Will Byers is seven years old when he sees his brother stand by the front door in tears, cradling a dead rabbit wrapped in his flannel.

It’s Jonathan’s tenth birthday. Lonnie had taken him hunting that morning—said it was high time he learned how to be a man. His own father had taught him to hold a pistol at age three, had him shoot his first deer by eight. Claims it hardened him early, gave him the edge he needed. No son of his is growing up soft.

In the kitchen, Will and Joyce had just finished the cake. It was in the oven now, rising. The streamers were already up. Even their dog, Chester, wore a crinkled party hat, half-slipped over one ear. A tape of Rocky rested on top of the VHS player. The whole house smelled like boxed vanilla and store-brand frosting.

It was supposed to be a good day.

The rabbit is small. Soft brown, limp, its body resting in Jonathan’s arms like something never meant for harm. Its fur is matted dark with blood, concentrated around a torn patch near the ribcage where the bullet went in. It barely spans the length of Jonathan’s crossed arms. The flannel, Will notices, is one of his brother’s favorites—red and yellow, sun-faded, the sleeves always rolled. It’s ruined now, soaked through in places, the fabric clinging to the animal’s skin. Jonathan’s hands won’t stop shaking.

Lonnie lingers behind him, all swagger and disappointment. Says something about boys needing to toughen up. Says next time, he won’t let him come home early.

Will doesn’t understand the full shape of what’s happened, not yet. But he remembers their faces: Jonathan’s pale and wrecked, red nose, tears already spent; his mother glaring at Lonnie as she lifts the rabbit from her son’s arms, holding it like it’s something precious.

She then leads Lonnie out to the front porch and closes the door behind them. Will doesn’t hear what they’re arguing about, but their voices—sharp, muffled—rattle through the walls of their home. Too familiar to be startling.

When the oven chimes and the cake is ready, no one eats it.

By the time Lonnie leaves for work that afternoon, Jonathan has taken out an old shoebox from his bedroom, and Joyce helps him dig a hole in the far corner of the backyard. It’s quiet work. No words—just the thud of the shovel, the scrape of cardboard against dirt. Will watches from a white Monoblock chair, one hand absently ruffling Chester’s fur, as Jonathan pats the soil down and places a few stone pebbles on top as a grave marker.

This, Will soon learns, is grief.

It’s not like it was their pet. Jonathan has no built-up affection for the animal to anchor his sorrow—and yet, his kind heart still mourns. A shoebox-sized grief, not just for the small creature, but for the quiet loss of innocence that comes with recognizing death for what it is.

That night, Joyce lets her boys sleep beside her, one on each side. Jonathan tucks his head near her shoulder, no longer crying, just quiet. Will curls against her other side, his small cheek pressed to hers, his hair tickling the tip of her nose. Their dog sleeps at the foot of the bed.

If Lonnie came home that day, he knows better than to enter the room. He’ll sleep on the couch. She doesn’t have to say it aloud.

“I’m sorry about your father,” Joyce says softly, drawing them closer, her arms a fragile boundary against the weight pressing in from the rest of the house.

On nights like this—when Lonnie is harsher than usual—Joyce softens by instinct. She wraps her children in warmth, not to erase the damage, but to cushion the echo. She never defends his behavior. Never tries to explain it away. But there’s only so much tenderness can patch, and this kind of arrangement—this rhythm of rupture and repair—can’t last forever. Even Will, as young as he is, knows this.

There’s something about the dim glow of the bedside lamp that loosens the tongue and makes people say things they wouldn’t in daylight. So Joyce speaks. She tells them about how she and their father once loved each other. About how they met in high school. How he used to be a drummer. How he’d also grown up poor, with estranged parents that made her feel understood. It was messy, complicated, but she swears it was love.

She had loved him. And that, she says, is why she stayed. (She doesn’t say whether she still does, or if now there’s a different reason why. Neither boy asks.)

Will is eleven years old when his mother’s facade finally cracks. She throws Lonnie’s clothes onto the lawn one evening, and a week later, all his belongings are stuffed into a suitcase and cardboard boxes, packed tight in the back of a U-Haul. The house feels eerily bigger than it used to.

“I’m not gonna fall in love,” he tells his mom at fourteen, seated across from her at the breakfast table. He won’t lose himself in someone the way she did. He won’t let love swallow him whole. (But deep down, he means something else, too—that boys like him don’t get that kind of love anyway.) Ironically, he says this as he pours maple syrup over his scrambled eggs—a habit he picked up from Mike. Bit of a strange combination of flavors, sure, but Mike had grinned and said being different didn’t mean it was wrong.

