Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chance Lawson was going to fail art.

He was certain.

As he sat in the gym bleachers, he saw visions of his athletic scholarship going up in flames, never leaving Hawkins, and getting stuck in some dead-end small-town job until he died of a heart attack at sixty-five from clogged arteries or the general loss of a will to live.

He’d done everything he was supposed to do. He passed English, math, science, and every other subject with flying colors. He poured hours into basketball, pushing through long practices and making the varsity team. He even volunteered with a kids’ rec team on the weekends to buff up his college applications, for god’s sake.

And now, it was all crashing down because he couldn’t, like, imbue life into a figure painting or something.

He distantly registered the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor as he stared down at the crumpled drawing in his hands, glaring at the big, red F grade that sat in the corner. His art teacher had pulled him aside before he left for his gym period, reassuring him that summer school was still an option. 

Summer school was not, in fact, an option. Summer school would ruin his life. 

He heard yelling from the gym floor and had just processed the word, “Duck!” when something slammed into his face with surprising force.

He recoiled, dropping his failed assignment and grabbing at his nose, feeling blood start to pool in his hands. For a second, the only sound was the basketball thudding back down the stairs of the bleachers. As it rolled back out onto the gym floor, the class went up in a frenzy. Shouts echoed from the students, 

“Oh shit!”

“That looked like it hurt, man.”

“Oh no, his face!”

“Byers really got him.”

The gym teacher’s barking tone cut through the chaos, ordering the class to, “Knock it off!” And then directing someone to, “Take Lawson to the nurse before he paints the bleachers red.”

He turned, trudging toward the gym office, probably to call ahead to the nurse’s station, muttering about how he doesn’t get paid enough for this shit.

Through the ringing in his ears, Chance heard someone rapidly apologizing and gentle, fluttering hands at his elbow, guiding him up and out of the gym doors. 

In the hall, he kept his hands pressed to his nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His eyes watered, and his head throbbed, and whoever his escort was kept up a string of apologetic babbles that were, frankly, not helping with the pain. 

“Holy shit, I’m sorry. I had no idea I even threw it that hard.” The voice dropped to a mutter, “I’m kind of surprised I could throw it that hard, if we’re being honest.”

With his blurred vision, Chance stumbled on the few stairs that led down to the front of the school and the staff offices. The hands attached to the voice came up to grasp his elbow again. He was still babbling.

“Obviously, it went way off course. I didn’t mean to hit you. I mean, maybe I would have at one point, when you and your friends were being assholes, but everyone really calmed down after Ve—after the earthquakes, and you apologized to Dustin, so I guess fair is fair. He didn’t seem to give a shit. Clean slates and all. Do you even run with those guys anymore? I never see you with them. Not that I’m watching, obviously. Whoa, left turn—“ 

The hand at Chance’s elbow turned him gently, pivoting him into a bright office that usually smelled like antiseptic when your sinuses weren’t filled with the copper tang of blood. 

Chance stumbled over to the examination table in the room, leaning on the edge. His head banged as the person with him opened and closed cabinets rapidly, slamming drawers as he searched for something.

“I don’t know where the nurse is. I’ll just—“ another drawer slammed, causing Chance to flinch, “grab some tissues and,” he hesitated, “bandages? I don’t even—I didn’t know noses could bleed that much. Jesus, mine didn’t.”

Chance figured he had to be dizzy from blood loss because the guy wasn’t making any sense. He lifted one hand, about to wave the guy off, when a fistful of tissues was shoved into his face. 

“Oh shit,” he groaned in pain, but, embarrassingly, his nose caused it to come out more like, “ow chit.”

“Ouch?” The guy repeated, mishearing him. Alarmed, he started to pat gently around Chance’s face, “It’s okay, we’ll just clean this up—“

Every pat was agony, and Chance’s eyes watered worse at the sensitivity. He caught the guy’s wrists with his bloody hands, silently begging him to stop.

He blinked, clearing the tears from his vision and focusing on the person in front of him. When he came into view, Chance was met with worried hazel eyes and a small, concerned crinkle in his brow. He knew this guy from somewhere. He remembered seeing him around the school. 

Did he mention Dustin during all of that rambling? As in, Dustin Henderson? 

Chance hadn’t thought about that guy in a minute, too busy keeping his head down and raising his grades to get out of this godforsaken town. 

But if this guy knew Dustin—

“Byers!” Chance exclaimed, dropping one of the guy’s wrists to point at him. Then he winced, bringing the hand up to his face.

“You’re Will Byers.” Chance observed, his voice coming out muffled by the hand pressing protectively to his nose.

Will looked sympathetic, probably thinking about how much of a mess Chance was. He could feel the dried blood smeared on his face and hands. He was sure it was on his shirt too, which blew because his mom would think he was getting into fights with kids again and hand him his ass. 

Will nodded, “I’m Will Byers. And,” he hesitated, “do you remember what your name is?”

Chance tried to roll his eyes, but stopped halfway through the motion, flinching, “I’m not concussed. You just fucked up my nose.”

Will grimaced, “Yeah. Are you…okay?”

Chance felt like he looked like a horror movie victim, and there was still a ringing in his ears, but he wasn’t going to whine to a practical stranger. 

He sniffed, still wincing, “I’m fine.”

Will looked unconvinced, but nodded anyway, “Do you want me to stay until the nurse comes or…” he trailed off.

Chance couldn’t think of anything he wanted less. Will’s obvious guilt and pity were suffocating him in the small room. He was way too aware of the way Will fidgeted with his hands nervously, and it was making Chance jumpy. He opened his mouth to tell Will he would be alright when something occurred to him.

This was Will Byers.

As in, the Will Byers who was also in his art course. He remembered him slipping out of the room right before Chance got pulled aside by the teacher. 

Will Byers, who was definitely the teacher’s favorite. Who, if Chance’s suspicions were right, was acing their art class.

Will Byers, who was looking at him like he wasn’t really convinced Chance didn’t have a concussion. 

Nonsensically, Chance blurted, “You feel bad.”

Will blinked, “Uh, what?”

Chance pushed forward, “You’re guilty, right? About the—,” he gestured to his nose.

“I…guess so?” Will affirmed, unsure and a little freaked out by how weird Chance was acting. 

“Help me with the art final.” Chance begged.

Will’s head reared back, shocked by the abrupt change in subject, “What?”

“You broke my nose. I’m going to fail our art class. You’re like a prodigy. Help me. As payback.” It seemed like a fair deal to Chance, honestly.

