Have Faith In Me (All's Fair in Love and D20s)
The air was thick with the smell of spices - sage, thyme, cracked black pepper, and a little too much rosemary, because Mom always forgot how strong it was - drifting in from the kitchen, where a small turkey simmered under a blanket of broth and vegetables.
The scent clung to the kitchen walls, warm and heavy. Steam fogged the windows, and late‑November sunlight filtered through the thin curtains. The drifting dust glowed like snow caught in a sunbeam.
Will sat at the kitchen table, sketchbook open, pencil tapping lightly against the page. He was shading an illustration for their history project - a charcoal rendering of a grainy photograph he’d found in one of the older textbooks. The piece was coming together nicely, the shadows settling into place. It felt good to draw again, like slipping into an old sweater that had softened with time.
Across from him, Jane sat hunched over her English worksheet, the eraser of her pencil worn down to a nub. Her brow was furrowed in concentration; every so often, she’d glance at Will, then back at her worksheet, like she wanted to ask something but was still working up the nerve for it. She’d been doing that since they sat down.
She'd hover at the edge of conversation, still unsure around him after weeks of avoiding him, still adjusting to the uneasy truce they’d made in the bathroom. She was trying, though. He could see that.
(And Will very deliberately did not let his mind wander back to the contents of that conversation. Nope. Absolutely not.)
He smiled faintly and lowered his gaze back to the page-
-When a particularly sharp squeal of an electric guitar pulled Will's focus towards his brother's room.
Jonathan was upstairs, sulking in his room. Will could hear the faint thump of music through the closed door - something moody and guitar‑heavy, the kind he played when he wanted them to know he was upset without actually saying anything.
He’d been in a mood since yesterday. Ever since he'd come home unexpectedly late to find Harry sitting at their kitchen table, he had somehow managed to scare him off within minutes. Then his car died, and he’d been holed up in his room ever since.
Will wondered if he’d still come downstairs for their Thanksgiving tradition - all of them cooking dinner together, Mom trying to coordinate three different dishes at once while Will peeled potatoes and Jonathan pretended not to enjoy himself, singing along to the music on the radio.
Thanksgiving had always been a small, simple event for them. A few dishes on a mismatched tablecloth, burnt rolls, canned cranberry sauce, and elbows bumping in a kitchen too small for three people. It wasn’t exactly a high‑stakes quest. More like a cozy side mission with questionable cooking skills.
He hoped Jonathan would join them.
Their relationship had been strained ever since they moved to Lenora, but Thanksgiving felt like one of the few things they still shared.
Both things could be true: He could be angry, and still want his brother beside him.
Even though this year would be different, with Jane now living with them.
Will glanced up at her. She was chewing the end of her pencil, eyes narrowed at her worksheet, looking grumpy and a little lost. And maybe even nervous about her first Thanksgiving with them.
He cleared his throat softly. “You doing okay?”
She paused in her chewing, looked up at him, and nodded.
“Nervous for Thanksgiving?” he probed.
Jane blinked, caught. “Mn, not sure what to expect.”
Will set his pencil down. “It’s not a big thing for us. No fancy table settings or anything. Mostly just Mom panicking about timing, me trying not to slice my fingers off, and Jonathan trying not to burn anything.”
Jane’s mouth twitched. “That sounds… nice.”
“It is,” Will said. Then, quieter, “I want it to be- enjoyable, for you.”
Jane looked at him for a long moment - like she was trying to decide if she believed him. She was still figuring out how to be his friend instead of the girl who avoided him in hallways.
She nodded once, small but sincere.
And then the conversation fizzled out.
Will picked up his pencil again.
The silence between them was still awkward - like a bridge half‑built, waiting for someone to finish it.
He wasn’t sure she’d believe him if he said anything more, so he didn’t.
Will lowered his gaze back to the page and let himself sink into the drawing again - the soft curve of the horizon line, the shadowed edge of an old barn roof, the faint smudge of charcoal he blended with his thumb to make the clouds look heavier, like a storm was rolling in.
The familiar motion steadied him, lines falling into place the way a map unfurled before a game, even when everything else felt slightly off‑balance
Upstairs, the music stopped.
A moment later, the floorboards creaked, and Jonathan trudged down the stairs. His eyes were red around the edges, his hair sticking up like he’d been lying on it for hours, but Will didn’t question it. Jonathan always looked tired lately.
What mattered was that he was here. Even if their relationship lately felt like a party with mismatched alignments.
Jonathan drifted into the living room without a word, blinking blearily at them before dropping onto the couch with a soft grunt. Will felt something loosen in his chest. Whatever mood Jonathan had been in lately - since they'd moved to Lenora, really - he was still joining them.
