Will Byers doesn’t look like a kid anymore. Taller, sharper around the edges, shadows settling in places that used to hold softness. But he still drifts toward you the way a storm-drained bird seeks the one safe branch it remembers.

It happens one night at Hopper’s cabin.

The whole group is scattered around the living room—maps spread across the table, radios buzzing, the air heavy with the quiet dread that everyone pretends not to taste. Steve squeezes your hand before joining Hopper and Nancy in a whispered strategy huddle.

Will sits alone on the back steps, sketchbook balanced on his knees.

You slide the door open. “Room for one more?”

He nods.

You sit beside him, both of you staring into the dark tree line where the air seems… wrong. Like the Upside Down is breathing just beneath the soil.

“What’re you drawing?” you ask gently.

He hesitates, then turns the page. A figure— faceless, stretched thin, almost human but not quite—caught between two versions of itself. One outlined in shadow, the other in soft, wavering light.

“It’s not a monster this time,” he murmurs. “I mean… not exactly.”

You study it. “Feels like someone who doesn’t know who he’s allowed to be.”

Will swallows. Hard. Like the truth is lodged in his throat.

⸻

You let the silence sit until he breaks it.

“Everything’s coming back,” he whispers. “The feelings, the connection, the—” His voice cracks. “The fear. And I don’t know what’s me and what’s… him.”

Vecna. The Mind Flayer. The dark tether he never asked for.

But you know that’s not the whole story.

“Will,” you say softly, “what else is going on?”

He shakes his head. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

He picks at the torn edge of his sleeve. “I feel wrong. Different. I have forever. And now it’s like the world’s ending and I still haven’t said it to anyone.”

Slowly, you rest your hand over his trembling one.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” you say, “just tell me what’s hurting.”

He takes a sharp breath. Then another. And then—

“I’m gay.”

His voice breaks on the last word, like it’s fragile and sharp all at once.

You squeeze his hand. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Tears gather in his eyes—fast, shimmering. “I feel like everyone already knows, or maybe they don’t, or maybe they’re pretending not to. And I’m scared. Not of being this. Just… what if I lose people? What if Mike— what if my feelings ruin everything?”

You pull him into a soft, grounding hug. He folds into it like someone who hasn’t been held in years.

“Listen to me,” you murmur into his hair. “Nothing about you is wrong. And nothing about who you love could ever make you unworthy.”

He clutches your jacket. “I don’t know how to tell the others.”

“You don’t have to yet,” you say. “Not until you want to. Not until you feel safe.”

Will exhales shakily, relief and fear tangled.

“Do you think Steve…” He trails off.

You smile. “Steve cried when Dustin gave him that mixtape. He thinks of you like a little brother. Loving you doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Will laughs through his tears—wet, embarrassed, honest.

And for a moment, despite the growing hum in the air, the world softens.

⸻

Later, when you head back inside, Steve brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Everything okay with him?”

You glance at Will through the window—shoulders lighter, sketchbook open again.

“He’s carrying a lot,” you say. “But he’s stronger than he thinks.”

Steve looks at you like he’s seeing the person he’s going to love forever. “He’s got you,” he murmurs. “That helps.”

Outside, something in the woods shifts—quiet, ominous.

But for now, Will Byers breathes easier.

And in Hawkins, that’s a rare victory worth holding onto.