According to Will’s face, he did not think the same.

“Your nose isn’t broken,” He scoffed, and then amended, “probably anyway. And I’m not a prodigy, what are you talking about?”

Chance shook his head, “You did that mural in the cafeteria after the earthquakes. It was incredible. And Mrs. Stokes loves you.” He felt desperate for Will to agree, knowing this was probably going to be his only lifeline.

“I helped with the mural,” Will rolled his eyes, crossing his arms, “And I remember your friends saying it was lame, so that’s bullshit.”

Chance stared at him, trying to look pathetic. He imagined it wasn’t very hard while covered in his own blood. “Please, man. I’m out of this place in the fall, if I don’t lose my scholarship.” He leaned in, pleading, “I can’t lose that scholarship.” 

Will narrowed his eyes, “I’m not doing your work for you.”

Chance backed off, raising his blood-streaked hands, “Whoa, hey. I never said that.”

Will cocked an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. 

“I’m serious.” Chance assured, “I just want help. A tutor!” He exclaimed, pointing at Will.

He continued, trying to plead his case, “I can’t cheat anyway. That’s as bad as failing. Worse, even. Scholarship would be gone just like,” he snapped, “that.”

Will chewed on his lip, and Chance desperately hoped that meant he was considering it. 

“You just want a tutor?”

“Just a tutor,” Chance rushed out, “an art tutor.”

Will looked around the room, contemplating. And then finally, thankfully, he relented.

“Fine.” Will agreed, “I’ll help you.”

***

So, Chance and Will set up their agreement.

Their art final was due in four weeks and was worth thirty percent of their grade. It wasn’t enough to raise Chance’s grade to an A or even a B with how low his current scores were, but he could barely squeak by with a C in the class if he delivered on this project.

They’d planned to meet in the art room after school every week—or until Will thought Chance’s work was good enough to make the mark. 

Chance had originally suggested working at his house, but Will looked at him like he was stupid, so he dropped it. Maybe it was a trust thing. Chance figured that was probably fair enough after…everything. He’d suggested Will’s home, too, but that was brushed off quickly. Will muttered something about a crowded cabin in the woods, and Chance didn’t really feel like asking any further questions.

The art room it was.

Or at least, that was what it was supposed to be. 

Chance kicked his feet against the rungs of his stool, sighing. He looked at the clock on the wall again, estimating that he’d waited thirty minutes already, and he figured that by any definition, he’d just been stood up. 

Maybe it was naive to think that Will would give up an afternoon to help some guy who messed with his friends in a past life. He definitely wasn’t committing to multiple weeks of this. There was no way Will knew that Chance was basically a loner these days, so, if anything, this was payback. Chance sighed again, feeling stupid, and rubbed at his eyes, exhausted. He’d pulled an all-nighter studying for his history exam this week, and he had at least a couple of hours left of biology homework once he got home. He couldn’t spend all afternoon waiting for someone who probably, fairly, wasn’t going to show up. 

Chance slung his backpack over one shoulder, sliding his car keys out of his front pocket, and went to push through the art classroom’s door when it was yanked away from his grasp, causing him to stumble.

Against all odds, Will Byers stood in front of him. His bangs were ruffled, and his cheeks were slightly flushed as if he’d been in a rush. Chance stared at him, not processing the fact that he’d actually shown up.

Blinking, Chance blurted, “You’re late.”

Will narrowed his eyes, judging, “And your nose doesn’t look broken.” He cocked an eyebrow, “I can leave.”

“No!” Chance rushed, “Sorry, I just thought you weren’t coming.”

Will pushed past him, “Well, here I am.”

He turned in the middle of the room, facing Chance.

“Let’s get started.”

***

Chance decided art was impossible. 

Will’s patient explanations about shading and light, and something about how color affected…emotions or mood, maybe, didn’t make any sense. He was trying earnestly to understand, but this was like learning a foreign language in one night. 

He groaned, dropping his head to the table in front of him and cutting off Will’s explanation about charcoal or something. 

“Are you okay?” Will asked.

Chance groaned again, rolling to one side and looking at Will from the corner of his eye, “This is hopeless.”

Will snorted, “This is not hopeless.” He threw up his hands in exasperation, “We’ve barely even started.”

Chance huffed out a small laugh.

“Sorry, Byers, I’m a lost cause. I’ll never be a master of cross-hunting.”

“Cross-hatching,” Will corrected, “and you don’t need to master anything. You just need to get through this class. You said you have a scholarship, right?”

Chance nodded, his cheek still smushed against the table.

Will lowered himself to the table until he was in Chance’s eyeline, “Then do it for that.”

“To leave Hawkins,” Chance mumbled.

Will smiled, something soft and charming, “To leave Hawkins.” He hopped up from the table, “A noble cause, by the way. At this point, I think the best thing to do in Hawkins is leave it.”

Chance watched as he puttered around the room, gathering materials.

Will Byers was an anomaly in the Hawkins landscape. Sure, Chance had heard all the town gossip about him and the Byers family. Watching Will move around the room, though, all that occurred to Chance was that he seemed like someone who deserved more than this small town and its judgments.

The quiet confidence Will held while he surveyed the contents of the art room, totally in his element, struck Chance. The mid-afternoon sun hung off of Will as he sorted through worn pencils and half-used sketchbooks, catching in his hair, and it was like catching a glimpse of Will like this, being in his orbit for a brief moment, was something special. It was an odd feeling, and Chance wasn’t sure where it came from. But it landed with certainty. Will Byers was surely meant for greater things than Hawkins, Indiana. 

Art materials scattered across the table in front of Chance, shattering his thoughts. 

Will grinned at him, “If talking about it isn’t working, then you’ll just have to learn by doing it.”

Chance accepted a sketchpad, feeling the corner of his mouth tug up in response.

***

“So, same time next week?” Will asked as they walked out of the art classroom. 

Chance hummed in confirmation, nodding, “Yeah, thanks.”

Will was right. Chance wasn’t fantastic at art after just one tutoring session—he probably wouldn’t be after years of lessons—but actually working with the materials as Will talked him through it, instead of trying to understand and then apply them, made much more sense. He felt a weight lifting off his chest at the thought. If they kept this up, his scholarship may not go up in flames, after all. 

Chance pointed toward the school’s parking lot, “Do you need a ride?”

Will waved him off, “Nah, I have my bike.” He turned to leave, throwing a short, “I’ll see you around!” over his shoulder. 