At fifteen, he offers his heart to this same boy. materialized into a painting and words disguised as his sister’s. A half-truth wrapped in self-erasure.

He’s always been familiar with the kind of love that lets go. He’s never known the kind that stays—the kind that chooses you back. He doesn’t believe he’s ever been, or will ever be, on the receiving end of it.

Will keeps his eyes on the road ahead, staring out the window as Hawkins blurs past—quiet, gray, and stubbornly unchanged. Empty fields, barbed-wire fences, brittle grass. Aside from the cracks in the earth and the government lockdown, it looked just like it always had. Like the town refused to admit anything had ever gone wrong.

He thinks about the way El had looked at him earlier—soft and full of understanding. Like she knew what it meant to be afraid of yourself, afraid of what you might become. She’d offered him empathy without needing to say a word, even when he didn’t deserve it.

And all the while, he had spent the night before wrapped up in her boyfriend—pretending she didn’t even exist.

Part of him, something dark and mean and rooted too deep to dig out, had resented her since the day he met her. Not for anything she did. Just for being who she was. A girl made in a lab, raised behind glass, taught nothing but pain—and still, somehow, she turned out so kind. She’d only just begun to understand love, romantic and familial, to have it in her life without fear.

And now he’s the one who’s gone and broken it. Ruined whatever version of peace she might’ve finally found with Mike.

He thinks about Chance. How he’d dragged someone into his orbit just because he was desperate to feel wanted. How he’d allowed that quiet ache to take root in someone else—the kind he knew too well, the kind that lingers in your chest and consumes you. It made him worse than selfish. A hypocrite. Will hadn’t meant to ruin his life. But maybe that’s just what happens when people get too close.

He swallows. Hard.

Because if he could do that to Chance, what’s stopping him from doing it to Mike?

And it’s not just that. There’s this thing in him. Not just One. Something else. Older. Colder. A weight that’s always been there, curled in his chest like a second pulse. What if it wasn’t anything supernatural? What if it’s just him?

He should’ve pulled back before it all got too real. Should’ve been be honest about what was going on with him. But he didn’t. He let himself pretend, just for a little longer, that he could pass for normal.

And now look what happened.

Will presses his sleeves into his palms, fingers curling tight around the fabric.

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” he says quietly.

“Why would you think that?” Jonathan asks, soft and tentative.

“I just know.” Will’s voice stays flat, but his hands tense where they rest in his sleeves. Then, before he can stop himself—

“I’ve made bad choices. I knew they were wrong, and I did them anyway.” He swallows. “And the worst part is… I don’t think I regret it. I wanted to do them. Still do. And I don’t know what that says about me.”

Jonathan watches him carefully. But he doesn’t ask what Will did. Just says, gently:

“It says you’re human.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, then adds, “Life’s messy. People screw up. Especially after the kind of shit you’ve been through. It scrambles your moral compass. But making mistakes doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you, well—a person.”

Will stares down at the sleeves bunched in his fists. He wants to believe him. Wants it to be that simple.

“You don’t understand,” he mutters. “What I did… was really fucked up. You’d hate me for it if you knew.”

Jonathan shrugs. “Try me.”

Will hesitates. The car hums quietly around them, engine low and steady like it’s holding its breath too. The silence stretches long enough that he could still take it back, swallow it down, let the moment pass. But he doesn’t. Instead, He grips the edge of the seat and speaks.

“I…” His voice falters. “I might’ve… slept with our sister’s boyfriend.”

Jonathan blinks. His fingers loosen on the wheel, surprise flickering across his face. Clearly, he hadn’t expected that.

“Well… at least you didn’t kill someone.”

Will groans, dropping his face into his palms. “Ugh! I might as well have.”

And technically… yeah. He almost had. Three possible bodies under his belt from that same night. He was on a real streak. Gold medal shitstorm.

“I didn’t think Mike had it in him.”

Will shakes his head, voice muffled through his hands. “He kissed me first, yeah. But I was the one who took it further.”

Jonathan’s eyes widen. He looks even more shocked now—probably just processing the fact that his innocent little brother isn’t so little anymore… and apparently has a sex life.

“I mean… I’ve been with someone else,” he says, voice low. “Since the start of junior year. Kind of all summer.”

Jonathan leans back slightly, thinking. “Is that why you’ve been late a lot? Playing hooky? Sneaking around?”