As if on cue, Mom’s voice finally trailed off, followed by the soft click of the phone being set back on its base. She stepped into the kitchen, rubbing her temples and offering them a tired but warm smile.
“Alright,” she said, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm that, for once, wasn't forced. “Who’s ready to cook?”
Jane straightened in her seat, nervousness shifting into something like excitement. Jonathan stretched, pushing himself off the chair with a groan.
Will closed his sketchbook, a smile growing on his face.
And it felt like the start of something - a new tradition, like the first session of a campaign he didn’t know the ending of yet.
The library always felt colder after a holiday - like the building resented being filled with students again, that or the staff had forgotten to close the windows over the break. The air had that faint old‑house chill, the kind that made Will wish he’d worn an extra shirt. A radiator clanked somewhere near the front desk, somehow making the room feel even colder.
Will sat at his table at the back, picking at his packed lunch, sketchbook closed beside him. He traced the dents and scratches on the cover with his thumb, while Gemma animatedly recounted something about Harry’s first week at Lenora.
“-and he didn’t even look at me,” she said, stabbing her straw into her juice box with unnecessary force. “Just nodded and walked off like he was in a spy movie or something.”
Since Harry wasn’t in today and Kendal was still in class, Gemma had latched onto Will the moment he approached her - talking a mile a minute, filling the silence like she had been on mute all weekend.
Will hadn’t minded, not really, but he’d only meant to ask if she knew whether Harry was in today. Instead, he’d been swept into a full‑blown retelling of Harry’s early days at Lenora.
Will huffed a quiet laugh. “That sounds like him.”
“It is him,” Gemma insisted, leaning forward. “He was like that for ages. Before you came, he barely talked to anyone. I mean, he talked to me, but only because we got paired for that science thing and I basically forced him to acknowledge my existence.”
Will smiled, because he could picture that perfectly - Gemma chattering, Harry trying to pretend he wasn’t listening, then eventually giving in because resistance was futile. He could practically see Harry rolling a low Charisma check every time someone tried to talk to him.
Gemma lowered her voice. “He’s different now, though. Less… haunted raccoon.”
Will blinked. “Haunted raccoon?”
“You know,” she said, waving her hand vaguely, “big eyes, kinda feral, looks like he hasn’t slept since '72.”
Will tried not to laugh too loudly, but the librarian still shot them a look sharp enough to be a ranged attack. Will mentally took the damage; he ducked his head, muttering a quick sorry.
Gemma took a sip of her juice, then continued, quieter now. “He'd rarely show up most days, when he did, he'd spend lunch reading in whatever quiet corner he could find - until I showed him the club room, of course.”
Will’s smile dimmed a little at that. He nodded, thumb brushing the corner of his sketchbook again.
They fell into a comfortable silence - or as comfortable as silence could be when Gemma was clearly holding back three more stories.
The library door creaked open.
Will looked up just as Jane stepped inside, shoulders drawn tight, eyes scanning the room with a quick, practiced sweep. Like she was checking for someone specific. Probably Angela and her goons, that wasn’t going away anytime soon.
When Jane spotted them, she hesitated - a tiny pause, like she was calculating whether sitting with them was safe.
Will lifted a hand in a small wave.
Jane crossed the room slowly, almost cautiously. She slid into the chair beside Will, setting her bag down carefully.
Will smiled at her in greeting - small, automatic, warm - but the expression faltered when he caught Gemma’s curious, slightly confused look flicking between them.
Will cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how small the table felt. “Jane, this is Gemma. Gemma, this is Jane, my… um.”
His brain rolled a nat 1 on social interaction.
He had no idea how to finish that sentence. His… what? His friend? His sister?
His person‑he‑was‑trying‑very‑hard‑to‑help‑feel‑normal? None of it sounded right.
He hadn’t prepared for this. He hadn’t thought this far ahead.
Gemma, mercifully, swooped in before he could combust. “Nice to meet you,” she said brightly, offering Jane a handshake.
Jane stared at her hand, then nodded, slowly reaching out to take it. “Hi,” she said. Then, after Jane studied Gemma for a moment, she added, completely earnest, “Will talks about you.”
Gemma’s eyebrows shot up, her grin blooming as she’d just been handed a birthday present. “Oh, does he now?”
Will made a noise that wasn’t a word. “Uh- yeah. A little.”
Gemma bit her lip, trying and failing to hide her amusement. “Relax, dude. I’m flattered.”
Jane, surprisingly, relaxed a fraction at that. The shift from tense silence to Will’s flustered meltdown seemed to reassure her - like if he wasn’t on edge, maybe she didn’t have to be either. Her shoulders loosened, just barely.
Jane’s gaze flicked to Will again. “Your other friend is not here.”
“Oh, Harry?” he said, fidgeting with his sketchbook. “Yeah, he’s off today.