As Chance watched him disappear toward the bike racks, he found himself, absurdly, looking forward to next week. He knew he wasn’t suddenly thrilled about artistic pursuits, so he figured it had to be the person associated with them that was making him feel that way. 

He guessed it was because he hadn’t had a friend in a while. 

Honestly, he wasn’t sure if the guys on the basketball team had ever really been his friends anyway. But, as he unlocked his truck and climbed in, he wondered if he could find one in Will Byers. 

Chance figured that he’d feel pretty lucky about that.

***

The week blazed by, and Chance found himself wondering how their second meeting managed to sneak up on him. When Chance walked into the art classroom, he spotted Will bent over a canvas. 

Their final project had nothing to do with painting, so this had to be something Will was working on for himself. Chance stared for a minute, struck again by Will’s presence in the room. There was something gravitational about him. His brush moved with sure strokes, and the paint splotches covering his tan hands drew Chance’s attention for a length of time that was probably incriminating. 

His concentration broke when Will let out a quiet, “ow,” squinting one eye. Chance furrowed his brow, walking toward Will and the canvas.

Closer up, the painting was nothing short of stunning. Chance didn’t know the first thing about art—he’d already readily admitted that—but the colors alone were so deep and lush that Chance found himself struck by them. He kind of understood the whole thing about invoking mood now.

The painting felt alive. Like a part of Will was left behind on the canvas. 

His observations were cut short by the reminder that Will was, in fact, in crisis. He was using the back of his wrist to rub at his eye, trying to avoid transferring the paint on his hands. 

“Whoa, hey,” Chance pulled at Will’s arm, gently, “let’s not blind ourselves.”

Will rolled his eyes, or he tried to as best he could while wincing. “There’s something—” he gestured at his face. 

Chance nodded and bent, coming face-to-face with Will. He heard Will suck in a surprised breath as he lifted his other hand, the one that didn’t have a loose hold on Will’s wrist, to Will’s cheek. Gently, he pulled down on his skin, causing Will’s eye to flutter. Chance could see where a stray lash was making the eye water with irritation. He leaned in further, a part of him dimly registering their proximity, and blew softly. 

Will’s eye fluttered again, blinking away the lash as it dislodged. He blinked a few more times, like he was registering the newfound comfort. 

Chance stayed close, just watching. He catalogued the fact that Will’s eyes were the kind someone could fall into, getting lost for who knows how long. Then he tucked away the information somewhere secret—to keep it safe. 

Will looked up at him, quiet for a moment, and something stirred in Chance’s chest. He felt his hand tighten, involuntarily, on Will’s wrist. 

Then Will cleared his throat, leaning back, and Chance felt a blush rise on his neck. He backed off, mentally scolding himself. 

Chance knew that he was…different. 

He’d known so for a while, pushing down his thoughts and laughing along with his stupid friends about cheerleaders and girls at parties. Peer pressure had led him down a lot of dumb roads—places where he wasn’t even close to acting like himself. It was another reason he wanted so desperately to get out of this town. He figured there wouldn’t be a perfect place where he’d never face judgment or ridicule, but maybe he could find somewhere that would give him a fresh start. That’s all he wanted, really. 

Irrationally, Chance wanted to apologize, but bringing up the fact that he’d acted like a freak wasn’t going to help anything. If anything, bringing attention to it might make Will bow out on their lessons, and he couldn’t afford to let that happen.

He set a rule for himself right there. 

No more touching. 

***

Halfway through their second lesson, Chance realized that the rule was going to be harder to stick to than he thought. Art was just very…hands-on.  

When Chance was unsure of how to do something, Will would reach out, plucking the pencil from his hands and guiding him via example. The tiny brushes of their fingers lit something up in Chance that he stubbornly continued to push back. Still, that niggling feeling was slowly making it apparent that perhaps Chance wasn’t looking forward to this lesson because of a new love for art or a want to be Will’s friend, but rather the fact that the boy in front of him might be one of the most interesting, and pretty, people he’d ever seen.

It was fine. Chance was going to manage. 

And step one of managing was filling the quiet classroom with enough conversation to force himself into behaving like a human being. 

Will laughed, arguing, “Return of the Jedi is absolutely not better than A New Hope.”

Chance scoffed in mock offense, “It absolutely is, Byers. It has the—”

“Teddy bears?” Will asked, arching a brow, then he turned, muttering, “God, you sound like Steve Harrington.”

Chance rolled his eyes, “I know they’re called Ewoks. I told you,” he emphasized the words, trying to plead his case, “I like Star Wars.”

“And that,” Will pointed, “is something I’m not buying. Jocks can’t,” he hesitated, trying to land on whatever it was that jocks couldn’t do and finishing weakly with, “like that stuff.”

“I didn’t realize I was breaking a law,” Chance teased, “And what do you mean by that stuff?”

“Nerd stuff,” Will emphasized, putting his pencil down like the sketch he’d been fiddling with personally offended him. “It’s like, the order of nature.” 

Chance laughed, and Will protested harder, “It is! You are not watching Star Wars or playing video games or, like, spending a Saturday night in the basement playing DnD.”

Chance cocked an eyebrow, listening. 

Will brought a finger down, drawing a line on the table, “It’s the social order. Over here,” he pointed, “are the nerds and the dorks. And over here,” he pointed to the other side of his invisible line, Chance’s side, “are the jocks who spend their time partying or getting drunk or something. It’s science.”

Chance hummed, entertaining Will, “Well, I haven’t been to a party since sophomore year…what if someone fell here?” He pointed to the center, right over where Will had drawn the invisible line. “What if someone didn’t fit either side? Do those people get to like Star Wars?”

Will stared at Chance’s finger, frustrated. 

In a passing thought, Chance noted that seeing Will this up in arms was cute—then he tucked that away for safekeeping, too. 

Finally, Will broke, rolling his eyes, “Fine, Chance. Those people can like Star Wars.”

Chance grinned, lop-sided, “And if they said Return of the Jedi was the best one?”

“Then they’d still be wrong,” Will ground out, and Chance snorted at his irritation.  

They’d talked about anything Chance could find to keep the conversation going. Things like movies or music. He learned that Will liked The Clash and made a note to casually pick up a cassette sometime. But they also brought up things like their impressions of Hawkins—dull but scary in its own way. Chance didn’t push on how the small town could frighten Will. Chance knew why it frightened him, and he appreciated Will not asking for details.

Will was easy to talk to; Chance was learning. His soft laugh was bright and charming, but once Chance really made him laugh, full and uninhibited, it made pride zing in his chest. 

