see your absent, glassy-eyed look. It’s like you’re not really here, you know. Not just today in class—this has been going on for weeks, and…” She leaned forward in her chair, pushing her whole torso closer, trying to close the distance, show empathy, signal that she could be trusted. Will had seen this move from Dr. Owens many, many, many times. “I don’t want to guess what’s going on. None of us do.”
“None of us?” Will repeated slowly, cautiously.
“I’m not the only one worried, Will,” Mrs. Wood said, her eyebrows forming a little triangular shape, like the roof of a tiny house. The same way Mike does every time he wants to show he’s being sincere. “Your art teacher has some concerns about you, your math teacher does too, and your science teacher as well.”
For some dumb reason, Will felt like laughing. Concerns. They were concerned about his condition.
What nonsense.
“I’m fine,” he smiled, immediately feeling that the smile was fake and unconvincing, like it had been glued onto his face with cheap adhesive, and one corner was peeling, throwing the whole expression slightly downward.
Mrs. Wood leaned back in her chair and pressed her bright red lips together. She folded her hands over her chest. And that was it—the attempts at sincerity and trust were over. Will knew this posture too; he had seen it many times when Hopper listened to their incredible theories with a look that said, I know everything in this life better than you kids, but speak faster before I start interrupting. Speaking of Hopper…
“Really. I’m fine. Hop and I… we get along, really.”
As much as one could “get along” with a man who had just lost his daughter—again—and you’re hanging around his house like a permanent reminder of the kids he couldn’t save.
“I think I already told you I’ve worked at this school for more than thirty years, Mr. Byers,” she said, and Will thought it was funny that now they were back to last names and formal tone. “And I’ve seen enough of James Hopper in my lifetime.”
Will felt the blood rush to his face, felt the tips of his ears burn, felt an unpleasant acidic throb start to pulse somewhere behind his eyeballs.
"He treats my mom and me just fine, Mrs. Wood," his voice still came out too soft for the level of sudden rage flooding his chest.
If only she knew. If only she knew how much Hopper had sacrificed so she could sit here, pursing her lips with that disgusted look, lips painted to match her fingernails. Sit here and judge.
"Fine. Good," Mrs. Wood said abruptly. "Still, given our concern, I'm asking you to stop by the school counselor's office. I know she'll be there after classes today."
Will cleared his throat, swallowed the bitterness that had gathered at the root of his tongue along with all the nasty words he wanted to throw in her face, and forced a smile.
“Of course, Mrs. Wood,” he said, stepping toward the classroom door. The words sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Thank you for your time, it’s...”
“…TOTAL BULLSHIT,” Max burst out.
Maybe—if the Party had been waiting for him right outside the classroom, and he hadn’t had a moment to step away from the conversation with Mrs. Wood—he would have agreed one hundred percent with Max. Bullshit. Solid, impenetrable, stupid bullshit, if you asked him.
But after the conversation, Will ducked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and corralled his thoughts. The dialogue still replayed in his head, as if somehow he had managed to skip a huge portion, and the beginning didn’t connect with the end, the end didn’t connect with the middle, and how they had gone from his secondary gender, through Hopper, to the school counselor still didn’t quite make a coherent picture.
All the teachers are concerned—but about what? Gossip about Hopper and his mom was floating around town, but why? And how did his urge to stare out the window during English class lead him to the point of having to see the school counselor?
In any case, the first wave of anger and irritation at Mrs. Wood—and with it, at all the adults who had ever tried to show concern for Will’s condition—vanished almost immediately.
It wasn’t her fault. Rumors always threw people off, and he was sure the teacher had acted with good intentions. Surely. Most likely.
Will hated being angry. It always left him feeling drained, and he felt bad afterward. He preferred to find excuses for people—for their behavior, for their motives.
He hated being angry at his mom when she slipped into overprotectiveness, or, on the other hand, suddenly forgot everything when it came to Hopper.
He hated being angry at Jonathan when he treated him like a little kid.