Jane nodded, but her gaze drifted toward the door again, like she was expecting him to walk in anyway.
Silence threatened to settle again - stiff, awkward, the kind that made Will want to sink into the floor.
Thankfully, Gemma couldn’t stay quiet for long. “We’re in the same history class, right?” she asked Jane. “What'd you pick for your project?”
The tension eased a little, the conversation nudging forward instead of collapsing - like a train on a rusty track, slow but determined.
Harry showed up on Wednesday.
Will had almost convinced himself he wouldn’t - two days with no sign of him, no word, no phone to call. All Will had were his own thoughts, and they’d spent forty‑eight hours bouncing between worry and guilt, replaying Jonathan’s behavior in the kitchen like a stuck tape.
He didn’t desperately need to apologize, not at first, but the guilt had grown roots, and seeing the empty seat in every class they shared, it pressed heavier.
But then, halfway through Home Ec, the classroom door creaked open.
He quietly apologized for being late, but didn’t look at anyone. Just kept his gaze fixed on the floor as he moved to his seat, shoes squeaking faintly with each step. His over-sized leather jacket hung heavy with rain; when he pulled it off to hang on the back of his chair, droplets slid off the sleeves and hit the linoleum with soft taps. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered once, catching the sheen of water in his hair. He rolled up the wet sleeves of his t-shirt before moving to the front of the class to collect ingredients.
Harry’s hands were shaking. Not a little tremor - a full, visible shake, enough that he struggled to pick up the measuring jug from the stand.
The way Harry was holding himself - shoulders hunched, face carefully blank, elbows drawn in like he was trying to disappear into himself - reminded Will, unhelpfully, of a wet cat pretending it wasn’t cold, all bristling dignity and quiet misery that only made him worry more. The steady drip of water from his hair only added to the resemblance; it would’ve been funny if Harry didn’t look so utterly wrung out.
Will’s knife hovered over the cutting board. He wanted to go to him - to apologize for his brother's behavior the other day - but the moment he saw Harry like this, soaked and shaking, that motive melted with something softer and more uncertain. He wanted to check if Harry was okay, too.
…But Harry was also an intensely private person, and Will had no idea if checking on him would be welcome, or crossing a line he didn’t want crossed.
A sudden, sharp smell hit his nose.
The onions in his pan were starting to burn.
Will swore under his breath and twisted the dial down, steam puffing up into his face. By the time he blinked the sting from his eyes and looked back up, Harry had already started cooking at his station.
Will forced himself to focus on the vegetables, slicing them into uneven pieces, but his eyes kept drifting to the front - to the way Harry’s shoulders tightened as he gripped the frying pan, to the slow, heavy way he stirred the bowl, his movements dragging like he was running on fumes.
Will tried to drag his attention back to his own station.
It wasn’t even complicated - Jonathan had been out of line, Will knew it, and Harry deserved better than being snapped at for no reason. An apology was the bare minimum. The responsible thing. The mature thing. The thing any decent person would do without turning it into a whole internal debate.
…He should also check if Harry was okay.
But on the other hand, what if Will's asking made everything worse - made Harry think Will was pitying him, or prying, or trying to get involved in something that wasn’t his business? Harry was private to the point of being impossible to read.
Will stood there, knife hovering, arguing with himself like an idiot.
After class, he told himself.
He’d talk to Harry after class.
He’d stop overthinking and just do it.
He chopped another carrot, the knife thudding unevenly against the board. The smell of onions and oil rose warm from the pan, grounding him for a moment - until something tugged at the edge of his awareness. Not sharply - more like the absence of something he’d unconsciously been waiting for. He’d grown used to a certain warmth around Harry, the kind he never noticed until it wasn’t there.
The realization crept in slowly, like a delayed shiver.
Will blinked and looked up, not even sure what he was reacting to - only that something felt off. Or missing. Or maybe he was just imagining things again.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, irritated at himself for noticing anything at all. He shook it off and reached for the salt.
When the bell finally rang, Will practically launched himself out of his seat, already angling toward the front - only for the usual end‑of‑class chaos to surge up around him. Chairs scraped, bags swung, and of course, Jake (a notorious human traffic jam) chose that exact moment to drift sideways towards his friend's table, blocking the narrow path between desks like a human barricade.
Will tried to slip past, but the crush of students closed in around him, slowing him just long enough that by the time he finally pushed through to the front, Harry’s station was already empty.
Will hurried into the hallway, scanning the crowd. No red beanie. No over-sized jacket. No sign of him at all.
He’d already decided he was going to talk to Harry after class. Keeping to that meant actually finding him.
He checked everywhere he could think of - the courtyard, the cafeteria, the club room, even the science wing. In the library, he only ran into Kendal, who was balancing a stack of books and a half‑eaten muffin.