Their conversation lasted until the sun dipped low, turning the classroom golden, and Chance, begrudgingly, realized that he needed to get home soon. He figured that if time wasn’t a factor, if he didn’t need to make it home before his mom got off her shift and started asking where he’d been on a school night, then he could spend the whole night here, just talking to Will. 

By some miracle, Will seemed happy to talk to him, too. 

They packed up their supplies, quietly closing the classroom door behind them as they turned to walk down the hallway side by side.

“Oh!” Will blurted, something occurring to him, “I can’t meet on our usual day next week. My mom needs me to—doesn’t matter why, I guess. Are you okay to do Friday?”

A pathetic part of Chance wanted to say that he’d be fine doing this any day of the week, even weekends. He shook himself, understanding that that was a surefire way to freak Will out. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, “Friday works.”

“Cool!” Will said brightly. He gave Chance a small smile, rooting him to the spot, and turned to walk toward the front exit, where the bike racks were.

Chance stood, watching Will until he disappeared from his line of vision. Distantly, it occurred to him that he might have replaced one problem with another.

He could be normal about this. 

***

Chance pulled at Will’s backpack, yanking him away from the art classroom’s door in a decidedly not normal way. 

“What?” Will hissed, whipping his head toward Chance and staring at him as if he’d lost it.  

Chance had probably lost it. That was probably fair.

The issue was that he’d nearly walked into the art classroom earlier, before realizing it was occupied on Fridays. Apparently, that was the time and place selected for after-school detention, and half the basketball team was currently filling the room’s tables. 

Chance still had a hand bunched up in Will’s backpack. “Sorry, uh,” he quickly released him. “Detention.”

Will adjusted his backpack, “Detention?”

Chance pointed at the classroom, “In there.”

Will made a face of recognition, but confusion quickly overtook his features. 

“So, why the dramatics exactly?”

Chance turned, putting some distance between them and the classroom. Will paused, likely taking one more glance at the door, but caught up, walking side by side with him.

Chance rubbed at the back of his neck, already seeing how this would play out, “Uh, like half the basketball team is in there?” His voice tilted up, unsure how to present that.

Will cut his eyes to the side, “You mean, the basketball team that you’re on?” Confusion radiated off of him. “Your friends?”

“Those are not my friends,” Chance rushed to explain. “Not anymore, at least.” 

They’d made it to the point where they usually went their separate ways, Chance toward the back parking lot and Will toward the front bike racks. Chance turned, trying to come across much more casually than he felt while admitting that he’d run away from his group of so-called friends like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

“I don’t think they ever were, honestly.”

Will stared at him, not quite skeptical. More like he was trying to figure something out. 

“Do you have any friends?” He asked, bluntly.

Chance clutched at his chest, acting wounded, “Brutal, Byers.”

Will’s eyes widened, “I just mean—you don’t hang out with those guys anymore? For real? I mean, I hadn’t seen you with them, but,” he shrugged, “I don’t know, maybe I thought you were just lying low.”

Chance tilted his head side to side, considering, “Partially true. I am both lying low and,” he gave a lopsided smile, “I don’t have any friends.” 

He meant for it to come out as a joke. It ended up sounding a little sad. 

Will looked at him with what might be a touch of pity, and Chance grimaced. It was one thing to feel like he was making a fool of himself in front of a practical stranger, but he liked Will. He probably liked Will far too much, honestly, and the thought of him seeing Chance as a complete loser wounded his pride a little.

“Hey, uh,” he blurted, trying to change the subject, “do you want to do something? You know, since our room is filled with assholes?” 

Will snorted, and Chance blushed a little at calling it “our room” like they had any claim over it. Like they were a they at all. 

But Will granted him a smile and a nod, and, really, that made any embarrassment worth it.

***

They’d ended up loading Will’s bike into the bed of Chance’s truck and heading to the Friday night drive-in on the edge of town. Chance was a little shocked that Will agreed to it, but, traditionally, he wasn’t one to question lucky breaks. 

Chance glanced to his right at Will in the passenger seat. He had the window down and was catching the air with his hand, letting the wind stream through his fingers. The sight of Will beside him, so peaceful, like he belonged there, made Chance’s stomach flip, and he cleared his throat, readjusting his hands on the wheel.

Will pulled his hand back into the car, turning toward Chance, “Can I—“ he paused, “Do you want to listen to music?”

Chance nodded, “Sure, there’s probably a cassette in, if you want…” he gestured, trailing off.

Will hummed, flipping on the stereo.

The opening notes of The Clash’s “London Calling” burst into the car, and Chance felt the blood drain from his face.

Oh.

Oh no.

Chance had experienced plenty of embarrassing things. 

Most of the shameful things that haunted him at night were from his own doing. He tossed and turned constantly over stupid shit he’d done or said. Some of the worst things followed him like a shadow, constantly making him feel like he needed to walk around with an apology stapled to his back.

So it was really saying something when he determined that this exact moment was the most humiliating experience of his life. 

Will was painfully silent next to him, frozen.

It was maybe a little weird that he’d bought a cassette for The Clash right after Will told him about them, fine. He could admit the timeline was a little bit sketchy. It was fair of Will to be suspicious, since Chance had indeed fully bought the cassette while thinking about him.

He desperately hoped that Will thought he was just really into expanding his music tastes…or something. 

Will cleared his throat, “Trying something new?”

Chance let out a wheezy, nervous laugh, “Yeah—uh,” he scratched his nose, aiming for casual during this very not-casual exchange, “they’re cool.”

Another silence stretched in the truck, broken only by the damning voice of Joe Strummer.

Then Will hummed, nodding like he knew better but was accepting Chance’s bizarre actions anyway. 

Chance gratefully took the out, letting a harsh breath go. 

He was starting to think that “acting normal” around Will Byers had always been a pipe dream.

***

After they pulled into their spot at the drive-in, it struck Chance, probably a little too late, that this whole thing felt very—

Well.

Chance insisted on paying the admission, seeing as it was his truck.

And Will bought a box of candy for them to share, claiming it was a reward for Chance’s hard work.

They were pulled toward the back of the lot, not wanting to explain why they were hanging out together if they saw anyone they knew. 

It just—

Chance could have rolled his eyes at himself for beating around the bush. The glaring truth was that it just felt a whole lot like a date.

Chance knew it wasn’t. Obviously. 

But just for a second, brief but treasured, he let himself live in a world where it was. 

The drive-in was playing some kind of horror movie that Chance barely registered. His pulse thrummed in his ears, muffling the sound of bloody gurgles and people screaming.