He hated being angry at Mike when he acted like a jerk—because it was Mike, and most of the time he didn’t mean it, and then Mike would feel so deeply and sincerely sorry that Will felt like crap for ever being mad.
He hated being angry at El when…
Will cut that thought off immediately. He hated being angry at El. Period.
And now he couldn’t really be angry at Mrs. Wood either, though irritation still bubbled inside him, because… what kind of nonsense was this? How could anyone even think of it?
When he entered the cafeteria, the Party was already sitting at their usual spot, and judging by the way Mike’s dark, attentive gaze swept over him as if taking him in entirely the moment he stepped through the door, his friends had clearly already filled him in on what had happened last period. Just amazing. Couldn’t have been done better.
Will patiently made his way through the lunch line, grabbing his usual lunch—pudding, an apple, and a sandwich—and trudged forward, his legs weak and wobbly, barely holding him up, to the table where his friends were practically hypnotizing him with their gazes.
As soon as he started to speak about exactly what Mrs. Wood had wanted from him, Max ran out of patience. Her scent—strawberry gum, leather jacket, and a faint trace of gasoline—thickened around her, giving away every ounce of her emotion.
Most omegas didn’t even try to hide their scent. Alphas were luckier in that regard. Their scent stayed steady, only ramping up in intensity when they were under extreme stress or approaching a rut.
An omega’s scent was like an open book, like a massive screen broadcasting every fleeting emotion. Controlling it was hard work, one that Will had mastered to perfection.
Back then, four years ago, when he had presented himself just a few months after returning from the Upside Down. His natural scent—new gouache straight from the box, sun-warmed asphalt hit by the first heavy drops of a July downpour, and the thick, sweet tang of a cherry pit—constantly gave away how he felt.
In the first few months, he literally reeked of fear, despair, and anxiety. It was overpowering, and all the pleasant notes twisted into something nauseating. The gouache smell became overly chemical, the rain scent reminded him of stagnant swamp water, and the cherry pit started to taste bitter.
And Will couldn’t do anything about it. He smelled like the Upside Down, like trauma, like everything that had happened to him there. It didn’t help when he tried to convince Mike, his mom, and Jonathan that he was okay.
It was then that Dr. Owens taught him how to control it. Old methods. Back when even showing your ankle was considered ridiculously risky, omegas trained to hide their scent in public.
It took Will a few months to suppress his scent for the first time. Then it took him several more years to learn to control it completely, even through the strongest emotions.
He had literally gone through a war. He’d fought and killed Demogorgons. Soldiers had caught him. El had died right in front of him.
And he had never lost control.
It always threw the people around him off balance. Especially Max, as the only omega in the Party. Because she wasn’t holding anything back, wasn’t controlling a thing. Just like now.
“What did she mean by that, huh?” Max jabbed the straw into her juice box with force. “That Hopper…what? Abusing you or Mrs. Byers?”
“I don’t think that’s what she meant,” Will said cautiously, still staring at his sandwich.
The white bread, soaked with mayonnaise, felt like a sponge, and every time he lifted half the sandwich to his mouth, something inside him rebelled at taking a bite, and he found a reason to put it back on the tray.
To open a can of soda. To answer a question. To check the clock and see how much lunchtime was left.
“Yeah?” Max snorted skeptically. “Then what did she mean?”
“I don’t know,” Will replied simply.
He recounted the conversation with Mrs. Wood almost word for word. Not that there was much to recount. Blah-blah-blah, how’s things at home, I’ve been teaching for thirty years, by the way, I think your new stepdad has some anger issues, and you’re such a delicate male omega, blah-blah-blah.
“That’s all bullshit, dude,” Lucas said confidently. “It’s not the first time you’ve kind of spaced out during class. You just got caught this time. What were you thinking, anyway?”
Will focused on picking at the crust of the half of the sandwich he was holding—at least it was the driest part. He thoughtfully chewed the almost-empty, dry bread, swallowing slowly, slowly.
What was he thinking?
Will had no damn idea what he was thinking. Honestly, he barely even remembered how he’d gotten to school that morning.