“Haven’t seen him,” Kendal said - then paused, frowning. “I mean… I did see him earlier. He was by the lockers for a second. Thought he was heading to the quad.”
Will’s stomach dipped. He’d already checked the quad.
“Oh,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Right.”
Kendal shrugged, already half‑turned away. “He moves fast. Dunno where he went after that.”
Will swallowed. “I just… want to make sure he’s okay.”
Kendal blinked at him, thrown by the seriousness. “Uh-huh. Sure, I guess.” He scratched his cheek, uncomfortable. “He’s probably just… doing his thing. You know how he gets.”
Kendal wandered off, clearly satisfied with that absolute masterpiece of helpfulness. For a moment, Will just hovered, unsure what to do with the tight, restless feeling in his chest. Harry could be anywhere, and he wasn't going to pop out of thin air if Will kept waiting here.
So Will’s mind went somewhere else - to the places he would go if he needed to vanish for a bit. The tucked‑away stairwell behind the science block. The narrow gap between the music rooms where the soundproofing swallowed everything. The old storage corridor near the gym that teachers forgot existed.
He’d hidden in all of them at one point or another; Harry might've, too.
Or maybe Harry had his own spots, ones Will didn’t know yet.
He didn’t give up looking. Not until the lunch bell rang and he was forced to head to his next class.
He took his seat by the window, sketchbook open but untouched. Outside, the PE class spilled onto the dew‑covered field in a loose, noisy wave, students shivering and complaining as they split into teams. The grass sparkled under the weak sun, like someone had dusted the whole field with glitter.
And then there was Harry - breaking away from the group without a word, heading straight for the track that circled the field. While everyone else clustered around bases and bats, he started running. Long strides, head down, like he needed the distance more than the exercise.
All Will could do was watch miserably as Harry kept going, lap after lap, like he was trying to outrun something Will couldn’t see.
Angela hadn’t bothered with the fake‑nice routine since the quad incident. Whatever mask she’d worn before - the bright smile, the arm‑linking, the sugary compliments - was gone. Now it was open hostility: snide comments in class, pointed whispers behind Jane’s back, and sudden appearances in hallways that forced Jane to take long, looping detours just to get to her next period without being cornered.
Will stuck close to her, always a half‑step behind or beside, guiding her around trouble before it found them. It worked for a while - the quiet routes, the back stairwells, the shortcuts - but Angela was persistent, and Will could feel the confrontation building like pressure behind a door. He kept hoping they could avoid it. He kept hoping he could avoid it. But some things were inevitable.
The side corridor was one of their safest paths. Narrow, out of the way, mostly used by teachers heading to the supply rooms. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting a pale, humming glow over the scuffed linoleum. Will liked it for the silence; Jane liked it because Angela never bothered coming this far. They walked it now, their footsteps soft, the air cool and still.
They were almost at the end when a figure stepped out from behind the corner.
She had the kind of face that looked like she was always smelling something bad. One of Angela’s friends - not the loudest, but definitely the one who watched everything.
She leaned against the wall like she’d been waiting for them, arms crossed, gum snapping between her teeth.
He reached for Jane’s sleeve and gently tugged her back, turning them around.
“Come on,” he murmured, already planning other routes in his head. “We’ll go the other-”
Angela was already there.
Standing in the middle of the corridor like she’d been conjured out of thin air, arms folded, smile sharp and bright. Her friends flanked her like a wall, blocking their exit.
Angela had that polished, pastel‑perfect queen‑bee quality - all bright smiles and bubble-gum sweetness on the surface, with something colder and sharper underneath. Her blonde hair was big and immaculate, her mannerisms straight out of a cheesy teen movie. Even without knowing her, Will would’ve clocked her as the type of person to avoid.
The two girls beside her were interchangeable - glossy hair, matching smirks, and synchronized movements that made them feel more like extensions of Angela rather than their own people.
Jane froze beside him. Will felt her breath stutter - a tiny tremor he wasn’t sure was from fear or anger.
Angela’s smile widened. “Aww. Running away already?”
The corridor suddenly felt too small, too bright, too quiet - like the world had narrowed to just the three of them.
Angela stepped forward. “Relax,” she said sweetly. “We just wanted to talk to Jane.”
Jane shifted in front of Will. Powers or no powers, she always stepped between danger and the people she cared about.
Will felt a tight knot of helplessness twist in his chest. He’d been hoping they could keep slipping through side hallways forever. Part of Will had known this was coming. He’d just thought they’d get a little more time before it did.
While Angela kept talking, Will’s mind raced. Every exit he’d memorized, every shortcut, every possible way to get out of here flickered through his head and was quickly dismissed. None of them were useful. Not with Angela blocking the only path forward and Gum Girl guarding the back like a bouncer.