He imagined sliding across the truck’s bench seat and tucking Will under his arm. 

He pictured turning toward him, guiding him up into a kiss in the dark. 

Even better, he imagined a world where they could back the truck into their spot and line the bed with blankets and pillows. A world where Will could lie against his chest. A place where they could be seen.

Chance acknowledged that this was rapidly spiraling out of control.

They were just…friends. Maybe. He’d be lucky if Will would consider him a friend. 

He couldn’t ever ask for anything more than that. Not with Will and certainly not in Hawkins. 

Chance clamped down on his thoughts and set a new, apparently much-needed, rule for himself. 

This is not a date. Do not think about this like it’s a date.

Will leaned in, interrupting Chance’s thoughts, “I think the neighbor’s the killer.”

Chance turned, noting how tight the cab of the truck really was. There was not enough space in here for Will, Chance, and the feelings he was resolutely trying to strangle. 

“Who?” He asked, dumbly.

Will looked at him for a second, the lights from the screen dimly lighting up his profile. He smiled and reached toward Chance’s face.

Chance was pretty sure the heart that had previously taken residence in his chest found new lodging in his throat during the brief moment Will’s hand slid against his cheek.

And then Will pushed, turning Chance’s head back toward the screen. “Pay attention, Chance. You’re missing it.”

Chance’s face burned as he stared, wide-eyed at the screen. He watched the movie, unseeing, for a while.

When he finally built up the courage to glance back over at Will, he had his mouth partially hidden behind his fist, biting lightly on his pinky nail and clearly trying to smother a smile.

***

Chance pulled up to Will’s house, realizing that it was in fact a cabin in the woods, and helped him unload his bike from the truck bed. 

“Thanks,” he blurted, tilting the handlebars towards Will, “for hanging out with me.”

Will accepted the bike gratefully, “It was fun.” 

If Chance let himself think it, he’d say Will looked shy for a moment. He wasn’t letting himself think that, though. Because that thought would be ridiculous.

“We should, Will paused, “do it again sometime?”

Chance beamed, “I’d like that,” he leaned on the back of his truck, slipping a little, then straightening, “very much.”

Will huffed a quiet laugh, “Okay then,” he whispered into the night.

Chance chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to keep from saying something stupid. Like asking if Will wanted to get dinner sometime. Or, god forbid, trying to kiss Will goodnight. 

This was not a date. He reminded himself stubbornly.

“Okay,” Chance repeated, unsure of what else was safe to say. 

Will watched him for a moment, like he was considering something. He looked to the side, thinking.

Probably thinking Chance was being weird and quiet, if he had to guess.

“One more week of tutoring,” Chance observed awkwardly, trying to fill the silence.

Will looked taken aback for a moment, as though that was the last thought on his mind. “Oh, uh, yeah.”

“And then no more Hawkins,” Chance forced a smile, “hopefully.”

Will took a deep breath and let it out harshly, “Right.” He nodded to himself, “Yeah, of course—“ 

Chance watched Will’s hands flex against the handlebars of the bike.

“No more Hawkins.” Will echoed.

Something about the way he said it tore Chance up. 

It didn’t feel like how this night should end. He’d fucked something up somewhere, taken a wrong turn at some point, but he couldn’t imagine what happened. 

“Right.” Will repeated, “Well,” he turned, walking up the path toward his porch, “I’ll see you next week, Chance.”

Chance nodded, stupidly, knowing Will couldn’t see it. He shook himself.

“See you, Will.” He called.

***

Their fourth and final tutoring session came and went, and Will determined that Chance’s final project had to be good enough to earn him at least a passing grade in the class.

Chance knew he should feel ecstatic. 

A few weeks back, he thought this class was going to destroy all of his carefully built plans. It was a Hail Mary to pull Will into this deal.

But now, at the end of this, Chance found that he just didn’t want to stop seeing Will.

He turned the words over in his head the whole walk down the hallway. He didn’t know how to phrase it in a way that didn’t sound like the lamest proposal of friendship the world had ever seen. 

As they walked up to the spot where they’d have to part ways, Will beat him to it. 

“You said you don’t have any friends.”

Chance recoiled at the harsh reminder.

“Yes?” He affirmed, confused at the delivery.

Will huffed, frustrated at himself, “I meant, I’d like it—“ he sighed, “Do you want to be friends, Chance? For real?”

Chance would like it if they were a lot more than friends, if he was being honest, but he figured this was the best he could get.

This was all he could ask for, really. More than—probably—given their history.

He ducked his head in a quick nod, “Yeah,” he nodded again, smiling, “yeah, I’d like that.”

“Friends it is then,” Will said, “and,” he closed his eyes for a second, like he was forcing himself to say it, “we can keep in touch, maybe? After we leave Hawkins?” 

“Of course,” Chance rushed to assure, “you can’t get rid of me that easily, Byers.”

Will smiled, biting his lip lightly, “Good.”

Chance’s stomach twisted, but he forced a smile too, affecting a certain nonchalance, “Good,” he echoed.

As Will turned, Chance repeated to himself that it was good. He’d take being friends with Will Byers over never being in his orbit again. Chance would be grateful to have any small part of how Will’s life unfolded. 

He wanted desperately to see what would happen when Will was free of this place. 

Chance just hoped that he could keep the whole “friends” act up. For Will’s sake.

***

The art room had sun catchers in the windows, glittering multicolored through the room, and Chance was currently preoccupied by the way the light scattered across Will’s shoulders. He was, admittedly, already doing a terrible job at playing the good platonic friend role.

He twirled a pencil between his fingers as Mrs. Stokes droned on about something Chance couldn’t begin to comprehend. It was remarkable the way her words went in one ear and out the other while he hung on every word that came out of Will’s mouth.

Granted, Chance didn’t have an ill-advised, giant, overwhelming crush on Mrs. Stokes.

He digressed. 

Will was dutifully following along with the lesson, taking notes while every other senior in the class slacked off. They’d turned in their final projects, and graduation was fast approaching, so no one else gave a shit about whatever “fun” end-of-the-year lessons Mrs. Stokes had up her sleeve.

A part of Chance felt bad watching her lose the class’s interest.

A larger part of him was too busy watching the beams of light catch on Will’s neck and scatter into his hair to care. He figured there was no harm in looking. And Will was nice to look at.

Likely feeling the weight of his stare, Will turned. The scattered light glanced across his throat and jaw, and Chance felt a little like he was going to die. Then Will sent him a small, barely there smile, and Chance really felt like he was going to die. 