Ugh. He needs to sleep more.
He gave the picked-at sandwich a disgusted look. He needs to eat more.
“Another idea for a drawing?” Dustin prompted. “You’re still putting together your portfolio, right?”
“Yeah,” Will confirmed immediately, trying not to sound too relieved or grateful that Dustin had thrown him the suggestion.
He hadn’t opened his sketchbook in weeks. Maybe he needs to sleep more. Maybe he needs to eat more. Maybe he needs to draw more.
Or just one of those. To start.
“So they sent you to detention?” Mike suddenly asked, having stayed quiet up until now.
“No,” Will answered very easily, not even turning his head toward Mike on his right. Didn’t seem necessary. Mike wasn’t looking at him anyway. “It was just a talk.”
“Old people,” Max muttered. “Always think they know better, after listening to gossip.”
All Will could do was nod.
He hadn’t mentioned the persistent request to see the school counselor, or that Mrs. Wood wasn’t the only teacher “concerned” about his condition. When he didn’t even really know what this “condition” was that was making people worried.
The Party’s first rule—Friends Don’t Lie.
Will Byers’ first rule, which he had learned the moment his heart first leapt in his chest because Mike had smiled at him—Friends Don’t Lie. They Just Don’t Tell the Whole Truth.
It made sense, hiding something, always, and there was nothing he could do about it. And most of the time, when he hid something, it was very, very, very important.
This time, like all the previous times, guilt immediately gnawed at him, because before, when he’d hidden something from the Party, it had been nightmares, or experiences tied to the Upside Down, or Vecna, or his sexual orientation. And every time, it had backfired, and every time he had been forced to tell the truth.
And it was exhausting, and it made him anxious. Would he end up having to tell the truth under pressure here too, just like before, if everything will go to shit?
In any case, thank God, it seemed like his friends weren’t interested in that conversation anymore, and they finally moved on to another topic.
Now, with their eyes no longer fixed on him with such intensity and insistence, he could finally exhale and feel his shoulders relax.
And finally, he could stop pretending to eat that damn sandwich, the mere sight of which made him nauseous.
And finally, even if just for a second, even if secretly, he could glance at Mike sitting beside him, while Max actively complained about her extra classes she had to take and attend after school to catch up and graduate with them.
Mike didn’t notice his glance. And that was fine.
Max was waving her hands, complaining, and not holding back on the curse words for some of her teachers and certain assignments she thought were stupid.
Will listened half-heartedly, fully aware that she actually liked being back at school every day.
Knowing Lucas would be there after his basketball practice. Waiting for her to take her home, just like he always waited for her.
Now, with their eyes no longer on him and their attention on their own conversation, they could finally slip back into their usual routine.
Even when they didn’t have the chance to fully act on their instincts at home, they could still do it with the Party, because the Party was like a family, like a real pack, and Will was endlessly grateful for that. His instincts, though muted lately, still stirred in him, aching like an open wound. And lunch was the best part of his day, because here he could act on the Omega instinct—the main instinct—nurturing and caring for the members of his pack.
It was a practiced ritual. He shared his apple with Max, who immediately bit into it, taking a big chunk, and without looking passed it to Lucas. In turn, two of her nuggets ended up on Will’s tray. He tossed one into his mouth, making sure she saw that he accepted her food and her care. Without looking, he placed the other on Mike’s tray. Mike did the same, shoving the nugget into his mouth without breaking his focus on a tray Infront of him.
His pudding went to Dustin. Lucas shared some of his fries with Will and Max, and Will immediately passed a couple to Mike and let Dustin reach onto his tray to stuff his mouth.
Nobody touched Max's fries on her tray. It was an unspoken rule — omega never shares the food their alpha gives them.
So, when Mike placed a piece of KitKat on his tray, Will broke it in half and gave the other part to Dustin, who had a sweet tooth. Mike wasn't his alpha, no matter how much Will wished otherwise, and no matter how much his own instincts screamed at him every time — whatever Mike gave him, Will always shared it with the rest of the Party.