He watched Jane grow more and more tense, her shoulders tightening, and there was a sharpness in her eyes that made Will think she was two seconds away from taking a swing at Angela.
Something hot and sour twisted in Will’s chest - that familiar Hawkins‑born disgust. Bullies really were the same everywhere, he thought. Different school, different town, same smug faces circling the weakest person in the room.
He was so, so sick of people like Angela.
And in a bold move he would absolutely regret later, he stepped in front of her. He felt like a level‑one wizard trying to take on a dragon - stupid, reckless, doomed - but he moved forward anyway.
For just a second, he felt brave.
Is this how Mike feels? He wondered. Is this what it’s like to step forward instead of back?
His hands shook, so he balled them into fists.
Genuine surprise flickered across Angela's face - for a heartbeat - then she laughed.
“Oh my god,” she said, delighted. “He talks.”
Will’s face burned. His fists trembled harder. He tried to keep his voice steady, but it came out thin. “Just… stop.”
Angela stepped closer, looming over him, invading his space and making Will take a step back. “That's cute, you think you can tell me what to do?”
Will didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The bravery was already draining out of him, replaced by a cold, sinking dread.
“You need him to fight your battles now?” Angela smirked, tilting her head. “What’s this, Jane? Trying to look tough again? Didn’t you get enough attention in the quad when you-” she mimed a tiny, pathetic push with her fingers, “-did your little… what was that again? How embarrassing.”
Angela leaned in, voice low and poisonous. “Honestly? She was better off without you. It's sad, really, pathetic.”
Will flinched like he was struck.
God, he wanted to throw up. He’d made everything worse. He always made everything worse.
Angela grinned, straightening, she flicked her hair over her shoulder, and turned to her friends. “This is-”
“Everything alright here?” a voice asked, low and even.
Someone had appeared behind Angela.
Will recognized the accent instantly - of course, it was Harry. Because of course he’d show up right now, just in time to witness this.
He’d approached with rogue‑level stealth. Soundless steps. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders relaxed. Expression unreadable. The air seemed to get colder as he got near.
Not out of fear, but something closer to discomfort. Unease maybe. Will couldn’t tell if he was reading too deep into things or if something had happened between her and Harry before he came to Lenora.
Angela’s smile snapped back into place, too bright, too quick. “We were just leaving,” she said, loud enough for her group to hear. “Right, girls?”
Her friends nodded, murmuring agreement - confused, but following her lead.
Angela tossed her hair, trying to reclaim the moment. “Come on,” she said, and swept past Harry without looking at him. Her group followed, their laughter forced and thin.
The corridor fell silent.
The distant chatter from other classrooms.
The faint echo of retreating footsteps.
It all felt very far away.
His thoughts scattered like dice across a table - all bad rolls, every single one landing against him.
Angela’s words echoed in his head, blending too easily with older ones - the kids in Hawkins who’d called him a freak, the whispers behind his back, the way people talked around him like he wasn’t there. And beneath it all his own voice, with the quiet fears he never said out loud: If I hadn’t frozen with that shotgun… if I’d hidden better… if I hadn’t been so weak, none of it would’ve happened.
The Mind Flayer using him like a weapon, the people who died because of it, because of him. His friends risking their lives because of him.
And even now, years later, the thought still sat heavy in his chest: I’m the problem. I’m the one who makes things worse. I’m the reason people get hurt.
All of it tangled together, tightening around his ribs until he could barely breathe.
His mind surfaced just enough to feel Jane tug gently at his sleeve.
“I’m fine,” Will muttered, voice wavering. He felt, mortifyingly, like he was about to cry.
“Will?” Harry said softly.
Will hadn’t even realized Harry had gotten close. He must have stepped forward while Will was lost in his own head.
Will barely looked at him before backing away and hurrying down the corridor. Jane hesitated until Will grabbed her wrist, not roughly, just urgently, and pulled her with him.
“Come on,” he said, voice tight. “We’re gonna be late.”
He didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see whatever expression was on Harry’s face.
Retreat wasn’t heroic, but sometimes it was the only move that kept the party alive.
He didn’t stop walking until they reached their classroom, and even then, he couldn’t shake the echo of Angela’s words.
They became too predictable - that, Will concluded, was how Angela managed to corner them.
He hated to admit it, but she’d read their patterns like a map. Same hallways, same shortcuts, same quiet routes. He’d thought he was being careful; turns out he was just being obvious.
So he started changing things up.
Different stairwells. Different shortcuts. Different ways of slipping through the school like ghosts. He’d been building a mental map of Lenora High since their first day here - the way he’d sketch out a dungeon layout, marking choke points, blind corners, and the safest routes to retreat. Now he puts it to good use, guiding Jane through the building in a constantly shifting pattern Angela couldn’t predict.