A helpless smile broke out on his own face, and the pencil he twirled slipped, flying out of his hand. Diving out of his seat to try and catch it before it rolled out of his reach, Chance swore he heard a very soft laugh at his expense. 

When class ended, Chance bobbed and weaved around his classmates, trying to catch up to Will, until he heard a, “Mr. Lawson.” 

He turned, seeing Mrs. Stokes waving him over to her desk. 

Couldn’t be good. 

The last time she pulled him aside like this, he’d accepted that his life was over, so these interactions didn’t have the best track record. 

She smiled that pleasant-teacher-smile that felt like she could be happy for you or she could be delivering you a life sentence with no way to tell which it was. Chance dragged his feet, wishing he’d managed to slip out before she caught him. 

“I wanted to talk to you about your final project, Mr. Lawson.”

Perfect. That was good. So this was probably going to be another life-ruining experience.

Chance tried to smile, feeling a grimace form instead, “Yes, ma’am?”

The smile didn’t slip off her face, and Chance wondered if they trained specifically to do it. He pictured a teacher’s assignments for earning their certification: 

An essay due on Friday. Unsettling smiles due on Monday. 

“Well, I pulled your project first, since we knew you were in such a…precarious position this semester.”

That was a nice way to say totally fucked, Chance supposed. He nodded.

“Now there is room for improvement on this,” Chance braced for impact, expecting the summer school cinderblock to slam over his head any minute, “but your quality of work on this shows a high level of commitment that I feel should be rewarded…”

She kept speaking, but Chance’s brain hung on the word “rewarded.” Rewarded didn’t mean bad, right? “Rewarded” meant good things like gold stars and movie snacks.

“I’m sorry,” he interrupted. 

Mrs. Stokes paused, looking slightly startled.

He cringed, feeling rude, “It’s just—does that mean I passed?”

She sighed, letting the smile drop into a more real expression of irritation, “Well, I was building up to it, but yes, Mr. Lawson.”

“Sorry,” he repeated, “but…no summer school?”

Her mouth lifted into a small smile, laughing lightly, “No summer school, Mr. Lawson.” 

Chance beamed, thrilled. He could barely contain his excitement. 

He’d passed. He was leaving. 

He thanked Mrs. Stokes, spinning on his heel to run into the hall, barely registering the scolding “Chance Lawson!” behind him. 

Chance ran toward the gym with a grin plastered on his face. He didn’t really think about passing or being free from the threat of summer school. He cared, of course, but the only thing on his mind was getting to Will. The only thing he wanted in that moment was to tell Will that they’d done it. He could picture Will’s smile, soft and pretty, and the word “reward” popped into Chance’s head again. 

He pushed open the gym doors, scanning the class. He was already late after his talk with Mrs. Stokes, but checking in with his gym teacher couldn’t be lower on his list of priorities. He turned to a classmate, not seeing Will.

“Hey, do you know where Byers is?”

The kid shrugged, “Haven’t seen him.”

Chance huffed, turning and rushing back into the hall before the teacher could spot him. The part of his brain that’d been committed to keeping his head down and staying out of trouble shouted that skipping wasn’t smart, but Chance found that he really didn’t give a shit in the moment. 

He jogged down the hall, checking into empty classroom windows and alcoves among the lockers, hoping to catch a glimpse of soft brown hair or a band shirt. 

Instead, he caught Lucas Sinclair, looking like he was on his way back from the admin offices, probably running an errand for a teacher. He hadn’t spoken to him in a while, not since he stopped talking to the basketball team outside of practice, but Lucas was a good guy. 

More importantly, he was one of Will’s friends.

“Sinclair!”

Lucas turned his head, confused. He looked behind himself like he couldn’t believe that he was the Sinclair that Chance was talking to. Then he turned back, “Yeah?”

Chance rushed forward, “Have you seen Will?”

Lucas looked utterly baffled, “Will? Will Byers?”

“Yeah, do you know where he’d be?” Chance gave his most pleading look, hoping Lucas didn’t hold them up with too many questions. 

“And you’re looking for Will,” Lucas drew out the words slowly, like he was trying to comprehend the bizarre scene in front of him, “why?”

Chance tried not to sound exasperated, “We have gym together. He’s not there. Come on, Lucas, please.” He feared that hiding his exasperation just made him sound desperate. He felt desperate anyway.

Lucas was still staring at him like he’d grown another head, but he relented, probably out of confusion more than a wish to help Chance out, “If he’s skipping, then he’s probably on the bleachers out by the football field. He likes to—”

“Thanks, Lucas!” Chance threw over his shoulder, cutting him off. He was already turned and rushing down the hall toward the school’s back entrance. 

He didn’t glance back to see that he’d left Lucas in the hall, frozen and bewildered. 

***

Chance skidded to a stop in front of the bleachers, slightly out of breath. Will hadn’t noticed him yet, absorbed in his sketchbook. He had a leg kicked up on the bleacher in front of him, using it to support his drawing, and the sun was causing him to squint as he hunched toward the page. From a distance, Chance could just barely make out the tip of Will’s tongue poked out in concentration. 

He was the most wonderful thing Chance had ever seen. 

He wanted to sprint up the bleachers to him. He wanted to grab him, sketchbook and all, and run screaming in triumph across the football field.

He really wanted to kiss him, but he figured he shouldn’t let that part slip. 

Chance bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, buzzing with excitement.

“Byers!” He called, causing Will to snap his head up in alarm.

“Come down here!” Chance waved his hand, “I have something to tell you.”

Will’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he dutifully packed his sketchbook away and made his way down the bleachers.

He walked toward Chance, asking, “What’s u—“

Chance didn’t let him finish.

He rushed forward, scooping Will into a hug and lifting him off the ground, rules be damned. He felt Will’s hands scrabble for a hold across his shoulders, thrown off balance.

“We did it! You did it.” Chance cheered, spinning them around.

Will laughed brightly, baffled, “I did what?”

Chance kept him in the air, not wanting to let go, and looked up towards his face, “Mrs. Stokes just told me I passed.”

A smile erupted on Will’s face, and Chance couldn’t help but tighten his hold, swaying them a little.

He felt tapping on his shoulder and relented, slowly letting Will down, but keeping him close.

“That’s amazing, Chance,” Will beamed, “I knew you could do it.” 

Chance’s ears burned, “I had a good tutor.”

Will laughed, rolling his eyes, “Sure.”