Will doesn’t answer, but his ears go red beneath his hands.

Jonathan grins. “Happened to me too, when I first started seeing Nancy. I was about your age.”

There’s a brief pause—then a muffled laugh slips out of Jonathan, barely contained. “Do I still need to give you the talk about the birds and the bees?”

Thought I'd share this! These are all the songs mentioned (and will be mentioned) in my fic 'cause love's such an old-fashioned word

Forgot to mention this but Chapter 4 is out! I think I wrote about 10k words, woooh.

In hindsight, it was a bad idea. But ever since junior year started, Will’s been acting on impulse more than he should.

It was supposed to end when summer did. Just a summer fling. That had been the unspoken agreement—no more late-night drives, no more excuses to run into each other in parking lots or alleyways. It was usually Chance who started it. Usually the one suggesting when, where, how far. But now it’s Will standing here, breaking whatever silent rules they’d built around themselves. So yeah. Bad idea.

The gym smells like sweat and floor polish—like a dozen teenage boys have already come and gone. The lights overhead hum with that cheap, tinny buzz, casting long reflections off the varnished wood floor. Chance is alone under them, making free throws in a steady rhythm. Shoot. Bounce. Catch. Again. Each thump echoes softly, filling the space like a slow heartbeat.

Will stands just inside the double doors, backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s supposed to be home by now. Told Mike he had to stay late in the art room for a last-minute AP project. Which, okay, technically isn’t a lie. He does need to work on it. But that’s not why he’s here.

Right now, he’s watching the ball sail clean through the net—but his eyes aren’t on the shot. They’re on the boy taking it.

Chance is flushed, breathing a little heavier now, sweat darkening the collar of his jersey. The fabric clinging in all the right places, damp and nearly see-through. Will’s eyes catch on the muscles in his arms as he lifts them—defined but not bulky. Roped with just enough tension to suggest he could pin you without trying.

He could pin Will without trying. Has, before.

“So,” Chance says without looking at him. “What’s the deal with Wheeler?”

The way he says it—it’s too casual. Like he’s asking what Will had for lunch or if he caught the game last night. But Will knows that tone.

It’s the same tone Chance used the first time they talked, back in the alleyway of the supermarket, near the dumpsters. Before things escalated. Before they started crossing lines. Before two strangers became two bodies pressed close.

Will blinks. “What do you mean?”

Chance retrieves the ball, dribbling slow and lazy. Like he’s stalling. “You two looked pretty close today during the pep rally.”

A pause—one beat too long.

“I saw you in the bleachers. Laughing. Knee to knee.”

He doesn’t say touching. He doesn’t have to.

Will doesn’t answer at first. Just watches him. He knows Chance well enough to read between the lines.

“You’ve noticed,” Chance adds, spinning the ball on his fingertips like it’s a trick he’s barely thinking about, “he’s always orbiting around you, right? Waiting by your locker. Sitting at your lunch table. I’ve seen him hang back after class just so you can leave together. What’s that about?”

Will exhales, slow. “We’re friends.”

Chance raises a brow without looking at him.

“He’s letting me crash in his basement since I moved back,” Will adds. “We bike home together. It’s not weird.”

Chance dribbles again. This time the ball bounces harder. “Didn’t say it was.”

Another beat.

“I mean,” Chance continues, releasing another shot—he misses. “I get it. He’s your best friend. History. Nostalgia. Whatever.” He wipes a hand on the side of his jersey. “But you got a lot of friends who look at you like that?”

This time, Will grins. Just a little. “Like what?”

Chance doesn’t answer. The next shot bricks off the backboard, hard. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t go after it either.

Will takes a few slow steps forward, arms crossed loosely. “You jealous?”

The words are light, teasing, but his voice has an edge to it. Like he already knows the answer.

Chance snorts, turning to face him this time. “Of Michael Wheeler?” It’s a scoff disguised as a laugh, all teeth and no humor. “Please.”

But Will’s close now. Close enough to see the tightness in his shoulders, the slight downturn in his mouth. It’s a performance. One Chance doesn’t know he’s failing.

And anyway, why would he care?

It’s not like they’re dating. They don’t talk about it—whatever this is. They don’t label it. Wouldn’t even consider themselves a ‘thing.’ But it’s somewhat exclusive. Or at least, it always felt that way. Not just on his end, either. Chance never talks about anyone else. Doesn’t touch anyone else.

Still, he’s not Chance’s boyfriend. Not his anything.

So why does Chance care who Will sits beside? Who he laughs with?