But avoiding someone wasn’t the same as not thinking about them. And Will thought about their… confrontation more than he wanted to. He told himself he was angry about what happened, but the anger only served to hide how he really felt: humiliated. Every time he replayed the moment he’d stepped forward, he felt that same hot, crawling shame. He understood why Jane avoided Angela so fiercely. They were both getting good at it now.
They sat across from each other in the library at lunch, nibbling at their packed lunches between quiet conversations. Jane was calmer here - the library was one of the few places Angela rarely bothered with - but Will still caught her glancing toward the door every few minutes, pencil tapping lightly against her notebook as she worked on the math questions he was helping her through.
Will was mid‑sentence when the library doors banged open.
A group spilled inside, loud and careless, and Jane went rigid so fast he was surprised her pencil didn't snap. Will didn’t even need to look to know who it was.
Angela’s laugh carried like a warning bell.
Will kept his mind carefully blank as he gathered his things. Jane copied him, keeping close as he led them between the outer shelves, their steps light and careful. He kept his head down, but his ears tracked Angela’s voice as it drifted closer.
Will slowed as they reached the end of the aisle. He risked a glance around the corner.
Angela and her group were clustered near the central table, giggling at something in one of the magazines. None of them were looking their way - yet.
Will exhaled quietly and motioned for Jane to follow. They crept towards the doors, steps soft on the carpet. The exit was only a few feet away now. He pushed through the library doors-
-and nearly collided with Gemma.
“Whoa!” she said, stumbling back. “There you are.”
Will stared at them. Gemma was carrying a stack of textbooks. Harry stood beside her with a large roll of dark blue paper tucked under one arm, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, and slightly hunched like he wasn’t sure he wanted to be here - which, to be fair, is how he always looked.
“What are you doing?” Will asked.
Gemma gestured to the paper. “We got this for the history poster. Thought we’d find you here.”
Will’s stomach tightened. He really had become too predictable. “Right.
Gemma turned toward the library doors, but Will stepped in front of her without thinking.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Gemma’s expression slid toward unimpressed. Harry’s eyebrows lifted a fraction, waiting. Jane stayed quiet, hovering slightly behind Will, gaze fixed on him.
Will swallowed. “Can we… not go in there?”
Will hesitated, then said quietly, “Angela’s in there."
Gemma’s expression soured instantly, her nose wrinkling like she’d just bitten into a lemon. “Ugh. Of course she is.”
She turned away from the doors and started down the corridor, already scanning for options. “So, club room?”
Will let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Harry shook his head immediately. “They've got a game on, don't they? They'll get annoyed at you for being loud again.”
Gemma scoffed. “I can be quiet.”
Harry and Will both gave her the same look.
She rolled her eyes. “Alright, what's your idea, genius?”
Now that they were away from the library doors, Will’s pulse had settled. His thoughts weren’t racing quite as fast.
“The art room might be open,” he offered
Gemma brightened. Harry shrugged. “Worth a try.”
They started walking, Will leading the way with Jane by his side. Gemma chattered about poster layouts beside him while Harry followed, shifting his hold on the paper.
When they reached the art room, Will tried the handle, confident it was unlocked - and relief washed through him when it clicked open. He’d learned this by accident last week, when he’d forgotten his favorite pencil and doubled back during recess. Mr. Reisinger seemingly never locked the door. Maybe he forgot, or maybe he just didn’t think anyone would bother stealing art supplies. Either way, Will was grateful for it now.
The room smelled faintly of paint and clay, sunlight spilling across the long tables. Will set his bag down and pulled some chairs out of the way so they could push two tables together. Harry immediately spread out the poster paper, and Gemma dumped her textbooks onto the tables, launching into an explanation of her vision.
From the books she pulled out slips of paper in various sizes - all covered in stylized text - and began arranging them across the poster. Will flipped open his sketchbook and carefully removed the drawings he’d done for the project. He went hunting for scissors for the ones he'd need to cut out and grabbed glue while he was at it.
When he returned, Gemma was still rearranging the slips, now incorporating his drawings into the mix. Harry and Jane were trimming the edges of the paper slips - Harry with slow, precise cuts; Jane with small, careful snips that rounded the corners neatly.
Will sat beside them and began cutting out his drawings. He noticed two different kinds of handwriting on the slips - neat, looping cursive, likely Gemma’s and another that was cramped and uneven, probably Harry’s.
While Jane trimmed around the title card, she and Gemma started discussing little design flourishes they could add. Will drifted closer to Harry, who had gone quiet again, mostly watching rather than participating.
Will watched him for a moment, the apology sitting heavy on his tongue.