“No, really,” Chance assured, bringing his hands up to cup Will’s face, wanting him to understand how serious he was, “I couldn’t have done this without you.” He leaned in, looking into Will’s eyes, “You saved my future, Will.”

Will flushed a pretty pink shade, but a smile still played at his lips, quietly pleased.

Chance realized he should probably let go—that this was crossing one of the lines he’d drawn in his head. Will was bound to get uncomfortable soon, but Chance couldn’t bring himself to shatter the moment. He let his thumb brush back and forth gently on Will’s cheek, chasing the pink flush. 

Everything in Chance screamed to get closer, to lean in. He felt his sneakers bump against Will’s as he shifted forward, his body moving without his permission.

His eyes traced Will’s face, glancing over his long lashes and hazel eyes, following the curve of his nose, and settling on his mouth. Will’s bottom lip was slightly raw, like he’d been chewing on it as he sketched. Chance subconsciously wet his own, letting his tongue dart out quickly.

Maybe this was the moment. 

Maybe he should just go for it. 

They were completely alone. Chance was leaving in the fall. If he could help it, he’d never come back to Hawkins.

He could rip the band-aid off.

He could know what it was like to kiss a pretty boy. To kiss Will Byers, specifically.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Will wrapped his hands around Chance’s wrists, gently prying them from his face. And Chance felt like he’d been dunked in a bucket of ice water. 

That was what could happen. 

Will hating him because he obviously wouldn’t want it. Not with a guy.

Not with him. 

Will was kind, letting him get this close, but this was as clear a no as it could be.

Chance was being an idiot.

He let his hands fall back to his sides, clearing his throat.

Will smiled at him, heartbreakingly gentle, like he was letting someone down, “So you’re leaving Hawkins after all.”

Chance’s stomach twisted, wishing for all the world that leaving Hawkins didn’t mean never seeing Will again. He wanted to grab at him again, chasing the moment between them as it slipped through his fingers. If he could repair whatever he’d just shattered, then maybe they could keep up their friendship at least. If Will never wanted Chance, then he could handle that. He’d have to handle that. He just didn’t want to fall out of his orbit entirely. With a sickening certainty, he knew that he’d gotten too comfortable existing alongside someone wonderful and rare. He’d taken too much. He’d pushed too far.

Stop getting carried away. Chance scolded himself. 

“Yeah,” he confirmed, “leaving Hawkins. The goal.”

Will nodded, “I’m happy for you, Chance.”

And then he turned, not giving Chance the option to say anything more, and walked back toward the school building. 

Chance knew he should run after him. He should catch up—apologize, maybe, for freaking Will out—but his feet felt cemented to the ground.

***

As the school year drew to a close, Chance did his best impression of a kicked puppy. He drifted from class to class, detached and going through the motions. He kept his grades up, for what few assignments he had left, but he was practically a specter in his classes, quietly watching Will in the ones they shared. In the halls, he had his head on a swivel, searching for Will, but he managed to slip away every time. A twisting pit settled in Chance’s stomach, knowing that he’d absolutely destroyed whatever they’d had through his own recklessness.

Will was avoiding him, and Chance couldn’t blame him.

He bounced the basketball in his hands a few times before taking a pitiful shot at the hoop. He’d taken refuge in the gym where this all started, seeking some sort of familiarity. Instead, it only served as a reminder of the mess he’d made. He sighed, walking over to scoop the ball from the gym floor. 

“What’s the deal with you?” A voice called, sounding stern.

Chance turned, irrationally hoping he’d see Will but knowing, instinctively, that the voice was nothing like his soft timbre.

Lucas Sinclair stood across from him on the gym floor, hands on his hips. 

Chance opened his mouth, but Lucas continued before he could get a word in, “You come to me, practically begging to know where Will is.” He held up a finger, like he was counting off, “Will has been acting sad and weird ever since then, and now–” He lifted a third finger in his count and glared at Chance, accusatory, “Now, you’re acting like you have two weeks left to live.”

Chance fiddled with the ball in his hands. He wanted to ask if Will was okay, but it didn’t seem welcome. He should probably just be grateful that it didn’t sound like Will had told anyone what happened between them.

Lucas stared at him, “Are you messing with Will?”

Chance looked up, shocked, “No, no nothing like that,” he rushed to assure, “I wouldn’t—I mean I wouldn’t do that now.”

Lucas didn’t look like he believed him, and Chance didn’t know how to explain that the idea of hurting Will in any way made his chest hollow out painfully without exposing himself.

He continued, “It’s nothing, Sinclair. Will was helping me with some art stuff, is all.”

Crossing his arms, Lucas looked at him curiously, “Explain.”

Chance bounced the ball, just for something to do, and turned, shooting again, 

“I was going to lose my ride to UCLA if I failed art, so I asked Will to tutor me. Totally innocent.”

Lucas hummed, still skeptical, “And the reason you’re both acting like sad sacks is?”

Chance scooped the ball up again, spinning it in his hands. 

“It’s nothing, Lucas.” He repeated and then looked up, pleading, “Drop it, okay?”

Lucas was quiet for a minute, considering, then he held open his hands, “Pass me the ball, Lawson.” 

***

On the last day of the school year, a week away from their graduation, Chance wandered into the art room one last time. 

He’d been avoiding it when possible, keeping his head down in their art class and trying not to take up space in a room where Will echoed off the walls. He didn’t want the reminder. Even so, something made him step inside once the final bell for his senior year echoed through the halls. It felt like a last goodbye, in a way.

He walked around the room slowly, glancing over the scattered art supplies and spotting the seniors’ final projects lined up along the classroom wall. Chance knew it’d just be tormenting himself on purpose, but his eyes immediately sought out Will’s. When he found it, he felt drawn to the name on the corner of the page, reaching out to brush his fingertips against the signature before he even knew what he was doing. 

“So, art expert,” Chance whipped around, his eyes falling, impossibly, on Will Byers standing in the classroom doorway, “What do you think?” He pointed at the project behind Chance, “Did I pass?”

Chance floundered, his mouth opening and closing. He’d been waiting to speak to Will again since the bleachers, but it was like he blinked out of existence every time he tried. Chance supposed that seeing him here now meant that Will was done avoiding him. 

Chance wasn’t going to lose his opportunity to apologize, “Will, I–”

But Will cut him off, letting the classroom door fall closed as he made his way inside. 

“You know, Lucas cornered me.”

Chance could feel his mind whirring, thrilled to see Will again but confused all the same, “Lucas?”