"Anyway," Max concluded her long tirade, brushing salt and crumbs from her palms, "what are our plans for this weekend?"
Silence fell over the table, and all eyes locked onto the same spot again, but thank god, when it came to plans, activities for the Party, anything where Mike was usually the first to speak up and make a decision, the looks didn't land on Will.
"Wheeler," Max asked more insistently, "our plans for the weekend?"
Will turned to where Mike was still staring straight ahead. It was so strange, hearing emptiness where there used to be an annoyed sigh. Seeing a smooth, placid face where Mike would have previously scrunched up his nose or rolled his eyes. The absence of a reaction felt physical, as if this emptiness could be palpably felt, taking the shape of what had once clearly been there.
"Not this week," Mike said calmly. His voice always sounded calm and even these days, just like the expression on his face. Impassive, detached, he always seemed to be residing in some other dimension, where all his concerns actually were, and he couldn't bring himself to care about anything happening here, in this reality, right now.
He'd been like this ever since El was gone. So, overall. Everything he cared about had indeed stayed in another dimension.
"Yeah? And what exactly are you busy with?" Max pressed on.
"Holly and her friends are going to run their first campaign," Mike's voice suddenly softened, his mouth curving into a familiar gentle smile, his gaze filling with warmth, "I promised I'd be there for them, in case they need help with the lore or if someone gets confused about what to do."
Will needed to stop staring. Right now. He forced himself to turn his head forward, back to its original position, though his gaze still seemed to cling, held onto Mike's face until the very last moment.
That was probably more words strung together than he'd heard from Mike in the last three weeks combined.
And that expression. Familiar in every line, every tiny spark in those dark eyes.
There was a time, when Will had just come back from the Upside Down, Mike had looked at him like that. Talked about him like that. Talked to him like that. And clung to him.
The way he did now with Holly, after she had disappeared and come back home.
There was a time, when Will had taken it as something special. As confirmation that Mike felt something more for him. As reciprocation.
As it turned out, Mike had just always treated him the same way he treats his little sister. It was tenderness, and care, and worry for a loved one who had been through something terrible. It was his protectiveness.
Will's stupid, broken heart fluttered in his chest, clenched painfully, and for a second Will thought he was going to be sick.
A heavy, low hum started in his head, like the sound of the WSQK radio tower when you get too close to it, and it feels like the vibration resonates in every part of your body, in every tooth and every hair.
Somewhere beyond that noise, an indignant voice cut through:
"So, you'll write campaigns for them, but for us, we get squat?" from Dustin.
Mike turned to Dustin to answer, which meant he turned towards Will too. Will could see his expression out of the corner of his eye, and it only made things worse.
Knowing that the person you're in love with just always treated you like a little brother — that was some kind of cosmic joke, if you asked Will. A joke he really wanted to laugh at, and he definitely would have, if it weren't for the very real threat that if he started laughing, it would end in sobs.
"I didn't write anything. Holly and her friend wrote it all themselves, I only helped a little with the final version."
"Sure," Dustin rolled his eyes, "Meanwhile, I can't even remember the last time we had a campaign."
"I'm not in the mood to write campaigns right now," Mike replied simply and went back to his lunch.
"You're never in the mood," Dustin muttered finally, and Will hoped that would be the end of it.
Not too long ago, Mike definitely would have gotten into a quarrel with Dustin over his passive-aggressive muttering, would have started defending himself and proving he was right. But Mike stayed silent.
Guess he'd used up his word count for the day. And his willingness to engage with them.
"Why don't you guys write a campaign yourselves, if you want one so badly?" Max asked without any real interest.
Sometimes Will thought that if it weren't for Max's presence, the four of them would just sit in silence the entire lunch, without exchanging a single word.
"Dustin can't be trusted to write campaigns," Lucas snorted, "He overdoes the lore and his storytelling sucks. On all fronts."
"At least my campaigns HAVE lore," Dustin exclaimed, "You never care about lore, it's just fights, fights, fights and endless enemies, and you don't care how we're supposed to get through the campaign!"