“Hey,” he started softly. “About Jonathan-”
Harry didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”
Will frowned. “It's really not-”
“Will, I really don’t care,” Harry stated, not unkindly, just firmly. Then he went back to trimming the edge of a paper slip.
A cold draft slipped in through the cracked window, brushing across the back of Will’s neck. He nodded, throat tight, and returned to cutting out his drawings.
They fell into a rhythm - Will and Jane trimming drawings and text, Gemma shifting pieces around the poster, Jane even chimed in a few times, offering small suggestions that made Gemma beam like she’d just been handed treasure. The room warmed with soft chatter and the scratch of scissors.
After a while, Gemma stretched her arms over her head and groaned dramatically. “Man, it is freezing outside. I cannot wait to get home and curl up with a cup of hot chocolate.”
Jane paused mid‑cut. “What is hot chocolate?”
Gemma froze. Will watched the horror dawn across her face.
“You-” Gemma sputtered. “You’ve NEVER had hot chocolate?”
Jane shook her head, confused by the look on Gemma’s face.
“That’s it,” Gemma declared, slamming her scissors down. “We’re going. All of us. There’s a café down the road; we are fixing this immediately.”
“Nope. Non-negotiable. This is a human rights issue.”
Harry groaned softly. “Do we have to?”
Gemma pointed at him. “Yes. You, especially.”
Will nudged him. “She’s not going to drop it.”
Jane looked at him, overwhelmed, but not unhappy. “If you want to.”
Will met her eyes. “Sure, why not?”
They all looked at Harry, who muttered something under his breath, but Will caught the faintest tug of a smile.
He sighed dramatically, “…Fine.”
Gemma clapped her hands. “Alright! Hot chocolate mission is a go!”
Will glanced at Jane - at the tiny spark of excitement flickering behind her eyes - and the sick pit that had been sitting in his stomach all day lightened, just a little.
The Cinder Cone Café sat on the corner of Main and Willow, tucked between a florist and a thrift shop, its windows fogged from the warmth inside. The sign above the door was hand‑painted, the letters looping in a way that reminded Will of Gemma’s handwriting - bright, dramatic, and impossible to ignore. A string of fairy lights framed the windows, glowing softly against the afternoon fog.
The way Gemma had described it earlier - “this place has the best hot chocolate this side of the rainline” - had made Will want to roll his eyes - but now, standing in front of it, he could almost believe her.
When they pushed the door open, a bell chimed overhead.
Inside, the café smelled like cinnamon and steamed milk. The air was warm, humming with low conversation and the clatter of mugs. Plants hung from the ceiling in mismatched pots, and every table looked like it had been rescued from a different decade. It was cozy in a way that made Will’s shoulders drop without him realizing.
Gemma was already there, waving wildly from a booth in the corner. She had two menus spread out in front of her and a half‑finished doodle on a napkin.
“There you are!” she said as they approached her table. “I was starting to worry you’d left me to drink all this hot chocolate on my own.”
“You said it was a human rights issue.” Will said, “Seems pretty important to me.”
Gemma just grinned at him, delighted he was playing along.
Jane sat beside Will, her head swiveling as she took everything in - the lights, the plants, the pastry case glowing like treasure. Will watched her with growing amusement, tinged with a quiet sadness that this was the first time she was experiencing something so simple.
Gemma flipped open the menu. “Okay, important question: what kind of hot chocolate do you want? They’ve got peppermint, cinnamon, marshmallow mountain - which is all marshmallow no cream, double‑dark-”
Jane’s eyes widened, overwhelmed.
Will cut in gently. “Just a normal hot chocolate, please.”
Gemma narrowed her smokey eyes dramatically. “For now.”
A server came by, and Gemma ordered for all of them - “Just two regular hot chocolates, thanks,” she said with a commiserating look at the server. They debated what to get for Harry, eventually settling on another plain one, much to Gemma’s disappointment.
While they waited, Gemma kept Jane talking with small questions. Will watched carefully, ready to intervene if Jane looked uncomfortable. She didn’t, so he allowed himself to relax.
Every time the bell chimed, Will found himself glancing toward the window. The sky outside had gone a heavy, bruised gray, the kind that promised rain. People hurried past with their jackets pulled tight around them.
Harry stood just outside the café, dressed noticeably light compared to everyone else - just a hoodie, no jacket - skateboard tucked under one arm. He stared at the door like it was something he wasn’t sure he had permission to walk through. He shifted his weight, looked down the street, then back at the door, conflict written all over him.
Harry stepped aside to let a family of two enter. The door swung open - and Harry’s eyes flicked up, catching Will’s through the gap.
For a second, neither of them moved. Warm brown met bright green with a steady gaze.
Then Harry looked down, and the moment was broken. With a quiet sigh, he stepped through the door before it could close.