Will came closer, nodding, “He was really convinced something was up between us.”

Will was close enough now that Chance could slide his hands around his waist, if he let himself. He forced his hands to stay at his sides, terrified of shattering something again.

“I spent a long time convincing him that you weren’t harassing me,” Will laughed.

Their chests brushed, and Chance felt like he was being tested by some higher power. This could not be considered fair. 

“I wouldn’t,” He cleared his throat, “I told Lucas that it wasn’t that.”

“What is it?” Will asked, smiling like he already knew. 

Chance coughed, “The other day—the bleachers, I’m–”

Will cut him off again before he could apologize, “Lucas said something else.”

He was staring up at Chance, and it felt like his brain had turned to mush from the proximity. 

“What?” Chance choked out. 

“You never said what school your scholarship was for,” Will said, nonsensically. Chance was having a hard time keeping up. 

He felt the tips of Will’s fingers brush against the backs of his hands, and he felt like he was going insane. There was no way Will was actually here. There was no way Will was touching him after he’d fucked up so badly. Will had walked away. He’d seen what Chance wanted, and he wasn’t interested. It was a miracle that he hadn’t said a word to anyone else. Chance should be the town pariah by now.

Chance’s voice came out in a whisper, “UCLA.”

Will smiled, “Right.”

“Why–” Chance’s brow furrowed, a million thoughts rushing through his mind, “I don’t understand.”

Will lowered his voice too, pushing impossibly closer, “I didn’t want–” his tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Chance focused on the movement, “I thought you were leaving Hawkins. That whatever happened wouldn’t mean anything after graduation.”

The words wouldn’t mean anything sliced through Chance, cutting to the bone. If he were lucky enough for something to happen, then it would mean everything to him. Surely Will understood—

All at once, he processed what Will was really saying. 

Will knew. 

He knew how Chance felt, and he wasn’t shying away from that. He spoke like they were on the precipice of that very something. 

Will spoke like he felt the same.

Reckless hope built in Chance. If Will knew—if he wasn’t freaked out or disgusted at the bleachers—if he was just scared that they would go their separate ways after, drifting apart, then Chance could assure him he wouldn’t let it happen. He’d call every night. He’d write a thousand letters. He’d cross states in his truck for Will. Was that really what Will was hinting at? Was he getting ahead of himself yet again?

Will placed his hand lightly over Chance’s mouth, holding back a laugh. It was like he knew Chance was about to launch into promises, but he needed to finish his thoughts. Chance could see it sparkling in his eyes now, plain as day. Not a rejection. Thank god, not a rejection. Just—a sign to be patient. 

“But if we’re both going to the same place…” Will trailed off.

Chance felt a smile break behind Will’s hand. He pulled at his wrist, gently moving the hand to his cheek instead. 

“The same place? Do you mean?”

“I’m going to CalArts, Chance,” Will emphasized the name, like it should have been obvious, “We won’t even be an hour away from each other.” 

Chance tilted his head forward, letting it bump against Will’s forehead. The hope building in his chest burned bright and sure. 

He thought about driving to see Will whenever he wanted, which would probably be all the time. He thought about taking Will out somewhere nice. Or a repeat of their movie date, because it had been a date after all. Chance closed his eyes, imagining an apartment filled with both of their things one day. He could let himself want that. 

He could let himself have it if Will wanted it too. 

His hands drifted up to hold loosely at Will’s sides, and Will moved his hands to press against Chance’s chest in response. The steady weight of them brought Chance back to the earth. One thing stood out, glaring and unavoidable. For the first time, he saw a future he wanted to run toward instead of something he wanted to run away from, but he couldn’t have any of that future if he didn’t finally take the leap. Right now. 

He cleared his throat, nervous, adjusting his hands to hold Will tighter.

“Will, can I–” He swallowed, and Will hummed, patient but prompting, “Can I kiss you?” He tipped his head forward a bit further, like he couldn’t help it, “Please?”

“I think,” Will brushed his nose against Chance’s, “that I’d like that very much.”

Chance closed the distance with a relieved finally echoing in his thoughts. They met in a firm press, a little inexperienced, but solid and real. Chance flexed his hands against Will’s sides, pulling him closer still. 

He distantly registered the fact that his hands were shaking and wondered if Will could feel it.

The gravity of the moment shook Chance as they shifted, letting their lips part and come together again with a gentle click.  A part of him still didn’t quite believe this was happening until Will pulled back slightly, whispering a soft “Chance” between their lips. 

Chance gasped, suddenly struck by the reality of the moment. This was real. This was happening. He moved them, using his hold on Will to pivot toward the art tables. He pushed gently, guiding them, until Will’s back hit the table’s edge. They moved with urgency, still connected, as Will pushed himself up onto the table and Chance helped to support his weight.

He stepped between Will’s legs, tilting up to kiss him more fully. He couldn’t find it in himself to care if anyone decided to drop by the art classroom. 

He was leaving Hawkins. 

They were leaving Hawkins, together. 

And the way Will raked his fingers through Chance’s hair and hooked a leg behind his hips, bringing him closer, eradicated all thought from his head anyway. 

Chance’s hands couldn’t find a home, resting low on Will’s waist and then flitting up to cup his face. It felt like trying to fit all the ways he’d wanted to hold him into one moment, barely taking time to breathe. He poured himself into the kiss. Trying to promise Will with every press of his lips that this was it. That he really wanted this. That, if Will would have him, he’d stay forever. 

Their kisses turned gentle, soft, and lingering until they rested their heads against each other, catching their breath. Will laughed lightly, his eyes still closed.

Chance knew how he was feeling without asking. He felt the same. The brightness of it bubbled in his chest.

“Why didn’t we talk about the schools we were going to?” Will asked, whispering, “Stupid.”

Chance laughed, rubbing a gentle circle on Will’s hip, “We were too busy talking about everything else.”

In a week, they’d graduate. After this summer, they’d leave.

Visions of small-town suburbia and dead-end, dreamless careers died in front of him. 

The future wasn’t promised, and Chance couldn’t guess what might happen or what speedbumps they’d meet along the way, sure. But he knew, with certainty, that he would push through. He would make it his single-minded focus to bring them to a future they shared, if he had to. And whatever great things Will was destined for, because Chance knew that he was—just like he knew how warm Will’s body felt through the cotton of his t-shirt—he would be behind him all the way, supporting.

He pulled Will in again, grinning against his lips. 

Distantly, the thought occurred to him that he’d never felt so indebted to a runaway basketball and a, debatably, broken nose.