Lucas squinted and threw a balled-up chocolate wrapper at Dustin. Dustin sliced the air with his palm in a karate-chop move, deflecting the wrapper before it could reach him. He probably expected it to fly back at Lucas, but instead, it landed on Will's tray, and Will stared at it distantly, as if that's exactly where it was supposed to be.
He heard Max draw in a breath before she spoke her next phrase. And he already knew what it was going to be, but he still wasn't ready when it came:
"What about Will? I don't remember him ever writing a campaign."
Will kept staring at the balled-up wrapper, hoping someone else would answer for him. Hoping someone would snort, or roll their eyes, or complain about what his campaigns usually looked like. That they were too romantic and too heroic. That he liked writing about damsels and children in distress, villages struck by mysterious illnesses, and that his campaigns had too much story, too little lore, and that they were pretty naive, shallow, unrealistic even for a fantasy.
Just like him.
But no one said anything. Instead, Mike and Lucas, almost as if synced, tensed up. Will let out a humorless chuckle.
Max might not remember him writing campaigns, but Lucas and Mike remembered the last time Will wrote one and wanted to play just fine.
Will knew that if he looked up, he'd meet Lucas's big guilty eyes across the table.
"I find writing campaigns... boring," Will said instead, trying to make his voice sound casual. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Mike turn away toward the opposite side of the cafeteria and roll his shoulder, as if trying to shake off someone's hand, "And whatever I write ends up boring too. So, maybe Dustin should do it?"
"Sure, sure," Dustin crossed his arms over his chest, seemingly completely oblivious to the fact that Will was trying not to look at them, Lucas was staring too intently, and Mike was pretending this conversation had nothing to do with him, "Just dump it all on me."
"Dude," Lucas called out softly, and Will closed his eyes in resignation for a second before lifting his gaze to Lucas.
Lucas clearly wanted to say something else.
Maybe that so many years had passed, they could just let it go. Maybe that they'd been stupid kids, all three of them, not just Lucas and Mike, and it had never been that serious. Maybe Lucas wanted to apologize one more time.
Or maybe he wanted to say that it had been a cool campaign, really cool, honestly, they'd just not been in the mood back then.
Whatever it was that Lucas wanted to add, he stayed sitting there with his mouth half-open, because the air suddenly filled with the smell of gouache, and cherry pits, and a downpour on a hot July day.
Like that day in Mike's garage, when the sharp spike of his scent could have gone unnoticed, lost in the rain-damp air.
Will needed an extra second to get his scent under control, but it was already too late. The whole Party, including Mike, were staring right at him.
"Whoa, I haven't smelled your scent in, like, three years," Dustin smiled.
"Sorry," Will muttered, covering his eyes with his hand. His head was still humming low and his whole skull was vibrating from the oncoming migraine, "I didn't mean to."
"Don't apologize," Max clicked her tongue, and deliberately, to clear the remnants of his scent from the air above their table, she amplified her own, "I don't get how you can control this stuff. It's so exhausting."
Exhausting. And this was the second time today he'd almost lost control of his scent, which was already two times more than he would have liked.
Exhausting.
Will needed to sleep more. And eat more. And draw more.
"Stop staring at me like that, Wheeler, I didn't do anything," Max said irritably.
Mike, as always these past few months, just stayed silent.
Will wrapped the second half of his uneaten sandwich back in its plastic to put it in his backpack.
He needed to sleep more, but he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep until three in the morning, no matter how hard he tried, and he'd be up before Hopper's alarm went off at six-thirty.
He needed to eat more, but he knew he'd give the other half of his sandwich to Lucas before heading home, so Lucas could have something before basketball practice.
He needed to draw more, but Will didn't even carry his sketchbook with him anymore.
And most importantly...
When the loud shrill of the bell cut through the air and they all started moving, getting up from the table, Will stole one last glance at Mike.
Most importantly.
He couldn't make Mike and the Party worry over nothing.
It sounded like a great plan. An amazing plan.
But even before it fully formed in his head, Will already knew it was going to go to shit in the next few days.