Harry approaches the table with that same quiet, unreadable expression, though Will noticed the faintest tension in his shoulders - like he was bracing for something.
“Evening,” Harry greeted, sliding into the booth across from Will, beside Gemma.
Gemma beamed. “Finally! I thought you bailed.”
“I didn’t bail,” Harry muttered, as though he hadn't been considering it.
Jane offered him a shy wave. Harry nodded back.
Gemma nudged him with her elbow. “See? I even picked the corner booth for you.”
Harry shot her a look - something quiet and grateful passing between them. Will wanted to ask what that was about, but-
The server arrived with their drinks.
Gemma practically vibrated as Jane took her first sip. Jane’s eyes widened, and she made a tiny, startled sound of delight.
“Ah, so cute,” Gemma whispered, clutching her chest as though shot with an arrow.
Will smiled behind his mug.
They talked - starting with the usual: school, their history project, classes. But it didn’t take long before Gemma derailed them into a heated debate about movie genres.
Harry argued that horror was “just badly lit drama,” Gemma insisted they were the backbone of civilization, and Will - who liked horror too but preferred sci‑fi (and fantasy, though he wasn’t about to admit that) - found himself pulled into the debate. Jane listened with wide‑eyed fascination, like she’d stumbled into a secret club.
Soon the conversation devolved into something far more chaotic: the horrifying revelation that Harry had barely seen any films at all. Not the classics, not the cult favourites, not even the ones everyone lied about having watched.
Will watched them - watched how easily they included Jane, how gentle they were with her, how quickly they’d warmed to her. It made something warm settle in his chest.
It had taken him months to feel comfortable with them. Months for them to warm up to him. It was like Jane had walked into the party and rolled a natural twenty on Charisma without even trying. Not that he was jealous, but seeing Jane do it so easily just highlighted the differences between them.
And Harry - Harry wasn’t talking as much as he usually did. He mostly watched the group with a quiet expression that Will struggled to read. Longing, maybe or…
Feeling Will’s gaze, Harry glanced over - sharp, searching, almost startled.
Will jerked his eyes down so quickly he nearly spilled hot chocolate over the rim. His cheeks burned as he stared into the mug, watching the melted cream swirl into soft spirals. He forced himself back into the conversation.
When they stepped outside, the air had changed.
A cold wind swept down the street, carrying the smell of rain. The clouds overhead were thick and low, rolling in from the hills like a slow‑moving tide. Fog lay over the mountain tips in the distance, making it seem as though their peaks had pierced the sky - Will had never been low enough in Lenora to see them from this angle. Being so far down made them look bigger, almost looming, like the silhouette of giants.
Far over the misty mountains cold…
“Storm’s coming,” Gemma said, sniffing the air like a weather witch. “You can always tell by the smell.”
Will made a curious noise, and Gemma added, “Because we have the coast on one side and the desert on the other, Lenora gets weird fog storms. Like now.”
She groaned dramatically, pulling her jacket tighter. “I wish Kendall were here. He could drive us, and we wouldn’t have to walk in this.”
She waved goodbye and jogged off, calling over her shoulder, “Hot chocolate mission: SUCCESS!”
Will laughed under his breath.
Jane stepped up beside him. “Does it smell different?” she asked quietly.
Will thought back to Hawkins - how the air would shift before a storm. It wasn’t a smell exactly, more like a feeling. Something you learned to sense the longer you lived there.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Storm air always does.”
They started walking, the wind tugging at their clothes. As the sky grew darker, the streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the pavement.
Behind them, wheels clattered against concrete.
Harry coasted beside them on his skateboard, slowing to match their pace. “You two heading home as well?”
“Yeah,” Will said. He hadn’t known Harry lived up the mountain, too - Harry always seemed to disappear after school ended, and Will could never find him. Though he'd always been better at hiding from people than finding them.
As the slope got steeper, Harry kicked the board up into his hand and walked with them. “How’s English going?” he asked Jane - the same gentle tone he’d used at the kitchen table.
Jane seemed surprised he remembered. “Better,” she said. “Will helps me.”
Harry nodded, smiling at him lightly. “He’s good at that.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the wind picking up, leaves skittering across the sidewalk. The storm clouds above them churned, dark and heavy, but Will didn’t feel that familiar tightness in his chest.
The mountains looked like something out of a campaign setting - mist‑shrouded, dramatic, begging to be painted. He stared at the mountains - the way the fog curled around its edges - and wondered which medium he’d use to draw it. Watercolor for the softness? Charcoal for the shadows? Pencil for the details?
He felt that something had shifted. In the weather. In the air. In him.
The warmth in his chest - small at first - was growing stronger. Maybe Lenora wasn’t all bad, despite Angela. Not with moments like this.
Maybe one day he could learn to belong here.
He just hoped it didn’t end in disaster.
